I t was not one man but several. Another-not the American who’d first spoken, because the voice was different-said: “Jesus, you’re right!” and Janet looked blankly at all of them.
The first man came closer, smiling and with his hand outstretched: “Whelan, Jim Whelan. CBS. I did an interview with you in Washington when Sheridan first went missing. Just been posted here myself.”
Limply Janet took his hand, not remembering, looking beyond him to the other men. Whelan said, “Welcome to the Summerland Hotel, home of the international press corps,” he said.
The first man who had spoken came to her now. “Henry Black,” he said. “Washington Post. And do you look as if you’ve got problems!”
Janet burst into tears.
She tried to stop but couldn’t and they sat her in the foyer and got coffee she didn’t drink and waited until she’d recovered. When she did, it seemed as if the group had grown larger. Other people introduced themselves. There were more Americans and three or maybe four Englishmen and an Englishwoman stringing for two London newspapers, as well as some French and Germans, far too many names for Janet to remember. She was aware of cameras going off and shunned away, wishing they wouldn’t, and a soft-voiced argument began between the Americans she’d first met and the photographers. Janet said she wanted to wash, to try to clean herself up, and the CBS reporter arranged a room for her, and the Englishwoman, whose name she finally got as Ann, became a self-appointed guardian, telling the other reporters they would have to wait. Janet bathed and washed her hair, getting rid of her fatigue as well as the dirt and when she emerged from the bathroom found the other woman had set out some of her own clothes for her to borrow, a skirt and a shirt and a sweater. Everything was slightly too big but didn’t appear so when Janet surveyed herself in the mirror.
While she’d bathed Janet had fully regained control. Now she assessed the problems. She was an illegal entrant, certainly. But that wasn’t the most serious; the most serious had to be the stabbing aboard the fishing boat. Perhaps more than a stabbing: perhaps a killing. Her word against… against how many? She didn’t know: but she’d definitely be outnumbered. Stavos and Dimitri would get the others to lie against her, to concoct any sort of story they wanted. So she needed protection: official, professional protection, before even surrendering herself to whatever Beirut authority existed. And public, outside protection, too. Which meant the waiting pressmen downstairs.
Janet cooperated with everyone and everything. She gave a combined press conference and then individual interviews and posed for still photographs and the television cameras. Because he had been the first to approach her she asked Whelan to take her to the British embassy, and there, even before she explained her situation, she set out the cooperation she had given to the world media, openly using it as a threat although she was not sure against what.
The embassy official’s name was John Prescott: his position within the legation was never made clear to her. He was a precise, neat man and surprisingly slight. The word that came to Janet the moment they met was dainty. He listened without any outward reaction, small hand against his small face, making an occasional note in careful script. When she finished he asked her to wait in the office and was gone for more than an hour. He returned with another man whom he introduced as Robertson and identified as the embassy’s legal advisor. The lawyer was a heavy, florid-faced man: he reminded Janet of Partington, in the Nicosia embassy. Robertson asked her to repeat much of the story, which she did, and when she finished he complained, red-faced, that it would have been much more sensible for her to have come direct to the embassy instead of announcing it in advance to the press. Janet didn’t apologize.
Prescott pedantically explained that as her first marriage gave her certain rights to American citizenship he had felt it right to involve the U.S. embassy, as well as themselves. He had also been in communication with the British embassy in Beirut and had sent a full account to the Foreign Office in London. It was all very difficult and complicated, he said.
Janet wondered what they were waiting for until, thirty minutes later, two other men were ushered into the rapidly overcrowding room. Only one provided a name. It was William Burr and he described himself as an attache at the U.S. embassy. He said: “You’re causing us all a lot of headaches, Ms. Stone: a whole lot of headaches. We’re getting far too accustomed to hearing your name.”
To the Englishmen, Burr said: “You arranged an interview?”
Robertson nodded and said: “Three o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Here,” said the lawyer. “Within British jurdisdiction: it gives her the protection of the embassy.”
