Betrayals

16

F or the first night, largely from the fatigue of her previous sleeplessness, Janet slept soundly and awoke the following morning absolutely refreshed, wishing there was something, some activity, she could use to fill in the intervening days.

She telephoned her father, who asked at once when she was coming home. Janet was off-balanced by the demand. She said she had what she thought was another hopeful lead and because of it had no plans whatsoever at that moment to return. He pressed: Did she genuinely think there was any purpose in remaining on the island? Janet replied that if there wasn’t any purpose then obviously she wouldn’t stay. So what was it then that was so promising? Remembering the first disappointment, Janet held back, saying she thought she’d met people who had contacts in Beirut.

“Your mother and I are worried: now we’ve had time to think about it, your being there doesn’t seem very sensible at all.”

“I’m all right.”

“Hasn’t Partington been able to help with anything?”

“No,” said Janet, then added: “I had dinner with him and his wife. There had been some link with Beirut. The word was that it was hopeless.”

“There!” pounced the man at once. “If people on the spot say it’s hopeless, what chance do you stand!”

“Daddy, we’ve been through all this!”

“I think you should come home.”

“I don’t want to fight about this.”

“Neither do I,” said her father.

“Let’s not then.”

“Set yourself a time limit, at least.”

“Why?” demanded Janet. “What’s time got to do with it?”

“You can’t stay there forever.”

“I don’t intend to,” said Janet. “But I’m certainly not coming home yet.”

The conversation depressed Janet, dampening the enthusiasm with which she had awoken. Trying to remain objective-and thinking, too, of their age-she supposed it was natural that her parents should become increasingly concerned the longer she stayed but she really hadn’t been on Cyprus long, less than two weeks, and the change in their attitude seemed abrupt, disorienting.

To force the argument out of her mind, Janet tried to consider her other problem, how not to be cheated out of more money, remembering as she did so the policeman’s threat to monitor the account. A?10,000 withdrawal could be the immediate trigger for that other, more worrying threat, of his manipulating something to get her expelled from the island. The timing would be crucial: she’d have to make the withdrawal on her way to the cafe on the Dhekelia Road, not giving Zarpas any time to intercept or question her. And then what? Uncomfortably Janet accepted yet again that she didn’t know.

Although they had parted with half promises of meeting again, Partington’s call was unexpected, and Janet responded at once and not just because she had time to occupy before the Thursday meeting. Partington remained her official link, the conduit she still might have to use.

They met at the Ekali, on St. Spyridon Street, and without Partington’s wife this time. Janet let the diplomat guide her through the meze, the Cypriot way of eating fish and meat and vegetables ferried in practically continuous procession from the kitchen: it all came too quickly for her properly to enjoy.

“So how’s it going?” asked Partington.

“I don’t know, not really,” said Janet, guardedly.

“You’re wasting your time, you know?”

“Maybe,” Janet said. She paused, revolving her wine glass between her fingers, and then said: “Let’s talk hypothetically for a moment. Let’s say-just say-that I was told something that looked good. Some sort of new information.”

Partington was staring intently at her across the table and momentarily Janet wondered if she should not have delayed this conversation until after Thursday. “All right, let’s just say that,” agreed Partington.

“It would have to be properly assessed: judged whether it was accurate or not, wouldn’t it?”

“Go on.”

“So who would do it?”

“Why don’t we stop talking hypothetically?” challenged the diplomat. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really saying?”

“I’m not saying anything at the moment.”

“At the moment!”

Damn, thought Janet. She said: “There might be a possibility of my learning something.”

“Who from?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Won’t say,” Janet qualified.

“Why not?” Partington repeated.

“Because at the moment there’s nothing to say. It’s all too vague.”

“Don’t,” Partington said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t go on… get any further inveigled… in whatever it is you’re caught up in.”

“This isn’t what I want to hear.”

“It’s the only thing you need to hear.”

“I’m not giving up! When the hell will people accept that!”

“I won’t help you, Janet. Encourage you.”

“I told you I’d seen the Americans?”

“Yes,” Partington agreed, curiously.

“Actually, they saw me,” the woman admitted. “Warned me off. If I tried to tell them anything, they wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Would you listen?” Janet asked, openly.

“I told you before that we couldn’t get mixed up in this.”

“I’m not asking you to get mixed up in anything!” Janet pleaded. “I’ve told you the Americans wouldn’t listen to me. But they would to you.”

“Which would make it official.”

“No!” Janet protested. “I know the way embassies work: all about the backdoor conversations.”

Partington shook his head. “Not about something as sensitive as this: it’s too important. Which you know it is. I couldn’t become linked unofficially. It would have to be official.”

“All right, then! Will you pass on anything officially?”

Partington leaned closer towards her, over the table. “Tell me what it is!” he insisted. “Tell me who you’re dealing with, how they operate, where they operate. What they’re doing: everything. Only when I know everything-and I really mean everything -will I ever begin to contemplate answering your question.”

It was not an outright refusal. Janet knew she was seeking a supportive straw: in fact it was as firm an undertaking as she could have expected, from what she’d told him. “I can’t, not yet.”

“When!”

Janet opened her mouth to speak and then clamped it shut. “A few days,” she said, instead.

“This week!”

“I’m not sure,” said Janet, trying to escape the pressure. “I hope so but maybe not so soon.”

