Betrayals (21 page)

J
anet was lying stiffly on her back, her eyes open, when the maid came into the room in the morning and for several moments the girl didn't realize the room—or the bed—was occupied, so still was Janet. The maid gave a tiny mew of surprise and backed away apologizing, giggling near the door in her embarrassment. Janet remained where she was, scarcely aware of the intrusion; scarcely, after another near-sleepless night, aware of anything. She'd gone through all the emotions—anger and frustration and helplessness and despair and back to anger again—until now she was used up, quite empty. Wrong to be that way, she told herself. That was how she had collapsed when Hank had died. When she'd given up. Wouldn't give up this time: it would be weak—womanlike tried to intrude into her mind but she refused to let it—to give up. So she'd been conned. Always a possibility: she'd actually be warned against it. But it would be immature to accept the first setback as a disaster and give up again, although in a different way. What, realistically, had she lost? Five thousand pounds. A lot of money but not the end of the world: certainly not the end of John Sheridan's life. Also, she supposed, she'd lost face and credibility in the eyes of a Cyprus policeman and about that she couldn't give a shit, apart from the difficulty that his threat might cause her. She simply had to try again.

Janet got out of bed and spent a long time under the shower, trying to wash away the lingering disappointment. By ten she'd had another hire car delivered and by ten-thirty she was on the road to Larnaca, not bothering with the attempts of the previous journey to spot any cars which might be following her because she'd already accepted the futility of that.

In Larnaca, still unsure how to proceed, Janet decided upon more reconnaissance. Because the Arab boatworker had told her the Byzantium restaurant was away from the center of the town she drove on to locate Artemis Avenue and then the gathering spot that had been identified to her. Although it was nearly lunchtime it appeared practically deserted: the nightclub annex, obviously, was shuttered and unlit. Janet made a three-point turn, to drive back in the direction of the town center, but when she asked directions she discovered that the Sanacosta was even further away, on the Dhekelia Road along which the Kholi family had taken her to soften her up for the deception. As she passed the Palm Beach Hotel Janet became aware that she was actually blushing, embarrassed at how easily she'd been tricked. Practically deserved it, in fact. Right, then, to feel embarrassed, but the other feelings of that long night hadn't been necessary. The Sanacosta seemed even more deserted than the restaurant on Artemis Avenue and Janet reluctantly saw that if she were going to attempt contact in either she would have to wait until the evening.

She returned to the town center and left the vehicle as before in the Othello Cinema car park. The Rainbow was busy although not as crowded as the Marina Pub had been.

Janet ordered
kokkineli
and remained standing at the bar, gazing around. This was not really the way, she forced herself to admit. This was the way to get laughed at or conned again, maybe, but without a better sort of introduction—the proper sort of introduction, by someone who knew the right people—she was wasting her time. Imagining movement was productive activity, in fact.

Who then? She didn't know anyone apart from the hostile, unnamed American and he certainly wasn't going to provide any introductions. Yes, she did know someone!

Janet gulped at her drink and then decided she did not want to finish it anyway, leaving her glass half-filled on the bar. She hurried out into Kitieus Street and walked around the square, to the marina, not able from the level at which she was walking to establish whether the
Sea Mist
was still at its moorings. She glanced along the earlier pontoon as she hurried by and saw that the English yacht and its bikini-clad sunbather had gone. With two pontoons still to go Janet faltered and then stopped, able to see now the other mooring she was seeking. The space was occupied by a different vessel, a high-bridged motor-cruiser, big game lines upright in their prepared sockets, two fighting seats still with their belts and harnesses in the stern. She could not see anyone aboard but some sort of motor was running, pumping bilge water out in little spurts.

Disappointment rose within her. She remained where she was for several moments and then turned back towards the entrance to the marina. And saw him.

The Arab was just beyond the marina wire, looking away in the direction of the pier, as if he were searching for someone. He wore the same stained T-shirt as before. She hurried along the slatted, heaving pontoon, anxious he should not walk away before she reached him. Almost within hailing distance he looked into the marina and saw her, too. His face opened, in frowned recognition.

“Marhaba
,” she said, out of breath.

“The lady who speaks good Arabic.”

“I thought you had gone.”

“Gone?” He appeared apprehensive.

Janet nodded back towards the mooring. “The yacht you were on the other day. It's sailed.”

“I fix engines,” said the man.

“I misunderstood: I thought you were a crewman.”

The man hitched himself on to a low wall, one leg swinging. “And you're still here, too?”

Janet nodded. “Still looking,” she said, cautiously. No more mistakes, she promised herself.

He gestured generally in towards the town: they could both see the Marina bar. “What happened?”

“No luck,” she said.

“Such people do get there, sometimes,” said the man, urgently.

Janet abruptly gauged the cause of his uncertainty: the Arab thought she was going to demand her money back. Just as quickly she said: “I'm sure they do! I wasn't doubting you.”

He relaxed, visibly. “Not easy to find,” he said.

“That's why I'm glad I ran into you again.”

He tensed again, slightly. “Why?”

Janet indicated the bar in which she had been tricked. “I am not going to get anywhere trying to find people by myself, am I? I need more than just places.”

The man looked away from her, to the ground. Janet saw for the first time that he wasn't wearing shoes: his feet were horny and calloused, as if he never did. Very quietly, practically to himself, he said: “Maybe it is possible.”

“What?” she demanded. “What may be possible?”

The Arab waved towards the marina and said: “Any idea how much those sorts of yachts cost?”

Janet forced herself to be patient, realizing it would have to be at his pace. “No,” she said.

“Thousands,” he said. “Half a million some of them, easily.”

“A lot of money,” Janet agreed, to keep the conversation going.

“Would you take a yacht costing that much somewhere where it might get damaged? Destroyed even?”

