Back in the suburbs he slowed as he passed the Knowles‘, then drove on to the traffic circle and parked. He turned off his headlights and lit a cigarette. There was no one about.
It was another twenty minutes before she appeared, jogging around the corner at a rapid pace, the white stripe of her sweat-suit flashing light from the dim street lamps. She loped around the circle, waved at him as she passed, then raised three fingers and started around again—meaning, he supposed, that she was going to run the circle thrice.
He watched, becoming dizzy as he followed her with his eyes. On her third pass she suddenly stopped, then leaped beside him into the car.
"Hi!" She smiled, leaned forward, planted a long, wet kiss on his lips. Her forehead was sweaty and so was the rest of her—he could feel the moistness as they embraced.
"Can I call you Dan, Mr. Lake?"
"Sure, Jackie. Sure."
"Well, Dan—"
She reached for his tie, loosened it, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck. Then with a single stroke she unzipped the front of her sweatshirt. Her breasts popped out. She was naked underneath.
"I'm horny, Dan. It's not healthy to keep urges bottled up." She placed her hand on his crotch. He couldn't believe it. She started fumbling with his fly.
"Jackie—"
"Shhh!"
"Jackie!"
"Don't talk, Dan. We've only got a few minutes. Foster will worry if I'm gone too long." She kissed him again, struggling with his zipper. "I want you, Dan. I want you inside of me. But not tonight. It's really impossible to ball in a car." She got the zipper open then and started to fondle him through his shorts. "Drop them, Dan. I want to suck."
She mopped her forehead on her sleeve, then lay her head across his lap. She was sucking him, humming while she did it, the vibrations of her clinging lips bringing him alive.
He felt frightened at first, then hopelessly aroused, the object of fellatio in a diplomatic car. It was crazy the way she lay across him like a vixen, body contorted, straw hair strewn across his lap. But suddenly he was delighted by the danger, and slipped down in his seat. He forced her head against the steering post, and with terrifying spasms shot off in her mouth.
The whole thing had taken less than a minute. When he opened his eyes he saw her making obscene swallowing motions with her throat.
"God! What if someone saw?"
"Never mind, Dan. It's over now."
She sat up and cupped her breasts. There was a radiant, triumphant expression on her face. He reached for her, but she pulled back.
"No, Dan. Not now. Next time you'll have me. I'll call you tomorrow as soon as Foster leaves for work."
She zipped up her sweatshirt and backed out of the car. From outside she blew him a kiss, then jogged around the circle and disappeared. He sat alone then, his limp cock oozing onto the plastic seat.
What, my God, have I done?
For a while he drove around the city, losing all track of time. He drove the Boulevard again, and Avenue d'Espagne, then turned and twisted through the maze of narrow streets that ran between the Grand Socco and the beach. He drove up through the old Jewish quarter and into the Casbah, madly honking his horn. He passed beneath the arches, the narrow street along the walls, until he arrived at the Place de Casbah and pulled to a screeching halt.
He looked about. The great square was deserted. He got out, walked to the battlements, stared down the cliffs at the moonlit bay.
What's happening?
He knew now he'd never get to sleep. His head was on fire, though he was sure he was no longer drunk. The encounter with Jackie had taken care of that, and now he felt caught up by something, some passionate force that had seized hold, and to which he'd relinquished all control.
Am I going to snap? Is this the night I'm going to break?
He didn't think so. Despite all that had happened he felt a new, clear vision taking hold. He was a man of the night, a man who acted while others slept. There was a destiny for him in Tangier. Z! Z was the quarry, the man he must begin to hunt.
In Dradeb there were still people in the streets, but he felt no fear of them as he drove through. He'd heard much lately of their vicious taunts and flying rocks, but tonight he felt invincible, the master of Tangier.
After he crossed the Jew's River he slowed down, searching for Zvegintzov's car. He saw it, a rusting old Peugeot. He parked behind it and looked about. The shop was closed. The grill was down, but he could see light coming from a window off the side. He'd never been in there, the room behind the store. He knew it was where Peter slept.