“What guarantees have you got?”

Janet smiled, thinking the question naive and surprised the man posed it. “What sort of guarantees could I have?”

“Exactly,” said the man, turning her answer against her. “Don’t do it!” he repeated. “By yourself you can’t do anything that is going to get John free!”

Janet sipped her neglected wine, refusing to get on the roundabout. “Thank you for listening,” she said. “And for saying what you did: what you were able to say, that is.”

“I haven’t said anything: given any undertaking,” Partington insisted at once.

Always the need for a diplomatic avenue of escape, thought Janet. She said: “I haven’t inferred any undertaking.”

For the first time for many minutes the man looked away from her. He said: “I feel I’m failing your father.”

Don’t sit with your hands between your legs then, thought Janet, irritably. She said: “If there is a need for us to talk… about what we’ve been discusing now… and it’s out of office hours, can I call you at home?”

“Of course you can.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I can’t say anything to stop you?”

“You know you can’t.”

“Then…” Partington began but Janet cut in.

“… be careful,” she completed.

“Yes,” he said, seriously. “For God’s sake be careful.”

Janet returned unhurriedly to the hotel, quieted but not completely disheartened by the encounter. And when she entered the foyer her mood lifted abruptly at the sight of a group of American tourists crowded around the cashier’s desk negotiating the exchange of travelers’ checks. Briefly she stood, watching, realizing she knew the way to protect the money demand, wondering why it had taken her so long to think of it.

The last intervening day dragged boringly by and Janet was up once more at first light on Thursday, impatient to begin. She made herself eat and thought as carefully as she had before about how to dress and as before decided upon jeans and a shapeless shirt. She checked the car, the oil and the water as well as the fuel, and timed her arrival at the bank to give herself two hours to reach the meeting spot, without the need to return again to the hotel.

At the bank she insisted upon a bearer’s letter of credit endorsed in her name, waiting while the official went through the procedure, alert to his using the telephone. He didn’t, not that she saw, but Janet knew a message could have been passed to Zarpas through any of the clerks and lesser officials whom the man apparently felt it necessary to consult.

She left the bank imagining their continued concentration and was glad she had not parked the hire car where they could have identified it to record the number. The encouragement was short-lived: it would only take Zarpas minutes to find out at the hotel, she guessed.

The journey to Larnaca took Janet longer than she’d scheduled because there was a delay of nearly thirty minutes getting around a vegetable lorry which had overturned, shedding its load, on the outskirts of Markon. She drove fast afterwards, to catch up, and still reached Larnaca with forty-five minutes in hand. She headed directly out upon the hotel-lined road, seeing no reason why she should not get to the cafe ahead of time.

She did, by fifteen minutes, but the three men were already there, sitting proprietorially at the same outside table, drinking ouzo as they had been the night of the first encounter. As before they studied her approach across the open area, each quite expressionless. The smell of bad cooking oil was as bad as it had been on Monday and Janet wondered if that were why they occupied the verandah instead of the inside area. The captain identified to her as Stavos still wore his suit: when Janet got close she could see in the brighter daylight that it was very old, greasy with age.

“I’m glad to see you here,” she said.

“There was an arrangement,” the moustached man reminded her.

Janet pulled a chair away from the table so that she could sit directly opposite him and said: “Well?”

Instead of replying, the man looked slightly over her shoulder and Janet turned to the attentive boy with the tray. Impatiently she ordered beer, because it would come capped, and the men indicated three more ouzos. Turning back to Stavos, she said: “Have you found out anything!”

“Yes,” said the man, simply. “Quite a lot.”

Although Janet had rigidly controlled any hope during the intervening days, refusing to let herself imagine they would come back with anything at all, there had always lurked in that locked-away part of her mind the supposedly ignored faith that they would, in fact, be successful. She turned the opening key now on that optimism and it engulfed her, a dizzying burst of excitement. She had to close her eyes briefly against the sensation and was glad she was sitting down because inexplicably her legs began to tremble.

“Thank God!” she said, but quietly, to herself. “Oh, thank God!”

“We had an agreement,” Stavos said, flat-voiced and unemotional.

“I have the money,” Janet said anxiously.

“All of it!”

“Please tell me: what have you found out!”

“The money,” insisted the man, monotone.

Janet began to take the bearer letter from her pocket but he raised his hand, stopping her. From the rear the waiter approached and set out the drinks. Janet remained unmoving until the man said: “All right,” and then she completed the movement, handing him the document.

Stavos stared down, frowning with incomprehension. “What is this!”

Janet leaned across, indicating the amount. “A letter of credit for?10,000,” she said.

“It is not money.”

“It becomes money.”

“How?”

Janet pointed again to the endorsement. “Once I sign it… once I’m satisfied with what you’ve got to tell me… any bank on the island will exchange it, for cash.”

The elder of the other two men, Dimitri, leaned close to the captain and spoke so softly that Janet could not detect the words. Stavos nodded and looked back at her. He said: “You didn’t trust us!”

“I was tricked before. I lost my money,” replied Janet. She wondered if the medical tests had been completed upon the Australian girl.

Stavos turned it over in his hands, examining its blank back as if expecting to find something there. He said: “All you have to do is sign it?”

“That’s all.”

This time Janet discerned the nod of agreement, between the two older men.

