Betrayals

by Brian Freemantle

  Janet got out of bed and spent a long time under the shower, trying to wash away the lingering disappointment. By ten she’d had another hire car delivered and by ten-thirty she was on the road to Larnaca, not bothering with the attempts of the previous journey to spot any cars which might be following her because she’d already accepted the futility of that.

  In Larnaca, still unsure how to proceed, Janet decided upon more reconnaissance. Because the Arab boatworker had told her the Byzantium restaurant was away from the center of the town she drove on to locate Artemis Avenue and then the gathering spot that had been identified to her. Although it was nearly lunchtime it appeared practically deserted: the nightclub annex, obviously, was shuttered and unlit. Janet made a three-point turn, to drive back in the direction of the town center, but when she asked directions she discovered that the Sanacosta was even further away, on the Dhekelia Road along which the Kholi family had taken her to soften her up for the deception. As she passed the Palm Beach Hotel Janet became aware that she was actually blushing, embarrassed at how easily she’d been tricked. Practically deserved it, in fact. Right, then, to feel embarrassed, but the other feelings of that long night hadn’t been necessary. The Sanacosta seemed even more deserted than the restaurant on Artemis Avenue and Janet reluctantly saw that if she were going to attempt contact in either she would have to wait until the evening.

  She returned to the town center and left the vehicle as before in the Othello Cinema car park. The Rainbow was busy although not as crowded as the Marina Pub had been.

  Janet ordered kokkineli and remained standing at the bar, gazing around. This was not really the way, she forced herself to admit. This was the way to get laughed at or conned again, maybe, but without a better sort of introduction—the proper sort of introduction, by someone who knew the right people—she was wasting her time. Imagining movement was productive activity, in fact.

  Who then? She didn’t know anyone apart from the hostile, unnamed American and he certainly wasn’t going to provide any introductions. Yes, she did know someone!

  Janet gulped at her drink and then decided she did not want to finish it anyway, leaving her glass half-filled on the bar. She hurried out into Kitieus Street and walked around the square, to the marina, not able from the level at which she was walking to establish whether the Sea Mist was still at its moorings. She glanced along the earlier pontoon as she hurried by and saw that the English yacht and its bikini-clad sunbather had gone. With two pontoons still to go Janet faltered and then stopped, able to see now the other mooring she was seeking. The space was occupied by a different vessel, a high-bridged motor-cruiser, big game lines upright in their prepared sockets, two fighting seats still with their belts and harnesses in the stern. She could not see anyone aboard but some sort of motor was running, pumping bilge water out in little spurts.

  Disappointment rose within her. She remained where she was for several moments and then turned back towards the entrance to the marina. And saw him.

  The Arab was just beyond the marina wire, looking away in the direction of the pier, as if he were searching for someone. He wore the same stained T-shirt as before. She hurried along the slatted, heaving pontoon, anxious he should not walk away before she reached him. Almost within hailing distance he looked into the marina and saw her, too. His face opened, in frowned recognition.

  “Marhaba,” she said, out of breath.

  “The lady who speaks good Arabic.”

  “I thought you had gone.”

  “Gone?” He appeared apprehensive.

  Janet nodded back towards the mooring. “The yacht you were on the other day. It’s sailed.”

  “I fix engines,” said the man.

  “I misunderstood: I thought you were a crewman.”

  The man hitched himself on to a low wall, one leg swinging. “And you’re still here, too?”

  Janet nodded. “Still looking,” she said, cautiously. No more mistakes, she promised herself.

  He gestured generally in towards the town: they could both see the Marina bar. “What happened?”

  “No luck,” she said.

  “Such people do get there, sometimes,” said the man, urgently.

  Janet abruptly gauged the cause of his uncertainty: the Arab thought she was going to demand her money back. Just as quickly she said: “I’m sure they do! I wasn’t doubting you.”

  He relaxed, visibly. “Not easy to find,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m glad I ran into you again.”

  He tensed again, slightly. “Why?”

  Janet indicated the bar in which she had been tricked. “I am not going to get anywhere trying to find people by myself, am I? I need more than just places.”

  The man looked away from her, to the ground. Janet saw for the first time that he wasn’t wearing shoes: his feet were horny and calloused, as if he never did. Very quietly, practically to himself, he said: “Maybe it is possible.”

  “What?” she demanded. “What may be possible?”

  The Arab waved towards the marina and said: “Any idea how much those sorts of yachts cost?”

  Janet forced herself to be patient, realizing it would have to be at his pace. “No,” she said.

  “Thousands,” he said. “Half a million some of them, easily.”

  “A lot of money,” Janet agreed, to keep the conversation going.

  “Would you take a yacht costing that much somewhere where it might get damaged? Destroyed even?”

  “Probably not.” Dear God, what sort of game was the awkward bastard playing now!

  “Always important, to consider the cost of things.”

  Awareness registered with her. Janet said: “I’m prepared to pay for help: for a proper introduction. Pay more than last time. But it’s got to work.”

