Betrayals

26

J anet hesitated outside the American embassy at the corner of Therissos Street, caught by the irony that it was one of the feed roads on the way to Larnaca, where so much had happened. And where they’d all laughed at her: the bastards who’d tricked her and the bastards who were supposed to help her. They couldn’t laugh any more; she had what she’d come to Cyprus to get and, like Baxeter said, they had to take her seriously from now on. And by Christ she was determined they were going to take her seriously!

The embassy was quite heavily fortified and Janet had to prove her identity at a guard house before being allowed to approach the main building. By the time she reached it, her arrival had been telephoned through. She asked for Al Hart. The receptionist asked if she had an appointment and Janet replied that she’d telephoned, to say she was coming. Which she had. Hart had refused to take her call.

There was a muffled conversation and the woman smiled, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Hart isn’t available.”

Janet took the Beirut photograph from her handbag, holding it out and displaying it to the woman. “Tell Hart that I’m showing you a photograph of John Sheridan taken a week ago. And tell him to get his ass out here!”

Hart was in the vestibule in three minutes, face blazing, eyes bulged with anger. “What the hell’s going on!” he demanded, at once.

“I want to talk,” said Janet. “Politely and sensibly. I want to talk.”

The man’s effort at control was discernible. “Where’s the photograph!” he demanded.

“Where’s your office?” said Janet. It hadn’t occurred to her to gloat and she was not really gloating now, but there was a satisfaction in being in control-in being the teller, not the told-after all the bullshit that had been dumped upon her.

Hart hesitated and then turned on his heel, leading her deeper into the embassy. The CIA section was at the rear and to reach it they had to pass through a ceiling-to-floor barred door like the sort Janet remembered from movies about prisons. There was a Marine on guard outside and Hart had to authorize Janet’s entry in an official, signed log.

His office was a bare box of a place very similar to that of George Knox, the CIA man in Beirut: a standard design, thought Janet.

“The picture!” Hart demanded.

“I think we should set out some ground rules first,” said Janet. “So OK, you don’t like me. You think I’m a pain. I don’t like you. I think you’re a jerk. But I’ve got proof that John is still alive: proof you, none of you, could get. There’s a possibility of my being able to get more. So we’ve got to work together, be together, whether you like it or not. So let’s at least be civil, OK?”

Hart sat looking at her across his clean desk, a vein in his forehead throbbing in time to his annoyance. With difficulty he said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

On the apology scale of ten Janet scored that at about two but decided that it was a concession. Without speaking she dug into her handbag again and offered the photograph across the desk.

Hart snatched it. For a long time he stared down and when he looked back to her all the dismissive aggression had gone. “Jesus!” he said. “Jesus H. Christ!”

“So?”

“I’m sorry,” said Hart, sincerely this time. “I really am sorry.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Janet. “He’s alive, isn’t he? John’s alive!” And so, she thought, was David Baxeter.

Hart was back over the photograph, moving it flatly against the light. He said: “It looks OK.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s possible to fake photographs: superimpose things, like a newspaper with a date on it, over a picture taken earlier,” said Hart.

Janet felt a plunge of despair. “But the picture itself!” she argued. “That picture hasn’t been released, has it!”

“No,” agreed Hart. “Like I said, it looks OK. It can be checked by experts: will be checked.”

“It’s genuine,” Janet insisted, needing the assurance.

“I’m prepared to go with it right away,” said Hart, smiling for the first time.

The expression was sincere, like the second apology, Janet decided. “You’ll tell Washington?”

“Of course I’ll tell Washington. Beirut, too,” said Hart. He rubbed his hands together, as if he were warming them, and went on briskly: “OK, so where did you get it? Where do we go from here?”

“No.” Janet shook her head.

Hart’s smile faltered. “What do you mean, no!”

“It’s my source. It stays that way.”

Hart leaned across the desk, hands together now as if he were praying. “Ms. Stone,” he said, controlled. “Don’t you think you’ve been involved in enough screwups already?”

“Yes,” concurred Janet at once. “Far too many screwups. And I’m not going to get involved in any more. Neither am I going to be shunted aside, as I’ve been shunted aside almost always since this thing began. I want guarantees and I want to remain the conduit, to ensure that they’re being kept.”

The vein in Hart’s forehead began to dance again. “What sort of guarantees, Ms. Stone?”

Named courtesy every time now, Janet noticed. Instead of directly replying Janet said: “What if I could get a location to go with the photograph? Maybe even an address?”

