Brian Freemantle - Betrayals

Their interview and picture session was just finishing when the delayed contact of the previous night started to be made, not by telephone now but by journalists coming personally to Rosslyn. Janet posed and talked to them all and agreed to fresh interviews for different programs with the three main American television networks, with ITN in London, and with CNN.

It was late afternoon before she was able properly to read the Washington Post interview which had started it all. Although there was a story datelined from Beirut, it was immediately obvious that there had been no developments in Beirut, and her story was given the emphasis. The Post had divided it into two parts. That on the front page, turning later on to page nine, focused upon her anger at the lack of help from the CIA, and Janet was glad-it was to force some response from the Agency that she had approached the newspaper in the first place and then agreed to the media onslaught that followed. There were photographs of the legal documents she had made available to them, proving that she was Sheridan’s fiancee, including the document from the U.S. embassy in Beirut giving her control of his bank account, which was reproduced in full. The second, inside-page story was a personality profile and Janet was surprised at its depth. There was reference to her diplomat father and a quote from her department head at Georgetown University describing her as a brilliant academic and there were lengthy quotes from the letters that had passed between her and Sheridan, always concerning some remark about their impending wedding. There were three photographs of herself and Janet was disappointed. She thought they made her look fuller-faced than she really was, and in each she appeared strained, which she supposed she was, and she was obviously not made up, which had been her fault, not that of the photographer. It had been a mistake, too, not to change from the jeans and shirt she had been wearing when they arrived. She was reading with the television tuned to the continuous CNN news program, as she had the previous day, and was much happier with her appearance there. It had been right to wear her hair pulled back from her face and the formal business suit. She thought she looked concerned but not haggard. When she had responded to a question about their engagement the camera closed in upon her ring. She had been worriedly intertwining and then releasing her fingers, which she couldn’t remember having done.

The next telephone call was from her mother. She said she had been out specially to buy all the English newspapers and there were stories and photographs in every one. They had not expected her to appear on BBC television that morning and would have liked to have been told; as it was they had only caught it by accident.

“Sorry,” said Janet.

“You didn’t smile,” her mother said. “You’ve got a nice smile, too.”

“I don’t really think there’s a lot to smile about, do you?”

“You still haven’t heard anything?”

“Nothing.”

“It can’t be easy for them.”

“It’s not easy for me, either.”

“We could still come across.”

“There’s no point.”

“You going to be on television here again?”

Janet frowned at the thought that her mother was enjoying it, like she’d earlier imagined Harriet was enjoying it. Remembering the ITN interview, she said: “Probably. I don’t know. You’ll just have to watch the various channels.”

“Your father sends his love and says you’re not to worry.”

“That’s a…” Janet began, irritably, and then stopped. She said: “Give my love to him.”

“You looked very pretty on television, even though you didn’t smile.”

Janet didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” she managed.

“Call us the minute you hear something?” ended her mother, predictably.

“Of course,” promised Janet, just as predictably.

Janet’s hand was still on the telephone, in the act of replacing it, when it sounded again, startling her. Hopefully she picked it up, disappointed at Harriet’s voice.

“Anything?” asked her friend.

“A lot more interviews. Nothing from the Agency.”

“You’re the most famous girl in town.”

“Bugger being the most famous girl in town.”

“The boss wants to help.”

“The boss?” Janet asked, not understanding.

“Senator Willard J. Blackstone.”

Until that moment Janet had not considered the possibility of political pressure from anyone in Congress. “How?” she said, cautiously.

“I don’t know exactly,” said Harriet. “But he wants you to come up to the Hill, to see him. He asked me to fix a time.”

“It will mean leaving the telephone.”

“Darling,” said Harriet. “Do you really think you raise the chances of their calling by sitting next to the damned thing! You’ve got a switchboard downstairs. Use it. You set out to throw stones in pools; let’s make as many ripples as we can.”

Janet paused. It would be wrong to lose the impetus she appeared to have created but she had not anticipated the effect of approaching the Washington Post and still had no proof it would achieve anything anyway. At once came the balancing reflection. Even more reason to meet with an American senator then. She said: “All right.”

“What time?”

“That’s a matter for you, really.”

“How about an hour?” suggested Harriet.

Janet looked down to her sweater and jeans and remembered the mistake of the Washington Post photographs and said: “An hour and a half.”

“I’ll be waiting,” assured her friend.

Which she was when Janet, wearing the same suit she’d worn for the CNN interview, arrived at the Dirksen Building housing the Senate offices. Harriet greeted Janet at the entrance and cupped her elbow with her hand to guide her familiarly along the high-ceilinged corridors to Blackstone’s suite. Blackstone was a senior, four-term senator with an office to match that seniority. There was a cluster of outer rooms accommodating secretaries and aides, a more expansive paneled chamber for his personal assistant, and beyond that Blackstone’s sanctum itself. It was at the corner of the building, with a view of Constitution Avenue and the Capitol beyond. The walls were lined with photographs showing Blackstone with every domestic and international political figure Janet could remember over the preceding ten years. Beneath the pictures there were enough leather couches and chairs for a large, informal conference and to one side a conference table itself, hedged by about a dozen upright chairs. Blackstone’s desk was against the windows: occupying the wall space in between was a furled but staffed American flag held up by a special support.

Blackstone rose as the women entered. He was an impressive but carefully cultivated man. He had a thick mane of completely white hair, which he wore long and swept back and he was tall enough, well over six feet, to be able to wear suits tailored practically in the style of the frock coats of an earlier age, waisted and then full again over his hips.

He came forward with both hands outstretched, encompassed Janet’s fingers between them, and said welcome and how sorry he was and how he was determined to help as, still holding her hand, he led her to one of the side couches. He pulled one of the easy chairs around to face her but sat forward, elbows on his knees, face between his hands, in the well-practiced attitude of a politician giving someone their undivided attention, and told her to tell him all about it, from the very beginning. The voice was Southern drawl, tailored like the clothes.

After recounting the story of herself and John Sheridan so often in the past twenty-four hours, Janet was able to do so automatically, actually able to recall dates and places and even quote the official phrasing of the legal documents that had passed between herself in Washington and Sheridan in Beirut.