When they reached the hut Janet edged around it, keeping it between herself and them. She’d actually reversed their positions-so that she was on the landside and they had passed, towards the sea-when she heard a muffled shout, in Arabic, and recognized Dimitri’s voice.
“She’s got away,” he said.
Janet ran. She did so as quietly as possible and stayed in the shadows so that they would not see and reckoned she’d gained about thirty yards before she heard the shout behind and the slap of feet in pursuit. Uncaring about being heard or seen any more she fled headlong, legs pumping, arms jerking, leaping and dodging over ropes and boxes: there were dark movements of curiosity from some of the boats she went by, but no challenges. Behind she heard: “Stop. Stop her,” and someone started to move from a boat to her left, but she ran faster and passed it before anyone could get in the way.
There were a few lights on the harbor wall, and she saw it was too high to clear in a single jump. She managed to get over by leaping onto its top and then dropping down. She still seemed to be in the port area. There were cranes and trucks with lifting gear, and offices, to her right. The clear area was to her left. She went in that direction, aware too late of an enclosing wire mesh fence. She changed direction, running parallel and looking for a break. There wasn’t one. The men were over the wall now. She jerked to a halt, gazing around, seeing as she did so that they were fanning out from where they’d landed to entrap her from either side. They weren’t even bothering to run any more, strolling quite confidently, enjoying an unexpected game.
Janet started off again, towards the offices which made up a continuation of the fence. They were lighted and she saw figures in two of them but knew from the assurance with which the men were closing in upon her that whoever the officials or clerks were they would not protect her. She snatched at the first door. It was locked and from the men close behind she heard a snigger and one shouted something to another. The second was locked too: she thought she could hear their footsteps now, so near were they. Then the third door gave.
She thrust through, hearing the outraged shout very close, but had the sense to turn as she slammed it, to seek the key. She twisted it in the lock as a body hit on the other side: the door lever flapped furiously but uselessly up and down.
Janet threw herself along the corridor, ready to thrust anyone aside, but no one emerged from any of the offices. Behind there was hammering and yelling and she heard thumps and grunts as someone tried to break the door in. The street exit was secured, but the key was in its hole. Janet opened it, began to go through and then halted as the idea came. She ducked back, extracted the key, and stopped outside long enough to lock it behind her. As she panted across the harbor road she heard the sound of someone rattling the metal of the fence in frustration. There was a shout but she didn’t hear the words.
It was a long time before Janet stopped hurrying. She twisted and turned along the cratered and rubble-strewn streets, pulling into the shadows when she became aware of any movement around her, always trying to go eastwards to what she imagined would be safety.
Janet was shocked by the devastation. Whole streets were lined with humps of brickwork and concrete, no glass or windows remaining anywhere, although from the sounds-scratching and slithering and the occasional moving shadow-she recognized that people lived in the warrens formed by the debris. There were movements and shadows from the burned-out and sometimes overturned shells of vehicles, too, and she realized they made homes for more people. Several times there were calls of challenge: always Janet pulled deeper into whatever darkness she could find, never replying. Dogs barked and yapped, frequently. None came near.
The immediate danger receding, Janet felt increasingly weak-her knees actually threatening to give out more than once-from the delayed terror of what might have happened and the exhaustion of getting away. She had to stop several times just to lean against a rubble pile or sagging wall, pulling the breath into herself in the effort to stay calm. That’s what she had to do: stay calm, not panic. Stay calm and cross whatever the dividing line was and go somewhere-a hotel or an embassy or a Western airline office-where she could explain what she’d been through and get help. Get away. Christ, she’d been lucky: luckier probably than she’d ever know.
The shadows gradually stopped seeming so dark and during one of her stops-to rest again her quivering legs-Janet stared upwards and saw that the sky was lightening. Dawn, early dawn at last, could not be far off. Would it be more difficult to cross in daylight rather than darkness? Cross what? Was there an actual border, between the east and the rest of the city, like there was in Berlin? Or was it just an understood demarcation, one street devastation, the next street sophistication? She pushed herself up from a concrete mound and groped on, finding it difficult to properly walk, managing little more than to get one foot in front of the other, trying not to scuff too loudly as she did so. The light increased, and the movement all around grew: a few people actually passed on an early errand or on the way to work. No one gave her more than the briefest passing attention.
The hotel appeared suddenly in front of her, like an oasis, and for the initial seconds Janet could not believe that it was there, staring at it as if it really were a mirage that would disappear. But it didn’t. It was shell-pocked and there were some sandbags and a few of their windows were taped against bomb blast but it was definitely a hotel. There were people moving about inside and there were lights on, more lights than there had been in any other building she passed.
She dragged herself forward, stumbling on the steps up to the revolving doors, and stopped directly inside, to gather her strength against breaking down at reaching safety.
At the desk it seemed to be changeover time, from the night today staff. They frowned, startled, as she approached and Janet looked down, shocked at the state of herself. Her jeans were tattered and her blouse was ripped and only held across her by one remaining button. There was lot of blood which must have come from Costas, changed brown by the dust in which she was caked.
“Please help me,” she said. “I’m English. English-American. My name is Stone: Janet Stone.”
“The fiancee of John Sheridan,” said an American voice behind.
17
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.