“No!” Robertson said at once.
“Why not?”
“For the reason that’s already been made clear,” said the lawyer. Continuing professionally, he went on: “There is in custody in Cyprus a man who is alleged to have fraudulently attempted to convert a money order in your name to his own benefit. Anything you might say could materially affect whatever evidence you might give at his triaclass="underline" if you want the legal definition, it is sub judice.”
“What evidence?” Janet said, fighting back.
“I don’t wish to continue this discussion,” Robertson said. “But if you are considering not supporting the charges that could be brought, then I would consider you a very stupid woman.”
“And I consider you a very arrogant man…” Janet paused, encompassing everyone in the room. “… I consider you all very arrogant men, interested in only one thing: getting rid of a potential embarrassment as quickly and as easily as possible.”
Janet waited for a reaction but there wasn’t one, and their absolute dismissal was the most crushing part of the encounter.
To the Lebanese, Robertson said formally: “Do you entrust custody of Mrs. Stone to the British authorities?”
Appearing relieved, the man immediately said: “Yes.”
To the Americans, Robertson said: “On behalf of the British government I would like to accept your offer of transportation.”
“You’re welcome,” Burr said.
“I won’t go!” Janet shouted, desperately and without thought. “I won’t go until I have found out something about John!”
“You don’t have any choice in the matter,” said Robertson flatly. “You’re being expelled. And in the circumstances in the best way possible: as I’ve just told you, you’re a very fortunate woman.”
There was another futile journalistic rush towards the departing car, which had to slow at the barriers and by doing so provided the opportunity for yet more photographs, and more unheard questions before it accelerated on the outside road to run parallel to the sea towards the American embassy. The sun was very low, half over the horizon, and Janet thought that at this time the previous night she had still only been approaching the Lebanese coastline. Burr was beside her, in the back, with the other American in the front but turned towards them: Janet had been conscious of the man hunching against the burst of camera bulbs and on impulse said: “You were with John, weren’t you? With the Agency, I mean.”
“I knew him,” the man conceded.
“You never told me your name.”
“The way you run to the newspapers it’s dangerous even to tell you the time of day,” said Burr, beside her.
“I know the lecture by heart,” said Janet.
“People are supposed to learn from lectures,” said Burr. “Why haven’t you?”
“Because none of them have had any useful information.”
“Smart!” Burr acknowledged. “Very smart.”
Janet ignored Burr, concentrating upon the man in front of her. “OK, so don’t tell me if you’re in the Agency or not: I couldn’t give a damn. But I know you are. So you must be involved in trying to find him! For God’s sake tell me what’s going on!”
“I…” the man started but Burr said: “No!,” cutting him off. Then the man said: “I was only going to say that I would like to but I can’t.”
“Let’s cut it, right there, shall we!” Burr said.
“No!” Janet protested. “Let’s not cut anything! I want to know: I want to know anything!”
“There’s nothing to know,” Burr said. “It’s a cold trail.”
“I don’t believe you!” Janet said. “It can’t be!”
“Ms. Stone,” Burr said. “We’ve got Americans somewhere in this asshole of a country who’ve been missing for years, not just weeks! There’s nothing that hasn’t been done that could not have been done to make contact, to negotiate or to plead or arrange their freedom. To normal people you can talk; discuss things. But these aren’t normal people. They’re fanatics, nuts.”
“So what the hell’s the answer!”
“We’ve got to wait,” Burr said, fatalistically. “All the lines are out: they know we want to hear from them. All we can do is wait for them to come to us. Come to us and give us their terms and their demands so we can see where we go from there.”
“Where do we go from there!” persisted Janet. “Do we deal? Or do we come up with the line that we won’t condone terrorism, which is a load of crap after Irangate!”
“I don’t make policy, Ms. Stone,” said the diplomat, with sudden weariness. “I just try to interpret it. Sometimes it isn’t easy.”
The car had to make its way through another press throng at the U.S. legation, which was protected by more concreted antiterrorist barriers than the British building, and once more Janet was conscious of the American in the front seat moving to conceal himself as much as possible from the cameras. Inside the compound, Burr said: “I’m going to issue a very short statement. Just that you have cooperated with the authorities here in Beirut and that you are returning to Cyprus to help with some police matters there.”
“Why don’t I take Ms. Stone with me, until the helo gets here?” the other man suggested.
“Just as long as I know where to find you,” Burr agreed.
Janet followed the younger man from the car, past a Marine-guarded, sandbagged pillbox and into the embassy through a side door, not the main entrance. The man courteously opened doors and stood back every time they had to move through one section of the building to another. They did not stop until they reached what had to be the very rear: the final door was operated by a combination lock and Janet remembered the briefcase carried by the first man who’d tricked her. Absurdly she could not immediately recall the name. Nicos, she thought: Nicos Kholi.
She followed the man into an office harsh under fluorescent lighting, with no outside windows. Everything was practical and functional, just a desk, three filing cabinets side by side and sealed by thick iron bars which padlocked through the handles of each drawer, and one chair for a visitor. He gestured her to it and Janet sat down.
“The name’s Knox,” he said. “George Knox. I’m glad there’s the chance for us to be alone for a few moments.”
“I don’t understand,” said Janet.
“I’ve got something for you.” The man reached into a side drawer of the desk and then stretched out towards her.
It was not until she accepted what he was offering that Janet realized it was a photograph, and her eyes instantly blurred at the image of Sheridan. It was a color print, obviously taken somewhere in Beirut: there were palm trees in the background and the edge of a swimming pool. Sheridan was wearing shorts and a shirt and Topsiders without socks, and appeared to be smiling at someone beyond the camera.
“John really was my friend,” disclosed Knox. “He’d actually invited me to your wedding.”
18
J anet had a strange feeling and in the initial few moments could not decide what it was. Then it flooded in upon her, an awareness that for the first time in too many days-weeks-she was being treated with understanding, actual friendship, and not as an irritant to be kept at arm’s length and moved on to become someone else’s problem. Her reaction was one of relief and something more: a brief sensation of actual relaxation. It became very obvious as Knox talked that he and John had been friends: close friends, in fact. The young CIA man knew about their boat and the house in Chevy Chase and even the circumstances of their meeting at Harriet’s oppressive Georgetown party.
Janet listened to it all, waiting, and when Knox paused she demanded: “Why? Tell me how it happened! Why nothing appears to be going on to get him out!”
In this more confined space, Knox’s habit of studying a speaker’s face, almost as if he were lip-reading, was more pronounced than it had been at the earlier conference. He gazed intently at her, weighing his reply. Then he said: “It was what John was trying to do.”
“A mission, you mean?”
“Very much a mission,” said the man. “We’ve got a whole bunch of Americans caged up here somewhere…”