Betrayals (33 page)

“You'll have to make the actual meeting by yourself,” agreed Baxeter. “They'll be watching, obviously. They won't approach if I'm with you.”

“Where will you be?”

Janet hadn't intended to sound nervous. Baxeter became serious and reached across the table for her hand, as he had over the luncheon table. “Don't worry!” he said. “I'll be right there, very close. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, not this time.”

“Thank you,” Janet said, not looking back at him. She shifted her fingers away from his touch.

“Sorry,” he said, withdrawing his hand.

“There's nothing to apologize for.”

“The Paphos Gate is a clever choice,” resumed Baxeter, briskly. “There's a main highway directly outside, and three other major roads forming other good escape routes. I'll stay in the car directly opposite the Gate, so I'll be able to watch you all the time.”

“What if …” Janet straggled to a halt. Forcing the question she said: “What if they
do
make a grab at me?”

“Scream,” said Baxeter at once. “Scream and run back towards me. They'll want to see the money, so we'll loosen the package. If they go for you, drop it so the money breaks out: it'll deflect them.”

“But they'll get the £1,000!”

“But they won't get you,” said Baxeter. “And the money's useless anyway.”

“I …” Janet stopped again.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Janet said, brisk herself now. “We'd better get going.”

They had driven to lunch in Janet's hired car, but this time Baxeter led the way to his vehicle. When Janet saw it she faltered, glad he was slightly in front and didn't see her reaction. It was a Volkswagen. Unlike John's, this one was dirty and there was a dent in the rear wing: it must have been a long-ago accident because it was already rusting. Baxeter let her in before walking around to the driver's side and while he was doing so Janet saw that the car was uncared for inside, as well. A sweater and some very old newspapers were discarded on the rear seat, and the ashtray overflowed with chocolate bar wrappings. Baxeter saw her looking when he got into the car and said: “I gave up smoking six months ago. Now all I do is eat sweets: the risk isn't lung cancer any more, it's diabetes.”

The man drove familiarly towards the old part of the capital, joining up with the road system that looped entirely around the walls. “That's the museum,” Baxeter identified, as they went by the building, “and up ahead is the Post Office block. That's where I'm going to park. The Paphos Gate is right opposite …” He hesitated, looking sideways at her. “I won't be more than twenty yards away at any time.”

“I wouldn't have thought it would have affected me so much as this,” Janet said, embarrassed.

“I would have been surprised if it hadn't,” said Baxeter. He stopped outside the telecommunications complex and pointed across to the meeting place. “There,” he said. “I'm very close.”

“Yes,” Janet agreed.

“You all right?”

“Fine.”

Baxeter had driven with the parceled-up money on the floor beneath his legs. He lifted it on to his lap and peeled away the tape holding the package together. He offered it to Janet and said: “Pull the paper back from the top, like that. Then they'll be able to see the money.”

Janet took it: “Wouldn't it be wonderful if it worked! If this really were something!”

“Wonderful,” Baxeter agreed.

Janet got out of the Volkswagen and wedged the parcel under her left arm: with the tape loosened the package felt unsteady and she put her other hand across her body, frightened of dropping it and scattering money everywhere. She had to time her crossing of Egypt Avenue to dodge the approaching cars. People thronged the area directly in front of the Gate and Janet hoped she would not be lost from Baxeter's view among the crowd. Although it was mid-evening there were still some fruit stalls loaded for business and groups of souvenir vendors and postcard sellers stood at either side of the Gate itself. Janet slowed when she reached the Gate, standing first to the right and then crossing over to the far side. She pretended interest in a copperwork stall, which was a mistake because the bent, claw-fingered man began trying to thrust bracelets and necklaces upon her. To escape Janet went across to the other side of the Gate. She wanted to check the time but didn't because it would have meant turning her arm to see her watch and risking dropping the money. She wished she had gone to the toilet before leaving the hotel. She looked back towards the Post Offfice complex: she could make out the Volkswagen, but not as clearly as she would have liked. Baxeter would be able to see her, Janet thought, in self-assurance: she was sure he was absolutely dependable.

“Right on time.”

Janet gasped in surprise, half turning. Illogically Janet had expected the man to come from outside the old part, towards her, but he had emerged from the inside, through the gate. He wore a loose
qumbaz
, a robe going right down to the ground and so voluminous it was impossible to tell if he were a thin or fat man, and around his head and concealing his lower face was wrapped a red and white Bedouin
kaffeyeh
. He'd spoken English, and Janet could not detect the sort of intonation she would have expected from an Arab. “What is it you have?” Janet demanded.

“That the money?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have it.”

“I want what you have first.”

“Let me see it.”

Janet parted the wrapping as Baxeter had shown her, determinedly closing it after a few moments. “Now you.”

From beneath his robe the man brought an envelope, holding up but away from her. “Here!” he said.

“All I can see is an envelope.”

Still keeping it away, the man reached inside, half pulling out what appeared to be some sheets of paper and a glossy print. “It's all here.”

Janet felt the jump of excitement deep in her stomach. “What's the photograph of?”

“The house.”

“What house?”

“Where he is, in Beirut.”

