I t would have been fatuous for Janet not to think about the choice she had to make: it was constantly at the forefront of her mind. At best she could refuse to consider it, with any finality, which was how she went through the succeeding days: aware but uncommitted. If she could remain uncommitted, that is, spending every available moment with Baxeter and making love every night-and sometimes during the day-and feeling content only in his presence or when he was near. They drove to the mountains again and this time there was none of the aching nostalgia she’d experienced when she’d made the journey alone, and he took her to a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing at a restored Roman amphitheater in the low seacliffs near Limassol: the backdrop was breathtaking, the performance magnificent and the irony of the title not lost on them. After the play they went to a restaurant near Lady’s Mile. Baxeter said it was the one he’d had in mind after the photographic session in the mountains when he’d asked her to dinner.
“That was the first time I knew,” he said. “Thought I knew, anyway.”
“Me, too,” said Janet.
Janet maintained daily contact with the CIA group at the American embassy and on the fifth day, at Willsher’s invitation, went to the legation, intrigued by what she found. The room in which they had always met had been transformed into what she could only think of as a war room. There were three separate blackboards on their easels-two draped with maps with blown-up inserts of Kantari, the third covered with ground and aerial photographs-and an additional cork pinboard upon which photographs had been given map references. Neither Hart nor Knox were present, but during their meeting a hard-boned, crewcut man in unmarked jungle camouflage fatigues came into the room, consulted an index on the pinboard and withdrew. He paid no attention whatsoever to either of them and Willsher made no effort to introduce him.
“It looks positive,” Willsher said. “We’ve had lots of image-intensified pictures-movie as well as still-blown up to their maximum enlargement of the area and particularly the street. Under analysis there seems to be a lot of activity. We’ve identified Amal militia groupings: weaponry, stuff like that. Also there is some indication of a radio installation. The British are giving us a tremendous amount of cooperation: we think we’ve isolated their wave band and we’re backing up with our own satellite intercepts, as well.”
“What about Fort Pearce?” asked Janet.
Before replying Willsher looked towards the door through which the soldier had just left the room. “Why I asked you to come today,” he revealed. “They’ve finished the mockup exercises. They’re here.”
“Here!” echoed Janet, surprised. Nearer and nearer, she thought.
“We’re on countdown, Ms. Stone. Which is where you come in. We want to hear from you that John’s still there: that we haven’t got to re-direct.”
“Yes,” Janet accepted, emptily.
“How long?”
“I don’t know,” answered Janet, honestly. It seemed absurd, but it was something she had not discussed with Baxeter.
“Could you give me some idea tomorrow?”
“I hope so,” said Janet. “What’s the plan?”
“That’s classified,” refused Willsher.
“I didn’t mean the details of the incursion,” elaborated Janet. “What about afterwards? If you find John where are you going to take him?”
“Here,” said Willsher. “The British are making their air base at Akrotiri available. Already on its way towards the Lebanese coast is a major part of the Sixth Fleet, including the aircraft carrier. They won’t enter territorial waters but there’ll be blanket air support. John will be helicoptered here to undergo medical checks while we set up the press briefing.”
The planning appeared to be absolute. “Where you want me to be present?” she said.
“Right alongside the man you love,” smiled Willsher.
It felt like a physical blow, a punch low in the stomach. She managed a smile and said: “It should be quite a media event.” Would Baxeter attend, as the journalist he was supposed to be?
“And show these fanatic bastards up to be the useless idiots they are,” said Willsher, with sudden vehemence.
What else would it show up? “It could all be over in days?” she said, distantly.
“That’s the scale we’re working to,” Willsher confirmed. “Over and finished in days.” He smiled. “All we’re waiting for is the word from you.”
Once again Baxeter heard her out with the distracted attitude she found disconcerting, concentrating upon what she was saying but not upon Janet herself.
“Days?” he queried.
“That’s what Willsher said: all they’re waiting for is my confirmation.”
“I’ll need their definite date,” said Baxeter.
“Why?” asked Janet.
“It’s important.”
“Why?” she repeated.
“Trust me.”
“Will you have to go back to Beirut?”
“Maybe not this time.”
“How long?”
Baxeter pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Maybe forty-eight hours.”
Over and finished in days, she remembered. What, exactly, would be finished? Baxeter left early the following morning, but this time there was none of the earlier emptiness because her mind was in a turmoil of indecision. How could she dispassionately pick one against the other! The very word was a mockery: passion had every thing to do with it. Uncomfortably, her mind held by it, Janet decided that if she were making a comparison, which was what she had to do, then Baxeter was a better lover than John. But that was only a part of it. She knew she loved Baxeter because she’d been with him: practically lived with him. It seemed so long ago with John: almost difficult to remember. So she had to have time with him again. Not for herself, she thought quickly. To be fair to John, that’s all. Was she capable of that sort of hypocrisy, going through the charade of the media reunion and all the time conducting some sort of mental trial? She didn’t think she was: couldn’t think, properly, of anything.
Baxeter wasn’t away the forty-eight hours he’d estimated. He called on the evening of the second night and met her in a restaurant in Ayios Dhometios they had not used before. He was there before her, and as Janet sat down the man said: “John is still there.”
Janet tried to think of something appropriate to say but couldn’t. “Good,” she mumbled.
Baxeter leaned intensely across the table towards her. He said: “It’s vital you understand the importance of learning the precise day the Americans are going to go in!”
“Why?”
“I’ve been to Tel Aviv,” disclosed Baxeter.
Janet frowned over the table, trying to understand the significance. “So?”
“From what Willsher told you is it obvious the Americans are planning a frontal assault, backed up by air support and whatever else from their fleet?” said the Israeli.
“I guess so,” agreed Janet. “I hadn’t thought about it to that extent: Willsher said they were prepared.”
“It won’t work,” declared Baxeter, flatly. “It can’t work.”
“Can’t work!” The anxiety flared through her.
“Even if they achieve complete surprise there’ll still be some resistance,” predicted Baxeter. “Our military people in Tel Aviv estimate that moving at the maximum possible speed-night is the logical attack time, which is going to cause further hindrance-it will take an hour from the moment they hit the beach to get to where John is, in Kantari…” Baxeter stopped, hesitating at what he had to say. “By which time John will have been moved,” he said. Bluntly he added: “Or killed!”
“No!” moaned Janet, softly. “It can’t go on like this! It just can’t. It’s got to stop!”
“That’s why my knowing the actual day is important.”
“Why?”
“We’ve decided to use the American landing as a diversionary tactic,” said Baxeter. “We’re going to send a commando team in ahead of them. We’ll get John out.”