“You’ve made that very clear,” said Janet, tightly.
“Can I give you some advice?” asked the man.
“Of course,” said Janet, knowing he would whether she agreed or not.
“Leave it to the experts who know what they are doing,” smiled McDermott.
“Like your experts know what they are doing, with an Archbishop’s enjoy still held after one year! And a TV journalist for two!” snapped Janet.
Red spots of irritation pricked out on McDermott’s face, but his voice was completely even when he spoke. He said: “I understand your distress. I wish there were something I could do. I really do.”
What did it take to get men like McDermott and her father to lose control, Janet wondered. Perhaps their lives were too well cocooned for the risk ever to arise. Striving for politeness, Janet said: “Thank you, for agreeing to meet me at least.”
McDermott’s attention was back to the other man. “Always a pleasure to meet old and respected friends,” he said. “The food here is always very good, don’t you think?”
“Very good,” echoed her father.
It was an absurd, esoteric game with no written rules, thought Janet, the exasperation burning through her. She wondered what John thought of the food he was getting, in whatever shithole he was tethered.
“I warned you,” her father said as they traveled back to Sussex.
“You warned me,” agreed Janet. An additional avenue had occurred to her, so perhaps the lunch had not been a complete waste of time.
“Still want to go on?”
Janet turned sideways in the passenger seat, to look directly at the man. “I want you to understand something,” she said, trying to match his unemotional tone of voice. “I shall go on until one of two things happens. Until John is freed and we’re able to marry. Or until I go to the funeral of someone whose body is said to be his.”
Her father chanced looking briefly away from the road, towards her. “I’ll write the letter tonight for you to take to Cyprus.”
“I want to try something else, first,” said Janet. “Something I’ll arrange myself.”
It took two days for Janet to fix an interview at Lambeth Palace. The priest, named Davidson, was younger than she had expected for a member of the personal staff of the Archbishop, a scrub-faced, spike-haired, eager man whose solicitousness showed in that he’d read all the cuttings concerning John Sheridan by the time they met. He said he was sorry, as everyone seemed to do, and Janet thanked him. When Janet asked directly, he replied he couldn’t confirm or deny that any secret negotiations were taking place to free their envoy, Terry Waite, and Janet heard the CIA statement echo in her mind. Were negotiations to take place, asked Janet, could they be extended to include John? When the priest began to reiterate that he couldn’t confirm or deny, Janet interrupted to say that she understood, but could he record her request anyway? Davidson promised he would but repeated again that he knew nothing about any such negotiations. In an obvious attempt to offer some comfort, the priest added that they had an assurance from the British government that every possible pressure was being exerted upon every other government who might be able to assist, not just for information about their own emissary and the British journalist but all other foreign nationals, as well. At the end of the interview Davidson suggested they pray together and Janet did, feeling self-conscious, because she had never been able to believe and therefore to pray, not even when Hank was dying.
“A wasted journey?” her father asked that night.
“I think he was sincere: that he would try to include John’s name if there were any negotiations,” said Janet. It had become a habit since her return from America for them to have pre-dinner drinks in his study, while her mother supervised in the kitchen.
“What now?”
“Because the airline office was convenient, in London, I bought a ticket to Cyprus.”
“When?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
Her father nodded. “I know it’s a fatuous thing to say, but be careful.”
“I will be: as careful as I can.”
“I still wish you wouldn’t go.”
“Don’t forget what I said in the car.”
“I’m hardly likely to.”
“I’ve got another favor.”
“What?”
“I’ve an inheritance, right?”
Her father frowned across the rim of his whisky glass, nodding. “Yes.”
“Can I have it now?”
He smiled, sadly. “Very biblical,” he said.
“The parable of the Prodigal Son had a happy ending, remember?” Turning the word, she added: “And I don’t intend being prodigal, believe me!”
“Don’t you think the Americans have tried bribery? Or even straightforward ranson?” he said. “And offered far more money than we’re likely to be able to afford?”
“We’ve had this sort of conversation before,” said Janet. “I don’t intend walking around with a satchel full of money. I just want to have some available, if it’s necessary.”
Her father gestured around the room, encompassing the house. “This is part of your inheritance, of course. All I could raise in cash at such short notice would be about £30,000.”
It was more than Janet had expected. She said: “I love you very much,” and then added, hurriedly, “I love both of you very much.”
“I’ll want to know where you are, all the time. And for us to be in regular touch.”
“Of course.”
He indicated the letter of introduction that lay on his study table and said: “And go beyond that. Register properly at the embassy, so that there is proof of your being on the island. I want an instant and official reaction if you get into any sort of difficulty.”
“I promise.”
Her mother’s unremitting chatter had dried up, from the moment of her being told days before of Janet’s intention to go to Cyprus and she became further subdued that night at dinner when Janet disclosed the airline booking. Everyone made an effort to find something else to talk about, and failed, so the evening became strained and clumsy and Janet excused herself early, pleading the need to get some rest before the impending flight.