Hart stared at her for a long time. Then he said: “You think you could get something like that?”

“Maybe,” hedged Janet. “What if I could? If I could tell you a street where John Sheridan is being held? Will you-some American group or force or whatever-go in to get him out?”

Hart nodded, understanding the demand. He said: “I can’t answer that, not right now.”

“I don’t expect you to answer it right now,” said Janet. “What about after you’ve been in contact with Washington?”

“Maybe not then, either.”

“I need to know,” Janet said. “I told you I won’t be shunted aside any more.”

Hart looked down again at the photograph and said: “This isn’t the only copy, is it, Ms. Stone?”

“No,” said Janet. “I’ve quite a lot more.”

“So it’s an ultimatum?”

“A request,” corrected Janet.

“You know it’s John’s life you’re risking, if you release this?”

“I’ve had this conversation so many times I can recite it backwards,” said Janet. “I’m not risking John’s life. I’m trying to save his life by getting some fucking action!”

“Quite a lot about this conversation is familiar, isn’t it?” said Hart, unmoved by the outburst. “You sure of your source, Ms. Stone?”

Janet indicated the picture: “It produced that, didn’t it?”

“And promises an address,” mused Hart. “I know what Willsher told you, in Washington. About all the professional efforts that we’ve made: the cooperation we’ve had from other countries, other agencies. To come up with nil. And now you’ve got a picture taken a week ago and expect more.”

“Yes,” said Janet.

“That’s impressive!” said Hart. “The lone amateur showing all the professionals how to do it!”

“Does it matter, if it gets John out?”

“I don’t know, Ms. Stone. I really don’t know.”

“I can’t see any direction in this conversation,” said Janet, uneasily.

“At the risk of further repetition,” said the American. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“I’ve learned the hard way how to be,” assured Janet. “That’s why I’m trying to establish more ground rules.”

“So I’ll play to your game plan,” accepted Hart.

No he wouldn’t, Janet recognized at once. He was just stringing her along until he thought he had everything and then he’d dump her. She said: “How long before you’ll get a playback from Washington?”

“Your rules,” reminded Hart. “How long before you get something more?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Janet.

“Why don’t I wait for you to make contact when you’ve got something?”

Already being pushed aside, judged Janet. Patronized, too. “No,” she said. “Why don’t you make contact when you hear from Washington?”

The American capitulated. “You’re calling the shots.”

Driving away from the embassy Janet tried to analyze the encounter. Good enough, she supposed: certainly the official door had been opened to her. But for their advantage, not hers. But then, objectively, what else could she expect? Their job-the CIA’s job anyway-was collecting information, not imparting it. It was unrealistic for her to expect anything like complete admission, complete access, to whatever they might do. At very best all she could expect was to be allowed on the sidelines, where she wouldn’t get in the way.

Janet and Baxeter had arranged to meet at the Tembelodendron and as she entered the restaurant Janet wished they had chosen somewhere else because it was where she and Baxeter had lunched the first day they met, and she was unhappy at it becoming a romantic shrine the way the Virginia inn had become the place for her and John. Why? she demanded of herself. Didn’t Baxeter (when would she think of him in given name terms!) deserve some sort of special romantic place, as well? Janet became impatient with the constant internal argument. It was arrogant-conceited even-this perpetual effort to maintain a balancing act. And what a balancing act! She could think rationally and behave rationally and make all sorts of sensible, rational decisions-for Christ’s sake she was an aloof academic, wasn’t she!-but the bottom line came down to choice and she knew she couldn’t choose: wasn’t able to choose.

Baxeter rose to meet her. He held out his hand and she took it. He said: “Guess how much I missed you?” and she said: “I don’t need to be told because I missed you that much, too.”

“If I read this in a book or saw it in a movie, I wouldn’t believe it!” he said. “You know what I feel when I don’t know where you are: what you’re doing? I feel lost: lost like one of those poor bastards will be in space one day when the survival cord linking them to their spacecraft snaps and they float away into the blackness.”

Janet sat down and said: “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” Baxeter admitted. “But it doesn’t affect-doesn’t minimize-what I’ve just said. That’s how I feel.”

“That’s funny,” said Janet. “No, not funny. Wrong word.”

“What’s the right word?”

“Yours,” Janet said. “Lost. You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve felt lost: been lost.”

A waiter intruded into their impenetrably private world, and they ordered without thought or consideration, wanting only to get rid of the man. As the waiter left Baxeter said: “It wasn’t meant to be like this.”

