Brian Freemantle: Betrayals

She indicated she wanted to speak again and he pulled aside his cowl. Janet said: “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Wait,” he said, brusquely.

The explosions split the night open, appearing to be all around her, so near and so loud that the pain seared through her ears. She was partially deafened but still able to hear the sudden roar of aircraft and then everything became fiercely white-lighter than the brightest day-as dozens of phosphorus illuminating shells burst from what seemed every point in the sky. Janet blinked against the glare, able to see everything. There was a fresh eruption of noise, of machine-gun fire and the slower-paced crack of rifles and handguns and the crump of shells: there were spurts of flame where the shells landed. All along the waterfront landing craft were spewing men ashore: they emerged firing from behind the drop-fronted ramps and several fell almost immediately. Janet recognized that the overhead roar was not that of aircraft but of helicopter gunships. They hovered all along the waterfront, continuous streams of flame coming from their Catling cannons protruding from either side.

And then Janet recognized something else.

She stared wildly around, convinced she knew the imposing government building about two hundred yards away as one she had driven past on her way to the American embassy that morning after she’d toured the harbor looking for the fishing boat that had first brought her to Beirut. Then she saw the embassy itself and knew she was right.

Furious, eyes bulging in her anger, Janet snatched and tugged and Baxeter staggered sideways, surprised. He jerked the head cover off. Because noise didn’t matter any more-had to be yelled over, in fact-he shouted: “What the hell’s going on!”

“This isn’t Kantari!” Janet shouted back. “I know this place. It’s Yarzy and that’s the American embassy. Why aren’t we in Kantari?”

“Because it was absurd and laughable, like I told you,” he said. “That is the American embassy and if anything goes wrong get the hell to it: you’ll be safe there.”

“But John…”

“… Shut up and stop being a fool!” said Baxeter. He tugged binoculars from his backpack, thrust them towards her and gestured far away, to their right. “There,” he said. “Focus there!”

Janet hesitated, then did as she was told. It took her a moment to adjust the binoculars, a moment in which there was a fresh spray of phosphorus. It was like a firework display, she thought: an obscene, killing firework display, and she had the ringside seat.

The enlargement was perfect. She could see the American commandoes spreading through the street, and other men, civilians, desperately firing at them as they retreated. The gunships moved with the advance, pouring down cannon shells: she saw one Arab practically cut in half by the concentration of fire and an already shattered building actually collapsed. And then she saw black-suited and black-helmeted men.

Janet tried to count but stopped at seven. They were all in one street, with two in a side alley, and all facing the direction from which the Americans were approaching, so that the Arabs were pincered in between. Twice groups of Arabs tried to get into the street and only then did the Israelis fire, blasting the entry and preventing them.

Janet turned beseechingly to Baxeter. “What…?”

“Just watch!”

When she looked back the Arabs had stopped trying to get into the Israeli-sealed street and were being forced further along another road to escape. Camouflaged Americans were everywhere now, entering the street itself and moving house-to-house along bordering and parallel alleys but she could no longer see any Israelis. There was an abrupt concentration of troops around one house halfway along. She watched one man’s arm move and the door was blown in and she realized he’d thrown a grenade. The house was rushed and into the street-quiet and secured now-another coordinated group moved, a stretcher between them.

And then she saw John.

He was at the doorway, supported by two American commandoes: his arms were along their shoulders and theirs were around him and he sagged between them. Janet whimpered, hearing herself make the sound, and a huge feeling of pity welled up inside her. There was an obvious indication towards the stretcher and John shook his head, trying to walk but almost at once he stumbled and allowed himself to be shakily lowered on to it. They moved off at once, the stretcher completely encircled by men with their backs to it, most literally walking backwards, forming a tight circle of protection.

“OK!” Baxeter said. “You had to be here to see him freed. And you were. Now let’s get out!”

Janet did not move, still watching the progress of the rescue squad, and Baxeter jerked her upright, pulling the binoculars from her. “I said we’ve got to get out!”

Dully, bewildered, she stumbled after him, conscious that the night was becoming black again because no more phosphorus was exploding: there was still firing from below but it was sporadic now and the gunships had stopped blasting. They appeared to be going back along exactly the same route they had climbed but at the brighter thoroughfare Baxeter halted longer than before, head lowered as he mumbled into his throat microphone. Janet had an abrupt spurt of fear as a shadow became the figure of a man and then there were others and she realized they had linked up with some of the other Israelis. At once they moved off, in their own tight circle of protection. They were practically across the street before the shout came: at once two of the Israelis stopped, turning towards the cafe. One fired a short burst and the other hurled a grenade. Baxeter was dragging her along, her hand in his, and they were in an alley before the blast of the explosion rippled up the street.

Janet stumbled along, panting, the air burning her throat, aware that as well as being pulled by Baxeter she was being pushed by another of the men, his hand in the small of her back. A dog barked, suddenly snarling in front of them and at once there was a wailing howl as it was kicked out of the way. A challenge came, from a window above, but the head jerked back from view at a spray of automatic fire that whined off the brickwork, bringing dust raining down upon them.

“Can’t keep up: got to stop,” Janet groaned.

Baxeter continued pulling and the other commando went on pushing, no one slackening their pace.

“Please!”

They ran on.

The gates of whatever yard it was in which they had hidden the vehicles were open, men guarding the entrance, and as they reached it the first emerged, the lorry, closely followed by two jeeps. Baxeter had to physically lift Janet into the back of another: she rolled sideways as she went in, laid against the hard seat, and could not raise herself. She felt Baxeter behind her, his hand protectively against her shoulder.

The convoy hurtled back along the coast road and she was jolted and thrown about, scarcely aware in her exhaustion of what was happening. Twice she heard what she thought was gunfire but her ears were so dulled by the earlier attack she wasn’t sure.

She was just able to straighten by the time they got back to where they beached. Surrendering herself completely to Baxeter’s guidance she was led back down the incline, over the shingle and briefly out into the water. He folded backwards easily into the rubber boat, leaning out and lifting her bodily in beside him.

Behind there was the crump of yet another explosion and Janet squinted back in time to see the lorry and the jeeps burst one after the other into a solid wall of flame. It was not casual destruction, she realized: they had been arranged so that they formed a solid, blazing barrier against any pursuit. As the awareness came to her Janet saw in the light of the flames the dark outlines of pursuing army vehicles moving along the coast road after them.