Betrayals (45 page)

She stood there, knowing a surge of uncertainty, and then felt Baxeter's hand upon her arm, guiding her towards the shore. She tried to wade like him, with slow, long strides, so that there was no sound from the water.

When they reached it the beach was deserted. Baxeter urged her forward more quickly. Janet stumbled once because the beach had patches of shingle and rock outcrops. Impatiently, Baxeter got directly ahead and felt backwards with his hands, showing her where it was safe to walk. Janet was conscious of ascending a rising slope and as it became lighter she realized they had climbed an incline to a shore-road. Ahead was the uneven outline of vehicles, three or four quite low, jeep-like, then a higher-sided lorry and more jeeps. It was a considerable convoy and Janet wondered how they had managed to get a fleet that size undetected across the border and up through Southern Lebanon.

Baxeter led her to the last jeep and they sat in it alone, apart from the driver. Baxeter was leaning forward but not too close to the driver, his head automatically bent as he whispered into the throat mike that formed part of his communications set. They moved off at staged intervals and Janet very quickly lost sight of the leading vehicles.

They traveled only briefly, not more than fifteen minutes, before pulling into a walled yard in what had to be the southernmost suburb of the city. As their jeep, the last, went through the gate, shadowy figures closed it immediately behind them. Janet squinted around the parking area, sure there were not as many vehicles now as there had been when they set out.

Groups of men were assembled in absolute silence and in marked separate units. She could make out heavier equipment she guessed had been hauled ashore in the supply dinghies: there were two long-barreled guns she thought must be rocket launchers and quite near a man was harnessed into a cumbersome tank from which a nozzle led. A flamethrower, she supposed.

They exited on foot at timed intervals, with her and Baxeter bringing up the rear. There were city sounds now: music strained through walls and windows, the occasional headlight glare of a car, people huddled in cafes they were careful to skirt, always getting past by going around and keeping the block of the building between them. At first Janet had been able to make out quite a few of the commandoes, but it became increasingly difficult and then Baxeter pulled her away from the direction they had been following up a very narrow, darkened alley, little more than a footpath between two buildings.

Janet followed dutifully, conscious once more of a slope underfoot and bending forward to climb it. Once again the devastation was all around, as it had been when she'd fled her attackers: Janet supposed they would have not have been able to move around the city with such comparative ease unless the lighting had been practically nonexistent. The chief danger of attention came from foraging dogs which barked and snarled and sniffed after them: twice windows above opened and there were Arabic shouts for the animals to be quiet. Each time Baxeter was ahead of any movement, moving her quickly into the shadows of a doorway.

She and Baxeter had been moving apparently alone for longer than Janet had expected and she wished she knew Beirut well enough to know when they actually got into the Kantari district. She should have asked to look at the maps or the photographs in Willsher's room in Cyprus: the Americans had relaxed sufficiently in her presence and she was sure they would have allowed it. She longed to stop Baxeter, to ask him, but recognized that the question did not constitute the sort of emergency he'd stipulated.

They came to an intersection with a wider, better-lit thoroughfare and once more Baxeter pulled her into the concealment of a doorway while he edged forward to reconnoiter their crossing. It gave Janet the opportunity to look around, particularly behind her. She did so, frowning. She made out the glint of the sea and the brighter harbor area (was that the area through which she'd fled, in gut-tightening fear of being caught?) and even the faraway bright normality of East Beirut. Was Kantari on a hill? She had imagined it to be further down, in the flatter part of the city.

Baxeter was back beside her, sign-languaging an occupied cafe to the left on the main road, where it sloped back down towards the waterfront, and gesturing for her to move at once and hurriedly when he gave the signal. Janet nodded her understanding, pushing away from her concealment and going head bent, looking neither left nor right, across the road. The illumination was still comparatively low and the highway deserted but Janet walked with the feeling of scurrying beneath an inquiring spotlight, tensed for a shout of challenge. Nothing came. She was panting, more through apprehension than effort, when she reached the other side, finding her own concealing doorway. She looked back, trying to locate Baxeter but couldn't. She checked her watch. One-thirty: thirty minutes to go before the American assault. Why had they split from the rest of the group?

