Interlude (17 page)

“We can't even afford to pay for three, Jim.”

“We'll have enough. Just ship it and send a telex to Beirut to advise Fadlallah's people that it's on the way.”

Betty went back to her office and sat doodling on a notepad. Despite Jim's words, she was still angry. She wanted to call Brody and Nichols and give both of them a piece of her mind. She felt like sending a scorching letter to Simms.

How could I have been so stupid? What a Pollyanna I am.
The longer I live, the more I'm convinced that you can't trust anybody . . .

Betty's cynical monologue was interrupted by a call from Brian Demetrius. She suddenly found a more charitable attitude. “Brian! How nice to hear from you. How have you been?”

“Not bad, Betty. Not bad at all. Hey listen. Didn't you tell me you'd been working on some kind of project to help kids in Lebanon?”

Don't remind me.
Betty rested her forehead in her hand. “That's right. We're in the process of shipping some milk

into Beirut. Why do you ask?”

“Well, our band's been out on the road, and we had a pretty big turnout in a couple of places. Me and the guys got the idea that we should ask for donations to help out with your project. So after we sang your song about Jon, we asked everybody in the audience to give a dollar for the kids. I've got a check for you.”

“You're kidding!”

“No way, man! I wouldn't put you on. I've got almost $10,000 here if you want it.”

God must like surprises.

“Are you there, Betty?”

“Yes, I'm here. I just don't know what to say. It's been such a disappointing day, and I was just sitting here thinking nobody cares, and you . . . I can't believe it.”

“Well, like I told you a while back, Somebody upstairs has been looking out for our band, and we figure we oughta do something for somebody else. I guess you're the lucky party, Betty.”

After a few more attempts to express her gratitude, Betty thoughtfully replaced the receiver and stared at the phone in silence for several minutes. She started to get up, to run into Jim's office, and share the good news with him. But she decided against it.

I don't have a doubt in the world that Brian is putting a check in the mail. But this time,
she calmed herself,
I'll wait until I have it in my hot little hand.

As promised, Brian's check arrived two days later. All told, six containers of milk were shipped, the bills were paid, and the Outreach Ministries, International Lebanon Milk Project was laid to rest, disappointments, surprises and all. No hostages were released, but the goodwill gesture had been made. “American Charity Provides Milk for Beirut Babies,” reported several Middle East newspapers.

“We did our best,” they all agreed, thanking God and Brian Demetrius that the shipment was even worth reporting. And so it was, with that inglorious accomplishment behind her and without the least enthusiasm, that Betty was soon poring over the Uganda report again. She was trying valiantly to revive her interest in a different group of needy boys and girls in another war-torn area.

“You know you're going to have to head out to Africa fairly soon, Betty,” Jim reminded her one day as she lunched with Joyce Jiminez and him.

She tried to choose her words carefully. “I really hate to leave with Jon still being held, Jim. What if something happens while I'm away? How will I ever know?”

Jim and Joyce exchanged glances. They had obviously discussed this between themselves. “Betty,” Joyce said kindly, “you know you've got to keep moving forward with your life. God's given you a gift of writing, and you need to be using it.”

Joyce was one of those sweet, guileless people who never seemed to have her own best interests in mind. But her words brought a bitter response to Betty's heart.
God gave me the best gift of all, and then he took it away from me.

She looked at her two friends. In no way would she ever have expressed such a thought to them. But she felt it, nevertheless. God had given Jon to her, or at least that's what she had believed. She had permitted herself to love him. Allowed herself to think that they would be together and that her unhappy past would be transformed into a joyful future. And then, like some cruel prankster, God had whisked Jon away and left her with nothing but doubts and broken dreams.

Why shouldn't she feel bitter?

“I know, Joyce. I've got to get on with my life.” She tried almost successfully to keep the angry edge off her voice. “But my life isn't all that wonderful right now. The only thing I have to live for is Jon's release. And I don't want to be in Africa when it happens.”

“Betty,” Jim reached across the table and patted her hand kindly. “Communications are getting better all the time in Uganda. We'll get word to you. And really, when you think about it, you'll be closer to him there than you are here. You're the only person who can do these reports, you know. That's why we hired you in the first place.”

It wasn't a threat, but Betty was quick to realize that the last thing she needed to lose right now was her job. She nodded, closed her eyes, and paused. She was out of arguments. “So when do you want me to go, Jim?”

“I'm figuring on late May. That should give you about six weeks to get your visas in order and your booster shots and whatever else you need to do.”

Betty was struggling with the sick feeling that Jim and Joyce had given up on Jon. She knew they'd deny it if she asked. But somehow, that's how she interpreted their conversation.
They did their best on the milk shipment. Nothing came of it. So they just figure it's time to move on.
She fought off the tears that were trying to gather in her eyes.

Maybe they're right. Maybe it's time I woke up and faced the fact that I may never see Jon alive again.

As if her thoughts hadn't been gloomy enough already, the next morning the telephone woke Betty up at 5:00
A.M.
The hope that flickered at the sound of the first ring was quickly extinguished.

“Is this Elisabeth Casey?”

“Yes?

“David Engels here at CNN. Do you have any comment on the death threat to your fiancé?”

Betty caught her breath. “What? What death threat?”

“Haven't you heard?” The reporter's voice sounded almost disparaging.

“I . . . I was asleep. What's happened?”

“Oh, sorry. You're on the other coast. The story broke two hours ago, and I didn't realize you might still be asleep.”

“Waking me up doesn't matter,” Betty nearly spat out the words. “Would you tell me what's happened, please?”

“A picture of your fiancé was released with a note from his captors stating that if the U.S. doesn't change its policy toward Islamic political prisoners and frozen Iranian assets, he will be shot.”

Betty tried to control the quaver in her voice. “Did they say how long he has?”