He locked the car, crossed the street, then moved carefully, pressing against the side of Zvegintzov's house. There was a window ahead that cast out light. He stooped beneath it, rose slowly, and peered in through the glass.
He saw Peter then, sitting on his bed not a dozen feet away. He was talking—Lake could hear the sound, though he couldn't make out a single word. He ducked, fearing he might be seen, then realized he was in darkness, invisible to those inside. He backed off a bit, then rose again. He had to see who else was there.
It was the girl, the one living with Ouazzani, Kalinka, Zvegintzov's wife. She was standing, facing Z, at the opposite end of the room, the two of them in profile, faces illuminated by a frayed old lamp. They seemed excited—he could see that in their gestures. Listening carefully, he realized they were speaking Vietnamese.
Suddenly he felt powerful, full of the power that comes to those who spy on others unseen. People said this woman never saw Z anymore. What luck to catch them together, and, too, it fit in with his theory that she was Peter's link with the police. He recalled his encounter with Ouazzani the other evening, coming upon him in the shop, finding Peter in the midst of tears. Later, outside, he'd aroused the Inspector's anger by asking him about his girl. Clever, the way he'd drawn that anger out. Now he wondered who was controlling whom. Blackmail, perhaps, with Ouazzani pulling the strings. Or did Peter have the Inspector in his grip? He didn't know. It was all too complicated; he hadn't sufficient information yet. Now he only wished he had a Minox—one of those miniaturized spy jobs with a superfast lens. He'd snap a picture of the girl and Z, post it anonymously to the police. What would the Inspector do? How would his superiors react?
As he stared at them, however, he became aware of something else. There was something going on in the room, something desperate. He could sense it in their tones as they mouthed their tortured words. Were they arguing? Z seemed tense, and the girl, standing before him, so straight, tiny, thin before his hulk, she, he could tell, was the cause. Was Z sobbing? Lake wasn't sure. Yet her sounds, high-pitched Oriental chirps that cut to him through the glass, were answered by Peter's heavy moans that made the window rumble beneath his palm. Lake was fascinated. All his senses sprang alert. A drama was being played which he, a secret observer, shared.
None of this fit with his image of Zvegintzov the ruthless agent. There the Russian sat, slumped upon his bed, lines in his face gouged deep, wiping at his eyes.
Silence. The confrontation was at an end. The girl stared at Z, who returned her gaze, then dropped his head upon his chest. What had they been saying? What dark Oriental exchange? Lake felt bewildered standing outside, accidental witness to some inexplicable event.
There was movement then. Peter stood as she moved toward the door. It let out, Lake realized, onto the other side of the house. He could hear an exchange, most probably their goodbys, saw the girl disappear, then watched as Z stood alone staring at the floor.
A moment later he heard the ignition of a motorbike. He darted back to the street just in time to see the girl ride away. He ran to his car, drove rapidly, was halfway through Dradeb before he saw her scooter again. He slowed, dimmed his headlights, followed her to an old building where the Marshan Road intersected with Ramon y Cahal. He waited, watched, saw her enter the elevator from the street. She'd pushed a minute-long night light when she'd gone in, and now it illuminated a cagelike elevator shaft. He watche
d as she rose slowly out of sight. No choice now. He knew he must follow her up.
Again he carefully locked his car. Inside he peered up the shaft. The elevator was poised at the top. He looked at the lobby mailboxes, saw the name "Ouazzani" beside a number on the penthouse floor. He paused a moment, deciding what to do. There was risk, he knew, in going further, but he felt he had to take the chance. He called the elevator back, stepped inside, pushed the button, held his breath.
He was horrified by the sound. This was not a machine like the sleek, silent elevator in the Consulate. This was a noisy old thing of winding cables and grinding gears. At the top floor he waited until the night light went off, then stepped into the hall. There were two apartments, one at either end. He crept to the one on the right, lit a match, read the Inspector's name off the door.