“I don’t understand,” said Janet.

“No,” agreed Baxeter, obtusely.

“You have been drinking!”

“I told you that already.”

“But why!”

“Lost,” he said. “Lost and lonely, like you.”

“I don’t want any wine,” Janet announced, positively. “Nothing to drink.”

“Is that how it would be?”

“I don’t understand that, either.”

“If we were married, would you nag me like this: decide when and when not I should drink?”

“Stop it!” said Janet, irritated.

“Just asking.”

“You’re ratfaced!” she accused. “Pissed out of your mind!”

The transformation was startling. Baxeter seemed to expand and grow in front of her very eyes, like a balloon being filled for flight. He straightened in his chair, adding to the impression, and jaggedly but no longer with any slur in his voice said: “Relaxing, just for a moment. Thinking. Sorry. So what happened?”

The question coincided with the arrival of their lamb and the waiter asked about drinks and looking directly at Janet, Baxeter said: “Nothing, thank you.”

“Was that refusal difficult?” demanded Janet.

“Yes,” said Baxeter. “Very.”

“Why?”

“I asked what happened,” reminded Baxeter, ignoring her question.

“Answer me first!”

“Tell me what happened!”

It was belligerence-persistence-but not drink-inspired, Janet decided. She remained off-balanced, inexplicably and uncomfortably feeling herself to be with a man whom she no longer knew. Which was disorienting. And nonsensical. She sloughed away the impression and tried to clear her mind by recounting in as much detail as possible the encounter with the Cyprus CIA officer-in-charge.

Throughout Baxeter listened, utterly intent, hardly bothering with the delivered meal. When she finished he said: “Hostile?”

“Just short of.”

“So?”

“They’ll take everything for nothing,” said Janet.

“Getting John out won’t be for nothing,” halted Baxeter.

Janet dipped her head, accepting the correction. “Any promised cooperation will be minimal,” she qualified. “They’ll use me.”

Baxeter did not react, stabbing at his food without eating it. “Yes,” he said, detached.

“Hart said something odd,” Janet announced.

“What?”

“He asked me if I trusted my source,” Janet said. “Reminded me of the cooperation that the Americans had had from friendly countries, friendly agencies, and remarked how surprising it was that an amateur could do better. Told me to be careful.”

She spoke looking fully at him and Baxeter looked directly back. He said: “I told you how it happened.”

“I know word for word what you told me,” said Janet. She stopped and then said: “You’re not using me, are you? Not using me like all the rest?”

“Did any of the rest produce the evidence of John being alive?” came back Baxeter.

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

“You know the answer to your own question,” said Baxeter, loudly. “I am using you. I am using you ultimately to get an exclusive story that no one else has a chance of getting…” Baxeter paused, raising his hands between them. “Which is quite different-quite separate and apart-from what else has happened between us. I’m not using you that way, certainly. My love-our love-is boxed: compartmented from anything else. Uninvolved.”

Janet felt a glow at the assurance, somewhat convoluted though it was. “I wasn’t really doubting you,” she said.

“Then why did you question me!” persisted the man. “What else could I be than what I am!”

Janet wished the insistence were not quite so fervent She said: “We’re arguing: we’re arguing about nothing.”

Baxeter appeared to deflate, the balloon going down. Much more quietly he said: “Do you think Hart will stay with his promise to keep you in touch?”

“Definitely, at this stage,” Janet said at once. “They want an address, don’t they?” She allowed the time for him to speak and when he didn’t she demanded: “So what are the chances of getting that address?”

There was an uncertain shoulder movement. “Maybe there isn’t any possibility.”

Janet realized, abruptly, that so completely had she begun to rely upon Baxeter that she’d never doubted he would come up with a location: the idea that he might not be able to shocked her in further disorientation. “But you said…?”

“Just a promise,” stopped Baxeter.

“Would it mean your going back to Beirut?”

“Yes.”

“Oh shit!”

“How else could I get it?”

“I don’t know… I hadn’t thought.” Everything was becoming frayed again: fragmented. It was like a smoke cloud, a mass with an apparent shape and form that was impossible to reach out and touch. Pushing herself on, Janet said: “So how do you know when to go back?”

“You want me to go back?”

“Yes. No.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes every sense.”

“He said-the Shia-that he knew the man who took the picture: that from him he could learn the location of the house,” said Baxeter. “All he had to do was to find him and ask.”