“No, there was no deadline given. And there's some debate about the authenticity of the threat. They're using the same picture as the one that came out when he was first kidnapped.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I don't know. It could be that he's already dead so they couldn't come up with a new picture. Do you have any comment, Ms. Casey?”

How can he be so matter-of-fact?
Betty tried to find the right words. She had to assume Jon was still alive, at least for the moment. If she said too much, would the captors hear her and make life more miserable for him?

If she said nothing would he think she didn't care?
Oh, God. Help me.

“Ms. Casey? I've got a tape rolling here.”

“I . . . I just want to say that I love Jon and that I'm praying for his safety. That's all I can say.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Thank you. We've got it. We're hoping for the best too, Ms. Casey. Good-bye now.”

Betty stood up and blindly headed for the shower. The phone rang again. She hesitated before she answered. What if . . .

“Hello?”

“Ms. Casey? ‘Good Morning America' calling from New York. We'd like to do a remote interview with you this morning . . .”

“I'm sorry. I have to go to work. Thank you anyway.” She hung the phone up in frustration. Determined to let the machine pick up the next call, she made her way to the shower again. By the time she got out, four more calls had come in. She turned on CNN, and before long the report on the death threat was broadcast. There was Jon, battered and bruised—the same grainy photograph she'd seen before. And there was her own photograph with a voice-over of her shaky, feeble comment.

I sound utterly pathetic. God, I hate this stuff!

The phone continued to ring, and Betty continued to ignore it. She decided to get dressed and go to the office, hoping to avoid the demands of the media. With her mind focused on Jon and his plight, she failed to remember that a throng of reporters would surely be gathered outside her condominium. Obliviously, she charged out the door, only to be stunned by a bank of blazing lights and a thousand questions, all shouted at once.

“How do you feel, Ms. Casey?”

“Any comment?”

“Do you think it's a real threat or a hoax?”

“What can you tell us about the frozen Iranian assets?”

“Anything you'd like to say to the captors?”

“Why do you think they used the same photo as before?”

“Are you confident your boyfriend is still alive?”

Betty froze in her tracks. Panic rose in her chest, swelling her throat, choking her words. She shook her head, breathing deeply. “I'm sorry.”

The crowd of reporters fell instantly silent. Only the sound of photographers' motor drives could be heard. “I'm sorry, but I'm terribly upset, and I don't have anything to say. I love Jon. I'm praying for him. That's all I can tell you.”

She ran to the garage, tears streaming down her face. Her tires squealed as she pulled out of the driveway into the street.

The OMI office was locked. Betty pulled out her key, unlocked the door, and went in, deadbolting herself inside. She dialed Jim's home number.

“Jim, there's a death threat against Jon, and I'm hiding from reporters here at the office. Could you get over here as soon as possible? I'm kind of upset . . .”

Jim and Joyce were there before seven, and they were both startled when they saw Betty's face. She'd been weeping so violently that her skin was puffy and mottled, and her eyes were swollen half-shut.

Joyce didn't say a word to her beleaguered friend. She simply reached out to her from her wheelchair, took her in her arms, and tried to comfort her by patting her hair and praying softly for her. Jim paced around the building aimlessly, searching for some means of alleviating Betty's grief.

“Betty, what's that guy's name at the CIA?”

“Mike. Mike Brody. Why?”

“I'm calling him. What's his number?”

“He probably won't . . . okay.” Betty fumbled with her address book until she located Mike's number.

Jim took it into his office and closed the door.

“I don't think Mike will talk to Jim.”

“You never know, Betty. And you're in no condition to talk to him yourself, are you?”

Betty drew a shaky breath. The worst of her crying seemed to have passed, but a sense of loss ached in her chest. She had unofficially declared Jon dead, subconsciously preparing herself for the horrifying call that was sure to ring through at any moment.

“I have a feeling he'll be fine,” Joyce said in a soothing voice.

“He's going to die. They're going to kill him.” Betty instinctively rejected the faintest trace of hope. She was braced for the inevitable.

“Betty, I don't think it's as bad as you think.”

“Don't get my hopes up. Please . . .”

“Betty, why are you giving up so easily. Where's your faith, girl?”

Betty gave Joyce a defiant look, and her answer was sharp. “Faith? Are you kidding? You pray, Joyce. You're obviously much better at praying than I am.”

Joyce didn't react, at least not outwardly. She just put her hand on Betty's head and closed her eyes. Before long Jim emerged from his office.

Betty tried to appraise his expression. At first glance, he looked relieved. Betty's curiosity got the best of her. “Well?”

“Well, I got him. He thinks a lot of you, Betty. He said to give you his warmest regards. He didn't want to offer me too much info—you know how those guys are—but he says he figures this death threat is nothing more than a bluff. There's talk out of Damascus that a release may be coming up pretty soon, and the kidnappers may be trying to posture a little before they give somebody up.”

Betty studied Jim carefully. Was he trying to mollify her? Was Mike? “A release?” she asked weakly. “I haven't heard anything about a release.”

“From what he said, I think Mike's heard that from some source other than the media, Betty. I'll tell you something, I think he stepped out of line a little by telling me anything at all. He seems quite concerned about you.”

“Well he should be. He screwed up our milk project.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aren't you?”

Jim considered the question for a moment. “I'm not so sure Arthur Nichols ever intended to give you the money in the first place. Maybe he didn't want to say no, so he left the dirty work to his sidekick.”

Betty nodded. She wanted to think the best of Mike, but the Nichols incident had eroded her confidence in their peculiar friendship.

“Why do we always want to trust these guys?” she attempted a feeble laugh. “We're always giving them the benefit of the doubt.”

Jim chuckled. “Well, look at it this way. If you had to decide between Mike, Arthur Nichols, or Ricky Simms, who would you trust?”