Betrayals (22 page)

“I will get my money?”

“If I get what I want.”

He rose, decisively, and Janet followed him up from the bench. “Which direction?” he asked.

Janet led away from the square and along Kitieus Street to the cinema car park. It had filled up by now with patrons' vehicles, many sloppily parked, so it was difficult for her to maneuver out.

Knowing the direction from her previous reconnaissance Janet turned left: even before she reached the square where they'd met she was conscious of his body odor permeating the car. Janet waited until they were running parallel with the sea, on Makarios Avenue, before slightly lowering the window on her side.

“Hot night?” he said, seeing what she had done.

“Very.”

“It is not for,” Haseeb said, as they got on to the Dhekelia Road. He shifted as he spoke, using the back of her seat as a hand-hold to turn in his own seat to look into the back of the vehicle.

Janet pulled away from any supposed accidental touch and said: “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” he said, turning back.

It had been her handbag, she guessed. In those brief moments alone in the car in the cinema park she'd put it beneath her seat. They passed the Palm Hotel and the Sanacosta restaurant and nightclub and all the other hotels necklacing the seafront road. The concentration of light began gradually to diminish, very quickly becoming just the occasional pinprick of a local house or the rickety, uncertain illumination of a shanty non-tourist bar.

“Not long now,” Haseeb said.

It was so dark now it was difficult for Janet to distinguish him across the other side of the car. “Good,” she said.

Although dark inside the car, it was a clear night outside, the moon so bright it marked a glittered reflection against the rolling sea to her right: through her open window Janet could just hear the hissed growl of its arrival against the shore.

“Engine's rough,” he said, expertly.

Dear God, don't let the car break down, thought Janet. She said: “It goes.”

“Tappets,” Haseeb said.

Janet had no idea what he was talking about. She said: “How much further?”

Haseeb gestured vaguely ahead. “Just around the bend.”

He'd said five kilometers, Janet remembered: they'd traveled much more than five kilometers. She'd been stupid not to register the mileage when they'd set out. “What time are they expecting us?”

“When we arrive,” Haseeb said.

“I thought we'd be there by now.”

“There!” the man said.

Janet could not at once make out the place to which he was pointing and then, on the seaward side of the road, she became aware of a cluster of dull lights around a roadside stop. Closer, she saw it was not directly against the road but down a short dirt track that dropped frighteningly downwards as soon as she left the road: dust billowed up around them and rocks and ruts jarred through the vehicle from beneath. There were no other cars in the clearing made for parking, just two motor scooters and some bicycles.

“This is it!” Haseeb announced, practically with the pride of ownership.

It was a low single-story building of maybe three rooms. There was a long rectangle which she could see, through uncurtained windows, forming the public, cafe part, with a kitchen adjoining. Alongside, in darkness, was what she presumed to be where the owner lived. Or maybe he lived somewhere else and it was a storage area. There was a door cut into the side of the cafe, leading out on to an open verandah. Beams extended from the main building and trellis had been linked to them, to make the foundation for a grape vine. The vines were already intertwined but they were thin and sparse and Janet couldn't imagined they provided much shade during the heat of the day. Cables had also been looped through and from them, at intervals, unshaded bulbs hung down. They were mostly ordinary white household bulbs but just occasionally an effort had been made with colors. There were several red and a few blue. The verandah was set with tables, half of which were covered with red checked table cloths to designate that they were for people who intended to eat. The rest were uncovered. All were set with metal-framed, canvas-backed and seated chairs.

As Janet got from the car she caught an overwhelming smell of long-used cooking oil, from the kitchen. As she followed Haseeb up slatted wooden steps to the verandah she saw a family of cats: several kittens were chasing and snatching at insects she could not see. From all around came the crackle and chirp of cicadas in the undergrowth beyond the cafe.

There were only locals, and less than a dozen of them, on the eating section of the verandah and Janet walked its length conscious of their absolute attention: two men actually stopped eating, with their forks suspended before them, to watch her pass.

Haseeb led the way to one of the unclothed tables at the very rear in a corner, so that walls blocked it on two sides. Three men sat at the table. Two wore shirts and trousers but Janet was intrigued that the third man wore a suit, dark although in the poor light she could not be positive of the true color, with a tie neatly knotted into a white shirt which appeared fresh and clean.

The three observed her approach and remained seated when she got to the table, as Haseeb had remained seated in the Larnaca square. With the sort of pride with which he'd identified the cafe, Haseeb announced to the three: “This is the woman.”

The suited man nodded to a chair which would put her facing him. Unhelped, Janet withdrew it from the table and sat down. Haseeb hesitated and then, uninvited, sat down at another edge of the table.

Directly, unwilling to begin any more word games, Janet said: “I'm told you have contacts in Beirut.”

“Perhaps,” the suited man said.

He wore a drooped moustache, like Chief Inspector Zarpas. She wondered if the policeman had by now monitored the £200 withdrawal: she'd already decided it could be easily explained as living expenses, if he demanded an account. She said: “I'm looking for someone to make inquiries for me.”

The man jerked his head towards Haseeb. “He explained.”