“Very wise,” agreed the American. Janet thought his hair was surprisingly long for a diplomat. He had a very freckled face and wore the sort of heavy moustache she remembered being popular among young people in the late ’60s, when she’d first gone up to the university. The other, unnamed American was much younger, an open-faced, bespectacled man who moved his head obviously between every speaker. Janet wondered if he were a lawyer, like Robertson. “Interview with whom?” she demanded.
“Police. And Immigration,” said Robertson.
Five Lebanese arrived, so it was necessary to move into a larger room. It was dominated by a conference table and Prescott carefully sat her between himself and Robertson on one side, keeping the Beirut officials on the other. The Americans sat at one end, like referees.
Janet answered the questions from two of the Lebanese, one police, the other immigration. A third man bent constantly over his pad, keeping verbatim notes. After an hour the policeman had a whispered conversation with his companion, who nodded, and asked for the use of a telephone. Prescott led one who had so far taken no part in the questioning to the smaller office in which they’d first been, and the interrogation resumed. It was not as demanding, as hostile even, as Janet had expected. Both questioners frequently smiled as they put their queries and the immigration inspector often nodded to her replies, as if he were in agreement with what she were saying.
When the Lebanese official returned to the room there was a muffled conversation between the group and the questioner produced a detailed map and asked Janet to identify the berth against which she believed the fishing boat had tied up the previous night. When Janet did so the man asked Robertson if they would agree to Janet accompanying them upon a launch, to point out the spot.
“Leave the embassy, you mean?” demanded the lawyer.
The Lebanese lowered his head, acknowledging the point of the question: “My colleague and I are happy to agree with the protection of the embassy extending with you: presumably one or all of you will wish to come too.”
“Why?” intruded Janet. “Why do you want me to do this?” She was frightened of going near that stinking hulk again; of actually confronting Stavos and Dimitri and whoever-or whatever-else might be aboard.
“There is no fishing boat of the sort you have described anywhere in that part of the harbor: no Cyprus-registered vessel at all,” announced the policeman, simply.
“Which means…” began the American, but the Lebanese cut him short, in agreement. “… that there is no incident involving a stabbing for us to become involved in,” said the man.
The British lawyer and Burr accompanied Janet. They drove in a British embassy car to a different part of the harbor, in the east of the city, where there were police in uniform and as many sparkling and glittering yachts and boats at their moorings as there were in the Larnaca marina.
All four Lebanese crowded aboard the officially designated harbor launch, which looped out to sea and then came in at Janet’s hesitant direction, as she tried to recall her approach the previous night. In the daylight she was better able to make out the division between the parts of the city and the port. When she became almost certain of the jetty she squinted shorewards, to locate the fenced-in part near the offices where she had been hounded by the pursuing men. She found it, running her eyes from it as a marker, and decided she was right.
“There!” she said.
“You’re sure?” Robertson asked.
“Positive.”
“It’s the jetty you picked out on the map,” said the Lebanese policeman. “As I said, we have no official record of any vessel from Cyprus having put in there during the night. And most definitely, as we can all see, there is no Cyprus fishing boat there now.”
“So any stabbing inquiry ends?” Burr pressed, instantly.
The Lebanese gave an expansive shrug. “Of course.”
“It happened!” Janet insisted.
“Nothing happened for me to investigate,” the man said, with matching insistence.
Robertson waved his hands in a pressing-down gesture to Janet. As the launch turned to cut its way back across the harbor to the pier where they had boarded, the lawyer said: “Which just leaves the matter of illegal entry.”
“I think I need to make telephone calls,” said the immigration man, avoiding any immediate commitment.
More had happened ashore than at sea during the hour they had been absent from the embassy. There was a cluster of reporters and television cameramen actually around the building when they reached it. They surged forward in a glare of camera lights as they saw Janet in the car, yelling unheard questions, and it was difficult for the driver to edge by them and at the same time to negotiate the dogs’ tooth barriers set up at the entrance to the British compound against any terrorist car suicide attack. The car managed it, but only just.
