“I think I need to make telephone calls,” said the immigration man, avoiding any immediate commitment.
More had happened ashore than at sea during the hour they had been absent from the embassy. There was a cluster of reporters and television cameramen actually around the building when they reached it. They surged forward in a glare of camera lights as they saw Janet in the car, yelling unheard questions, and it was difficult for the driver to edge by them and at the same time to negotiate the dogs’ tooth barriers set up at the entrance to the British compound against any terrorist car suicide attack. The car managed it, but only just.
Prescott was waiting at the side entrance when the vehicle stopped. As they got out, Robertson demanded: “What the hell’s that all about?”
Prescott waited until they had assembled back in the larger room before answering. Then he said: “Some developments, in Cyprus. A man was arrested in Larnaca today trying to negotiate at the Hellenic Bank a?10,000 bearer letter of credit made out in the name of Janet Stone.”
She’d guessed Stavos had not understood, remembered Janet: served the bastard right. She said: “What about the one I stabbed?”
Prescott shook his head. “I’ve no information about that. I queried it and Nicosia say they don’t know anything about a stabbing. The police have located the boat, apparently. There is a lot of blood, but as far as I can understand the story is that a crewman had an accident, with a bottle or some glass. And there’s always a lot of fish blood around anyway on a boat like that.”
The American who had so far not spoken said: “Apparently Ms. Stone’s interviews have gotten a pretty big play, worldwide. And there’s still tomorrow’s papers to come. What’s happened in Cyprus has added to the interest. The pressure for official statements and more interviews isn’t just coming from those guys outside in the road. There’s a whole bunch at our legation, too.”
“I think too much has been publicly said already,” Robertson complained with lawyer’s caution.
“There is a legal situation,” Prescott agreed. “There’s been an official request from the Cyprus authorities, through our Nicosia embassy, for Mrs. Stone to be returned to help police inquiries there.”
“That would seem to take care of the matter of illegal entry,” the Lebanese immigration official said at once. “The Cyprus situation obviously takes precedence, in importance. And the most common resolution to illegal entry in any case is usually deportation to the port of origin. Which will be the outcome here.”
Janet found herself only half listening to the quiet-voiced discussion going on around her. Could it only be hours-less than one whole day-since she’d stabbed a man trying to rape her? And fled in terror from other men intent on God knows what? She found it difficult-inconceivable-to believe it was all being settled as easily as this. To the Lebanese she said: “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” smiled the immigration man.
“I came here for a reason, a purpose,” said Janet, hurriedly, not wanting to lose what she saw as an opportunity. “I was trying to find out anything about my finance, John Sheridan? Do you know anything? Can you help me find him? Where the hell is he?”
The effect throughout the room was very obvious. A physical stiffness appeared to tighten each man and their faces went blank, except for that of Robertson, whose suffused features became even redder.
It was the lawyer who spoke. He started, in cliche, to say: “I really don’t think this is either the time or the…” But Janet stopped him, erupting in frustrated disbelief.
“This is exactly the time and exactly the place, for Christ’s sake!” she yelled. “This is Beirut! This is where he’s held! So what the fuck is anyone doing about it!”
Janet hadn’t meant to say “fuck” and as soon as she did she regretted it. Trying to recover-but at the same time refusing to back away from the stone-masked men-she said: “Well, isn’t it? Isn’t this where John and all those other poor bastards are held, with no one doing anything about it? Isn’t it!”
The Lebanese shuffled awkwardly, appearing to move away from the general group to form a separate, muttered gathering: Janet was aware of a shoulder-humped, eyebrow-raised exchange between the British and American diplomats.
“Well!” she demanded, still not giving in. “Isn’t it!”
“You’re not helping, Ms. Stone,” Burr said.
“Who is?” Janet pressed on. “Tell me just who-how-anyone in Beirut is helping John and all those others. Come on! Tell me!”
The immigration official emerged as the Lebanese spokesman. He said: “None of this is our business: our responsibility.”
Janet sighed, focusing on the American whose name she knew. “What about you, Mr. Burr? You’re a United States diplomatic officer officially assigned to a country in which Americans are being held hostage, for whatever reason God or Allah knows. Do you consider it your business; your responsibility?”
“You’ve had a traumatic time, Ms. Stone,” soothed Burr, hopefully. “Let’s not press it, shall we?”
“I’m not taking that cop out!” rejected Janet, in further refusal. “OK! I’ve had a traumatic time: I nearly got raped and I stuck a knife in somebody whom no one seems able to find any more and I don’t know if the bastard is alive or dead. And despite what he tried to do and although he’s a bastard I don’t want him to be dead, although he deserves to be. But I’m still not hystericaclass="underline" I’m not hysterical, and I haven’t lost control. I’ve got here and I don’t want to leave here until I get some idea what’s happening-if anything is happening-to find John Sheridan.”
It was the nameless American who spoke. He said: “Let’s talk about this sometime else, Ms. Stone.”
“Why!”
“Later, Ms. Stone!”
“Not later! Now!”
“There’s nothing to say, not here, not now,” came in Burr, defensively.
“We know nothing,” said the Lebanese policeman who had not spoken for a long time. “There’s nothing we can say to help you.”
Janet experienced a familiar sensation, the feeling of having something that blocked out the light-a blanket maybe-pulled over her head, shutting out her access to everything and anything beyond, as she herself had literally pulled the blankets over her head when Hank died.
The American without a name spoke, not to Janet but to the British diplomats. He said: “We’ve got a helicopter going to Cyprus, later today. We’d be happy to offer transportation to Ms. Stone.”
“That’s very good of you,” Prescott said in apparent acceptance.
“Wait a minute!” protested Janet. “Just wait a goddamned minute! Why isn’t anyone answering me!” Directly to Prescott she said: “What the hell right have you got to make arrangements on my behalf?”
“Every right,” the tiny man said at once and with a forcefulness strangely out of keeping with his stature. “You are a distressed person of original British nationality seeking the protection of this embassy. The Lebanese authorities have agreed-with exceptional understanding, for which we are extremely grateful-to take no action whatsoever against you. Which they clearly could have done, had they so seen fit. I am entirely and legally entitled to repatriate you to your port of origin in the most cost-effective and efficient way that presents itself. That way has presented itself.”
“Absolutely and utterly correct,” Robertson said.
The blanket was doing more now than just blocking out the light; there was the familiar stifling sensation, too. “Thanks!” Janet said, intending sarcasm.
“You know what I think, Ms. Stone?” Burr said, throwing it back at her. “I don’t really think you’ve any idea just how much you’ve got to be thankful for.”
The truth of the remark, pompous though it was, further punctured Janet’s attitude. She felt weighed down and not just from the exhaustion of not having slept for longer than she was able to remember. Trying for a pebble to throw back against the boulders, she said: “I’d like to meet the press.”