  The man looked back to her, smiling his gap-toothed smile. “Keep thinking about money,” he suggested. “What sort of boats don’t cost half a million and can sail much more safely in Lebanese waters?”

  “I don’t …” began Janet and then stopped. “Fishing boats,” she said.

  “Big industry here in Cyprus, fishing. Lot of boats.”

  “How much?” Janet asked directly, fed up with the constant pirouettte.

  “What exactly do you want?”

  “To meet a man … men … who go there. Who know people who can find out things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  She would have to tell him. “There is a man, a hostage. I want to find out about him.”

  The Arab’s face clouded. “That will not be easy.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Dangerous. Perhaps the people I am thinking about will not want to do it: will not be able to do it,” he said.

  “Ask!” Janet pleaded.

  The man nodded, head bent again in apparent thought. He said: “I will ask.”

  “Now?”

  He looked up, squinting against the sun in the cloudless sky. “Now the boats are out, not yet returned from the morning catch,” he said, professionally.

  “When?”

  “Late afternoon maybe. If I can find them.”

  Janet guessed the vagueness was being intentionally introduced. She said: “One hundred pounds.”

  He shook his head, sadly. “For something like this! Two hundred.”

  “One hundred and fifty,” countered Janet. “And that must be for an introduction to people who can really help. I won’t pay for nothing.”

  “Two hundred,” repeated the man.

  She was in no position to bargain and he knew it, conceded Janet. She said: “Two hundred. But it’s got to be for something definite. A positive, worthwhile introduction.”

  “I can’t guarantee that they will agree. Not for something like this.”

  “I’ve accepted that,” Janet reminded him.

  “Tonight, in the square,” said the Arab. “Seven.”

  “You’ll know something by then?”

  “You’ll have the money?
”

  It would mean driving back to Nicosia, thought Janet. But she had nothing else to do until that night’s appointment. She said: “I’ll have the money.”

  “I’ll try to have arranged something.”

  There was none of the euphoria during this journey back that there had been on the previous occasion when Janet thought she had made a contact. It looked promising, certainly. But then so had the encounter with someone who’d turned out to be a syphilitic thief. This time she’d want more, be less gullible. I’m learning, thought Janet: expensively but learning.

  Janet did not bother to go through the assistant manager this time because the amount was so small, joining a line for an ordinary counter withdrawal. From the hotel she telephoned England, to give her parents assurance about her safety, dismissing her father’s query about her hopefulness during the last call by quickly saying that the approach that had looked so good then had turned out to be nothing, which was not really a lie. She lunched by the pool and that afternoon lay by it, for the first time not feeling bored: right not to become euphoric or even excited, but borrowing a word from the telephone conversation to England she decided she was allowed to be hopeful.

  Unsure what to expect that evening, Janet dressed once more in jeans and an evening shirt and flat shoes. She chose a handbag with a long strap which she could loop across her body and at the moment of departure stood looking at the money she had withdrawn from the bank. Impulsively she stuffed it into the rear pocket of her jeans, not her handbag: she’d made the withdrawal in £20 notes and it lay flat and unobtrusive.

  The route now was very familiar to her. Cautiously she had allowed herself more than enough time but there were no traffic holdups, so she was early. She parked in her accustomed place and strolled along the front and cut up to the square from the seaward side.

  She saw him at once. He was sitting on a bench near the tourist information office. He’d changed into a blue workshirt, faded but clean, light-colored baggy trousers that had long ago lost any crease, and open-toed, open-heeled sandals. Janet knew he had not seen her and so for a few moments she remained in the shadow of a large and unidentified building, watching him. He looked very relaxed, apparently quite content for her to seek him, not bothering himself to find her.

  He saw her when she began to approach, smiling but not standing. When she reached the bench he patted it, for her to sit. She remained looking down at him for a few moments and then lowered herself on to it leaving a wide gap between them.

  “Well?” she said at once.

  He nodded, satisfied with himself. “I have found people who are prepared to talk to you.”

  “They can find something out?”

  “That is for you to decide, when you meet them.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right away?”

  “We had a deal.”

  “Which was for proper, useful contact,” Janet said, remembering the lost £5,000. “You get nothing until I meet your people …” She paused, realizing that the bargaining positions could be tilting in her favor now. “And that they can do something,” she added.

  He looked steadily at her, not responding for a while. Then he said: “You have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll need a car: it’s out of town.”

  And she would be in it with him by herself, thought Janet, recalling the obvious sexual examination of their first encounter. “Where?” she asked, apprehensively.

  “About five kilometers: on the road to Dhekelia.”

  Even the same route as before. Janet said: “What are the arrangements?”

  “There are three men, who jointly own a boat,” said the man. “They sail out of here although they live nearer to Dhekelia. They fish the mullet: it is better on the Lebanese coast. They say they know people.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  The shoulders came up and down, expansively. “Who believes?” he said.

  “Who indeed?” Janet agreed.