Prescott was waiting at the side entrance when the vehicle stopped. As they got out, Robertson demanded: “What the hell’s that all about?”
Prescott waited until they had assembled back in the larger room before answering. Then he said: “Some developments, in Cyprus. A man was arrested in Larnaca today trying to negotiate at the Hellenic Bank a?10,000 bearer letter of credit made out in the name of Janet Stone.”
She’d guessed Stavos had not understood, remembered Janet: served the bastard right. She said: “What about the one I stabbed?”
Prescott shook his head. “I’ve no information about that. I queried it and Nicosia say they don’t know anything about a stabbing. The police have located the boat, apparently. There is a lot of blood, but as far as I can understand the story is that a crewman had an accident, with a bottle or some glass. And there’s always a lot of fish blood around anyway on a boat like that.”
The American who had so far not spoken said: “Apparently Ms. Stone’s interviews have gotten a pretty big play, worldwide. And there’s still tomorrow’s papers to come. What’s happened in Cyprus has added to the interest. The pressure for official statements and more interviews isn’t just coming from those guys outside in the road. There’s a whole bunch at our legation, too.”
“I think too much has been publicly said already,” Robertson complained with lawyer’s caution.
“There is a legal situation,” Prescott agreed. “There’s been an official request from the Cyprus authorities, through our Nicosia embassy, for Mrs. Stone to be returned to help police inquiries there.”
“That would seem to take care of the matter of illegal entry,” the Lebanese immigration official said at once. “The Cyprus situation obviously takes precedence, in importance. And the most common resolution to illegal entry in any case is usually deportation to the port of origin. Which will be the outcome here.”
Janet found herself only half listening to the quiet-voiced discussion going on around her. Could it only be hours-less than one whole day-since she’d stabbed a man trying to rape her? And fled in terror from other men intent on God knows what? She found it difficult-inconceivable-to believe it was all being settled as easily as this. To the Lebanese she said: “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” smiled the immigration man.
“I came here for a reason, a purpose,” said Janet, hurriedly, not wanting to lose what she saw as an opportunity. “I was trying to find out anything about my finance, John Sheridan? Do you know anything? Can you help me find him? Where the hell is he?”
The effect throughout the room was very obvious. A physical stiffness appeared to tighten each man and their faces went blank, except for that of Robertson, whose suffused features became even redder.
It was the lawyer who spoke. He started, in cliche, to say: “I really don’t think this is either the time or the…” But Janet stopped him, erupting in frustrated disbelief.
“This is exactly the time and exactly the place, for Christ’s sake!” she yelled. “This is Beirut! This is where he’s held! So what the fuck is anyone doing about it!”
Janet hadn’t meant to say “fuck” and as soon as she did she regretted it. Trying to recover-but at the same time refusing to back away from the stone-masked men-she said: “Well, isn’t it? Isn’t this where John and all those other poor bastards are held, with no one doing anything about it? Isn’t it!”
The Lebanese shuffled awkwardly, appearing to move away from the general group to form a separate, muttered gathering: Janet was aware of a shoulder-humped, eyebrow-raised exchange between the British and American diplomats.
“Well!” she demanded, still not giving in. “Isn’t it!”
“You’re not helping, Ms. Stone,” Burr said.
“Who is?” Janet pressed on. “Tell me just who-how-anyone in Beirut is helping John and all those others. Come on! Tell me!”
The immigration official emerged as the Lebanese spokesman. He said: “None of this is our business: our responsibility.”
Janet sighed, focusing on the American whose name she knew. “What about you, Mr. Burr? You’re a United States diplomatic officer officially assigned to a country in which Americans are being held hostage, for whatever reason God or Allah knows. Do you consider it your business; your responsibility?”
“You’ve had a traumatic time, Ms. Stone,” soothed Burr, hopefully. “Let’s not press it, shall we?”