Stavos added water to his drink, watching it whiten, and then said: “Sheridan worked for the CIA?”

“Yes.” She hadn’t told the man that, she remembered. Premature to believe it significant: it was fairly public knowledge, not difficult for him to have discovered.

“They were extremely indiscreet, the Americans,” said the man. “It was commonly known what his position was within the embassy.”

“I don’t know about that,” Janet conceded.

“They were very stupid, after what happened before.”

Janet gauged that to be a clear reference to William Buckley. Would a Cypriot fisherman-all right, a Cypriot fishing boat captain-be that familiar with the circumstances without some informative links on the mainland? She said: “Please be honest with me! Have you found someone-anyone-who knows! ”

Stavos did not reply at once. Then he said: “People who want a message passed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Beirut is very much divided now,” said Stavos. “In East Beirut, it is difficult to believe there is any sort of conflict: it is practically like it was before 1975. The battleground is in the West, where the Shia, the Hezbollah, fanatics are.”

Janet nodded her head in agreement, further impressed by his knowledge. “I know all this,” she said.

“There is a particular district,” continued Stavos, as if she had not interrupted. “The Basta area.”

“What about it?”

“It is in the Basta district that Sheridan is being held,” the man announced.

Once more Janet felt reality swim away from her: they could have been discussing the whereabouts of a casually met acquaintance, as she and Harriet used to talk about people after one of Harriet’s Georgetown parties. She swallowed and said: “Where in Basta?”

There was the shrug that Janet had hoped not to see. “I don’t know that,” Stavos said.

It sounded convincing but it was not information worth?10,000, Janet decided: nothing, in fact, that was positive at all. She said: “What do you mean, about meeting people who want a message passed?”

“The group that are holding him want a public statement made, by the American government.”

“What!”

“That’s what I was told,” Stavos insisted. “That if Washington publicly apologized for spying… for interfering in the area… then Sheridan would be set free.”

This was something! The sensation-the excitement and the relief-flooding through Janet now was more intense than the initial optimism. “Where is it, this statement?”

There was another shrug. “I was not given it. They thought you would need proof.”

“We talked about a photograph before,” remembered Janet.

“More than that,” said Stavos. “They are prepared to meet you. There were no promises, not undertakings, but I had the impression you might even be taken to see him. If you could bring back a photograph of the two of you together the authorities would know that you were speaking the truth, wouldn’t they? Have to react.”

Janet found it impossible initially to speak. Thoughts crowded her head and the words clogged in the back of her throat. She coughed. “See him…!” she said, incredulous. “A photograph together!”

“Nothing definite was said,” the man repeated, cautiously. “Just an impression.”

“How could I do this!” Janet demanded, recovering. “How could I get to West Beirut… meet these people!”

“With us,” the man replied, as if he were surprised by the question. “How else?”

“You would take me?”

“How otherwise would you know who they were? How to meet them?”

“When?”

“You could go today? Now?”

She could, Janet realized: she even had her passport in her handbag, although she did not imagine their entry was going to be official. “Yes,” she said, pressing her legs beneath the table in an effort to quieten their renewed trembling. “Yes, I can quite easily go now.”

Dimitri turned sideways again, for another inaudible conversation. The captain listened, nodding in agreement. He looked over the table at Janet and said: “We have kept our side of the agreement?”

“I think so,” said Janet.

“So we get the money?”

“When we get back,” said Janet. “You can keep the letter and when we get back we can go to a bank together and it will be cashed.” There was no way she could be cheated: the bearer document was non-negotiable without her signature.

Stavos looked down at the draft and then handed it sideways to Dimitri, who studied it for several moments, before returning it. Passingly Janet wondered if either of them could read English.

“Which bank?” demanded Stavos.

“Any bank,” assured Janet.

“Here in Larnaca?”

“Yes.”

The captain folded the letter carefully, so that the sides aligned, and just as carefully put it into a worn and scuffed wallet which he eased into a rear pocket of his trousers, making sure that the flap was buttoned over it. He looked up at her: “It is agreed. You are ready?”

“Yes,” said Janet. “I am ready.”

This time Stavos paid for the drinks. Janet filed out between the men, Dimitri and the younger man ahead, Stavos behind. Stavos said: “We will take your car.”

Janet had imagined their boat would be nearby and was surprised they had to drive somewhere. Stavos got authoritatively into the front passenger seat and the other two men wedged themselves into the back. The smell of their work was stronger in the confined space and Janet wound her window fully down. “Which way?” she asked.

Stavos gestured: “On towards Dhekelia.”

Janet jolted out of the car park and turned along the bay, driving with it to her right. The sweeping beach was crammed with oil-shiny tourists and technicolored umbrellas. The lowering sun was on the other side of the car and Janet was glad she had the shade. The men seemed untroubled by the heat and uninterested in anything around them: Stavos stared directly ahead, and in her rear-view mirror Janet saw the other two were doing the same. She passed the signs to Leivadie and Xylotymvou before Stavos gestured to his right and Janet saw a huddle of working boats in the fishing shelter. Closer, Janet saw, there was a public car park. Stavos said: “Leave the car there.”

