Now the older woman hesitated. “No,” she conceded, finally.
“So it’s just the same, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said her mother, doubtfully. “They’ll get him out, won’t they? The government-Washington-I mean.”
Something else her mind had not gone on to, conceded Janet. Not quite true, she corrected: something she had refused to let herself think about. Janet said: “Of course,” conscious as she spoke of the lack of conviction in her own voice.
“Do you want us to come over?”
“Why?” asked Janet, surprised.
“I don’t know,” admitted her mother. “I just feel that we should.”
“There’s not really a lot of point, is there?” said Janet. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I suppose not,” accepted the older woman.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” promised Janet.
There was a moment of silence on the telephone that seemed to go on for a long time. Janet said: “Hello! Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” said her mother. “I just don’t know what else to say.”
“There’s nothing much to say, is there?” pointed out Janet.
“Everything seemed so wonderful. After what happened to Hank your father and I were so happy for you… you didn’t deserve this…” The voice trailed off, lost.
“I’ve thought about that, Mother,” said Janet, tightly.
“He should have told you: warned you,” blurted the woman, abruptly. “It wasn’t fair.”
“We’ve discussed that,” reminded Janet, tighter still.
“Are you sure there is nothing we can do?”
The problem, thought Janet, was that she was sure about very little: nothing, in fact. She said: “No, but thank you.”
“Keep in touch,” urged her mother.
Janet thought it was a stupid remark to make and at once curbed her increasing irritation: her mother was only trying to be sympathetically helpful. She said: “Of course I will. The moment I hear anything.”
“It’s all going to turn out fine,” insisted the woman, with forced enthusiasm. “Your father and I have talked about it and we know everything is going to be fine.”
“I know you’re right,” said Janet, emptily. Now she was reassuring her mother instead of it being the other way around.
“Call if there’s anything you need,” said her mother, reluctant to sever the connection.
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Goodbye then.”
“Goodbye.”
“Sure you don’t want us to come over?”
“Quite sure.”
When she turned around from the telephone Janet saw that Harriet had overfilled two brandy snifters and was offering her one. Her immediate thought was that it was a cliched reaction to a personal drama, like a scene from one of the interminable soap operas, and then, just as quickly, that the glass being held out to her was the one in which Sheridan usually had his nightcap. Janet accepted the drink, although she didn’t want it, and said: “Thanks.”
“Now!” said Harriet, briskly. “What would you like me to do?”
Every conversation appeared limited to the same questions and answers, reflected Janet. She shrugged and said: “There’s nothing any of us can do, not until tomorrow, is there?”
“Would you like me to stay over: sleep here?” Harriet asked.
Again Janet was surprised. “Whatever for!”
It became Harriet’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know: thought you might like some company.”
“I’ll be OK,” Janet said.
“It’s a bastard, isn’t it?” Harriet said.
“Yes,” Janet agreed. “A complete bastard.”
8
T he number rang twice before it was picked up and a voice Janet thought she recognized from her previous calls said: “State.”
“Is it?” asked Janet.
There was a pause and the voice said: “Ma’am?”
“My name is Janet Stone,” she said, carefully prepared. “I am the fiancee of John Sheridan, who gave me this number. I’ve reached him on it, several times. I want to speak to somebody to find out what’s happened to him in Beirut.”
There was a further hesitation before the voice said: “Will you hold a moment, ma’am?”
Janet did not time the delay but it seemed to last for several minutes. When the line opened again it was a different voice. The man said: “Who is this, please?”
Janet repeated her earlier statement, which she had rehearsed, just as she had written down questions she wanted answered, while she waited for eight-thirty to show on the clock, the time she imagined they might start work. She finished by saying: “Who am I talking to?”
He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said: “How did you get this number?”
“I already told you, from my fiance, John Sheridan,” reiterated Janet. “I want to find somebody who can help me. Can you help me?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” he said. “I think you’ve got a misconnection. No John Sheridan works here.”
Janet felt a hollowness begin to form deep down in her stomach, but there was anger, too. She tried to control the anger, knowing it would not help and believing, too, that this number and this unknown man was the only link she had to people who might know what was going on in Beirut. With forced calmness she said: “I have not got a misconnection and I know I did not misdial, either. I have used this number to speak to John Sheridan on a number of occasions during the past year. I want to know what’s happened to him: what’s going to be done to get him released.”
“Ma’am, I’ve told you, I’m sorry. I really can’t help you.”
“Who are you?” demanded Janet. “What CIA department am I speaking to?”
“Ma’am, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I genuinely can’t assist you.”
Janet’s anger lapped over. She said: “For God’s sake stop patronizing me and certainly stop talking about genuineness when you’re not showing any! I want to know what’s happened to my fiance!”
“Ma’am, I’ve told you…”
“… I know what you’ve told me,” cut off Janet. “And I know you’re lying. I’m not interested or concerned in any secrecy rubbish. I just want to speak to someone who can help me… who knows more than I’ve seen on the newscasts…” She felt her control begin to waver and fought against the collapse. “… Please!” she said. “Please help me!”
“Ma’am, there really isn’t any point in continuing this conversation,” said the man.
“I want…” began Janet and then stopped because she heard the click of disconnection and knew it was pointless. She sat crouched in the Rosslyn apartment, the telephone off its rest and purring in her hand, engulfed in a fury that physically burned through her, so that she felt hot. But it was not all fury. There was a frightening helplessness, too, the all-alone feeling she’d known in the coming-to-terms period after Hank’s death. It was an emotion she’d never wanted to experience again. Janet realized she was crying, not from the wetness of any tears but from the shaking of her shoulders. She sniffed, angry at herself now, and tried to stop. She was surprised she still held the telephone and put it hurriedly down. She had to go into her bedroom for a Kleenex and returned blowing her nose hard, as if making a noise would help her control.
Back in the living room she stared down at the piece of paper upon which 648-3291 was written, suffused by a fresh wave of helplessness and striving to suppress it. Wouldn’t give in; couldn’t give in, she mentally recited to herself. What then? She didn’t know; couldn’t think. Janet, who had no religion, thought: Dear God, someone, something, please help me think! She reached out, intending to dial it again, and then stopped, willing herself to concentrate. And did. That wasn’t the entire number! In the habit of Americans, which Janet had actually found curious when she first arrived in the United States, Sheridan had prefixed the number with the area code, 202. Which was Washington, D.C., Janet knew: just as she knew that the CIA headquarters were at Langley. Which was in Virginia.