Betrayals (11 page)

I
t was a typical office building on 13th Street near Franklin Park. Janet had been surprised at receiving an address in Washington rather than being asked to go out to Langley, which was what she had expected. She supposed, upon reflection, that it was obvious the Agency would have places away from their headquarters complex for meetings like this. As the elevator ascended to the sixth floor Janet wondered if it were in just such an office that Sheridan had worked or whether he'd been based at Lang-ley. If he were the senior analyst the newspapers had described him as being, she guessed he would have been out in Virginia.

The suite number she had been given—6223—confronted her when the lift doors opened. There was no identification plate. The door, without any apparent security lock or device, opened into an expansive area dominated by wide-leafed plants in a selection of wood-chipped pots. There were magazines on several small tables centered among low-backed easy chairs, and Janet thought it was just like every doctor's or dentist's waiting room she'd ever visited. The receptionist was black and very pretty, her hair braided and all the braids capped off with different-colored beads which rattled at her every movement. From a chain around her neck hung the sort of identification badge, complete with picture, that everyone in Washington appeared to wear. Behind the receptionist two closed-circuit television cameras were positioned to encompass the entire room.

When Janet identified herself the receptionist said: “Of course,” as if she personally recognized her. The woman passed the name on through the intercom box on her desk and immediately a fresh-faced, bespectacled man emerged from a cubicle behind. He wore a waistcoated gray checked suit with a club-striped tie pinned into place by a metal bar which stretched from each collar tip. He, too, recited her name as if he recognized her and asked her politely to follow him into the rear of the building.

The office into which he led her was very small, a partitioned box among a lot of other partitioned boxes. It was bare of any personal photographs or mementos. There was nothing on the desk apart from a single telephone and a blotter pad: the pad was crisply white and unmarked. There was another closed-circuit camera high in the left corner. Janet guessed the size of the room made more than one camera unnecessary.

The man gestured her to a seat and politely remained standing until Janet sat. He left his jacket fastened when he lowered himself into his seat, so that the material strained around him, but did not appear discomfited. Through the gape of the jacket Janet saw he had an identification badge on a chain, as well.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“It was hardly likely that I wouldn't, surely?” said Janet. She hadn't intended to sound rude but realized her reply could be construed that way.

He did not appear offended. He said: “We think all the publicity has been unfortunate.”

“I think it is unfortunate I have been treated as I have,” replied Janet.

“On occasions like this the Agency receives a lot of crank calls,” he said.

“You thought I was a crank!”

“We had to be sure.”

“You mean you checked on me?”

“Of course.”

Janet looked directly at the camera, wondering the purpose of whatever it was recording. She said: “I could have been told. That there would be a delay, I mean.”

The man nodded and said: “Our people didn't handle it well.”

“Am I to know your name?” asked Janet.

The man hesitated, appearing reluctant, then said: “Willsher. Robert Willsher.”

“So now that we've at last met, Mr. Willsher, what can you tell me about John?”

“Very little, I'm afraid,” said the CIA man. “Through an allied embassy in Beirut we've got some guidance that the kidnappers are Fundamentalists but there's been no direct contact. Or demand.”

“So what's the purpose of the kidnap in the first place?”

Willsher shrugged. “Humiliation of Americans is usually sufficient. There are a lot of our people held.”

“Too many,” said Janet, accusingly. “What's the policy to be when there is contact? Is there to be a bargained deal?”

“Official policy is not to surrender to terrorism,” said Willsher.

“Rubbish,” rejected Janet, at once. “What was Irangate all about! And it failed.”

“I'm authorized to say that every avenue will be explored, to secure Sheridan's release,” said the man.

“What, precisely, does that mean!”

“What it says. It's impossible for us to be any more specific than that until we know who's got him and what they want.”

“You looked into my background?”

“Yes,” frowned Willsher.

“So you know my university subject. And from it will be aware I study the area,” reminded Janet.

Willsher nodded again, understanding. He said: “And because of your subject you should be able to appreciate how difficult it is for us.”

“Do you just intend to wait?” asked Janet. “Or are you trying to make contact from your side?”

“You must believe we're doing everything we can.”

“That isn't an answer to my question.”

“Through Arab governments with whom we have dialogue we have made it clear we want contact,” conceded Willsher. “That's why your courting publicity didn't help.”

“Would this meeting be taking place if I had not made some sort of protest?”

“I told you we had to be sure,” repeated Willsher.

“What harm has the publicity done?”

“From the outset the aim has been damage limitation,” said Willsher, pedantically. He looked away from her, appearing almost embarrassed, then continued: “The CIA, as an organization, is a particular target among these people. We wanted as much as possible to minimize Sheridan's position.”

Janet felt the familiar anger begin to build up. The man was discussing John as if he were some disembodied awkwardness, not a human being going through God knows what sort of torment. She said: “I did not disclose John's position in the CIA. I didn't even
know
he was connected to the CIA until I heard it on a television newscast. If you'd been so goddamned anxious to deny any connection with the CIA you could have done so by doing just that: telling a lie and denying it. That ridiculous statement saying neither one thing or the other was practically an out-and-out admission!”

“Something else that wasn't handled particularly well,” conceded the man.

“I know about William Buckley,” said Janet, flatly.

“So do we, ma'am,” said Willsher, more forcefully than he had so far spoken. “And we don't want anything like it to happen again.”

“There must be
something
the government can do, other than just sit around and wait!” said Janet. “Why not issue a public warning about retribution if any harm comes to him!”

