Betrayals (8 page)

“It's a bastard, isn't it?” Harriet said.

“Yes,” Janet agreed. “A complete bastard.”

8

T
he number rang twice before it was picked up and a voice Janet thought she recognized from her previous calls said: “State.”

“Is it?” asked Janet.

There was a pause and the voice said: “Ma'am?”

“My name is Janet Stone,” she said, carefully prepared. “I am the fiancée of John Sheridan, who gave me this number. I've reached him on it, several times. I want to speak to somebody to find out what's happened to him in Beirut.”

There was a further hesitation before the voice said: “Will you hold a moment, ma'am?”

Janet did not time the delay but it seemed to last for several minutes. When the line opened again it was a different voice. The man said: “Who is this, please?”

Janet repeated her earlier statement, which she had rehearsed, just as she had written down questions she wanted answered, while she waited for eight-thirty to show on the clock, the time she imagined they might start work. She finished by saying: “Who am I talking to?”

He didn't answer her question. Instead he said: “How did you get this number?”

“I already told you, from my fiancé, John Sheridan,” reiterated Janet. “I want to find somebody who can help me. Can you help me?”

“Ma'am, I'm sorry,” he said. “I think you've got a misconnection. No John Sheridan works here.”

Janet felt a hollowness begin to form deep down in her stomach, but there was anger, too. She tried to control the anger, knowing it would not help and believing, too, that this number and this unknown man was the only link she had to people who might know what was going on in Beirut. With forced calmness she said: “I have not got a misconnection and I know I did not misdial, either. I have used this number to speak to John Sheridan on a number of occasions during the past year. I want to know what's happened to him: what's going to be done to get him released.”

“Ma'am, I've told you, I'm sorry. I really can't help you.”

“Who are you?” demanded Janet. “What CIA department am I speaking to?”

“Ma'am, I really don't know what you're talking about. I genuinely can't assist you.”

Janet's anger lapped over. She said: “For God's sake stop patronizing me and certainly stop talking about genuineness when you're not showing any! I want to know what's happened to my fiancé!”

“Ma'am, I've told you …”

“… I know what you've told me,” cut off Janet. “And I know you're lying. I'm not interested or concerned in any secrecy rubbish. I just want to speak to someone who can help me … who knows more than I've seen on the newscasts …” She felt her control begin to waver and fought against the collapse. “… Please!” she said. “Please help me!”

“Ma'am, there really isn't any point in continuing this conversation,” said the man.

“I want …” began Janet and then stopped because she heard the click of disconnection and knew it was pointless. She sat crouched in the Rosslyn apartment, the telephone off its rest and purring in her hand, engulfed in a fury that physically burned through her, so that she felt hot. But it was not all fury. There was a frightening helplessness, too, the all-alone feeling she'd known in the coming-to-terms period after Hank's death. It was an emotion she'd never wanted to experience again. Janet realized she was crying, not from the wetness of any tears but from the shaking of her shoulders. She sniffed, angry at herself now, and tried to stop. She was surprised she still held the telephone and put it hurriedly down. She had to go into her bedroom for a Kleenex and returned blowing her nose hard, as if making a noise would help her control.

Back in the living room she stared down at the piece of paper upon which 648-3291 was written, suffused by a fresh wave of helplessness and striving to suppress it.
Wouldn't
give in;
couldn't
give in, she mentally recited to herself. What then? She didn't know; couldn't think. Janet, who had no religion, thought: Dear God, someone, something, please help me think! She reached out, intending to dial it again, and then stopped, willing herself to concentrate. And did. That wasn't the entire number! In the habit of Americans, which Janet had actually found curious when she first arrived in the United States, Sheridan had prefixed the number with the area code, 202. Which was Washington, D.C., Janet knew: just as she knew that the CIA headquarters were at Langley. Which was in Virginia.

She picked up the D.C. directory and found the State Department under the government heading. The main number was 655-4000. Janet carefully ran her finger through the subsidiary listings, seeking the number Sheridan had given her. It wasn't there. She dialed 655-4000 and when the switchboard answered asked as expectantly as she could to be put through to 648-3291.

“That's not a State Department extension,” said the operator.

“I didn't think it was an extension,” said Janet. “It was given to me as a State Department number.”

“Let me check,” said the operator. The line went dead but only briefly. “Sorry,” said the woman, coming back. “That's not registered in any of our directories.”

While she waited Janet had already changed telephone books and located two numbers for the Central Intelligence Agency, 482-1100 or 7676, both with a 703 area code.

She called the first and on impulse, when there was a reply, asked for Personnel.

The operator said: “In connection with what, ma'am?”

Christ, how she wished everyone would stop calling her “ma'am,” Janet thought. She recited her practiced request and was asked to wait and again another unidentified male voice came on to the line and asked who she was and again Janet mouthed the ritual.

“We are aware of reports that have appeared in newspapers and on television,” said the man. “The Central Intelligence Agency can neither deny or confirm that John Patrick Sheridan is in any way connected with the Agency.”

