Betrayals (15 page)

She reached Partington on the second call. The attaché remembered her father at once and said he was delighted to hear from her, and why didn't she come for supper with him and his wife the following evening? Janet said she wanted a more formal meeting, although dinner would be fine later. There was a pause from the other end of the line and Partington said he was not particularly busy and would she like to come to the embassy that afternoon. Janet said she would, very much.

Janet showered and changed and managed to get an air-conditioned taxi to Alexander Pallis Street. She identified herself to the reception clerk, and at once Partington hurried from the rear of the building.

Partington was a contrast to her father's acquaintance McDermott, just as tall but a bluff, bulging man, face reddened beneath the tan by the blood pressure of good living, a crumpled lightweight suit strained by the effort of containing him all. He shook her hand and said welcome and, still holding it, led her into the back of the building where at once, gratefully, Janet felt the chill of better air conditioning than in the outer vestibule.

“You in a spot of bother?” demanded the man.

“Something like that,” agreed Janet, offering the man the letter of introduction from her father.

Partington read the letter carefully, tapping a fingernail against his teeth as he did so: from the movement of his head, Janet realized the man was going through it twice.

At last Partington looked up, subdued now, and said: “I see.”

“Please!” said Janet at once. “Don't say you're sorry. Everyone does.”

“Then I won't.” He gestured to the paper he had placed before him on the desk. “Your father asks me to help, in any way I can. Which of course I would if I could. But I don't see how. We're no way involved. We can't be.”

Remembering her reflection about the Troodos Mountains on her way into Nicosia that morning Janet said: “I know that you're making British listening facilities here available to the CIA.”

Partington sucked in his breath, shaking his head as he did so. “Not my province, Mrs. Stone. That's an intelligence matter, quite separate. I wouldn't know anything about that: wouldn't want to know.”

Janet felt the familiar rise of exasperation and tried to curb it. She said: “This close to the Lebanon there must be links, between the British presence there and you, here?”

“Some,” Partington agreed, doubtfully.

“Before I left London I went to Lambeth Palace,” Janet said. She hesitated, deciding upon an exaggeration, and went on: “I talked there with a member of the Archbishop's staff, about negotiations to free the Britons being held. Your people in Beirut must know of them, hear things about other hostages.”

Partington moved his head again. “Something else about which I have no knowledge: you must believe me, Mrs. Stone. If there are any contacts, any negotiations, they'd be restricted to the smallest group of people. They'd have to be, wouldn't they?”

Janet sighed, wishing she could confront the logic. She said: “What about here, in Cyprus?”

“I don't understand the question.”

“There's been a mass exodus from Beirut to this island,” said Janet. “There must be a lot of information, passing back and forth. People I could talk to.”

Partington leaned forward across the desk, his face serious. “There has been a mass exodus,” he agreed. “I've heard areas of Nicosia and Larnaca likened to Berlin, in 1945, and it's a pretty good description. I mean there are people here in Cyprus doing what people always do, in a war situation. Profiting by it. We don't get involved and neither should you. It's crooked and it's dangerous and it won't do anything to help your fiancé.”

“What areas?” demanded Janet. “What people?”

“Your father was a senior diplomatic officer to me in Jordan: someone I like and whom I consider a friend,” said Partington. “I would be abusing that friendship by getting you involved with such people, such places.”

“My father has asked you to help!” said Janet, jabbing her finger at the letter between them.

“That wouldn't be helping,” Partington said. “It would be doing the reverse, exposing you to pointless danger. That I won't do.”

Despite her efforts at control, Janet could not prevent the heat of frustration burning through her. This man was her only contact, her only hope, she realized, desperately. “There must be something!” she pleaded. Then, hurriedly, she added: “And don't advise me to leave it to people who know what they're doing: everyone tells me to do that, too.”

“Mrs. Stone,” said Partington, in a tone reminiscent of that frustrating lunch at Lockett's. “I know it's difficult: I can understand, I'd like to think, something of what you are going through. But what other advice can there be? Look at the situation objectively. What—possibly, sensibly—can you do? You're quite alone. You haven't any resources. You've no official backing …”

“… and I'm a woman,” cut off Janet.

Partington hesitated and then said: “And yes, you're a woman. There's no point or purpose in our getting into a sexist or women's liberation discussion about it, but the simple fact is that in this situation and in this area of the world, as a woman you're at a disadvantage …” He paused again but continued: “If it's any satisfaction—and I can't imagine that it will be—a man by himself, without any resources and with no official backing, would hardly be in an improved position anyway.”

“Helpless, you mean!”

Partington considered the question. “Yes, I suppose that's exactly what I mean. Helpless.”

Which was precisely how she felt, Janet realized, angry at herself because she thought of it as giving way. It had been another round about ride, backwards and forwards in the same circle, apparently moving but getting nowhere. Partington, as unresponsive as he was, remained her only contact, she thought again. She said: “It was kind of you, seeing me as you have.”

“I wish, I really do wish, that there had been something more positive I could have done,” said Partington. “I know you asked me not to say it, but I'm very sorry for what's happened.”

“I'd like to accept your invitation,” said Janet.

Partington's face creased in confusion, and then he remembered and said: “Oh yes.”

“Is tomorrow night still convenient, or would you like to call, to confirm?”

“Maybe I should call, to confirm,” the man said.

“I'm at the Churchill,” Janet said. “And my father particularly asked me officially to register here, at the embassy.”

“You intend staying, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” the diplomat asked, just as direct.

“I'm near to where John is,” ad-libbed Janet. Impulsively she added: “And I have been getting some help and guidance from the Americans. They've an embassy here, haven't they?”

Partington sat regarding her steadily for several moments before he said: “I'll see to it that you are officially registered. Will the Churchill be your permanent address here?”