Janet did, locking it, and following Stavos’s lead crossed the main road to walk parallel with the beach. At this part of the bay sheets of nets hung from their poles or were laid out on the sand, drying, and a lot of lobster pots lay in apparent disorder. Flocks of gulls screeched and argued overhead, suddenly dipping to scavenge what bits there were still among the netting. The smell was overwhelming and there were no holidaymakers or parasols for a long way. The working area was quieter than Janet had expected, too: practically deserted, in fact, with no one in any of the boats.

To Stavos she said: “Where is everybody?”

“This is the between time,” he said. “The morning boats are back, with their catches…” He indicated the drying nets. “Those are theirs,” he said. “The night boats won’t go out for another three or four hours.”

“When do you normally fish?”

“When it suits.”

Janet look at her watch. It was 2 P.M. “What time will we get to Beirut?”

“Depends on the sea. The forecast is good so I would expect around midnight.”

“They are expecting you?”

“I know a way to make contact.”

“So I could be taken to see John tonight?” Janet asked, feeling another sweep of excitement.

“That will be for them to decide,” Stavos said. He halted at the water’s edge and said something in Greek. The younger man waded immediately out to a flat-bottom dory tethered to a buoy about five yards offshore. He did not bother to remove his shoes or roll his trousers up: by the time he reached the boat the sea was up to his thighs. He released the line and hauled it into shore. In the daylight Janet guessed he was younger than she’d first thought, probably little more than twenty.

To Dimitri she said: “Your son?”

“Cousin,” said the older man. It was the first time Janet had heard him speak. The English was thickly accented.

The man halted the dinghy about a yard offshore and Stavos said: “I could carry you out?”

“No,” Janet said, at once. She quickly took off her shoes and waded into the water without attempting to roll up the bottom of her jeans. Remembering Sheridan’s teaching she got easily into the boat, wedging her behind over the gunwales first and then swinging her legs inboard.

Both men followed without bothering to remove their shoes. The youngest man rowed, pulling them out to the fishing boat anchored furthest from the shore. As they passed the stern Janet saw there was no name but a lettered number. She thought it was C-39 but the marking was worn by sea and weather so she could have been mistaken.

The younger man vaulted easily from the dinghy into the larger boat, while the other two steadied it against the side. He leaned over, reaching out to help her. Janet accepted his offer: after hauling her halfway out he changed his grip, cupping both hands beneath her arms finally to bring her into the boat. It meant his fingers brushed briefly against her breasts. Janet pulled away at once, deciding it was an accident. The man appeared unaware of what he’d done, paying her no overt attention, instead taking the line from Stavos to trail the dory to the stern, where it would be winched from the water into its davits.

Janet thought the condition of the fishing boat was appalling. She was accustomed to Sheridan’s immaculately maintained vessel, with its neatly curled and stowed lines, tightly reefed sails, scrubbed and stoned deck and burnished metalwork.

This boat was squat and bulge-stemmed, lobster pots discarded where they’d clearly fallen, weed-clogged nets tangled and lumped in the stern. Amongst it all were bamboo-poled fishing lines and several ropes of cork floats. There was a central wheelhouse and alongside a minute cowl over steps leading below to what Janet supposed were cabins or at least some sort of sleeping accommodation. Directly behind, amidships, was the engine flap which Dimitri already had open, his body upended over the machinery. The working area where Janet presumed fish were gutted or prepared on homeward journeys was behind the engine area. There were actually knives in some kind of frame and the deck here was slimed with guts and scales which had not been washed down from the previous trip and which, inexplicably, had escaped the seabirds. Perhaps, thought Janet, even they had been unable to confront the stench. It was more than soured and rotting fish and their innards. There were exhaust fumes from the diesel engines which at that moment shuddered into life and the smell of the diesel itself and then something more for which she could find no comparison or identification: just a general odorous miasma of dirt and neglect.

“There’s a bench in the wheelhouse,” Stavos said.

Looking more intently Janet saw that a plank had been fixed along the bulkhead furthest from the wheel itself: it was padded with various pieces of sagging cloth and blanket, some of which hung down like lank hair to reach the decking. Pointing to her wet jeans bottoms Janet said: “I’ll stay outside for these to dry.”

“Please yourself,” shrugged the man, going towards the bench himself.

Neglected though the boat might be, there was nevertheless an oddly disjointed sort of efficiency about the fashion in which the group got it underway. Janet never once saw Stavos give any obvious command but the other two men went through what appeared an established routine, slipping anchor and stowing things unstowed-although doing little to clear the mess, rather moving it from one jumbled area to another-and preparing themselves and the vessel for sea. Janet tried to find herself a convenient place on one of the clearer sections of the deck directly in the dropping sunlight; although it was still comparatively hot, her trouser hems clung uncomfortably wet and cold around her ankles, sometimes actually making her shiver and she was anxious to dry them as much as possible. The ship had a flat stern and she wedged herself into the corner it made with the starboard rail, stetching her foot out on top of a lobster pot to catch the warmth. Because she was thinking about her feet she turned to the two seamen and saw both had, unseen by her, discarded their footwear and rolled up their sodden trouser bottoms: they moved flat-footed and assuredly around the boat, their toes splayed almost like fingers as they felt their way.

Janet was not conscious of their clearing the lee of Larnaca Bay but realized they must have done so by the increased movement of the boat. It obviously had a shallow draft, and the square back made it even more vulnerable, so very quickly it began to pitch and roll, although the swell was comparatively small. Janet had to take her leg down from the pot for balance. In the wheelhouse the moustached man hung nonchalantly against the spoked steering, a spilling handmade cigarette stuck precariously to his bottom lip. She decided against going there yet.