He pressed his ear against the wood and strained. He heard faint conversation inside, muffled by the walls. He could tell from the cadence they were talking French.
Thank God! Something I can understand.
He had to know what they were saying in there—all his plans for Z would depend on that. He looked around, saw some stairs near the elevator. He mounted them, came to a door, lit another match, saw an unlocked bolt. Grateful for his luck, he pulled it open, then stepped boldly out upon the roof.
Here, at least, he could see—there was light from the moon, and the city's glow around. He spotted his car parked inconspicuously across the street. The lamps that lined the Mountain Road burned sulfurous in the night.
He paused then, looked about, and felt again that he was master of Tangier. It was spread before him, this city of white geometric buildings, asleep but seething with energy, a quarter million Arabs and twenty thousand Europeans locked in an eternal brawl.
He paced the roof to its edge above Quazzani's flat. Peering down, he saw a terrace, dimly lit by lamps inside. If only he could get down there, but there were curved, pointed iron rods protruding from the walls—protection against cat burglars like himself, he thought, and rabid rats. He'd have to climb over the spikes, then lower himself with care. There was a cornice he could cling to, and a protruding decorative ledge beneath. Yes, if he could get himself over the prongs, he might be able to climb down. But he would have to be careful—those iron points could rip apart his flesh.
He walked to the corner of the building, found the prongs more widely spaced. With his mind clear, knowing that once he descended he would be irretrievably compromised if caught, he grabbed hold of two of the hooks, tested their strength, and swung his legs between.
A moment later he was hanging for his life, his body supported only by his hands, which gripped the spokes, while he thrashed with his feet for a toehold on the ledge. He found it finally, and just in time, for his strength was quickly giving out. He paused, clinging to the side of the building, trying to control his panting and to rest.
He wasn't in shape for a caper like this. Too bad he hadn't spent his mornings jogging with the Knowles‘. The mere six-flight climb to their penthouse had worn him out; now he was hanging over the side of a building eight stories above the street. A gentle wind blew across him from the Straits. It cooled his perspiration, and frightened him too, for he knew how the winds of Tangier could gather in a moment to a gale.
To regain his courage he thought back to Jackie Knowles, her mass of straw hair upon his lap, her tongue on his genitals wagging like a fox's licking salt.
He stared down. It was a five-foot drop to the terrace. Fortunately the windows were over to the side. There were potted plants down there, and laundry too. He must jump clear of them, land without a sound. He looked again, found his spot, carefully calculated the distance, pushed himself away, and dropped. He landed deftly, on the balls of his feet, dropped to a crouch and froze. A moment later he exhaled. Nobody had heard him; nobody was looking out.
I've done it!
Now he could hear them talk. The glass terrace doors were open. They were sitting in the salon just a few feet away. He didn't dare look in at them but moved stealthily behind the laundry. He realized, suddenly, that he didn't even know if they owned a dog.
He strained to listen, translate what they said. Their talk was full of pauses, and there were many words he missed.
"—don't understand. Why?"
"It's been so long—"
"Forever then?"
"—things he said. You can't imagine—"
"I want to read—"
"—don't have it anymore—"
"What?"
"Burned it."
"—"
"I knew you'd want to read—"
"—my right."
"It was between us."
"The three of us."
"—Hamid!"
A pause then. Perhaps the Inspector was standing up.
"You compromise yourself. And me."
"—so frightened, so empty, Hamid. The shop is all he has."
"—taunting me. He was going to tell me something. Then this American came in."
"If you could have seen—"
—secrets!"
"I don't remember. Can't!"
Another silence. Lake craned his head. They were walking around, he guessed, or had turned from the window. He lost their thread, then caught it again.
"—going to talk to him again. I can make him leave—close him up—"
"What good—"
"Don't you see, Kalinka? I have to know!"