Janet did not see Baxeter start out. He was suddenly in the street, moving low and very fast. Janet actually held her breath, waiting for the challenge that had not come when she crossed, but once again there was nothing. She gestured as he pushed into the alley and he halted, close against her in the doorway.

Seizing the opportunity Janet gestured him even nearer. He eased the hood away from the side of his face and she heard a staccato spurt of Hebrew from the headset. She hissed: “Why have we separated from the others!”

“Safer,” he whispered back, closing off the exchange by pulling the hood back into place.

Baxeter led off again, going to the end of the alley and then breaking to their right, running parallel with the road they had just crossed. From the camber Janet knew they were still climbing.

They made a detour around another coffeehouse from which there was thin music and the mumble of conversation and once had to pull, unmoving, into a rubble-strewn courtyard to evade a sudden gaggle of men who appeared ahead of them, walking in their direction. The group passed, unaware. Janet expected she and Baxeter to move out at once but Baxeter held her back. She thought it was to let the men get further away but then realized Baxeter was reholstering into his backpack a short hand-weapon that bulged with a fat-nosed silencer. Just innocent men, merely walking home from some late-night outing, Janet thought: it would have been murder.

He urged her on until they reached the junction at which they'd first seen the approaching men. Baxeter hesitated for a moment, orienting himself, led her about ten yards to the left and then stopped, hunkering down against a large, deserted building beside which there was a completely open space, pulling her down to his level. Across the open space there was a perfect view of the entire city, much better than when she'd first looked down, laid out for inspection in the sharp moonlight.

She indicated she wanted to speak again and he pulled aside his cowl. Janet said: “I don't understand what's happening.”

“Wait,” he said, brusquely.

The explosions split the night open, appearing to be all around her, so near and so loud that the pain seared through her ears. She was partially deafened but still able to hear the sudden roar of aircraft and then everything became fiercely white—lighter than the brightest day—as dozens of phosphorus illuminating shells burst from what seemed every point in the sky. Janet blinked against the glare, able to see everything. There was a fresh eruption of noise, of machine-gun fire and the slower-paced crack of rifles and handguns and the crump of shells: there were spurts of flame where the shells landed. All along the waterfront landing craft were spewing men ashore: they emerged firing from behind the drop-fronted ramps and several fell almost immediately. Janet recognized that the overhead roar was not that of aircraft but of helicopter gunships. They hovered all along the waterfront, continuous streams of flame coming from their Catling cannons protruding from either side.

And then Janet recognized something else.

She stared wildly around, convinced she knew the imposing government building about two hundred yards away as one she had driven past on her way to the American embassy that morning after she'd toured the harbor looking for the fishing boat that had first brought her to Beirut. Then she saw the embassy itself and knew she was right.

Furious, eyes bulging in her anger, Janet snatched and tugged and Baxeter staggered sideways, surprised. He jerked the head cover off. Because noise didn't matter any more—had to be yelled over, in fact—he shouted: “What the hell's going on!”

“This isn't Kantari!” Janet shouted back. “I know this place. It's Yarzy and that's the American embassy. Why aren't we in Kantari?”

“Because it was absurd and laughable, like I told you,” he said. “That
is
the American embassy and if anything goes wrong get the hell to it: you'll be safe there.”

“But John …”

“… Shut up and stop being a fool!” said Baxeter. He tugged binoculars from his backpack, thrust them towards her and gestured far away, to their right. “There,” he said. “Focus there!”

Janet hesitated, then did as she was told. It took her a moment to adjust the binoculars, a moment in which there was a fresh spray of phosphorus. It was like a firework display, she thought: an obscene, killing firework display, and she had the ringside seat.