“Probably not.” Dear God, what sort of game was the awkward bastard playing now!

“Always important, to consider the cost of things.”

Awareness registered with her. Janet said: “I'm prepared to pay for help: for a proper introduction. Pay more than last time. But it's got to work.”

The man looked back to her, smiling his gap-toothed smile. “Keep thinking about money,” he suggested. “What sort of boats don't cost half a million and can sail much more safely in Lebanese waters?”

“I don't …” began Janet and then stopped. “Fishing boats,” she said.

“Big industry here in Cyprus, fishing. Lot of boats.”

“How much?” Janet asked directly, fed up with the constant pirouettte.

“What exactly do you want?”

“To meet a man … men … who go there. Who know people who can find out things.”

“What sort of things?”

She would have to tell him. “There is a man, a hostage. I want to find out about him.”

The Arab's face clouded. “That will not be easy.”

“I understand that.”

“Dangerous. Perhaps the people I am thinking about will not want to do it: will not be able to do it,” he said.

“Ask!” Janet pleaded.

The man nodded, head bent again in apparent thought. He said: “I will ask.”

“Now?”

He looked up, squinting against the sun in the cloudless sky. “Now the boats are out, not yet returned from the morning catch,” he said, professionally.

“When?”

“Late afternoon maybe. If I can find them.”

Janet guessed the vagueness was being intentionally introduced. She said: “One hundred pounds.”

He shook his head, sadly. “For something like this! Two hundred.”

“One hundred and fifty,” countered Janet. “And that must be for an introduction to people who can really help. I won't pay for nothing.”

“Two hundred,” repeated the man.

She was in no position to bargain and he knew it, conceded Janet. She said: “Two hundred. But it's got to be for something definite. A positive, worthwhile introduction.”

“I can't guarantee that they will agree. Not for something like this.”

“I've accepted that,” Janet reminded him.

“Tonight, in the square,” said the Arab. “Seven.”

“You'll know something by then?”

“You'll have the money?”

It would mean driving back to Nicosia, thought Janet. But she had nothing else to do until that night's appointment. She said: “I'll have the money.”

“I'll try to have arranged something.”

There was none of the euphoria during this journey back that there had been on the previous occasion when Janet thought she had made a contact. It looked promising, certainly. But then so had the encounter with someone who'd turned out to be a syphilitic thief. This time she'd want more, be less gullible. I'm learning, thought Janet: expensively but learning.

Janet did not bother to go through the assistant manager this time because the amount was so small, joining a line for an ordinary counter withdrawal. From the hotel she telephoned England, to give her parents assurance about her safety, dismissing her father's query about her hopefulness during the last call by quickly saying that the approach that had looked so good then had turned out to be nothing, which was not really a lie. She lunched by the pool and that afternoon lay by it, for the first time not feeling bored: right not to become euphoric or even excited, but borrowing a word from the telephone conversation to England she decided she was allowed to be hopeful.

Unsure what to expect that evening, Janet dressed once more in jeans and an evening shirt and flat shoes. She chose a handbag with a long strap which she could loop across her body and at the moment of departure stood looking at the money she had withdrawn from the bank. Impulsively she stuffed it into the rear pocket of her jeans, not her handbag: she'd made the withdrawal in £20 notes and it lay flat and unobtrusive.

The route now was very familiar to her. Cautiously she had allowed herself more than enough time but there were no traffic holdups, so she was early. She parked in her accustomed place and strolled along the front and cut up to the square from the seaward side.

She saw him at once. He was sitting on a bench near the tourist information office. He'd changed into a blue workshirt, faded but clean, light-colored baggy trousers that had long ago lost any crease, and open-toed, open-heeled sandals. Janet knew he had not seen her and so for a few moments she remained in the shadow of a large and unidentified building, watching him. He looked very relaxed, apparently quite content for her to seek him, not bothering himself to find her.

He saw her when she began to approach, smiling but not standing. When she reached the bench he patted it, for her to sit. She remained looking down at him for a few moments and then lowered herself on to it leaving a wide gap between them.

“Well?” she said at once.

He nodded, satisfied with himself. “I have found people who are prepared to talk to you.”

“They can find something out?”

“That is for you to decide, when you meet them.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Right away?”

“We had a deal.”

“Which was for proper, useful contact,” Janet said, remembering the lost £5,000. “You get nothing until I meet your people …” She paused, realizing that the bargaining positions could be tilting in her favor now.
“And
that they can do something,” she added.

He looked steadily at her, not responding for a while. Then he said: “You have a car?”

“Yes.”

“We'll need a car: it's out of town.”

And she would be in it with him by herself, thought Janet, recalling the obvious sexual examination of their first encounter. “Where?” she asked, apprehensively.

“About five kilometers: on the road to Dhekelia.”

Even the same route as before. Janet said: “What are the arrangements?”

“There are three men, who jointly own a boat,” said the man. “They sail out of here although they live nearer to Dhekelia. They fish the mullet: it is better on the Lebanese coast. They say they know people.”

“Do you believe them?”

The shoulders came up and down, expansively. “Who believes?” he said.

“Who indeed?” Janet agreed.

“Are you frightened to come with me?” the man asked.

“Should I be?” Janet asked, avoiding question with question.

“No.”

“Why did you ask then?”

“You're a woman,” he said, openly.

“That has no importance.”

“If you are sure.”

It was becoming pointlessly coquettish, on his part, decided Janet. Wanting to shift direction, she said: “How are you called?”

He hesitated and she waited, curiously. At last he said: “Haseeb.”

“Haseeb what?”

“Just Haseeb.”

First Nicos, now Haseeb: no family names, thought Janet. She said: “What are we waiting for, Haseeb?”