“I’m not taking that cop out!” rejected Janet, in further refusal. “OK! I’ve had a traumatic time: I nearly got raped and I stuck a knife in somebody whom no one seems able to find any more and I don’t know if the bastard is alive or dead. And despite what he tried to do and although he’s a bastard I don’t want him to be dead, although he deserves to be. But I’m still not hysterical: I’m not hysterical, and I haven’t lost control. I’ve got here and I don’t want to leave here until I get some idea what’s happening-if anything is happening-to find John Sheridan.”
It was the nameless American who spoke. He said: “Let’s talk about this sometime else, Ms. Stone.”
“Why!”
“Later, Ms. Stone!”
“Not later! Now!”
“There’s nothing to say, not here, not now,” came in Burr, defensively.
“We know nothing,” said the Lebanese policeman who had not spoken for a long time. “There’s nothing we can say to help you.”
Janet experienced a familiar sensation, the feeling of having something that blocked out the light-a blanket maybe-pulled over her head, shutting out her access to everything and anything beyond, as she herself had literally pulled the blankets over her head when Hank died.
The American without a name spoke, not to Janet but to the British diplomats. He said: “We’ve got a helicopter going to Cyprus, later today. We’d be happy to offer transportation to Ms. Stone.”
“That’s very good of you,” Prescott said in apparent acceptance.
“Wait a minute!” protested Janet. “Just wait a goddamned minute! Why isn’t anyone answering me!” Directly to Prescott she said: “What the hell right have you got to make arrangements on my behalf?”
“Every right,” the tiny man said at once and with a forcefulness strangely out of keeping with his stature. “You are a distressed person of original British nationality seeking the protection of this embassy. The Lebanese authorities have agreed-with exceptional understanding, for which we are extremely grateful-to take no action whatsoever against you. Which they clearly could have done, had they so seen fit. I am entirely and legally entitled to repatriate you to your port of origin in the most cost-effective and efficient way that presents itself. That way has presented itself.”
“Absolutely and utterly correct,” Robertson said.
The blanket was doing more now than just blocking out the light; there was the familiar stifling sensation, too. “Thanks!” Janet said, intending sarcasm.
“You know what I think, Ms. Stone?” Burr said, throwing it back at her. “I don’t really think you’ve any idea just how much you’ve got to be thankful for.”
The truth of the remark, pompous though it was, further punctured Janet’s attitude. She felt weighed down and not just from the exhaustion of not having slept for longer than she was able to remember. Trying for a pebble to throw back against the boulders, she said: “I’d like to meet the press.”
“No!” Robertson said at once.
“Why not?”
“For the reason that’s already been made clear,” said the lawyer. Continuing professionally, he went on: “There is in custody in Cyprus a man who is alleged to have fraudulently attempted to convert a money order in your name to his own benefit. Anything you might say could materially affect whatever evidence you might give at his trial: if you want the legal definition, it is sub judice.”
“What evidence?” Janet said, fighting back.
“I don’t wish to continue this discussion,” Robertson said. “But if you are considering not supporting the charges that could be brought, then I would consider you a very stupid woman.”
“And I consider you a very arrogant man…” Janet paused, encompassing everyone in the room. “… I consider you all very arrogant men, interested in only one thing: getting rid of a potential embarrassment as quickly and as easily as possible.”
Janet waited for a reaction but there wasn’t one, and their absolute dismissal was the most crushing part of the encounter.
To the Lebanese, Robertson said formally: “Do you entrust custody of Mrs. Stone to the British authorities?”
Appearing relieved, the man immediately said: “Yes.”
To the Americans, Robertson said: “On behalf of the British government I would like to accept your offer of transportation.”
“You’re welcome,” Burr said.
“I won’t go!” Janet shouted, desperately and without thought. “I won’t go until I have found out something about John!”
“You don’t have any choice in the matter,” said Robertson flatly. “You’re being expelled. And in the circumstances in the best way possible: as I’ve just told you, you’re a very fortunate woman.”
There was another futile journalistic rush towards the departing car, which had to slow at the barriers and by doing so provided the opportunity for yet more photographs, and more unheard questions before it accelerated on the outside road to run parallel to the sea towards the American embassy. The sun was very low, half over the horizon, and Janet thought that at this time the previous night she had still only been approaching the Lebanese coastline. Burr was beside her, in the back, with the other American in the front but turned towards them: Janet had been conscious of the man hunching against the burst of camera bulbs and on impulse said: “You were with John, weren’t you? With the Agency, I mean.”
