Free Betrayals by Brian Freemantle

coming from—maybe from the frustrated anger—but whatever the source she was grateful: oddly—gratefully again—she no longer felt in danger of collapsing into pleading tears.
    â€œYou have somewhere we could get back to?”
    There wasn’t any longer the insincere politeness, Janet recognized, relieved. She dictated her number and when he’d read it back she said: “How long until you get back to me?”
    â€œI’ve no way of knowing that, ma’am.”
    It hadn’t taken long for the bullshit to seep back into the exchange. She said: “I’m very anxious. I’d like to hear very soon.”
    â€œI’ve got your number.”
    Then dial the fucking thing! Janet thought, in a fresh surge of frustration. Her voice betrayed no indication of what she was thinking. “I’ll wait then.”
    â€œYes,” agreed the man. “Wait.”
    Janet did just that, wandering aimlessly around the apartment and then, irritated at herself, remembered the continuous news broadcasts on CNN. Hurriedly she turned on the television. Sheridan’s kidnap retained its place as lead item and Janet sat through two top-of-the-hour repeats, each time grimacing as the fatuous CIA refusal to deny or confirm Sheridan’s connection with the Agency was parroted, as it had been parroted to her that morning. The library footage was similar to that of the previous night, and once more there were comparison still photographs of Sheridan and William Buckley. On one segment the Beirut situation was augmented by a live studio interview with a supposed intelligence expert whose name Janet had never heard before. Hands clenched, she sat as the man recounted brief details of the obscene torture the earlier CIA station chief had undergone. Before the expert finished Janet found herself saying: “No, please don’t let it happen. Don’t let him be hurt,” like she had the previous night.
    Janet snapped off the television, impatient at no fresh news development. She looked at her watch and then at the telephone—three hours since her contact with Langley. What was it that took so long! she thought, exasperated.
    Realizing it was lunchtime and that she had taken nothing other than coffee that morning, Janet went into the kitchen and stood looking at the refrigerator and the cupboards, wondering why she bothered. She wasn’t hungry and did not want to eat anything anyway. There were the remains of a bottle of wine she and Harriet had failed to finish last night, and Janet considered it and then decided against that, too. She’d never found solace from disaster in booze.
    Although she was expecting it, she started when the telephone sounded, snatching it off the kitchen extension to hear Harriet’s voice.
    â€œWhat is it?” demanded Harriet, discerning the disappointment.
    â€œI thought it would be someone else.”
    â€œFrom the Agency?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat have they said?”
    â€œNothing yet: that’s why I’m waiting.”
    â€œIt’s all over the newspapers.”
    â€œYes, of course,” said Janet, trying to curb her anxiety. “Darling, I really am waiting on this call. Can I get back to you?”
    â€œI’ll come by, direct from work,” announced her friend.
    â€œDo that,” Janet said at once, eager to clear the line, even though her telephone was equipped with call waiting, which had not registered during Harriet’s interruption. Still, Janet rang the switchboard operator downstairs who confirmed there had been no other incoming call in the preceding ten minutes.
    She tried CNN once more and saw a replay of the previous newscast and the intelligence expert’s account of what had happened to the last CIA officer snatched in Beirut, with no additional information, and turned it off. She walked from the main room to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the bedroom and then back into