Brian Freemantle - Betrayals

“I want to know!” he persisted.

“No!” Janet said, desperately. “How could you have lost out, after what’s happened!”

“So where does that leave John?”

Janet had not eaten her meal either. She pushed it aside, reaching across the table for his hand, kneading his fingers. “Stop it!” she demanded. “Stop trying to get inside my head! Can’t you understand I’ve been thinking about-torn apart about-nothing else!”

“And I’m not helping?”

“No,” Janet said. “You’re not helping at all.”

“How was it left at the embassy?” asked Baxeter, changing direction to defuse the tension.

“That Hart would call me, as soon as he heard something back from Washington.”

“You’ll never know, of course, whether he’s telling he truth: whatever he says and however he says it.”

“I accept that,” Janet said. “Where does it say I’ve got to believe him?”

“You’re becoming cynical: don’t become cynical.”

“You’re becoming protective.”

“That’s what I want to be.”

“Don’t press: not at this time don’t press.”

“OK,” he accepted. “Your speed; your decision.”

“I don’t need reminding.”

The returning waiter asked if there were anything wrong with the meal and Baxeter apologized that they were not hungry and without any discussion between them they went back to his apartment. Where for the first time their lovemaking wasn’t good. They coupled and came but there was a tension between them, a block. Janet waited for Baxeter to refer to it but he didn’t so neither did she, telling herself she was imagining it.

“It’s a multi-entry visa,” announced Baxeter, beside her.

“So you could go back any time?”

“Yes.”

“This Shia? Is he a member of one of the groups?”

“Connections, obviously.”

“What if it’s a trap: that they’re setting you up to be snatched? There are journalists in captivity.”

Baxeter considered the question. “They could have snatched me receiving the photograph: there wasn’t any need to wait until I came back a second time.”

“Don’t go!” insisted Janet. “You’ve got a photograph and we’ve given it to the Americans and that’s enough: let them take over from here.”

“But that means John…” he started.

“… I know what it means,” broke in Janet, sharply.

She sensed rather than saw him shake his head. Baxeter said: “The Americans won’t move-if they’ll move at all-just on a picture. They’ve had pictures before.”

Janet turned away from him, pushing her face into the pillow, not wanting him to see her cry. Trapped, she thought desperately: she always felt trapped. His hand was on her shoulders, gently massaging, his fingers soothing up into her hairline.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”

“No!” she said, muffled.

“Yes,” he said, with determination.

Baxeter asked her to stay the night but Janet suggested there might be a call from the embassy, which was only part of the reason for her refusal: she still felt the barrier between them that she’d known when they made love and decided she needed to get away for it to disappear, as it had to disappear.

She regretted leaving as soon as she reached the hotel, sure she was imagining the barrier, but willed herself against telephoning to say she was coming back. She rang the following morning, intending to apologize, but there was no reply. She waited until mid-afternoon for him to call her and when he didn’t she dialed his number again. There was still no reply. She started calling every half hour and then reduced it to the quarter hour and at six drove back to his flat. It was locked and the window shutters were closed and bolted.

Janet returned angrily to the hotel. He’d told her he was going, of course. But there should have been some talk between them before he left: some time together. Just taking off without any contact was… Janet’s thoughts filtered, seeking the word. The only one she could think of was inconsiderate, which was ridiculous: he was going to Beirut for her, to help her locate a fiance, so what could be more considerate, more selfless, than that? Whatever, he should still have said goodbye: it made it appear as if he didn’t care and she knew that wasn’t true.

Hart did not telephone but came personally to the hotel the following day and Janet felt embarrassed at his finding her predictably by the pool. The American seemed more subdued than usual, although there was no hostility: when she asked eagerly if there had been any developments he said they couldn’t talk where they were and she agreed at once to accompany him to the embassy. It was a chauffeur driven car with darkened rear windows and a division between the driver and the rear-seat passengers but the CIA officer still refused to divulge anything until they reached the U.S. compound.

They went again to the rear of the building, through the barred gate, but into a larger pine-paneled and pine-furnished office. Janet came to an abrupt stop in the doorway, so that Hart almost collided into her. Robert Willsher rose first to greet her, immediately followed by George Knox, the other CIA man she’d met in Beirut. Both men were smiling, Knox more broadly than the Washington official.

“Good to see you again, Ms. Stone,” said Willsher.

“Is it?” said Janet, cautiously.

“Why not come on in, so we can talk?” invited the man.

Janet continued on, going to the chair that Knox was holding out courteously for her. As she went to sit he winked at her. From the way the men arranged themselves at the table, all facing her, it was obvious that Willsher was the senior officer.

“Looks like we’ve got a chink of light here?” began Willsher.

“I hope so,” said Janet.

Willsher nodded sideways, to the Cyprus-based agent, and said: “Al submitted a full report of your meeting. I’ve got to tell you it caused quite a flap at Langley.”

“I’m glad there’s some reaction at last.”

Willsher appeared not to notice the sarcasm: if he had, he was unoffended by it. He said: “You must understand that what I am going to tell you is in the strictest confidence: if you had not kept so positively to the agreement we made in Washington, I wouldn’t be telling you at all. There’s been a policy decision taken, at the highest level. That photograph is absolutely genuine. If we can get a location for John it’ll be the first time, in all the kidnappings, that we’ve something positive to act upon. And we’re going to do just that. If we can get a location for John, we’re authorized to go in and get him!”

For a moment the three men blurred before her and the room spun: hoping they would not notice, Janet actually gripped the edge of her chair, physically holding on. “Thank you,” she managed. “Thank you so much.”

“Which is why we must have access to your source,” completed the man.

It was like being doused in cold, reviving water. “No,” said Janet, as adamantly as Willsher had spoken.

“Ms. Stone,” said Willsher, level-voiced. “This is foolish. We’re planning an incursion into another country. OK, so it’s a pretty screwed-up country but by international law it’s still sovereign territory. If we do it there’s going to be hell to pay. That’s been allowed for: to stop being shoved around by any bunch of bums who think they can take a pop at us. Washington-the President-is prepared to take whatever flak is thrown afterwards, at any international forum. But we’ve got to get it right. If we lose too many men…” The man stopped, awkwardly. “… and I’ve got to say it, if we lose John, in the attempt, then it’s all going to blow right up in our faces. You understand what I’m saying?”