Tangier (26 page)

"Good-by."

"Good night."

"Thanks."

"But there's more—the whole second side."

They were all tearing toward the door.

Driving back to the Consulate, Lake banged his fist against the wheel. "What an evening! Glad to be out of there." He glanced at Janet. "Have you ever felt so trapped?"

"Gosh, you're critical, Dan. I thought you liked Willard and Katie at least."

"Not anymore I don't. I'm sick of them. All that crap about Fort Lauderdale—you'd think it's Eden over there."

Janet sighed. "Sometimes I just don't understand you, Dan."

Well, that was something—he didn't understand himself.

He dropped her at the residence gate, told her not to wait up. He was going to his office to plow through a stack of paperwork. She left him without looking back.

He pulled around to the side of the building, waited until their bedroom light went on. Then he drove slowly through town to kill some time before his rendezvous with Jackie Knowles. It was only a little after eleven, but the Boulevard was empty, just a few straggling tourists in the cafés. He knew the action at this hour was down in the medina, but he felt depressed by the emptiness, the flashing neon, the Arabic banners he couldn't read. One of their damn holidays again, he thought. There was always something going on—King's birthday, anniversary of his coronation, Arab Unity Week. He turned left and drove along the beach, listening for the faint music of bellydancer bands playing in the nightclubs of the big hotels.

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 watched 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.