The excitement grew, flowing through her. Trying to control it she said: “What else?”

“The address, where to go here. Where you'll get the address in Beirut.”

“I don't understand why you're doing it this way,” she protested.

“No tricks, remember,” said the man. “If you've involved the police—if I'm jumped upon—then I won't telephone the house where I'm sending you, to say everything is all right. If they don't get a call within five minutes, they're going to leave. The same if the money is phony, when I've a chance to look at it closer. Cautious, eh?”

“Very,” Janet agreed. It seemed a reasonable explanation for what the man was doing.

“Give me the money,” the man demanded.

“The envelope,” Janet insisted.

He offered it, tentatively, and Janet matched his movement, holding out the package, but to receive it he had to give her the envelope, freeing both his hands. He grabbed at it, turning as he did so, scurrying back into the walled city.

Janet was moving fast, too. She ran back across Egypt Avenue, careless of the cars this time, and darted inside the Volkswagen.

“Let me see!” He tugged the material from inside the envelope, spreading it out on his lap, nodding but not looking at Janet as she recounted the conversation. He studied the map and the directions more than the photograph. “It's right around the other side of the citadel,” he said. “In the Palouriotissa district …” He handed the map across to her and said: “I'll drive, you map read.”

Janet held everything up close in front of her face, trying to work out where they were going, as Baxeter turned the car, reached the junction, and began skirting the walls along Stasinos Avenue. “It says it's a two-story house,” she read. “Number 11, in the cul-de-sac off Mareotis.”

“I know Mareotis,” said Baxeter.

“I think this really is something!” said Janet. “I've got a feeling about it!”

Traffic clogged ahead of them. Baxeter pumped the horn and said: “Come on! Come on!”

It took almost thirty minutes to complete the loop and come up to King George Square, from which Mareotis fed off. Baxeter slowed now, traveling the entire length until he reached Kapotas, where he said: “Damn!” and jerked the car around, to retrace their route.

“There!” pointed Janet, head close to her map again.

It was a narrow, rutted spur of an alley, without any proper lighting. Baxeter had to stop the car and get out to calculate the consecutive numbering. Back inside the car he edged slowly forward, counting off the houses as he did so.

“… Seven … nine …” His voice trailed off and he stopped the car, not saying anything.

“It's a mistake: it's got to be a mistake!” Janet said, gazing at the completely empty lot where number eleven would have had to be. “We've miscounted. Let's do it again.”

Baxeter got out of the car to check the numbering on both sides and then knocked at the entrance to nine. In the light behind the occupant, a fat, sag-busted woman, Janet was able to see a lot of gesturing although she could not hear what was said. There was a slowness about Baxeter's return to the car.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Really sorry.”

“Tell me!”

“There isn't a number eleven: there never has been.” He switched on the interior light, looking closely at the photograph. He said: “I don't even think this is Beirut. The background looks far more like Cyprus than Beirut.”

Janet broke down.

The weeping this time was different from the way she had cried in Beirut. This time there was a mix of emotions, of regret and of disappointment and of frustration. She felt Baxeter's arm around her and she allowed herself to be pulled into his shoulder and she sobbed against him, letting it happen. There was some relief in weeping.

“Why!” she said, her voice unsteady. “Why does it always have to be like this!”

“Easy,” he said. “We always had our doubts, didn't we?”

“I wanted so much for it to be right this time!”

“Something could still come up.”

Janet pulled away from him but only slightly. She said: “Your money's gone.”

“You know that's protected.”

“I still feel responsible.”

“Don't be silly.”

22

B
axeter insisted upon going alone to the police to report the incident and freeze the money and Janet was grateful. Baxeter dropped her off at the hotel on his way, reminding her of the postponed interview the following day and Janet assured him she would not forget.

Another stupid episode, Janet thought, lying unsleeping in her darkened room. Which she'd suspected before she'd started. But she'd had no choice but to go through with the charade, so it was even more stupid to spend time on recriminations. Oddly, one of her biggest regrets was breaking down and crying like that in front of Baxeter, showing herself up. He'd been very understanding: kind and gentle and understanding. She did not think it was any professional cynicism: she was sure it was genuine. She was glad he'd been with her. There'd been some apprehension, particularly when she stood by the Paphos Gate, but the knowledge of his being so close at hand—of protection being only yards away—had made everything much easier. He really was …

Janet stopped the drift, determinedly, and then demanded the reason from herself. There was nothing wrong, nothing at which to feel ashamed, in reflecting on a man who was kind and considerate and had actually gone to a great deal of inconvenience—the sort of inconvenience he would be undergoing now, at the police station—on her behalf. She was not indulging in any schoolgirl romantic fantasy: that would have been absurd, unthinkable. She was merely looking back over the events of the day that she'd shared with someone. The word shared stayed with her. That's what she'd done: shared something. Not been alone. After all that had happened, the near-disasters and the humiliations, it had been nice for a few brief hours not to be alone any more. Just as she hadn't been alone after John Sheridan came into her life. Janet frowned at the comparison. Not the same, she thought: not the same at all. It would be quite wrong for her to combine—to confuse—the two.