Betrayals

by Brian Freemantle

  The three observed her approach and remained seated when she got to the table, as Haseeb had remained seated in the Larnaca square. With the sort of pride with which he’d identified the cafe, Haseeb announced to the three: “This is the woman.”

  The suited man nodded to a chair which would put her facing him. Unhelped, Janet withdrew it from the table and sat down. Haseeb hesitated and then, uninvited, sat down at another edge of the table.

  Directly, unwilling to begin any more word games, Janet said: “I’m told you have contacts in Beirut.”

  “Perhaps,” the suited man said.

  He wore a drooped moustache, like Chief Inspector Zarpas. She wondered if the policeman had by now monitored the £200 withdrawal: she’d already decided it could be easily explained as living expenses, if he demanded an account. She said: “I’m looking for someone to make inquiries for me.”

  The man jerked his head towards Haseeb. “He explained.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Perhaps,” he said again.

  “Depending on what?”

  “Being able to find the right people. And the money.”

  “How much money?”

  “How much have you got?”

  “I can pay,” assured Janet. Quickly she added: “I can pay if the information is good.”

  “Ten thousand,” said the moustached man.

  Janet lowered her head, caught by the sensation of déjà vu—the same amount demanded by the cheating Nicos Kholi. Looking up, she said with odd formality: “If you can provide positive information about the man for whom I am looking I will pay you £10,000.”

  There was a stir from among the men around the table. Janet detected another odor, competing with the smell of cooking oil, and realized it was the stink of fish. Then she remembered that they were fishermen.

  A young boy carrying an empty tray emerged from inside the restaurant, looking at them expectantly. Haseeb immediately ordered brandy and the three other men indicated their glasses for more: it was ouzo, Janet saw. She shook her head.

  The man waited for the boy to go and said: “I think we can do a deal.”

  “What sort of deal?” demanded Janet.

  The suited man looked to his two companions. Janet saw that one was younger than the other but both had long and very curly hair and long faces, with similar long aquiline noses, and wondered if they were father and son. The elder of the two moved his head in agreement and the younger, taking his lead from the gesture, did the same.

  The moustached spokesman, whom Janet assumed to be the captain, said: “Today is Monday: we sail later tonight. You could come here again on Thursday?”

  “Yes,” said Janet, eagerly.

  “By Thursday we will have spoken to people. We will know if we can help.”

  “People in Beirut, you mean?”

  The man nodded and said: “You can have the money, by Thursday?”

  “Yes,” said Janet again.

  “Then it is agreed,” said the man, positively.

  There was another pause while the drinks were served. When the waiter left for the second time she said: “What time Thursday?”

  “Mid-day.”

  “Do you really think you will be able to discover something?”

  “Not until you tell me the name,” the man said.

  “Sheridan,” supplied Janet anxiously, irritated with herself. “John Sheridan.”

  “English?”

  “American.”

  “When was he taken?”

  “February.”

  “Anyone claim responsibility?”

  “Hezbollah.”

  “Any particular group?”

  Janet shook her head. “No.”

  The man remained silent for several moments, then said: “We will try.”

  “I am grateful.”

  “You have no reason, not yet.”

  Janet pushed her chair away from the table, as if to stand up, and said: “I’ll be here, on Thursday.” If demands were going to be made for some money in advance they would come now, she knew.

  “Wait!” the man said.

  “What?” Janet asked.

  “Money for the drinks,” the man said. “Five pounds will cover it.”

  Janet led the way back to the car, aware of Haseeb watching her stow her handbag beneath her seat. As they regained the road, he said: “It is good?”

  “I don’t know: I think so,” said Janet, cautiously. She was encouraged that no money request had been made: a small omen but important. There was still Thursday, of course. What precautions could she take against being cheated then, when she would have the money?

  “I want to be paid,” demanded the Arab, beside her.

  Ahead Janet could see the brightness of the hotels along the Dhekelia Road. She wanted the safety of their surroundings before handing over the £200. She said: “Those men. How are they called?”

  “The boss is named Stavos,” said the man. “I’ve heard the older one called Dimitri. I don’t know the other. I think they are related.”

  Greek, thought Janet. “What family name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They were among the hotels now. Janet eased the money from her pocket and handed it across the car. As she continued driving she was conscious of the man slowly counting it.

  “I could take you again, on Thursday?”

  “No, really.” She was aware of his shrug of acceptance. Aware, too, of the even brighter lights marking the approach to Larnaca.

  Hopefully Haseeb said: “You would like a drink?”

  “No,” Janet said quickly again. “There are people expecting me, back in Nicosia.” Had she answered his look across the car she wondered if his disbelef would have been obvious. Sure of her way through the town now she slowed at the junction with Grigoris Avxentiou Avenue, knowing she could cut down it to gain the Nicosia road. “This all right for you?”

  “Fine.” He made no immediate effort to get out of the car.

  With the vehicle stationary Janet turned further towards him but pressed with her back against her door, as far away as possible. “Goodbye then,” she said, pointedly. “And thank you.”

  Still he stayed, edging his arm along the back of his seat towards her.

  “Get out of the car!” she said. She kept her voice calm. Inwardly fear was churning through her. She moved her hand towards the horn button.

  Abruptly, unexpectedly, he smiled his ugly smile and said: “OK,” opening the door as he did so. He slammed it behind him and walked away without once looking back.

  Janet started the car and drove hurriedly off, the fear coming out now in the trembling that vibrated through her, so she had to grip the wheel more tightly. She was still aware of the stink of fish, mixed with the stronger smell of Haseeb’s odor, and she wound her window competely down, trying to blow it—and her nervousness—away. It was ridiculous, an overreaction, to behave like an offended virgin. She’d known the danger and she’d confronted it and nothing had happened, anyway. There were far more important, more positive, things to think about. Like three men who had not sought money in advance and who should by now be at sea, heading towards the Lebanese coastline. How, in three days time, to decide if anything they might tell her was worth £10,000. Or whether once again people were trying to cheat her. And how to stop being cheated.

  Three days, she calculated again; time to think and to plan.

  16

  For 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. Brie
fly 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.