The couple remained at the table and Janet’s mother accepted brandy, which she rarely did.
“It’s madness,” she protested.
“I know,” he agreed.
“She could get hurt.”
“Yes.”
“So you must stop her! Forbid her to go!”
“That wouldn’t work. Not a direct confrontation.”
“There must be something you can do!”
“I hope so,” said Janets father.
12
Janet had forgotten the Mediterranean heat of the near Middle East, just as, she was soon to realize, she had forgotten much else about an area in which she was supposed to be an expert. The heat engulfed her like oven breath as soon as she disembarked at Larnaca, dry and quite unlike the damp mugginess of summer Washington: by the time she reclaimed her luggage she was sweatingly wet. There was no air conditioning in the Mercedes taxi, so she traveled with the rear window fully down, for whatever breeze she could get. Against the dashboard the driver had a picture of a man in an elaborate frame made even more ornate by a bouquet of dyed straws and dried flowers in a small vase, making it into some sort of shrine, and Janet realized she had not carried a photograph of John with her. She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t need a reminder. Or a shrine: definitely not a shrine. The route inland from the airport, into Nicosia, took her near Larnaca marina and the harbor beyond and there were signs, faded and unrepaired, advertising ferries to Beirut. She strained to see the direction they indicated but the ochre and white buildings were jammed too close together, blocking her view.
The boundary of the town was quite abrupt, huddled-together houses giving way to rolling, dun-colored scrubland. They began passing mules and donkeys almost completely obscured by their loads, cloth-wrapped
bundles on legs, and the roadside was dotted with stick-framed lean-to shelters against the sun from which tiny children yelled and waved for them to stop to buy oranges or lemons or melons or carved souvenirs. Orienting herself, Janet looked south. The Troodos Mountains were too far away from her to make out but she imagined a rise in the scrubland, where it climbed towards them. The British had made their listening facilities on the island available in the hope of hearing some telephone or radio communication about John, she remembered from conversation with Willsher. Troodos was the highest point of the island and she supposed that was where the technology would be sited. Would anything have been heard? She doubted the CIA man would have told her, if it had.
The pale blue berets of the United Nations peacekeeping force were Janet’s first physical reminder of the haphazard partition of the island after the Turkish invasion of 1974, and as they entered Nicosia she passed another indication, the Turkish-held enclave wired off and controlled by guard posts.
“Gangsters,” said the driver, as they skirted the Turkish pocket.
Janet did not reply; she had gangsters of her own to worry about. She chose the Churchill Hotel, on Achaeans Street, not for its four-star luxury but because it was a place where telephones would be guaranteed to work. They did. She was connected without any delay to her father in England, to give him her address and room number and to assure him she was all right. He asked if she had contacted the British embassy yet and Janet said he’d been her first call, because that was the promise she’d made. He told her to be careful, which Janet expected, and she assured him she would be.
William Partington had served under her father in the same position as the unhelpful McDermott, although in Amman, not Cairo. He was not available when Janet called but a secretary promised he would be returning after lunch. Janet used the time to deposit her father’s bank draft for £30,000 at a branch of Barclays International within walking distance of the hotel, although by the time she reached the bank she was bathed in perspiration again. The size of the transfer intimidated the counter clerk, who insisted upon her being greeted by an assistant manager. Janet patiently endured the ritual, arranging for the money to be held on deposit and maintained in a sterling account. The man presented her with a business card and asked that she deal personally with him and Janet agreed that she would.
She reached Partington on the second call. The attaché remembered her father at once and said he was delighted to hear from her, and why didn’t she come for supper with him and his wife the following evening? Janet said she wanted a more formal meeting, although dinner would be fine later. There was a pause from the other end of the line and Partington said he was not particularly busy and would she like to come to the embassy that afternoon. Janet said she would, very much.
Janet showered and changed and managed to get an air-conditioned taxi to Alexander Pallis Street. She identified herself to the reception clerk, and at once Partington hurried from the rear of the building.
Partington was a contrast to her father’s acquaintance McDermott, just as tall but a bluff, bulging man, face reddened beneath the tan by the blood pressure of good living, a crumpled lightweight suit strained by the effort of containing him all. He shook her hand and said welcome and, still holding it, led her into the back of the building where at once, gratefully, Janet felt the chill of better air conditioning than in the outer vestibule.
“You in a spot of bother?” demanded the man.
“Something like that,” agreed Janet, offering the man the letter of introduction from her father.
Partington read the letter carefully, tapping a fingernail against his teeth as he did so: from the movement of his head, Janet realized the man was going through it twice.
At last Partington looked up, subdued now, and said: “I see.”
“Please!” said Janet at once. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Everyone does.”
“Then I won’t.” He gestured to the paper he had placed before him on the desk. “Your father asks me to help, in any way I can. Which of course I would if I could. But I don’t see how. We’re no way involved. We can’t be.”