The sun was losing its heat, and the sea was becoming dulled from bright silver into soft gold. There were a lot of yachts and pleasure boats, both sail and engine driven: some, she thought, were too small to have ventured this far. Caught by the thought she looked back, surprised how low Cyprus was becoming on the skyline: it was just a continuous black and vaguely undulating shape, from which it was difficult to pick out positive landmarks. From the direction she imagined they had come Janet guessed a hazed white area to be the pier and marina at Larnaca but she couldn’t be sure. She wondered how Stavos navigated: there did not appear to be any aerials or electronic equipment but she knew there had to be: a radio, at least.

The younger man plodded wide-footed from the stem of the boat towards her. The other was bent over pots, finally putting them into some sort of order, on the opposite side of the stern. He saw her look and smiled, surprisingly white-teethed, and Janet smiled back, deciding it was ridiculous not being able to properly address him. She said: “How are you called?”

He hesitated, still smiling, and said: “Costas.”

The other man continued working over the pots but said something in Creek. Costas responded and Dimitri spoke again, louder this time. The younger man’s reply was just one word and Janet wondered if it were an obscenity.

Janet’s jean bottoms were drier but not by much, and she acknowledged there was hardly enough heat left in the sun to make any further improvement. What did it matter? she asked herself, not knowing why she was even thinking of something so inconsequential. What did anything matter-this awful stinking ship or?10,000 or anything-beyond the fact that she was on her way to Beirut! To Beirut and people who might actually let her see John: people who certainly knew about him and wanted her to convey some message, back to America, to gain his freedom. And she could most definitely get any message conveyed, Janet knew, after her experience of publicity in Washington. She didn’t give a damn what sort of crap it was-she’d get the Koran published if that were one of the demands-just as long as it got John out from wherever he was. She should, Janet supposed, be feeling some sort of “I told you so” satisfaction from what she’d achieved but she didn’t. Just relief: excited relief. Any other emotion would have been an intrusion. Unnecessary. The only satisfaction she sought was that of having John back with her, safely.

It was the half-light of the Mediterranean now, Cyprus lost beyond the horizon from which night was proudly approaching in a tumble of black clouds. There was a wind coming, too, and the boat began to rise and fall more steeply as the swell increased. Janet shivered, tightening her arms around herself: the jeans were adequate, but the shirt was for the heat of mid-day, not the numb of an open boat at night. The smell was getting to her, as well, combining with the rise-and-fall movement. She swallowed deeply against what lumped in the back of her throat, tight-lipped against showing the slightest weakness.

“Here!”

Janet became conscious of Costas before her, offering a bottle. Janet could see that it was unlabeled but nothing else. “No, thank you.”

“Make you feel better.”

“I’m all right.”

“It’s brandy,” he said, belatedly.

“No, really. Thank you all the same.”

If her discomfort were that obvious it was ridiculous remaining any longer beyond whatever little protection the wheelhouse would give, Janet accepted: now that it was completely dark the excuse about drying her clothes didn’t apply, either. Using the rail, greasy to her touch, for as much support as it would give, Janet groped amidships to the tiny hut. Nearer she saw that Stavos had lighted the red and green navigation lights and that there was also a dull white light in the place itself.

She got to the door and said: “I would like to come in now, please.”

From his look it was almost as if he were startled to find her on his boat at all. He jerked his head towards the bench and said: “Of course.”

Janet eased her way into the tiny hut and sat on the lumpy padding close to the open door. The door slid back and forth on runners, she saw. There was a matching entrance on the far side of the wheelhouse but it was secured by an inside bolt. In front of Stavos was a sloped chart table but there were no charts on it. What she could see was a magazine, well thumbed, with what appeared to be a naked girl on the front. It was partially concealed by pages of a newspaper, which Stavos was reading. There was also an empty tobacco tin, acting as an ashtray. And there was a radio, although not the type Janet expected. It looked like the sort of transistor those Larnaca Bay holidaymakers would have had: as the thought came she heard, very softly, a wailing pop song coming from it. The radio was taped against the side of the chart table and swung back and forth, like a pendulum, with the rocking of the boat. Beneath the table was a tangle of ropes and lines. Stavos had taken his shoes off, like the other two crewmen, and rolled his trousers up.

“How much longer?” Janet asked.

Stavos grunted away from his newspaper. He looked briefly through the salt-rimmed glass out into the completely empty blackness of the night, then at his watch, and said: “Maybe two hours: maybe less.”

Janet checked her own watch and said: “Before midnight, then?”

“Maybe,” said Stavos.

A man of definite opinions, thought Janet. She said: “Are you sure you will be able to find the people tonight?”

“I said I would come back with a decision: with something,” said Stavos, abandoning his newspaper altogether and turning to her.

“So they are expecting you!”

“They said they would be ready.”

Costas appeared at the doorway next to her. He still carried the bottle and in the better light Janet thought his face appeared flushed. He said something in Greek and offered it to the captain but Stavos shook his head in refusal. The young man then smiled at Janet, moving his outstretched arm so that the bottle was towards her.

“No thank you,” she said again.

