“‘Approving of something contradictory to your faith if the need arises,’” Janet translated literally.
Baxeter nodded. “It’s the catch-all,” he said. “Provides a religious excuse for anything.”
“So you do have an opinion,” Janet said. “OK, so you don’t know but you think it could happen? That they’ll kill him?”
“I’d like to think more was being done to make contact. To negotiate,” he said, not really answering.
“Exactly! That’s what I can’t stand… what infuriates me. There’s been a demand! Why the hell can’t America pressure Kuwait into releasing the people it’s holding?”
“Kuwait never has,” Baxeter pointed out.
“So why don’t they establish a precedent!” said Janet, irrationally. “America sailed protective convoys around Kuwaiti tankers during the Iran-Iraqui war protecting the Kuwaiti economy. So why can’t the State Department tell them that unless they release the prisoners they’re holding Washington won’t help in future!”
“I would have thought that an option,” agreed Baxeter.
“They tortured the other CIA man to death, you know,” Janet said.
“I know.”
“That’s what I think about sometimes,” Janet said. “What’s happening to him: the awful things that are happening to him.”
“Welcome back,” Baxeter said.
Janet frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re fighting again,” Baxeter said. “Not giving up or feeling sorry for yourself.”
Janet smiled, slowly. “You manipulated the conversation very cleverly.”
“I want a story on Janet Stone the fighter, not Janet Stone the quitter,” he said.
“And have you got it?”
“Not yet,” the man said. “I’d like to continue the interview this afternoon.”
They returned to the hotel, but as soon as Janet entered she was paged for messages. She accepted them in the foyer, Baxeter beside her. There had been a telephone call from Partington, who asked her to call back, and another from her father, with the same request. The third note had no name, just a Nicosia telephone number with the suggestion she ring it to learn something to her advantage.
“What could that mean?” she asked Baxeter.
“Any one of a dozen things: it’s practically cliche.”
“I’ll call it, of course.”
“After what’s happened so far don’t you think you should be careful?”
“By doing what? You surely don’t expect me to ignore it!”
“No,” he agreed. “I don’t expect you to ignore it.”
“So?”
“Couldn’t you do with some help?”
“I thought we’d already talked about how little of that there was around.”
“Why don’t we suspend the interview, until tomorrow? And why don’t you let me try to help you?”
Janet stood looking at the man. “For a story?” she asked, suspiciously.
“If it leads to anything worthwhile, then yes: what else?” Baxeter answered honestly. “But I promise that if it does look good I won’t publish or do anything that would endanger John, until he’s got out.”
Janet felt a sweep of relief at the thought of there being someone at last with whom she could at least discuss things. She said: “You really mean that?”
“My word.”
“I’d appreciate your help very much,” accepted Janet, meekly.
21
J anet felt no intrusion having David Baxeter in her room. Rather she felt a continued relief at having someone to do something for her. She sat in the only easy chair while he perched on the edge of the bed, which was conveniently near the telephone. The man appeared to be switched through several different numbers and extensions at the main telephone exchange, sometimes announcing himself to be a journalist and other times not, as he sought to trace the anonymous number. It was an hour from the time he started when he smiled up towards her.
“A public kiosk on Ayios Prokopios: it’s the road that leads towards the Troodos Mountains,” he announced.
“Oh,” Janet said.
“Why disappointment?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know: I was just expecting something different.”
“If whoever it is really knows something, they’re hardly going to deal from their homes, are they?”
“No,” Janet said, cheering up. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Call it,” Baxeter insisted. “There’s got to be some demand, obviously. Say you need time to think about it and that you’ll ring back. That’ll give us time to talk it through.”
They exchanged places and Janet dialed, feeling for the first time vaguely self-conscious at getting involved in a negotiation in front of someone else. She sat looking directly at him while the number rang, without any response. After several minutes Janet said, hand cupped unnecessarily over the mouthpiece: “No reply.”
“Put it down,” he suggested.
Janet did so and said: “What now?”
“Wait a few minutes: then we’ll try again.”
It became very quiet in the room, and Janet wished there were something else she could do. There were the calls to her father and Partington, she remembered: and at once decided against making them in front of the man.
“Now?” she said, finally.
“It’s been less than five minutes,” Baxeter said. “But OK, try it again.”
This time the receiver was lifted on the third ring. A voice, in English, said: “This is a public telephone box.”
“I was told to call it,” she said.
“Janet Stone?”
“Yes.”
“Glad you called.”
“The message said you knew something to my advantage.”
“We do.”
“What?”
“We know where to look.”
“Look where?”
“Here, in Cyprus. And from there where to look in Beirut.”
It was all so familiar. She said: “What do you want?”
“A thousand.”
At least the rate was going down, she thought wearily. Following Baxeter’s suggestion she said: “I want to think about it.”
“No tricks.”
“What do you mean, no tricks?”
“We’re not dealing with the police.”
“No police,” she promised.
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes.”
It took much less than that for Janet to recount the complete conversation to Baxeter, who listened with his head intently to one side. As she finished the account Janet said: “It’s a con, isn’t it? It’s got to be.”
“It sounds like it,” agreed Baxeter. “And I supposed you had to expect it, after all the publicity and the fact that a lot of people now know you’re at this hotel…” He hesitated. “On the other hand, can you afford to ignore it?”
“Can I afford, literally, to try to negotiate?” came back Janet. “I know Zarpas has my bank account under permanent watch. The counter clerk would keep me waiting, and by the time I got the money he’d be behind me, asking what I was going to do.”
“Yes,” Baxeter said. “He would.”
“So it’s pointless: the whole thing’s pointless.”
“Why don’t I let you have the money?”
“You!” echoed Janet.
“The magazine then.”
“But why should you!”
“Magazines and newspapers pay all the time for stories and articles,” he pointed out. “And we already agreed that if this came to anything I’d be able to write exclusively about it after John got out
…” He smiled. “Actually,” he added. “At the going rate,?1,000 is very cheap.”
She’d been offered much more in Washington, at the beginning, remembered Janet. “But what if it is a con and you lose your?1,000?”
“I can’t,” said Baxeter, simply. “When you call back say that you’ll need time to collect the money. Ask for…” He paused, trying to decide upon a period. “… ask for three hours. In that time I can ensure that all the bank note numbers are recorded. If it’s a genuine call, leading to something, I’ll have wasted a cashier’s time. If it is a fraud, then I report it to the police, with the numbers, and the money becomes valueless. Where’s the risk?”