“Well!” demanded Harriet, excitedly, as they drove back across the river towards Rossyln, listening already over the car radio to a report of what had taken place. “What did you think of that?”
That she’d been used by a publicity-conscious politician anxious to clamber aboard a bandwagon, Janet replied, mentally. Aloud she said: “Let’s hope it works.”
The switchboard had one message when they went into the apartment. There was no name or identification, just a number but with a 703 area code. When she called it and identified herself a man said: “I think it’s time we met, don’t you?”
“See!” exclaimed Harriet. “It worked!”
10
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?”