The doorway was completely blocked by the arrival of Dimitri. He spoke in Greek to Stavos who glanced briefly at his watch before replying and Janet guessed it was a query about an arrival time. The younger man remained looking at her, smiling. Janet smiled back. Costas took a swig from the bottle and said: “Good stuff. The best.”

“I’m sure,” Janet said.

Stavos said something, brief and sharp, and Costas’s smile flickered off. He replied, equally brief, his face sullen. No one moved for several moments and then the younger man screwed the metal top back on to the bottle.

“Would you like to eat?” Stavos asked, suddenly. “There’s some fish and bread. Olives, too. Wine, as well.”

“I’m really not hungry,” Janet said, swallowing against the sensation that came once more to the back of her throat at the very thought of consuming anything.

“It’s going to be a long night.”

“I’ll ask, if I get hungry.” Anxious to switch the conversation from food Janet gestured to what she thought was a gradual lightening ahead and said: “Is that it! Beirut!”

Without looking, Stavos said: “Yes.”

Here! thought Janet; I’m here! She said: “How much longer now?”

“Maybe an hour.”

Janet sat practically oblivious to anything and anyone around her, occupied only upon what was ahead. There was a definite break in the darkness now, an actual horizon line although she could not make out the shapes of buildings. She was surprised at so much light: without positively thinking about it she’d imagined it would be a place of enforced and protective darkness, like the Second World War blackouts in England that her parents had described. She strained to hear any sound, and realized that-ridiculously-she was listening for the sound of gunfire. All she could hear was the grating, reverberating throb of the engines, behind her. Soon, my darling, she thought: I’ll be there soon.

Stavos broke into her reverie. He said: “There’s a part of the harbor, to the west, where we can go alongside. You’ll stay aboard, while I go to find them.”

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“West Beirut isn’t a place for evening strolls,” rejected the captain. “It’s safer this way.”

“How far is it from the harbor to where you expect to meet them?”

“Not for.”

“It can’t be that dangerous, then?”

“This is how it is going to be done!” Stavos said loudly.

Janet winced, not wanting to alienate a man upon whom she was so dependent. “I’m sorry,” she said at once. “Of course.”

Beirut was more discernible now and Janet saw that the brightness was not as uniform as she had imagined it to be. The street lights and house and building lights and even the lights of cars moving along coastal highways were all to the east. Which Stavos had described as safe: practically like it was before 1975, Janet remembered. It was much darker to the west and what she calculated to be the south, the war areas. Street illumination was intermittent, over large areas none existing at all, and there were hardly any building lights, either. Nothing seemed to be moving on the roads; if there were cars they were driving without headlights.

Stavos extinguished the dull white bulb inside the wheelhouse, leaning forward in complete darkness against the glass, which he scrubbed with his hand to remove something obstructing his view. The harbor, like the city, was divided by light. To Janet’s left a lot of boats and ships showed themselves at anchor or against jetty or harbor moorings but in the direction in which they were moving, very slowly, hulls and outlines were black and indistinct, whatever was showing nothing more than the barest glimmer. Stavos began to talk, in Creek, and Janet became aware that Dimitri was between the wheelhouse and the front of the ship, as a relay, and that Costas was in the actual V of the stem, guiding them through the channels and past obstructions. A shout came louder than the rest and Stavos jerked the gear lever into reverse but they still came against the mooring hard, bouncing away from the wall so the man had to go back and forth between the gears to maneuver himself into position again. The two crewmen jumped onto the jetty with securing lines and at once Stavos turned to her. He said: “You must wait.”

“Yes,” Janet said. She added: “In the dark?”

“It is better.”

“Why?”

“Just better.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“It won’t be long.”

He brushed past her to get out of the tiny hut and there was a mumble of inaudible conversation near the shoreside rail where Janet assumed the other two men to be. Blackness was all around her, stifling, like a blanket that was too thick: she felt positively hot, despite the coldness of the night. She got up and groped to the other side of the wheelhouse, twitching her fingers until she located the bolt and tested it to ensure that it was locked. To be doubly sure, she found the opening handle and tugged against it: the door shifted but only slightly. Reassured, Janet returned to the bench and sat down.

It was getting easier to see, Janet decided. The blackness wasn’t blackness any more but a kind of gray: her eyes had adjusted so that she was able to make out shapes and objects, able to differentiate. Black lumps, gray lumps, black lumps, gray lumps: boats and boat equipment she supposed (what else could they be?), but she could not definitely be sure. With her improving vision Janet tried to locate Dimitri and Costas but she couldn’t: everything around was totally quiet and unmoving, just the lap of water and the creak of the boats. Black lump, creak creak, gray lump, creak creak. Maybe they’d all gone together. Which would mean that she was all alone on the boat. Janet wasn’t hot now. Cold. She shivered, violently, and remembered that when she’d done that as a child her mother had invoked a folklore expression about someone walking over her grave.

“Drink?”

Janet yelped in surprise. She’d imagined herself deserted and had not heard Costas approach. “You frightened me,” she said.

“I’m sorry: I saw you shiver.”

“You were watching me?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“No.”

“Where’s Dimitri?”

“Somewhere.”

“Has he gone with Stavos?”

“Maybe.”

He was blocking the open door and through all the other smells Janet could detect the scent of brandy. She said: “They’ll be back soon.”

