Betrayals (40 page)

Baxeter rose to meet her. He held out his hand and she took it. He said: “Guess how much I missed you?” and she said: “I don't need to be told because I missed you that much, too.”

“If I read this in a book or saw it in a movie, I wouldn't believe it!” he said. “You know what I feel when I don't know where you are: what you're doing? I feel lost: lost like one of those poor bastards will be in space one day when the survival cord linking them to their spacecraft snaps and they float away into the blackness.”

Janet sat down and said: “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” Baxeter admitted. “But it doesn't affect—doesn't minimize—what I've just said. That's how I feel.”

“That's funny,” said Janet. “No, not funny. Wrong word.”

“What's the right word?”

“Yours,” Janet said. “Lost. You wouldn't believe how long I've felt lost: been lost.”

A waiter intruded into their impenetrably private world, and they ordered without thought or consideration, wanting only to get rid of the man. As the waiter left Baxeter said: “It wasn't meant to be like this.”

“I don't understand,” said Janet.

“No,” agreed Baxeter, obtusely.

“You
have
been drinking!”

“I told you that already.”

“But why!”

“Lost,” he said. “Lost and lonely, like you.”

“I don't want any wine,” Janet announced, positively. “Nothing to drink.”

“Is that how it would be?”

“I don't understand that, either.”

“If we were married, would you nag me like this: decide when and when not I should drink?”

“Stop it!” said Janet, irritated.

“Just asking.”

“You're ratfaced!” she accused. “Pissed out of your mind!”

The transformation was startling. Baxeter seemed to expand and grow in front of her very eyes, like a balloon being filled for flight. He straightened in his chair, adding to the impression, and jaggedly but no longer with any slur in his voice said: “Relaxing, just for a moment. Thinking. Sorry. So what happened?”

The question coincided with the arrival of their lamb and the waiter asked about drinks and looking directly at Janet, Baxeter said: “Nothing, thank you.”

“Was that refusal difficult?” demanded Janet.

“Yes,” said Baxeter. “Very.”

“Why?”

“I asked what happened,” reminded Baxeter, ignoring her question.

“Answer me first!”

“Tell me what happened!”

It was belligerence—persistence—but not drink-inspired, Janet decided. She remained off-balanced, inexplicably and uncomfortably feeling herself to be with a man whom she no longer knew. Which was disorienting. And nonsensical. She sloughed away the impression and tried to clear her mind by recounting in as much detail as possible the encounter with the Cyprus CIA officer-in-charge.

Throughout Baxeter listened, utterly intent, hardly bothering with the delivered meal. When she finished he said: “Hostile?”

“Just short of.”

“So?”

“They'll take everything for nothing,” said Janet.

“Getting John out won't be for nothing,” halted Baxeter.

Janet dipped her head, accepting the correction. “Any promised cooperation will be minimal,” she qualified. “They'll use me.”

Baxeter did not react, stabbing at his food without eating it. “Yes,” he said, detached.

“Hart said something odd,” Janet announced.

“What?”

“He asked me if I trusted my source,” Janet said. “Reminded me of the cooperation that the Americans had had from friendly countries, friendly agencies, and remarked how surprising it was that an amateur could do better. Told me to be careful.”

She spoke looking fully at him and Baxeter looked directly back. He said: “I told you how it happened.”

“I know word for word what you told me,” said Janet. She stopped and then said: “You're not using me, are you? Not using me like all the rest?”

“Did any of the rest produce the evidence of John being alive?” came back Baxeter.

“That's not an answer to my question.”

“You know the answer to your own question,” said Baxeter, loudly. “I
am
using you. I am using you ultimately to get an exclusive story that no one else has a chance of getting …” Baxeter paused, raising his hands between them. “Which is quite different—quite separate and apart—from what else has happened between us. I'm not using you that way, certainly. My love—our love—is boxed: compartmented from anything else. Uninvolved.”

Janet felt a glow at the assurance, somewhat convoluted though it was. “I wasn't really doubting you,” she said.

“Then why did you question me!” persisted the man. “What else could I be than what I am!”

Janet wished the insistence were not quite so fervent She said: “We're arguing: we're arguing about nothing.”

Baxeter appeared to deflate, the balloon going down. Much more quietly he said: “Do you think Hart will stay with his promise to keep you in touch?”

“Definitely, at this stage,” Janet said at once. “They want an address, don't they?” She allowed the time for him to speak and when he didn't she demanded: “So what are the chances of getting that address?”

There was an uncertain shoulder movement. “Maybe there isn't any possibility.”

Janet realized, abruptly, that so completely had she begun to rely upon Baxeter that she'd never doubted he would come up with a location: the idea that he might not be able to shocked her in further disorientation. “But you said …?”

“Just a promise,” stopped Baxeter.

“Would it mean your going back to Beirut?”

“Yes.”

“Oh shit!”

“How else could I get it?”

“I don't know … I hadn't thought.” Everything was becoming frayed again: fragmented. It was like a smoke cloud, a mass with an apparent shape and form that was impossible to reach out and touch. Pushing herself on, Janet said: “So how do you know when to go back?”

“You want me to go back?”

“Yes. No.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It makes every sense.”

“He said—the Shia—that he knew the man who took the picture: that from him he could learn the location of the house,” said Baxeter. “All he had to do was to find him and ask.”

“That sounds simple: a conversation of minutes.”

“Yes,” agreed the man. “That's how it sounds: I don't think it's quite as easy as that.”

“
Will
you go back?”

There was a long silence between them. “Yes,” he said. “I'll go back.” There was another, shorter silence. Then Baxeter said: “Does that mean I've lost out?”

“It's too soon for a question like that!”

“Why?”

