Jan hesitated, waiting for him to continue. He didn't. He only sat in his chair, slouched down, looking at the empty glass as he slowly twisted it about in one hand. His silence was unbearable. "Well?" she finally asked.
Moving only his head, he looked up at Jan. "Yes, and no. While I was on the phone to our office in Paris, they were announcing that all crossing points, air corridors, and rail service into and out of West Berlin were still open, but" — he looked down at his glass—"Soviet forces are still very much in presence along the roads and at selected crossing points. Maneuvers, according to the Soviet embassy."
Turning to the bar, he lifted his glass and ordered a double. He waited for the cocktail waitress to bring him his second drink before he spoke again. "What do you suppose your President is up to?"
Jan thought for a moment, then shook her head before answering. "I don't really know, Paul. He's already ordered American ground forces to hold east of Matruh in order to avoid a clash with the Russians at Halfaya. Air and naval operations — at least American air and naval operations — against Soviet and Cuban forces are suspended. There is little more that he can do unless he can convince the Egyptian president to also stand down."
"And what, dear Jan, is the likelihood of that?"
Jan took a sip of her screwdriver before answering. "That depends on how reasonable the Soviets are willing to be. They, after all, have an entire Egyptian army surrounded in Libya. You don't think the Egyptians are going to agree to anything so long as the Russians have them by the—" Remembering how Paul became flustered when women cursed, Jan paused just short of saying "balls." "Well, you know."
Paul smirked. "Yes, I know. And I see your vocabulary has changed very little since Paris…. So you think it is up to the premier? As usual, I disagree. For a start, your President could lift the blockade on Libya. That, after all, is the pretext of the premier's threat to blockade American forces in Berlin and the continued encirclement of the 1st Egyptian Army. No, there is still much room for each side to give."
Jan became defensive, almost hostile. "You know as well as I do, that excuse is only a pretext. What the premier wants is to frighten NATO and the rest of Europe into forcing us to abandon Egypt."
Paul let out a chuckle. "Well, it seems the premier has succeeded. I doubt if there's a politician in Europe that isn't very concerned. After all, our friend from Moscow, in a single, bold move, has told Europe, 'You have a choice — America or glasnost.' If you were a European, how would you vote?"
Her voice rose higher. "Well, I'm not a European, and Egypt is a sovereign nation, not a client state. We cannot simply order them to stop. We can no more control them, ordering them to do whatever pleases us, than the Soviets can control the Libyans."
Paul sat back in his chair, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Janet, don't shoot me. I'm an ally. I understand." He let her simmer down before he asked her again. "What will your President do if their efforts here, whatever they were, come to nothing?"
Jan had calmed down; her response was less hostile. "We will do just as we did in 1948 and 1962 if the Russians really do close Berlin."
Grunting, Paul shook his head in disagreement. "Do you suppose anyone is willing to risk a confrontation with the Soviets over a border dispute in Africa? Do you believe we will casually throw away a decade of economic and political progress between east and west for Egypt? No. We are not crazy."
Jan again changed her tone. She was sure of herself, almost defiant. "If access to Berlin is closed, it will no longer be a simple border skirmish in Africa. The premier, by his own hand, will see to that. Berlin has been a symbol of Western democracy for decades. From the blockade of 1948 to the tearing down of the Wall in 1989, Berlin has been the eye of the storm every time the super powers get nervous. How could you, or anyone, suppose that we would simply roll over? In Europe, we never have and never will. In a single stroke, he'll do what Stalin and every communist dictator after him couldn't." Jan lifted her glass in a mock toast. "Here's to Pax Russia."
Stung by Jan's tone, Paul became agitated. Leaning across the table, he looked into her eyes. "Yes, America has always been willing to face off with the Russians in Europe. After all, if someone makes a mistake, it will be Bavaria, not Connecticut, that suffers."
There was a moment of silence. Both knew they were getting nowhere fast. Finally Jan spoke, her voice soft, conciliatory. "Paul, I'm really not up to this. What does or doesn't happen won't be decided in this bar, not tonight. Besides, we're friends, fellow correspondents. We only look, listen, and report. Remember?"
Letting his expression soften, Paul again sat back in his chair, and finished his drink. He could not, however, resist one last cynical comment. "Yes, you are right. Fortunately, we will not have to spend the entire night trying to save the world. We can go to bed safe in the knowledge that our leaders will steer clear the shoals, just as they always have — n'est-ce pas!"
Jan did not answer. No longer interested in discussing geopolitics, she quietly stared at her drink while Paul ordered a refill for his. Slowly her mind drifted back to Egypt and Scott. Though she knew it had been cruel to leave him like she did, without a word, it was for the best. He had other things on his mind. He, unlike Paul and her, was doing something. Scott was part of the equation, a player in the world drama that Paul and she only watched and reported. For a moment she felt admiration for Scott. At least he did something.
Like a thunderbolt, the idea struck Jan: she could do something too. Rather than sitting in a bar oh a rock island in the middle of the Atlantic and getting drunk with an ex-lover, Jan could do something for herself and Scott. When the crisis in Egypt had begun, Fay had complained that Scott was gone for the duration. Fay went on to explain that as far as she and the children were concerned, Scott had seemed to fall off the face of the earth. Once he was in the field, it took an act of Congress, according to Fay, to reach Scott. If that was true, Jan reasoned, Scott had had little opportunity to check on his children.
Looking at her watch, Jan figured that it was still early afternoon on the East Coast. She could call the WNN main office in Washington and have them track down the phone number of Fay's mother. While they were working on that, she could contact the London office and see about getting back to Cairo. Though it wasn't much, finding out how Scott's children were, then finding Scott and letting him know, was better than sitting in Iceland pining away.
Jan pushed herself away from the table and stood up. Paul was caught off guard. "Where are you going, Janet?"
"Egypt."
Paul also stood up, blocking Jan's exit. "But I thought you and I, later…"
Jan paused in front of him and looked into his eyes. "No, Paul, it's no longer 'you and I.' That's over. It was fun, but that ended years ago."
For a moment there was a hurt expression on Paul's face. He cast his eyes down as he took Jan's hands into his and brought them up to his chest. Holding her hands gently, he looked back up into her eyes. There was a small, mischievous smile on his face now. "No, Jan, it didn't end. We'll always have Paris."
Jan tilted her head to the side and also smiled. As she did so, she looked into his eyes, searching her own soul for some kind of emotion, some stirring of a love long past. But there was none. Perhaps, long ago, Jan had been truly in love with the tall Frenchman standing before her. Whatever it had been, it was gone. Without her realizing it, the smile slowly vanished from her face. When she responded, it was with a quiet, firm finality. "Yes, Paul, we'll always have Paris."