Fully adjusted to her surroundings now Janet saw the shoulder hump.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Why not try a little drink? It’s very good for the cold. Just a little drink.”

Janet felt the bottle against her arm. “I don’t want to drink,” she said.

“You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“You weren’t upset by what I did when I helped you into the boat.”

“I don’t remember what you did helping me into the boat,” lied Janet. Oh Christ, she thought.

“You’re very firm. Big.”

“I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Big tits.”

Janet’s immediate impulse was properly to scream this time, to drive him away with the fear of someone intervening to arrest him. And then she remembered where she was and how she couldn’t expect anyone to intervene: that more than at any time in her life she was completely and absolutely and utterly alone. Pressing control upon herself she said: “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like it.”

“I like it: like big tits.”

“Please don’t.”

“Shouldn’t wear baggy shirts like that, covering them up. Want to see them.”

“Don’t Costas. Please don’t.”

Janet cringed when she felt his hand. He missed at first, groping her waist, but at once moved up, cupping his hand beneath her breast and feeling for where he imagined her nipple to be, squeezing hard. He didn’t have her nipple but it still hurt and Janet snatched a breath but refused to cry out in case that was what he wanted.

“Liked that,” he said. “Feels good.”

“So did I,” Janet forced herself to say. “I liked it, too.”

The man giggled and Janet was engulfed in more brandy breath: his hands moved over her breasts, kneading and squeezing, hurting her badly. He said: “Knew you would. Big tits.”

Janet edged slightly away from him, further along the bench. “I’d like that drink now,” she said.

Costas stumbled awkwardly into the wheelhouse entrance, colliding with either side. “Sure,” he said. “Here.”

It gave Janet the excuse to stand up and get further away. She reached out, toward him: one hand grabbed for her but she was able to evade it. “The bottle?” she said. “Where’s the bottle?”

“Here,” he said and this time the other hand connected and she felt the coldness of the glass.

Janet had edged backwards all the time, risking his inevitable entry into the tiny hut. She felt out, putting her hand against his chest and said: “Give me room to take a drink then!”

Costas stopped coming towards her and Janet raised the bottle to her lips, keeping them pressed tightly together, with her free hand reaching behind for the bolt to the other sliding door. She scraped her foot against the deck as loudly as she could to mask any other sound she made. Knowing where it was, she was able at once to locate the opening handle. She jerked sideways against it, anxiously, starting to turn to run through it.

Nothing happened.

It moved just slightly, as it had when she’d checked it earlier, but it remained rigid. Janet tried once more, harder this time, but it refused to budge, and she realized there were additional outside locks or securing bars. On top of one horrified realization tumbled others, all as terrifying: that she’d encouraged a drunken man intent upon rape into believing she wanted him sexually: that unquestionably he was stronger than she was, physically, and would succeed: that they were together, in the smallest of places; that she was trapped.

“Good stuff?” he mumbled.

“Very good.”

“Have another drink.”

Trying to delay what was inevitably to happen Janet raised the bottle again, feeling the cheap liquor burn her lips: a little got through, making her choke. He was against her, pressing her to the door through which she couldn’t escape, one hand cruel against her breast, the other trying to work its way between her tight legs, fingers spidering through the cloth in what he believed would stimulate her sex. But worst of all he attempted to kiss her, smearing an open wet mouth against hers, trying to drive his tongue into her. Janet bit down against the inside of her lips, desperate to seal them, not caring if she bit herself to bleed. She was going to bleed anyway, elsewhere. His body ground into her thigh and she could feel his erection: it seemed huge. Bleed a lot, she thought.

“Not so tight,” he mumbled. “Stop being so tight.”

Janet pushed him away. “Not here,” she said, short-breathed. “It won’t be comfortable here. There’s nowhere for me to lie.”

Costas backed off slightly: she could see that his head was uncertainly to one side. He said: “Down below. There’s down below.”

“Bunks?”

“Sort of.”

“Let’s go below.”

With absurd courtesy the man offered his hand, to guide her. Repelled, Janet still took it and allowed herself to be led from the restriction of the wheelhouse, actually gulping at the air the moment she got beyond the door. She stopped. He stopped with her, his free hand groping at her breast again, trying to get his fingers into the opening of her shirt to touch her flesh. Janet let him because it was not an immediate danger: the tiny cowl to her right, leading down into God knows where, was the immediate danger.

“I like a party,” she said.

Costas sniggered, popping a button to make room for his hand, and said: “I’ll give you a party: I’ll give you a party you’ve never had before.”

“Here,” offered Janet, raising the bottle between them. “Have a drink yourself.”

Still with one hand loosely inside her shirt Costas took the brandy with the other, tilting his head in a gesture of macho bravado to take a swig. Janet was perfectly able to see. She waited until his throat visibly started to move, to take the liquor, and then drove her hand upwards with all the fear-driven force she could manage. Which was a lot. The heel of her hand precisely caught the bottle at its very bottom, ramming the neck of the bottle fully up into the man’s mouth. There was a snap, of breaking teeth, and a scream of agony, and still Janet kept thrusting, holding the bottle now and screwing it further into his mouth, wanting to drive it down his throat. Costas floundered backwards, gagging, and tripped over something littering the deck, going down. The bottle was jerked out of her hands, smashing as he threw his head sideways: the man lay on his side, choking. Janet looked desperately around, for some other weapon, whimpering with fresh fear as she was grabbed from behind. Dimitri’s arms wrapped around her, trapping her own. It was not a sexual attack. He was restraining her, trying to pull her away. In front she saw Costas pushing himself from the planking, struggling to get up: he was still spitting the blood from his mouth. Janet strained outwards, to break the older man’s grip, but couldn’t.