It all stopped then, as if they'd suddenly left the room. Their bedroom probably—if they'd gone in there he'd not hear anymore. What were they talking about? A letter, a document, something she'd destroyed. They'd been arguing about Z—no doubt of that. But he thought Ouazzani had sounded less angry than he should. Patience, gentleness—these qualities surprised him. The Inspector's voice didn't match the tone of a man who felt himself deceived.
Lake crawled closer to the glass door, but there was no more to be heard. They must have closed themselves in their bedroom. Now he'd never know what all of it had meant.
He looked up. He had to get out. But an instant later he felt despair. How? It was impossible. He'd never get back on the roof. There was nothing to hold on to. The ledges and cornice he'd used protruded out, and he didn't have the strength to hoist himself up. Now he was stuck. He'd gone to all this trouble, taken all these risks, learned little, understood less, and now he was going to be caught.
God, I've been a fool.
An hour later he was racing down the apartment stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He'd done a dangerous thing, taken the ultimate risk, and by some miracle, part of the chain of luck that had supported him all night, he was out of danger, free and safe. He'd waited on the terrace for an hour until he was sure the Ouazzanis were asleep. Then while his heart pumped thunderously he'd simply walked into their apartment, across their salon, opened their front door, and slipped out through the hall. It was the only way, and he'd taken it. In the lobby he stopped to gasp.
His hands were still shaking when he arrived at the Consulate, opened the garage, parked the car. In his bathroom in the residence he studied himself in the mirror, his eyes, bulging and red, the filth on his hands and suit. He stripped and stepped into the shower, ran the water hot. Then, ravenously hungry, he went to the kitchen and scrambled eggs.
Slipping into bed beside Janet, he thought of Jackie Knowles. In the morning she would call him. What would he say to her? Where would all that lead?
He knew he'd never lived before with such intensity, acquiring a mistress, spying on a spy, detecting a detective, all in the space of a few short hours. Now the possibilities were unlimited. There was nothing he couldn't do. He'd been master of the city. Tangier had whimpered at his feet.
The Raid
Often in the mornings on his way to work Hamid would drive about Tangier, moving slowly down narrow streets into obscure quarters of the town. He was not sure why he did this, since it delayed his arrival at the Sûréte, but he supposed he was searching for
coherence in this complicated, shimmering city that he loved.
One morning at the beginning of the summer he parked on Esperanza Orellana in front of a carpentry shop. This spot delighted him. He liked the smell of cedar shavings that filled his car, the buzz of the saws in the background as they bit into wood. Sitting here, he thought back to the difficult night before, the row he'd had with Kalinka. He'd come home late, found her out of the house, and later, when she'd returned, she'd confessed she'd been with Zvegintzov at La Colombe.
Peter had summoned her with a long, imploring letter, she'd said, and she'd felt she'd no choice but to go to him and talk. She'd found him pathetic, friendless and alone, afraid that Hamid was out to drive him from Tangier. Peter had begged her not to say anything, to keep secret all she knew, and to persuade Hamid to stay away and leave the past alone.
How could she deny him that, she'd asked. She was filled with pity for this man she believed they'd both destroyed.
Hamid was moved, but then, when he'd asked her to produce the letter so that he too could measure the Russian's despair, she'd replied she'd burned it to spare Zvegintzov his shame. They'd argued then. Hamid had tried to make her understand. She'd said that only the future mattered, and that she didn't care about the past. Later, when they'd gone to bed, he'd lain awake for hours trying to reason his feelings out. He knew she hadn't deceived him, but there was something she shared with Zvegintzov that she still refused to reveal. What was it? What strange things had they discussed in their sing-song tongue? Why did she want to protect him? Why?
Tormented as he lay in bed, he'd thought for a moment that there was someone in the other room. An intruder, perhaps Peter, prowling, waiting to stab him in his sleep. He'd felt ridiculous but still he'd gotten up, and of course he'd found no one there.
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