Willsher shook his head. “You must believe me, Ms. Stone. A lot of discussion and consideration has already gone into this. The combined view of the Agency and the State Department is that a confrontational stance is not the right one to adopt.”

What the hell was a confrontational stance? thought Janet. Ma'am and Ms. had re-entered the conversation, too, she realized. She said: “What is, then?”

“It has been decided to wait until the demand.”

“Then what?”

“We can't answer that until we know what the demand is.”

Around and around on the carousel, thought Janet. She said: “That could take weeks … months …”

“We're prepared for it to take as long as necessary, if it means getting John safely back.”

Janet supposed it was the right attitude—the only attitude—but she was impatient with it. She wanted to be told that something positive was being done, like offering a definite ransom or assembling some sort of gung-ho rescue squad. She said: “Just sit back and wait!”

“No,” said Willsher, patiently. “I told you everything that can be done is being done, and it is. The State Department has made approaches to every Arab country, saying that the government will react in the strongest possible way … without being specific what that might be … if any harm befalls him.”

“I thought you were pulling back from confrontation!”

“These are diplomatic messages, not press statements getting headlines,” Willsher said. “And I think it's important they remain that way. I don't think what I've just told you should get to the newspapers.”

“The
New York Times
has already come pretty close.”

Willsher shook his head. “No one has reported how we might react.”

Remembering her earlier impatience, Janet said: “What about when there is contact? What about sending in some sort of snatch squad?”

“I thought I'd already made it clear, Ms. Stone, that every sort of contingency is being explored.”

“Including some sort of commando assault?”

“I don't think I can be as specific as that.”

“You don't trust me, do you?”

“I don't think trust comes into it, Ms. Stone. I don't know the specific proposals myself.”

“And if you did you wouldn't tell me?”

“Probably not,” admitted Willsher, at once. “That wouldn't be particularly good security, would it?”

“Did you know John?” Janet asked abruptly. “Personally, I mean?”

Willsher hesitated and then said: “We were on station together once, some time ago. But not together here, in Washington.”

“Were you a friend?”

Willsher frowned once more, head to one side. “We saw each other occasionally,” he said. “It wasn't really friendship.”

“Will he be able to stand it?” asked Janet, urgently. “The imprisonment … and … and …” She stumbled to a halt and then blurted out. “Whatever else there might be …?”

For the first time Willsher's reserved formality wavered. He said: “John's a very strong man. Very tough.”

Janet laughed, without humor. “That's the strangest part, since all this happened. I realize I never thought of him as someone with strength … with resilience. Isn't that odd?”

“I'm not going to say anything ridiculous, like don't worry, but he's able to sustain hardship,” Willsher said.

“I hope you're right,” said Janet. “Dear God, I hope you're right.”

“You must leave things with us now,” Willsher said. “No more media hype. Or protests from senators.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes, Ms. Stone.”

“Gagged, you mean?”

“I mean there's only one consideration, for both of us. Which is getting John out. And we think that means low profile.”

“You wouldn't abandon him, would you?” Janet demanded.

“I don't understand that question, ma'am.”

“I mean that it wouldn't be considered wise politics in a region in which America has already made a whole bunch of mistakes to consider John Sheridan as being disposable …” Janet paused. Remembering the phrase, she said: “Someone who's plausibly deniable.”

“No, Ms. Stone. I can assure you that isn't the way we're thinking.”

“I'd like to believe you, Mr. Willsher.”

“All I can do is repeat that it isn't so.”

“Are you going to remain in contact?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

Willsher paused and said: “You shouldn't have disclosed the telephone number that John gave you: we've had to close it down.”

“And I shouldn't have been given the bum's rush when I asked for help,” came back Janet. “I thought we'd cleared the decks on that.”

“I hope we have,” agreed the CIA officer.

“So how?”

“I've got your number.”

“No!” refused Janet, shaking her head. “I want something better than that!”

Willsher sighed, looking down at his pristine blotter. He said: “There are going to be more media approaches.”

Every conversation reverted to their sensitivity about publicity, Janet recognized. She said: “I understand what you're saying: I really do. To refuse to talk would be as wrong as saying too much. How about if I said there had been a meeting with an official of the Agency who assured me that everything possible was being done?”

Willsher smiled, suddenly, an unexpected expression. He said: “I think that sounds fine.”

“In return for which I get a number where I can reach you whenever I want,” insisted Janet.

The smile died. Willsher said: “You have my word I will call as soon as there is news.”

“I want a number, damn it!”

Willsher blinked at the outburst. He said: “For you only.”

“I told you I understand!”

There was the briefest of hesitations and the man scrawled out a number on a scratch pad and offered it to her across the table. Janet took it and saw at once, relieved, that it was prefixed by the 703 Langley area code. Willsher said: “We're going to stay on top with this one. You must believe me on that.”

“I'll try,” said Janet.

She rigidly maintained her side of the bargain, confining herself to what they had agreed when the renewed newspaper and television inquiries came, until after three days the only regular callers were news agencies. The
Washington Post
tried to keep the story alive by publishing in their Sunday “Style” section more of the letters between herself and Sheridan that she had made available that first day, and Janet spent an uncomfortable twenty-four hours until Monday, when she could reach Willsher to explain. The CIA man said he understood and that there the feature hadn't caused any problems.

In the first few days Janet rang Willsher morning and night. Never once did he react impatiently. By the end of the second week Janet herself recognized the pointlessness and reduced her calls to one a day.