Dimitri spoke, directly into her ear and not to her but to Costas and in Arabic now.

“ Ya himar! Al-lak titrik-ha I’al ba-i’-een! ”

Briefly, for no more than secounds, Janet stopped struggling. Why should she have been left? What did it mean, that she was for the others? Her stopping deceived the man holding her. She was aware of his slight relaxation and she jerked suddenly, turning to bring Dimitri around between herself and the younger man. Dimitri moved with her and at once there was an angonized yell and the grip fell away, freeing her.

Janet turned, to face the man. He was hopping on one foot and in the heel of the other she could see embedded the jagged base of the broken brandy bottle, and Janet remembered their being barefoot during the voyage. Costas was almost upright now, crouched and about to run at her. Janet shoved out, driven by anger as well as fear. She caught Dimitri fully in the back and without any balance Dimitri hurtled into the other man. They both fell and there were fresh yells. She guessed they’d gone on to more broken glass and hoped they were pieces that hurt badly, like the base embedded in Dimitri’s foot.

Janet gazed frantically around, not knowing what to do. There was scuffling, from behind, and she saw Costas pulling himself upright once more. She ran without thought to the stern, grunting as she hit against something. She felt out, not able to tell from the feel what it was, and then realized it was the frame holding the gutting knives she had seen when she boarded that afternoon. She grabbed at one, holding it outwards between both her hands, level with her waist, turning back towards Costas.

He was coming towards her cautiously, crab-like, bent and with his body half turned. His face appeared covered with something black and Janet guessed it was blood.

When he spoke the words were slurred by the damage she had caused to his mouth. “Hurt you,” he said. “You can’t believe how I’m going to hurt you. Break you in, that’s what I’m going to do. Really break you in.”

Dimitri’s voice came from behind, still in Arabic: Janet couldn’t see him and guessed he was lying where he’d fallen. “Homme bidhum yaha. Ma bit-’oud tiswa.”

Who wanted her for themselves? How would she be no good, split apart? Janet thought she knew and felt the vomit rise, to her throat.

“ Anna biddi ya-ha abil-il kill! ” Costas shouted back.

He wasn’t going to have her first, Janet determined. No one was going to have her. She stood where the boat was darkest: she’d just be a black outline. So he wouldn’t have seen the knife. Could she kill him: intentionally drive the knife into his body? Hurt her, he’d said: hurt her badly. Yes, she could kill him: stab him at least, to make him stop. He was very close now, no more than a yard or two: she was aware of his tensing, to jump at her.

“ Trickni. Hill ’anni! ”

Janet spoke-told him to stay away-in Arabic and he did stop, surprised she knew the language. The halt was only brief. She saw his crushed lips pull back, in the grimace of a smile, and he answered her in Arabic, calling her a whore. And then he came at her. He just rushed, arms stretched forward to grab her, and he actually had her shoulders before he ran on to the knife.

He gave a great gasp, sucking in his breath, in pain and in shock, and staggered backwards, looking down. The knife was in very deep: Janet was only able to see the handle, protruding from the left-hand side of his body. Costas sagged, as if he were about to collapse at the knees, tried to straighten but couldn’t, not completely, and finally toppled over. His legs quivered upwards, forming his body into a ball, and a long groan gurgled from him.

Janet ran.

She used one of the mooring ropes as a hand-hold, balanced herself on the rail and then jumped over the narrow ditch of sea on to the jetty. After the hours on the ship Janet felt immediately unsteady on a solid footing and had to snatch out for a bollard for support. It gave her the opportunity to orientate herself.

She was about halfway along a narrow mooring finger maybe two hundred yards long and ten yards wide. Underfoot she detected cobbles and guessed it was a very old part of the harbor construction. There were bollards like the one she was holding, roughly twenty yards apart along either side, and every so often small sheds and buildings which she supposed accommodated the fishing tackle and equipment of boats permanently using the berths. The mooring on either side of where they had tied up was empty, which would have accounted for the noise of her struggling not being overhead: she doubted if anyone would have bothered to intrude if they had been detected.

Her mind was disjointed, thoughts only half forming before others presented themselves to get in the way. Janet tried to concentrate, to assess the situation she was in and to find a way out. Confronting literally the need to find a way out, she realized, abruptly, she was still trapped: she had to clear the jetty.

Feeling steadier at last she set out towards the port, the sea to her back, heading into the shadow of the first storage hut. It was fortunate she did because she was completely hidden when she saw the movement ahead. Three men, maybe four, walking in a group with their heads close in conversation. Janet stopped, easing slightly backwards and then around the tiny building, keeping it between herself and the group. The mumble of words came to her as they got closer: she strained, not sure at first, then definitely identified Stavos’s voice. The talk was in Arabic. There was something about a problem and then she heard “taught” and the slap of a fist being driven into the palm of a hand and the splatter of laughter. She missed the beginning of a sentence but caught “morale of the men” and there was more laughter. Someone said they were very pleased and Stavos replied that he would like to be able to do more business.

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.