“I knew him,” the man conceded.
“You never told me your name.”
“The way you run to the newspapers it’s dangerous even to tell you the time of day,” said Burr, beside her.
“I know the lecture by heart,” said Janet.
“People are supposed to learn from lectures,” said Burr. “Why haven’t you?”
“Because none of them have had any useful information.”
“Smart!” Burr acknowledged. “Very smart.”
Janet ignored Burr, concentrating upon the man in front of her. “OK, so don’t tell me if you’re in the Agency or not: I couldn’t give a damn. But I know you are. So you must be involved in trying to find him! For God’s sake tell me what’s going on!”
“I…” the man started but Burr said: “No!,” cutting him off. Then the man said: “I was only going to say that I would like to but I can’t.”
“Let’s cut it, right there, shall we!” Burr said.
“No!” Janet protested. “Let’s not cut anything! I want to know: I want to know anything!”
“There’s nothing to know,” Burr said. “It’s a cold trail.”
“I don’t believe you!” Janet said. “It can’t be!”
“Ms. Stone,” Burr said. “We’ve got Americans somewhere in this asshole of a country who’ve been missing for years, not just weeks! There’s nothing that hasn’t been done that could not have been done to make contact, to negotiate or to plead or arrange their freedom. To normal people you can talk; discuss things. But these aren’t normal people. They’re fanatics, nuts.”
“So what the hell’s the answer!”
“We’ve got to wait,” Burr said, fatalistically. “All the lines are out: they know we want to hear from them. All we can do is wait for them to come to us. Come to us and give us their terms and their demands so we can see where we go from there.”
“Where do we go from there!” persisted Janet. “Do we deal? Or do we come up with the line that we won’t condone terrorism, which is a load of crap after Irangate!”
“I don’t make policy, Ms. Stone,” said the diplomat, with sudden weariness. “I just try to interpret it. Sometimes it isn’t easy.”
The car had to make its way through another press throng at the U.S. legation, which was protected by more concreted antiterrorist barriers than the British building, and once more Janet was conscious of the American in the front seat moving to conceal himself as much as possible from the cameras. Inside the compound, Burr said: “I’m going to issue a very short statement. Just that you have cooperated with the authorities here in Beirut and that you are returning to Cyprus to help with some police matters there.”
“Why don’t I take Ms. Stone with me, until the helo gets here?” the other man suggested.
“Just as long as I know where to find you,” Burr agreed.
Janet followed the younger man from the car, past a Marine-guarded, sandbagged pillbox and into the embassy through a side door, not the main entrance. The man courteously opened doors and stood back every time they had to move through one section of the building to another. They did not stop until they reached what had to be the very rear: the final door was operated by a combination lock and Janet remembered the briefcase carried by the first man who’d tricked her. Absurdly she could not immediately recall the name. Nicos, she thought: Nicos Kholi.
She followed the man into an office harsh under fluorescent lighting, with no outside windows. Everything was practical and functional, just a desk, three filing cabinets side by side and sealed by thick iron bars which padlocked through the handles of each drawer, and one chair for a visitor. He gestured her to it and Janet sat down.
“The name’s Knox,” he said. “George Knox. I’m glad there’s the chance for us to be alone for a few moments.”
“I don’t understand,” said Janet.
“I’ve got something for you.” The man reached into a side drawer of the desk and then stretched out towards her.
It was not until she accepted what he was offering that Janet realized it was a photograph, and her eyes instantly blurred at the image of Sheridan. It was a color print, obviously taken somewhere in Beirut: there were palm trees in the background and the edge of a swimming pool. Sheridan was wearing shorts and a shirt and Topsiders without socks, and appeared to be smiling at someone beyond the camera.
“John really was my friend,” disclosed Knox. “He’d actually invited me to your wedding.”