The bloody man was reading from some written statement, Janet realized, frustration making her hot again. She hadn't known Sheridan's second name was Patrick: but then she hadn't known much about him at all, had she? She said: “I am not asking you to deny or confirm anything. I am going to marry the man, for Christ's sake! I want to speak to someone to find out what's going on.”

“I am afraid I am not empowered to say anything more than I've already told you. Certainly not over the telephone.”

“Wait, please!” said Janet, urgently. Fearing another disconnection Janet hurried on: “Listen to me! I've tried the 648-3291 number, which John gave me. And I've checked with the State Department and know it's not one of theirs, although that was John's cover. I can prove I am his fiancée because I have the power of attorney to dispose of his Columbus Circle apartment and also of some of the effects. I can prove he bought me my engagement ring. I've got about a hundred letters in his handwriting, to me, from Beirut. I've also lodged with our bank a notarized authorization in the name of a U.S. embassy lawyer in Beirut, for access to funds in his account, to secure the mortgage on a house in Chevy Chase …”

“… What's the point you're trying to make, Ms. Stone?” interrupted the anonymous spokesman, flat-voiced.

Janet supposed “Ms.” was slightly better than “Ma'am,” but not much. She said: “Very simple, really. Like I told you, I tried the 648-3291 number and got the runaround: just like you've been giving me the runaround so far. I don't want that. I want to be able to meet and to talk to someone who'll tell me what has happened to someone I love and intend to marry. And what's being done to get him back to safety. So I
can
marry him.”

“You appear to have given a lot of thought to how provably connected you are.”

The remark briefly confused Janet. In her anxiety she had set out her links with Sheridan without any conscious attempt at detail but able to think upon them now she acknowledged that the list had been comprehensive. But then why shouldn't it have been? She was going to marry him, wasn't she? Most wives-to-be could have recounted a hundred more things than she had done. She was still about to query the man's remark but then understood. Janet said: “I've already spoken this morning to someone in the Agency, on the 3291 number. And I'll tell you what I told him: I'm not interested in what you are doing or what John is doing or in any of this espionage crap that you all seem to think is a normal way of life. I don't intend causing any trouble or any difficulty. All I want is someone to tell me how everything is going to be made all right. Have I made myself clear?”

“I think you have, Ms. Stone.”

“So?” demanded Janet. She was unsure where the determination was coming from—maybe from the frustrated anger—but whatever the source she was grateful: oddly—gratefully again—she no longer felt in danger of collapsing into pleading tears.

“You have somewhere we could get back to?”

There wasn't any longer the insincere politeness, Janet recognized, relieved. She dictated her number and when he'd read it back she said: “How long until you get back to me?”

“I've no way of knowing that, ma'am.”

It hadn't taken long for the bullshit to seep back into the exchange. She said: “I'm very anxious. I'd like to hear very soon.”

“I've got your number.”

Then dial the fucking thing! Janet thought, in a fresh surge of frustration. Her voice betrayed no indication of what she was thinking. “I'll wait then.”

“Yes,” agreed the man. “Wait.”

Janet did just that, wandering aimlessly around the apartment and then, irritated at herself, remembered the continuous news broadcasts on CNN. Hurriedly she turned on the television. Sheridan's kidnap retained its place as lead item and Janet sat through two top-of-the-hour repeats, each time grimacing as the fatuous CIA refusal to deny or confirm Sheridan's connection with the Agency was parroted, as it had been parroted to her that morning. The library footage was similar to that of the previous night, and once more there were comparison still photographs of Sheridan and William Buckley. On one segment the Beirut situation was augmented by a live studio interview with a supposed intelligence expert whose name Janet had never heard before. Hands clenched, she sat as the man recounted brief details of the obscene torture the earlier CIA station chief had undergone. Before the expert finished Janet found herself saying: “No, please don't let it happen. Don't let him be hurt,” like she had the previous night.

Janet snapped off the television, impatient at no fresh news development. She looked at her watch and then at the telephone—three hours since her contact with Langley. What was it that took so long! she thought, exasperated.

Realizing it was lunchtime and that she had taken nothing other than coffee that morning, Janet went into the kitchen and stood looking at the refrigerator and the cupboards, wondering why she bothered. She wasn't hungry and did not want to eat anything anyway. There were the remains of a bottle of wine she and Harriet had failed to finish last night, and Janet considered it and then decided against that, too. She'd never found solace from disaster in booze.

Although she was expecting it, she started when the telephone sounded, snatching it off the kitchen extension to hear Harriet's voice.

“What is it?” demanded Harriet, discerning the disappointment.

“I thought it would be someone else.”

“From the Agency?”

“Yes.”

“What have they said?”

“Nothing yet: that's why I'm waiting.”

“It's all over the newspapers.”

“Yes, of course,” said Janet, trying to curb her anxiety. “Darling, I really am waiting on this call. Can I get back to you?”

“I'll come by, direct from work,” announced her friend.