“Sorry,” said Janet.
“You didn’t smile,” her mother said. “You’ve got a nice smile, too.”
“I don’t really think there’s a lot to smile about, do you?”
“You still haven’t heard anything?”
“Nothing.”
“It can’t be easy for them.”
“It’s not easy for me, either.”
“We could still come across.”
“There’s no point.”
“You going to be on television here again?”
Janet frowned at the thought that her mother was enjoying it, like she’d earlier imagined Harriet was enjoying it. Remembering the ITN interview, she said: “Probably. I don’t know. You’ll just have to watch the various channels.”
“Your father sends his love and says you’re not to worry.”
“That’s a…” Janet began, irritably, and then stopped. She said: “Give my love to him.”
“You looked very pretty on television, even though you didn’t smile.”
Janet didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” she managed.
“Call us the minute you hear something?” ended her mother, predictably.
“Of course,” promised Janet, just as predictably.
Janet’s hand was still on the telephone, in the act of replacing it, when it sounded again, startling her. Hopefully she picked it up, disappointed at Harriet’s voice.
“Anything?” asked her friend.
“A lot more interviews. Nothing from the Agency.”
“You’re the most famous girl in town.”
“Bugger being the most famous girl in town.”
“The boss wants to help.”
“The boss?” Janet asked, not understanding.
“Senator Willard J. Blackstone.”
Until that moment Janet had not considered the possibility of political pressure from anyone in Congress. “How?” she said, cautiously.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Harriet. “But he wants you to come up to the Hill, to see him. He asked me to fix a time.”
“It will mean leaving the telephone.”
“Darling,” said Harriet. “Do you really think you raise the chances of their calling by sitting next to the damned thing! You’ve got a switchboard downstairs. Use it. You set out to throw stones in pools; let’s make as many ripples as we can.”
Janet paused. It would be wrong to lose the impetus she appeared to have created but she had not anticipated the effect of approaching the Washington Post and still had no proof it would achieve anything anyway. At once came the balancing reflection. Even more reason to meet with an American senator then. She said: “All right.”
“What time?”
“That’s a matter for you, really.”
“How about an hour?” suggested Harriet.
Janet looked down to her sweater and jeans and remembered the mistake of the Washington Post photographs and said: “An hour and a half.”
“I’ll be waiting,” assured her friend.
Which she was when Janet, wearing the same suit she’d worn for the CNN interview, arrived at the Dirksen Building housing the Senate offices. Harriet greeted Janet at the entrance and cupped her elbow with her hand to guide her familiarly along the high-ceilinged corridors to Blackstone’s suite. Blackstone was a senior, four-term senator with an office to match that seniority. There was a cluster of outer rooms accommodating secretaries and aides, a more expansive paneled chamber for his personal assistant, and beyond that Blackstone’s sanctum itself. It was at the corner of the building, with a view of Constitution Avenue and the Capitol beyond. The walls were lined with photographs showing Blackstone with every domestic and international political figure Janet could remember over the preceding ten years. Beneath the pictures there were enough leather couches and chairs for a large, informal conference and to one side a conference table itself, hedged by about a dozen upright chairs. Blackstone’s desk was against the windows: occupying the wall space in between was a furled but staffed American flag held up by a special support.
Blackstone rose as the women entered. He was an impressive but carefully cultivated man. He had a thick mane of completely white hair, which he wore long and swept back and he was tall enough, well over six feet, to be able to wear suits tailored practically in the style of the frock coats of an earlier age, waisted and then full again over his hips.
He came forward with both hands outstretched, encompassed Janet’s fingers between them, and said welcome and how sorry he was and how he was determined to help as, still holding her hand, he led her to one of the side couches. He pulled one of the easy chairs around to face her but sat forward, elbows on his knees, face between his hands, in the well-practiced attitude of a politician giving someone their undivided attention, and told her to tell him all about it, from the very beginning. The voice was Southern drawl, tailored like the clothes.
After recounting the story of herself and John Sheridan so often in the past twenty-four hours, Janet was able to do so automatically, actually able to recall dates and places and even quote the official phrasing of the legal documents that had passed between herself in Washington and Sheridan in Beirut.
“And the Agency refused to see you?”
“Not actually refused,” qualified Janet, carefully. “I keep asking to be told something and all they say is that my original request has been logged.”
Blackstone made a vague gesture in the direction of his desk upon which Janet saw for the first time marked and annotated newspaper clippings. He said: “What makes you fear you’re not being considered a proper, legal dependent then?”
“The last man I spoke to at Langley, yesterday,” said Janet. “He said in his opinion I did not appear to be.”
“I don’t have any difficulty considering you precisely that,” said Blackstone.
“I want to hear that they don’t, either,” said Janet.
“You know what I’m going to do, little lady?” asked Blackstone, rhetorically. “I’m going to poke a stick into the hornets’ nest. I’m going to ask questions and keep asking questions until I get some goddamned answers. For you and for myself. I think you’re being treated badly and I think Americans are being treated badly. I don’t think we should sit back and let our guys out there in the field get pushed around by a bunch of fanatics and do nothing about it. I think we’ve put up with just about enough humiliation there. I think it’s time we kicked ass, if you’ll forgive me the expression.”
“Thank you,” said Janet, not knowing what else to say. She supposed little lady ranked with ma’am and ms.
“Starting right now,” Blackstone announced, standing abruptly and crossing to his desk. He snapped down an intercom and said: “Ready, Ray?”
“Ready, senator,” replied a disembodied voice.
“Let’s go,” urged Blackstone, returning to where Janet sat and offering his hand.
She stood without his assistance, following uncomprehendingly as the politician led the way into the paneled outer office but turned right through a door leading to the conference room. She hesitated at the entrance, conscious that the room into which she was being taken was already crowded and that the harsh lights she could now recognize as television illumination were burning, in readiness. She felt a push from Harriet, behind, and continued on into the room.
At Blackstone’s bidding she sat beside him on a raised dais, unable because of the lights to see if any of the assembled journalists were those she had met before. She heard Blackstone insist that she had approached him for help and that he was going to give it. He described her as a tragic little lady and talked about fanatics and good American boys in the field and too much humiliation which had to stop and how he intended asking questions until he got answers and Janet realized Blackstone’s earlier remarks in his office had been a rehearsed and prepared speech, for this press conference. She heard herself being questioned and replied that she was grateful for the senator’s assistance and that she still had not been told anything officially and thought, illogically, how glad she was she’d worn her suit and not stayed in her jeans.