The enlargement was perfect. She could see the American commandoes spreading through the street, and other men, civilians, desperately firing at them as they retreated. The gunships moved with the advance, pouring down cannon shells: she saw one Arab practically cut in half by the concentration of fire and an already shattered building actually collapsed. And then she saw black-suited and black-helmeted men.

Janet tried to count but stopped at seven. They were all in one street, with two in a side alley, and all facing the direction from which the Americans were approaching, so that the Arabs were pincered in between. Twice groups of Arabs tried to get into the street and only then did the Israelis fire, blasting the entry and preventing them.

Janet turned beseechingly to Baxeter. “What …?”

“Just watch!”

When she looked back the Arabs had stopped trying to get into the Israeli-sealed street and were being forced further along another road to escape. Camouflaged Americans were everywhere now, entering the street itself and moving house-to-house along bordering and parallel alleys but she could no longer see any Israelis. There was an abrupt concentration of troops around one house halfway along. She watched one man's arm move and the door was blown in and she realized he'd thrown a grenade. The house was rushed and into the street—quiet and secured now—another coordinated group moved, a stretcher between them.

And then she saw John.

He was at the doorway, supported by two American commandoes: his arms were along their shoulders and theirs were around him and he sagged between them. Janet whimpered, hearing herself make the sound, and a huge feeling of pity welled up inside her. There was an obvious indication towards the stretcher and John shook his head, trying to walk but almost at once he stumbled and allowed himself to be shakily lowered on to it. They moved off at once, the stretcher completely encircled by men with their backs to it, most literally walking backwards, forming a tight circle of protection.

“OK!” Baxeter said. “You had to be here to see him freed. And you were. Now let's get out!”

Janet did not move, still watching the progress of the rescue squad, and Baxeter jerked her upright, pulling the binoculars from her. “I said we've got to get out!”

Dully, bewildered, she stumbled after him, conscious that the night was becoming black again because no more phosphorus was exploding: there was still firing from below but it was sporadic now and the gunships had stopped blasting. They appeared to be going back along exactly the same route they had climbed but at the brighter thoroughfare Baxeter halted longer than before, head lowered as he mumbled into his throat microphone. Janet had an abrupt spurt of fear as a shadow became the figure of a man and then there were others and she realized they had linked up with some of the other Israelis. At once they moved off, in their own tight circle of protection. They were practically across the street before the shout came: at once two of the Israelis stopped, turning towards the cafe. One fired a short burst and the other hurled a grenade. Baxeter was dragging her along, her hand in his, and they were in an alley before the blast of the explosion rippled up the street.

Janet stumbled along, panting, the air burning her throat, aware that as well as being pulled by Baxeter she was being pushed by another of the men, his hand in the small of her back. A dog barked, suddenly snarling in front of them and at once there was a wailing howl as it was kicked out of the way. A challenge came, from a window above, but the head jerked back from view at a spray of automatic fire that whined off the brickwork, bringing dust raining down upon them.

“Can't keep up: got to stop,” Janet groaned.

Baxeter continued pulling and the other commando went on pushing, no one slackening their pace.

“Please!”

They ran on.

The gates of whatever yard it was in which they had hidden the vehicles were open, men guarding the entrance, and as they reached it the first emerged, the lorry, closely followed by two jeeps. Baxeter had to physically lift Janet into the back of another: she rolled sideways as she went in, laid against the hard seat, and could not raise herself. She felt Baxeter behind her, his hand protectively against her shoulder.

The convoy hurtled back along the coast road and she was jolted and thrown about, scarcely aware in her exhaustion of what was happening. Twice she heard what she thought was gunfire but her ears were so dulled by the earlier attack she wasn't sure.

She was just able to straighten by the time they got back to where they beached. Surrendering herself completely to Baxeter's guidance she was led back down the incline, over the shingle and briefly out into the water. He folded backwards easily into the rubber boat, leaning out and lifting her bodily in beside him.