  “Are you frightened to come with me?” the man asked.

  “Should I be?” Janet asked, avoiding question with question.

  “No.”

  “Why did you ask then?”

  “You’re a woman,” he said, openly.

  “That has no importance.”

  “If you are sure.”

  It was becoming pointlessly coquettish, on his part, decided Janet. Wanting to shift direction, she said: “How are you called?”

  He hesitated and she waited, curiously. At last he said: “Haseeb.”

  “Haseeb what?”

  “Just Haseeb.”

  First Nicos, now Haseeb: no family names, thought Janet. She said: “What are we waiting for, Haseeb?”

  “I will get my money?”

  “If I get what I want.”

  He rose, decisively, and Janet followed him up from the bench. “Which direction?” he asked.

  Janet led away from the square and along Kitieus Street to the cinema car park. It had filled up by now with patrons’ vehicles, many sloppily parked, so it was difficult for her to maneuver out.

  Knowing the direction from her previous reconnaissance Janet turned left: even before she reached the square where they’d met she was conscious of his body odor permeating the car. Janet waited until they were running parallel with the sea, on Makarios Avenue, before slightly lowering the window on her side.

  “Hot night?” he said, seeing what she had done.

  “Very.”

  “It is not for,” Haseeb said, as they got on to the Dhekelia Road. He shifted as he spoke, using the back of her seat as a hand-hold to turn in his own seat to look into the back of the vehicle.

  Janet pulled away from any supposed accidental touch and said: “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” he said, turning back.

  It had been her handbag, she guessed. In those brief moments alone in the car in the cinema park she’d put it beneath her seat. They passed the Palm Hotel and the Sanacosta restaurant and nightclub and all the other hotels necklacing the seafront road. The concentration of light began gradually to diminish, very quickly becoming just the occasional pinprick of a local house or the rickety, uncertain illumination of a shanty non-tourist bar.

  “Not long now,” Haseeb said.

  It was so dark now it was difficult for Janet to distinguish him across the other side of the car. “Good,” she said.

  Although dark inside the car, it was a clear night outside, the moon so bright it marked a glittered reflection against the rolling sea to her right: through her open window Janet could just hear the hissed growl of its arrival against the shore.

  “Engine’s rough,” he said, expertly.

  Dear God, don’t let the car break down, thought Janet. She said: “It goes.”

  “Tappets,” Haseeb said.

  Janet had no idea what he was talking about. She said: “How much further?”

  Haseeb gestured vaguely ahead. “Just around the bend.”

  He’d said five kilometers, Janet remembered: they’d traveled much more than five kilometers. She’d been stupid not to register the mileage when they’d set out. “What time are they expecting us?”

  “When we arrive,” Haseeb said.

  “I thought we’d be there by now.”

  “There!” the man said.

  Janet could not at once make out the place to which he was pointing and then, on the seaward side of the road, she became aware of a cluster of dull lights around a roadside stop. Closer, she saw it was not directly against the road but down a short dirt track that dropped frighteningly downwards as soon as she left the road: dust billowed up around them and rocks and ruts jarred through the vehicle from beneath. There were no other cars in the clearing made for parking, just two motor scooters and some bicycles.

  “This is it!” Haseeb announced, practically with the pride of ownership.

  It was a low single-story building of maybe three rooms.
There was a long rectangle which she could see, through uncurtained windows, forming the public, cafe part, with a kitchen adjoining. Alongside, in darkness, was what she presumed to be where the owner lived. Or maybe he lived somewhere else and it was a storage area. There was a door cut into the side of the cafe, leading out on to an open verandah. Beams extended from the main building and trellis had been linked to them, to make the foundation for a grape vine. The vines were already intertwined but they were thin and sparse and Janet couldn’t imagined they provided much shade during the heat of the day. Cables had also been looped through and from them, at intervals, unshaded bulbs hung down. They were mostly ordinary white household bulbs but just occasionally an effort had been made with colors. There were several red and a few blue. The verandah was set with tables, half of which were covered with red checked table cloths to designate that they were for people who intended to eat. The rest were uncovered. All were set with metal-framed, canvas-backed and seated chairs.

  As Janet got from the car she caught an overwhelming smell of long-used cooking oil, from the kitchen. As she followed Haseeb up slatted wooden steps to the verandah she saw a family of cats: several kittens were chasing and snatching at insects she could not see. From all around came the crackle and chirp of cicadas in the undergrowth beyond the cafe.

  There were only locals, and less than a dozen of them, on the eating section of the verandah and Janet walked its length conscious of their absolute attention: two men actually stopped eating, with their forks suspended before them, to watch her pass.

  Haseeb led the way to one of the unclothed tables at the very rear in a corner, so that walls blocked it on two sides. Three men sat at the table. Two wore shirts and trousers but Janet was intrigued that the third man wore a suit, dark although in the poor light she could not be positive of the true color, with a tie neatly knotted into a white shirt which appeared fresh and clean.