“That sounds simple: a conversation of minutes.”

“Yes,” agreed the man. “That’s how it sounds: I don’t think it’s quite as easy as that.”

“ Will you go back?”

There was a long silence between them. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll go back.” There was another, shorter silence. Then Baxeter said: “Does that mean I’ve lost out?”

“It’s too soon for a question like that!”

“Why?”

“Because it is,” replied Janet, in childlike repartee.

“I want to know!” he persisted.

“No!” Janet said, desperately. “How could you have lost out, after what’s happened!”

“So where does that leave John?”

Janet had not eaten her meal either. She pushed it aside, reaching across the table for his hand, kneading his fingers. “Stop it!” she demanded. “Stop trying to get inside my head! Can’t you understand I’ve been thinking about-torn apart about-nothing else!”

“And I’m not helping?”

“No,” Janet said. “You’re not helping at all.”

“How was it left at the embassy?” asked Baxeter, changing direction to defuse the tension.

“That Hart would call me, as soon as he heard something back from Washington.”

“You’ll never know, of course, whether he’s telling he truth: whatever he says and however he says it.”

“I accept that,” Janet said. “Where does it say I’ve got to believe him?”

“You’re becoming cynical: don’t become cynical.”

“You’re becoming protective.”

“That’s what I want to be.”

“Don’t press: not at this time don’t press.”

“OK,” he accepted. “Your speed; your decision.”

“I don’t need reminding.”

The returning waiter asked if there were anything wrong with the meal and Baxeter apologized that they were not hungry and without any discussion between them they went back to his apartment. Where for the first time their lovemaking wasn’t good. They coupled and came but there was a tension between them, a block. Janet waited for Baxeter to refer to it but he didn’t so neither did she, telling herself she was imagining it.

“It’s a multi-entry visa,” announced Baxeter, beside her.

“So you could go back any time?”

“Yes.”

“This Shia? Is he a member of one of the groups?”

“Connections, obviously.”

“What if it’s a trap: that they’re setting you up to be snatched? There are journalists in captivity.”

Baxeter considered the question. “They could have snatched me receiving the photograph: there wasn’t any need to wait until I came back a second time.”

“Don’t go!” insisted Janet. “You’ve got a photograph and we’ve given it to the Americans and that’s enough: let them take over from here.”

“But that means John…” he started.

“… I know what it means,” broke in Janet, sharply.

She sensed rather than saw him shake his head. Baxeter said: “The Americans won’t move-if they’ll move at all-just on a picture. They’ve had pictures before.”

Janet turned away from him, pushing her face into the pillow, not wanting him to see her cry. Trapped, she thought desperately: she always felt trapped. His hand was on her shoulders, gently massaging, his fingers soothing up into her hairline.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”

“No!” she said, muffled.

“Yes,” he said, with determination.

Baxeter asked her to stay the night but Janet suggested there might be a call from the embassy, which was only part of the reason for her refusal: she still felt the barrier between them that she’d known when they made love and decided she needed to get away for it to disappear, as it had to disappear.

She regretted leaving as soon as she reached the hotel, sure she was imagining the barrier, but willed herself against telephoning to say she was coming back. She rang the following morning, intending to apologize, but there was no reply. She waited until mid-afternoon for him to call her and when he didn’t she dialed his number again. There was still no reply. She started calling every half hour and then reduced it to the quarter hour and at six drove back to his flat. It was locked and the window shutters were closed and bolted.

Janet returned angrily to the hotel. He’d told her he was going, of course. But there should have been some talk between them before he left: some time together. Just taking off without any contact was… Janet’s thoughts filtered, seeking the word. The only one she could think of was inconsiderate, which was ridiculous: he was going to Beirut for her, to help her locate a fiance, so what could be more considerate, more selfless, than that? Whatever, he should still have said goodbye: it made it appear as if he didn’t care and she knew that wasn’t true.

Hart did not telephone but came personally to the hotel the following day and Janet felt embarrassed at his finding her predictably by the pool. The American seemed more subdued than usual, although there was no hostility: when she asked eagerly if there had been any developments he said they couldn’t talk where they were and she agreed at once to accompany him to the embassy. It was a chauffeur driven car with darkened rear windows and a division between the driver and the rear-seat passengers but the CIA officer still refused to divulge anything until they reached the U.S. compound.