Remembering her reflection about the Troodos Mountains on her way into Nicosia that morning Janet said: “I know that you’re making British listening facilities here available to the CIA.”
Partington sucked in his breath, shaking his head as he did so. “Not my province, Mrs. Stone. That’s an intelligence matter, quite separate. I wouldn’t know anything about that: wouldn’t want to know.”
Janet felt the familiar rise of exasperation and tried to curb it. She said: “This close to the Lebanon there must be links, between the British presence there and you, here?”
“Some,” Partington agreed, doubtfully.
“Before I left London I went to Lambeth Palace,” Janet said. She hesitated, deciding upon an exaggeration, and went on: “I talked there with a member of the Archbishop’s staff, about negotiations to free the Britons being held. Your people in Beirut must know of them, hear things about other hostages.”
Partington moved his head again. “Something else about which I have no knowledge: you must believe me, Mrs. Stone. If there are any contacts, any negotiations, they’d be restricted to the smallest group of people. They’d have to be, wouldn’t they?”
Janet sighed, wishing she could confront the logic. She said: “What about here, in Cyprus?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“There’s been a mass exodus from Beirut to this island,” said Janet. “There must be a lot of information, passing back and forth. People I could talk to.”
Partington leaned forward across the desk, his face serious. “There has been a mass exodus,” he agreed. “I’ve heard areas of Nicosia and Larnaca likened to Berlin, in 1945, and it’s a pretty good description. I mean there are people here in Cyprus doing what people always do, in a war situation. Profiting by it. We don’t get involved and neither should you. It’s crooked and it’s dangerous and it won’t do anything to help your fiancé.”
“What areas?” demanded Janet. “What people?”
“Your father was a senior diplomatic officer to me in Jordan: someone I like and whom I consider a friend,” said Partington. “I would be abusing that friendship by getting you involved with such people, such places.”
“My father has asked you to help!” said Janet, jabbing her finger at the letter between them.
“That wouldn’t be helping,” Partington said. “It would be doing the reverse, exposing you to pointless danger. That I won’t do.”
Despite her efforts at control, Janet could not prevent the heat of frustration burning through her. This man was her only contact, her only hope, she realized, desperately. “There must be something!” she pleaded. Then, hurriedly, she added: “And don’t advise me to leave it to people who know what they’re doing: everyone tells me to do that, too.”
“Mrs. Stone,” said Partington, in a tone reminiscent of that frustrating lunch at Lockett’s. “I know it’s difficult: I can understand, I’d like to think, something of what you are going through. But what other advice can there be? Look at the situation objectively. What—possibly, sensibly—can you do? You’re quite alone. You haven’t any resources. You’ve no official backing …”
“… and I’m a woman,” cut off Janet.
Partington hesitated and then said: “And yes, you’re a woman. There’s no point or purpose in our getting into a sexist or women’s liberation discussion about it, but the simple fact is that in this situation and in this area of the world, as a woman you’re at a disadvantage …” He paused again but continued: “If it’s any satisfaction—and I can’t imagine that it will be—a man by himself, without any resources and with no official backing, would hardly be in an improved position anyway.”
“Helpless, you mean!”
Partington considered the question. “Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I mean. Helpless.”
Which was precisely how she f
elt, Janet realized, angry at herself because she thought of it as giving way. It had been another round about ride, backwards and forwards in the same circle, apparently moving but getting nowhere. Partington, as unresponsive as he was, remained her only contact, she thought again. She said: “It was kind of you, seeing me as you have.”
“I wish, I really do wish, that there had been something more positive I could have done,” said Partington. “I know you asked me not to say it, but I’m very sorry for what’s happened.”
“I’d like to accept your invitation,” said Janet.
Partington’s face creased in confusion, and then he remembered and said: “Oh yes.”
“Is tomorrow night still convenient, or would you like to call, to confirm?”
“Maybe I should call, to confirm,” the man said.
“I’m at the Churchill,” Janet said. “And my father particularly asked me officially to register here, at the embassy.”
“You intend staying, then?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” the diplomat asked, just as direct.
“I’m near to where John is,” ad-libbed Janet. Impulsively she added: “And I have been getting some help and guidance from the Americans. They’ve an embassy here, haven’t they?”
Partington sat regarding her steadily for several moments before he said: “I’ll see to it that you are officially registered. Will the Churchill be your permanent address here?”
“I think so.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure,” Janet said, matching his stare.
“Please don’t do anything foolish, Mrs. Stone.”
“I won’t”
“This isn’t fiction, you know? Not something in a novel you read by the pool or see in a cinema. This is reality.”
Now it was Janet who came forward, to stress her seriousness. “Now you must believe me, Mr. Partington. I don’t need reminding just how real it is having someone I love and hope to marry chained up as a hostage, like some animal.”
Again, for several moments, there was a silence between them. Then Partington said: “I’ll call, about tomorrow.”
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