“I think so.”

“For how long?”

“I'm not sure,” Janet said, matching his stare.

“Please don't do anything foolish, Mrs. Stone.”

“I won't”

“This isn't fiction, you know? Not something in a novel you read by the pool or see in a cinema. This is reality.”

Now it was Janet who came forward, to stress her seriousness. “Now you must believe me, Mr. Partington. I don't need reminding just how real it is having someone I love and hope to marry chained up as a hostage, like some animal.”

Again, for several moments, there was a silence between them. Then Partington said: “I'll call, about tomorrow.”

“You're very kind,” said Janet, grateful at least that she had the tenuous link into the embassy although she was unsure after this encounter how much practical advantage it would give.

Partington accompanied her back to the entrance and waited with her until the summoned taxi—air-conditioned again—arrived to take her back to Achaeans Street. Janet slumped dejected in the back of the vehicle, going over in her mind the circular conversation she'd had with the man. Increasingly one word echoed in her mind, like another word that reverberated in her mind that night she'd met John for the first time, at Harriet's Georgetown party. Helpless. It came like a drumbeat, helpless, helpless, helpless, and then a second word intruded, making the connection. Helpless-woman, helpless-woman. Janet screwed her hands tight, into a fist, in renewed frustration. Suddenly, like an additional taunt, came the first snatch of a menstrual cramp and she felt even more frustrated.

She smiled her thanks to the clerk at the Churchill who handed her the room key and went automatically to the elevator, oblivious to her surroundings, punching her floor number automatically. She
was
helpless, Janet accepted. It was pointless—absurd—to try to think otherwise. Partington had been right, accusing her of romanticism. The whole episode was some personal fantasy, Superwoman against the Kidnappers, based on nothing more than the flimsy hope, God how flimsy, that she might have got some assistance from her father's former colleagues. But she hadn't, Janet recognized, forcing the objectivity. And now she didn't know—didn't have a clue—what to do next. There was a fresh wash of dejection and another menstrual taunt.

In her room Janet discarded the key on the bed and slumped into the only easy chair, gazing sightlessly at the slatted windows. Could she ask her father to intervene? Persuade him to call Partington from England to try to pressure the man into offering more? More of what? Where was the logic in imagining Partington had any more to offer anyway? Partington was a
bona fide
First Secretary, head of Chancery, not an embassy-concealed intelligence officer. Janet accepted that, as such, Partington would be shielded from contact with the legation's intelligence emplacement, a barrier against possible diplomatic embarrassment if any covert activity in a host country became public knowledge. What about the Lebanese enclaves the man had acknowledged to exist on the island? There was little pressure she could expect her father to bring in having them identified, Janet realized, in further defeat. Her father would side with Partington upon the possible dangers rather than trying to help her learn where such places were.

So unexpected was it that Janet jumped at the knock at her door, remaining still for several seconds so that the summons came again, louder the second time.

Her surprise increased at the sight of two policemen, their uniform English-style: she did not know how to designate rank but from the epaulet markings one appeared to be of high rank.

“Mrs. Stone?” enquired the senior officer.

“Yes,” she said.

“Mrs. Janet Stone?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Chief Inspector Zarpas,” the man said.

Very high rank, thought Janet, through her bewilderment at their presence.

Zarpas nodded sideways. “Sergeant Kashianis.”

“What do you want?” Janet asked.

“To talk,” Zarpas said. “We'd like to come in.”

Janet hesitated, confused and unsure. “What for?” she said.

“To talk,” Zarpas repeated.

“What about?” Janet was refusing to move back from the door.

“Have you something to hide, Mrs. Stone?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I'll explain, if you let us in.”

Careful, she remembered; her father had warned her to be careful. She said: “What proof of identity do you have?”

Zarpas, a sallow-skinned man whose wilting moustache made his long face appear even more mournful, looked down at his uniform and then, sighing, extracted a warrant card from the left-hand breast pocket of his tunic and offered it to her. Janet stared uncomprehendingly at the Greek, but then saw that beneath his photograph the man was identified in English, by rank.

Still unsure, Janet stepped back, opening the door further. Inside the room both men remained standing. Janet regained the easy chair, hoping it put her in the most commanding position in the room, although not knowing why she needed it. Zarpas perched on the dressing table stool. The sergeant looked at the bed and apparently decided against it, remaining upright. He took a small pad from one pocket and a pen from another. He examined the tip intently, as if it were something he had not seen before.

“Why are you here on the island, Mrs. Stone?” demanded Zarpas, at once.

“What right have you to come to my room and ask me questions?” Janet said.

“The right of Cyprus law,” Zarpas said easily. “So why are you here, on the island?”

Janet did not immediately reply, wanting the right answer. “Business,” she replied, at last.

“Ah!” Zarpas exclaimed, as if the reply were important. He looked sideways at the sergeant. Kashianis was writing very quickly. Zarpas said: “What sort of business?”

“A friend of mine is missing in the Lebanon.”

Again Zarpas looked at the sergeant, appearing to think the reply important, and said: “What is the name of this friend?”

There was no reason why she should not give it, she decided. “John Sheridan.”

“Missing in the Bekaa, perhaps?”

“The what!” said Janet. What the hell was this stupidity all about!

“That's where the hashish comes from,” Zarpas said. “But then you'd know that, wouldn't you?”

Janet shook her head, holding her hands briefly out towards the two men. “I haven't got the remotest idea what you're talking about. Why you're here. This conversation is completely unintelligible to me.”

“Is it, Mrs. Stone?” Zarpas's disbelief was obvious. “Isn't the £30,000 with which you earlier today opened a deposit account for the purpose of buying drugs?”

“How …!” Janet began indignantly, but then laughed. “So that's what this is all about!” she said, relieved at last.