They went again to the rear of the building, through the barred gate, but into a larger pine-paneled and pine-furnished office. Janet came to an abrupt stop in the doorway, so that Hart almost collided into her. Robert Willsher rose first to greet her, immediately followed by George Knox, the other CIA man she’d met in Beirut. Both men were smiling, Knox more broadly than the Washington official.

“Good to see you again, Ms. Stone,” said Willsher.

“Is it?” said Janet, cautiously.

“Why not come on in, so we can talk?” invited the man.

Janet continued on, going to the chair that Knox was holding out courteously for her. As she went to sit he winked at her. From the way the men arranged themselves at the table, all facing her, it was obvious that Willsher was the senior officer.

“Looks like we’ve got a chink of light here?” began Willsher.

“I hope so,” said Janet.

Willsher nodded sideways, to the Cyprus-based agent, and said: “Al submitted a full report of your meeting. I’ve got to tell you it caused quite a flap at Langley.”

“I’m glad there’s some reaction at last.”

Willsher appeared not to notice the sarcasm: if he had, he was unoffended by it. He said: “You must understand that what I am going to tell you is in the strictest confidence: if you had not kept so positively to the agreement we made in Washington, I wouldn’t be telling you at all. There’s been a policy decision taken, at the highest level. That photograph is absolutely genuine. If we can get a location for John it’ll be the first time, in all the kidnappings, that we’ve something positive to act upon. And we’re going to do just that. If we can get a location for John, we’re authorized to go in and get him!”

For a moment the three men blurred before her and the room spun: hoping they would not notice, Janet actually gripped the edge of her chair, physically holding on. “Thank you,” she managed. “Thank you so much.”

“Which is why we must have access to your source,” completed the man.

It was like being doused in cold, reviving water. “No,” said Janet, as adamantly as Willsher had spoken.

“Ms. Stone,” said Willsher, level-voiced. “This is foolish. We’re planning an incursion into another country. OK, so it’s a pretty screwed-up country but by international law it’s still sovereign territory. If we do it there’s going to be hell to pay. That’s been allowed for: to stop being shoved around by any bunch of bums who think they can take a pop at us. Washington-the President-is prepared to take whatever flak is thrown afterwards, at any international forum. But we’ve got to get it right. If we lose too many men…” The man stopped, awkwardly. “… and I’ve got to say it, if we lose John, in the attempt, then it’s all going to blow right up in our faces. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” said Janet. “I understand what you’re saying.”

“We’ve got to plan, to get as much detail as we can. Rehearse, if possible, in some sort of mock-up: outside of Washington we’ve a training facility, at Fort Pearce. We can have a street re-creation ready there in twenty-four hours and we’ve got men standing by to build it. This has got to go as clean as the Israeli rescue did in Entebbe. So we must have access to your source.”

“No,” said Janet again. Willsher was right, of course: by telling her of the rescue operation being considered they’d met her demand for action-the reason she’d put forward before for refusing-so to go on refusing was foolish. But her possible access to the knowledge-through Baxeter-of where John might be was her only bargaining strength. So she wouldn’t surrender it: wouldn’t be cut out and discarded, yet again.

“Janet!” pleaded Knox, familiarly. “You’ve got to!”

“It won’t work,” improvised Janet. “I asked, after bringing the photograph here… after talking to Hart. They said no: that they won’t cooperate directly with you. They’ll only pass the information through me.”

The three men stared at her, the skepticism obvious.

“They?” isolated Hart. “More than one person then?”

“Yes,” floundered Janet.

“Why won’t they trade direct?” pressed Hart.

“I wasn’t told, not openly. There was some talk about not trusting you.”

“You think it’s a group with which we’ve worked before?” said Willsher.

Janet thought she was sweating and that it would be noticeable to them. “I don’t know what to think,” she avoided. “Like I said, I wasn’t told directly: it’s an inference.”

“What nationality?” said Knox.

“They speak Arabic,” Janet tried to sidestep.

“Syrian Arabic, Lebanese Arabic, what Arabic?” insisted the Beirut officer.

She was out of her depth, Janet decided: out of her depth and sinking, without any means of support. “Syrian Arabic,” she said.

“What’s the deal?” demanded Willsher. “What are they getting out of it?”

Thinking desperately Janet realized the Americans would probably have access to her account, through Zarpas. “Money,” she said. “I’ve agreed to pay?20,000. But since being conned like I was before I’ve said I won’t pay anything until after John’s got out.” She thought it had sounded all right: she wished she were able to tell more from the expression on their faces.