“Can you do it?”

“Perhaps,” he said again.

“Depending on what?”

“Being able to find the right people. And the money.”

“How much money?”

“How much have you got?”

“I can pay,” assured Janet. Quickly she added: “I can pay if the information is good.”

“Ten thousand,” said the moustached man.

Janet lowered her head, caught by the sensation of
déjà vu
—the same amount demanded by the cheating Nicos Kholi. Looking up, she said with odd formality: “If you can provide positive information about the man for whom I am looking I will pay you £10,000.”

There was a stir from among the men around the table. Janet detected another odor, competing with the smell of cooking oil, and realized it was the stink of fish. Then she remembered that they were fishermen.

A young boy carrying an empty tray emerged from inside the restaurant, looking at them expectantly. Haseeb immediately ordered brandy and the three other men indicated their glasses for more: it was
ouzo
, Janet saw. She shook her head.

The man waited for the boy to go and said: “I think we can do a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” demanded Janet.

The suited man looked to his two companions. Janet saw that one was younger than the other but both had long and very curly hair and long faces, with similar long aquiline noses, and wondered if they were father and son. The elder of the two moved his head in agreement and the younger, taking his lead from the gesture, did the same.

The moustached spokesman, whom Janet assumed to be the captain, said: “Today is Monday: we sail later tonight. You could come here again on Thursday?”

“Yes,” said Janet, eagerly.

“By Thursday we will have spoken to people. We will know if we can help.”

“People in Beirut, you mean?”

The man nodded and said: “You can have the money, by Thursday?”

“Yes,” said Janet again.

“Then it is agreed,” said the man, positively.

There was another pause while the drinks were served. When the waiter left for the second time she said: “What time Thursday?”

“Mid-day.”

“Do you really think you will be able to discover something?”

“Not until you tell me the name,” the man said.

“Sheridan,” supplied Janet anxiously, irritated with herself. “John Sheridan.”

“English?”

“American.”

“When was he taken?”

“February.”

“Anyone claim responsibility?”

“
Hezbollah
.”

“Any particular group?”

Janet shook her head. “No.”

The man remained silent for several moments, then said: “We will try.”

“I am grateful.”

“You have no reason, not yet.”

Janet pushed her chair away from the table, as if to stand up, and said: “I'll be here, on Thursday.” If demands were going to be made for some money in advance they would come now, she knew.

“Wait!” the man said.

“What?” Janet asked.

“Money for the drinks,” the man said. “Five pounds will cover it.”

Janet led the way back to the car, aware of Haseeb watching her stow her handbag beneath her seat. As they regained the road, he said: “It is good?”

“I don't know: I think so,” said Janet, cautiously. She was encouraged that no money request had been made: a small omen but important. There was still Thursday, of course. What precautions could she take against being cheated then, when she would have the money?

“I want to be paid,” demanded the Arab, beside her.

Ahead Janet could see the brightness of the hotels along the Dhekelia Road. She wanted the safety of their surroundings before handing over the £200. She said: “Those men. How are they called?”

“The boss is named Stavos,” said the man. “I've heard the older one called Dimitri. I don't know the other. I think they are related.”

Greek, thought Janet. “What family name?”

“I don't know.”

They were among the hotels now. Janet eased the money from her pocket and handed it across the car. As she continued driving she was conscious of the man slowly counting it.

“I could take you again, on Thursday?”

“No, really.” She was aware of his shrug of acceptance. Aware, too, of the even brighter lights marking the approach to Larnaca.

Hopefully Haseeb said: “You would like a drink?”

“No,” Janet said quickly again. “There are people expecting me, back in Nicosia.” Had she answered his look across the car she wondered if his disbelef would have been obvious. Sure of her way through the town now she slowed at the junction with Grigoris Avxentiou Avenue, knowing she could cut down it to gain the Nicosia road. “This all right for you?”

“Fine.” He made no immediate effort to get out of the car.

With the vehicle stationary Janet turned further towards him but pressed with her back against her door, as far away as possible. “Goodbye then,” she said, pointedly. “And thank you.”

Still he stayed, edging his arm along the back of his seat towards her.

“Get out of the car!” she said. She kept her voice calm. Inwardly fear was churning through her. She moved her hand towards the horn button.

Abruptly, unexpectedly, he smiled his ugly smile and said: “OK,” opening the door as he did so. He slammed it behind him and walked away without once looking back.

Janet started the car and drove hurriedly off, the fear coming out now in the trembling that vibrated through her, so she had to grip the wheel more tightly. She was still aware of the stink of fish, mixed with the stronger smell of Haseeb's odor, and she wound her window competely down, trying to blow it—and her nervousness—away. It was ridiculous, an overreaction, to behave like an offended virgin. She'd known the danger and she'd confronted it and nothing had happened, anyway. There were far more important, more positive, things to think about. Like three men who had not sought money in advance and who should by now be at sea, heading towards the Lebanese coastline. How, in three days time, to decide if anything they might tell her was worth £10,000. Or whether once again people were trying to cheat her. And how to stop being cheated.

Three days, she calculated again; time to think and to plan.

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