Brian Freemantle - Betrayals

The day before the appointment the university authorities gratefully agreed to her taking an unspecified leave of absence. After being besieged for so long in her apartment, Janet sneaked out the basement garbage entrance to hide in Harriet’s Georgetown house.

The next day, with Willsher, Janet carefully enumerated all approaches, wanting to impress upon the CIA officer that she was observing her side of the pact. Willsher said: “I think you’ve been very wise.”

“I don’t, particularly,” said Janet. “I made a deal and I’ve kept to it. So what have you got to offer in return?”

“You wouldn’t believe the background pressure that’s being imposed,” said Willsher.

“I won’t, unless it’s spelled out to me in detail,” agreed Janet, relentlessly.

The neat, precise man coughed. “It’s unheard of for Moscow to come out, like they did. It means that between us there isn’t an Arab government, pro-East or pro-West, that isn’t involved.”

“Doing what?” persisted Janet.

“We’ve positive assurances from Syria of the cooperation of their troops on the ground and their intelligence service actively to try to find him,” Willsher said. “In addition, the President has been personally assured by Israel that the Mossad are pulling out all the stops.”

“You haven’t mentioned Iran,” reminded Janet, pointedly. “And the only lead the Islamic Jihad and the Fundamentalists follow comes from Teheran and the ayatollahs.”

“Who would you say has closest links?”

Janet considered the question and said: “France.”

Willsher smiled. “Another President to President promise, from Paris. In adddition the British have made available to us all their electronic eavesdropping facilities on Cyprus and we’re flying overhead intercepts the length and breadth of the Lebanon, from the NATO bases in Turkey. A fortnight ago NSA shifted one of its Mediterranean satellites and put it in permanent geostationary orbit directly over Beirut. No one speaks on the telephone or the radio without us hearing what’s said: we can count the bricks in the walls.”

“All very impressive,” said Janet.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Willsher, misunderatanding.

“So what’s it achieved?”

“Ms. Stone,” said Willsher, gently. “Some hostages have been held in the Lebanon for years.”

“Seventeen hostages,” enumerated Janet, just as controlled. “And if we’re going to go on quoting statistics, seven more have been tortured and killed. All of which frightens the hell out of me because I don’t want John Sheridan achieving some kidnap endurance record or being tortured or dismembered or killed.”

“Tell me!” demanded Willsher, holding his hands out towards her. “Tell me what else or what more you’d have us do! Tell me something we haven’t thought of!”

“You know why no other Russians have been kidnapped, after October, 1985?”

“Yes I do, Ms. Stone,” Willsher responded at once. “I know the KGB sent in hit squads and I know that fifteen Shia fanatics were killed as a warning to leave Soviet personnel alone. But I also know that one of the four Russians kidnapped in October, 1985, was murdered before the rescue squads got to him.”

“There must be some way you can force the Kuwaitis to give in!” pleaded Janet, desperately.

“We can’t,” said the CIA officer. “We know we can’t because we’ve tried that, too.”

That night, in Harriet’s Georgetown house where she’d first met John Sheridan, Janet drank more than she normally did, agreeing to brandy after the wine, but the idea, when it came, was in no way a drunken one, although that was Harriet’s immediate thought.

When she belatedly realized that Janet was quite serious, Harriet said: “That’s absurd: absolutely absurd.”

“Why?”

“Jesus Christ, darling! For every reason!”

“I’m going to do it,” said Janet, feeling positively excited.

“What if John dies?”

Janet gazed for several moments across the dinner table at her friend and then said: “That’s almost inevitable, the way it’s being handled so far. Which is what I’m trying to prevent. The last time there wasn’t anything I could even try to do to prevent the inevitable, remember?”

“Darling!” exclaimed her mother, when Janet telephoned five minutes later. “It would be wonderful to have you home!”

“Not for long, Mother,” warned Janet. “Not for long.”

I t was an overnight flight from America, landing in London early in the morning. Janet had been unable to sleep at all and arrived feeling unwashed and gritty-eyed. It was not until she got through Immigration and was waiting by the carousel for her luggage that Janet remembered the original plan: to be here with John, for the wedding. She half turned, as if expecting him to be by her side, an unthinking reaction of tiredness. She blinked, feeling stupid, relieved that her bag came up almost at once so she could grab it and move away.

Her parents were waiting right by the exit, behind the barrier, and the moment Janet emerged her mother waved to attract attention. The woman hugged her and released her and hugged her again while her father waited patiently for his turn and just hugged her and kissed her once when it came.

From the first kiss her mother began a non-stop jabber of questions without ever waiting for answers and over the woman’s head her father smiled and Janet smiled back. Janet thought her mother twittered and decided the word was apposite: she was a thin, small-boned woman with jerky movements, like a twittering bird. Her father was a complete contrast, a quiet, unemotional man who she doubted had ever done anything or said anything without considering it first. From their time on postings together Janet always thought of him as someone in black because he really had worn a kind of uniform, dark subdued suits when it had not been striped trousers with black formal jacket. Now the suit was a retired country tweed but the sharp trouser crease and the waistcoat still gave a vague formality to it. He seemed fuller in the face than Janet remembered from her last visit, but it was his hair that registered with her most. Although he had to be twenty-five years older than John, her father’s hair was still almost completely black: from those awful pictures that remained so vivid in her mind Janet decided it was John who could be this man’s father rather than the other way around.

Responding minimally to her mother’s back-seat chatter Janet agreed that she was tired and that it was nice to be back and that it had been a reasonable flight-although already she could scarcely recall it-and that it was awful what had happened to John and that she was managing to cope and that Harriet had been wonderful and that everyone else had been wonderful, too. Her mother proudly announced she had kept a scrapbook of all the newspaper stories and features, knowing Janet would want one. Janet, who considered it the last thing she wanted, thanked the other woman and said it was a kind thought.

Her father picked the orbital motorway and as they drove south he looked sideways across the car and said: “You all right?”

“I don’t know, not really. I suppose so.”

“Was the pressure bad in Washington?”

“Not after I moved in with Harriet.”

“We had the press camped at the bottom of the lane for a week.”

“I’m sorry,” said Janet, not sure what she was apologizing for.

“They wanted photographs of you when you were a child,” intruded her mother from the back seat. “I let them have that one of you at the Necropolis of Thebes, on a camel.”

She’d been terrified and it had shown, Janet remembered. She said: “I don’t mind, whatever you did.”