“And they’ve gone for that?” asked Hart, doubtfully.

“They gave me the photograph, didn’t they?”

“How can you contact them?”

“I can’t,” said Janet, vaguely aware of firmer ground underfoot. “They’ve got to contact me.”

“No planned dates then?”

“No planned dates.”

“I don’t like this,” said Willsher. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I don’t like it either,” said Janet, aware they were the first honest words she had uttered for a long time. “This is the way they insist it has to be.”

“You think you’ll get a location?” said Knox.

“I’ve no way of knowing.” Honest again, she thought, gratefully.

“So we just sit and wait?” said Willsher.

“And hope,” Janet said.

“You think some sort of personal protection might be a good idea?” Hart suggested.

“No!” Janet said, too quickly, frightened of what surveillance might disclose-Baxeter. “I’m sure they won’t come near me if they see any sort of official escort.”

“Let’s not take the risk of blowing it,” Willsher said.

“You will tell us!” Knox said. “You won’t try anything like before: try to do something yourself?”

“I brought the photograph here,” reminded Janet. “If I had intended doing anything myself I would not have done that, would I? I recognize well enough that you’re the only people with a chance of getting John out.”

“Just don’t forget it,” Willsher cautioned. “This is big league stuff now: the biggest.”

“Let’s keep in daily contact,” Hart suggested. “Just to keep the lines open.”

“Of course,” Janet agreed.

“And don’t forget what I said before, will you, Ms. Stone?” Hart said. “Be very careful.”

Despite the apparent assurance Janet expected them to attempt some sort of surveillance and over the following days she tried to detect it. She actually set her idea of traps, staying entire days in the hotel and around the pool, alert for obvious attention, and at other times going for long drives through the Greek parts of the island where there were tourist spots and lingering at them, intent for a familiar face following her. Not once did she detect anything. She maintained the daily contact and once accepted Willsher’s invitation to dinner, which was an appalling mistake. The Washington officer resumed the embassy interrogation and Janet sweated and lied again, sure by the end of the evening that Willsher knew she was lying.

It was a fortnight before Baxeter returned. So resigned had Janet become to his absence that she did not expect the call to be from him when she lifted the receiver. As soon as she recognized his voice she erupted in a babble of questions and he had to shout her down to be able to speak himself.

“I’ve got something,” he announced, simply.

Janet swallowed, unable to respond. Or think clearly-properly-how she should have thought. Her immediate impression was that the moment of decision was drawing inexorably nearer, like a noose tightening. She said: “I’ll come to the flat.”

She used the same avoidance technique as she’d tried before, driving openly to the communication complex and even more openly parking the car, then hurrying into the walled section of Nicosia to come out again by the rank on Eleftheria Square. Like before she drove away straining through the rear window: there was no indication of pursuit.

They thrust into each other’s arms, neither speaking for a long time. Then Janet said: “I don’t ever want you to go away again,” and Baxeter said: “I won’t.”

They separated at last and Janet said: “You’ve got an address?”

Baxeter nodded and said: “It’s in the Kantari district.”

“Genuine?”

He shrugged: “Who knows, until someone goes there?”

“Someone is going there,” disclosed Janet. She told him everything about the encounter at the American embassy and the assurances from Willsher and how-and why-she’d refused to disclose Baxeter’s identity to the Americans. Throughout Baxeter sat nodding, not looking directly at her but slightly to one side, deep in concentration.

“And they agreed to it?” he demanded as soon as she finished. “You’re still the conduit?”

“Yes.”

Baxeter nodded in further contemplation and said: “And they must continue to do so.”

Janet thought the tone of his voice was strange. “Why?”

Baxeter blinked out of his reverie. “The address could change,” he said. “You must tell them that. Let them rehearse the Kantari rescue but make them understand they can’t exclude you because John might be shifted at the last moment.”

Janet stared curiously at him, aware of that sensation of a barrier arising between them again. She said: “And you would know, if there were a last minute change?”

“I have a promise,” he said.

Abruptly Janet recalled Hart’s remark that day at the U.S. embassy when she produced the photograph of John, in captivity. The lone amateur showing all the professionals how to do it, she remembered, the words echoing in her head. Very quietly she said: “David, what do you do? Really do?”

“You know what I do.”

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“I’m genuinely employed by a Vancouver magazine,” he insisted.

“But that’s not all, is it?”

Baxeter stared back at her for several moments. Then he said: “No, that’s not all.”