“Because it is,” replied Janet, in childlike repartee.

“I want to know!” he persisted.

“No!” Janet said, desperately. “How could you have lost out, after what's happened!”

“So where does that leave John?”

Janet had not eaten her meal either. She pushed it aside, reaching across the table for his hand, kneading his fingers. “Stop it!” she demanded. “Stop trying to get inside my head! Can't you understand I've been thinking about—torn apart about—nothing else!”

“And I'm not helping?”

“No,” Janet said. “You're not helping at all.”

“How was it left at the embassy?” asked Baxeter, changing direction to defuse the tension.

“That Hart would call me, as soon as he heard something back from Washington.”

“You'll never know, of course, whether he's telling he truth: whatever he says and however he says it.”

“I accept that,” Janet said. “Where does it say I've got to believe him?”

“You're becoming cynical: don't become cynical.”

“You're becoming protective.”

“That's what I want to be.”

“Don't press: not at this time don't press.”

“OK,” he accepted. “Your speed; your decision.”

“I don't need reminding.”

The returning waiter asked if there were anything wrong with the meal and Baxeter apologized that they were not hungry and without any discussion between them they went back to his apartment. Where for the first time their lovemaking wasn't good. They coupled and came but there was a tension between them, a block. Janet waited for Baxeter to refer to it but he didn't so neither did she, telling herself she was imagining it.

“It's a multi-entry visa,” announced Baxeter, beside her.

“So you could go back any time?”

“Yes.”

“This Shia? Is he a member of one of the groups?”

“Connections, obviously.”

“What if it's a trap: that they're setting you up to be snatched? There are journalists in captivity.”

Baxeter considered the question. “They could have snatched me receiving the photograph: there wasn't any need to wait until I came back a second time.”

“Don't go!” insisted Janet. “You've got a photograph and we've given it to the Americans and that's enough: let them take over from here.”

“But that means John …” he started.

“… I know what it means,” broke in Janet, sharply.

She sensed rather than saw him shake his head. Baxeter said: “The Americans won't move—if they'll move at all—just on a picture. They've had pictures before.”

Janet turned away from him, pushing her face into the pillow, not wanting him to see her cry. Trapped, she thought desperately: she always felt trapped. His hand was on her shoulders, gently massaging, his fingers soothing up into her hairline.

“It's all right,” he said. “I'll be all right.”

“No!” she said, muffled.

“Yes,” he said, with determination.

Baxeter asked her to stay the night but Janet suggested there might be a call from the embassy, which was only part of the reason for her refusal: she still felt the barrier between them that she'd known when they made love and decided she needed to get away for it to disappear, as it had to disappear.

She regretted leaving as soon as she reached the hotel, sure she
was
imagining the barrier, but willed herself against telephoning to say she was coming back. She rang the following morning, intending to apologize, but there was no reply. She waited until mid-afternoon for him to call her and when he didn't she dialed his number again. There was still no reply. She started calling every half hour and then reduced it to the quarter hour and at six drove back to his flat. It was locked and the window shutters were closed and bolted.

Janet returned angrily to the hotel. He'd told her he was going, of course. But there should have been some talk between them before he left: some time together. Just taking off without any contact was … Janet's thoughts filtered, seeking the word. The only one she could think of was inconsiderate, which was ridiculous: he was going to Beirut for her, to help her locate a fiancé, so what could be more considerate, more selfless, than that? Whatever, he should still have said goodbye: it made it appear as if he didn't care and she knew that wasn't true.

Hart did not telephone but came personally to the hotel the following day and Janet felt embarrassed at his finding her predictably by the pool. The American seemed more subdued than usual, although there was no hostility: when she asked eagerly if there had been any developments he said they couldn't talk where they were and she agreed at once to accompany him to the embassy. It was a chauffeur driven car with darkened rear windows and a division between the driver and the rear-seat passengers but the CIA officer still refused to divulge anything until they reached the U.S. compound.

They went again to the rear of the building, through the barred gate, but into a larger pine-paneled and pine-furnished office. Janet came to an abrupt stop in the doorway, so that Hart almost collided into her. Robert Willsher rose first to greet her, immediately followed by George Knox, the other CIA man she'd met in Beirut. Both men were smiling, Knox more broadly than the Washington official.

“Good to see you again, Ms. Stone,” said Willsher.

“Is it?” said Janet, cautiously.

“Why not come on in, so we can talk?” invited the man.

Janet continued on, going to the chair that Knox was holding out courteously for her. As she went to sit he winked at her. From the way the men arranged themselves at the table, all facing her, it was obvious that Willsher was the senior officer.

“Looks like we've got a chink of light here?” began Willsher.

“I hope so,” said Janet.

Willsher nodded sideways, to the Cyprus-based agent, and said: “Al submitted a full report of your meeting. I've got to tell you it caused quite a flap at Langley.”

“I'm glad there's some reaction at last.”

Willsher appeared not to notice the sarcasm: if he had, he was unoffended by it. He said: “You must understand that what I am going to tell you is in the strictest confidence: if you had not kept so positively to the agreement we made in Washington, I wouldn't be telling you at all. There's been a policy decision taken, at the highest level. That photograph is absolutely genuine. If we can get a location for John it'll be the first time, in all the kidnappings, that we've something
positive
to act upon. And we're going to do just that. If we can get a location for John, we're authorized to go in and get him!”

For a moment the three men blurred before her and the room spun: hoping they would not notice, Janet actually gripped the edge of her chair, physically holding on. “Thank you,” she managed. “Thank you so much.”

“Which is why we must have access to your source,” completed the man.

It was like being doused in cold, reviving water. “No,” said Janet, as adamantly as Willsher had spoken.