Tangier (27 page)

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.

O
ften 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.

It was then, the following morning, sitting in his car in front of the carpentry shop, that he began to notice certain strange goings-on at the entrance of the Hotel Americain. This dingy pension a few doors down the street specialized in impecunious tourists who could not afford a room on Avenue d'Espagne. What struck Hamid, and suddenly caught his interest, was a group of European males huddling in the doorway with Moroccan boys.

No question of what was happening—the men were slipping money to the boys, who then ran off gaily toward the beach. Payoffs, no doubt, for business transacted in the night. Hamid watched, incredulous, then drove down to the Grand Socco, where he parked in an area reserved for the police. He strode into the medina, into the lobby of the Oriental Hotel, and mounted the steps to Robin's room.

He flung open the door. "Get up!" he yelled, yanking off Robin's sheets. "On your feet, you bastard! Put on your clothes!"

He paused then. He was too angry. He needed time to regain control. "I'll wait for you in the Centrale," he said. "Get your ass down there! You've got things to explain."

A few minutes later Robin appeared in the Socco Chico, picking at the corners of his eyes. "Christ, Hamid—what have I done?"

"You've betrayed me. Sit down and talk."

Robin squinted, shook his head.

"Don't play dumb," said Hamid. "I'm in a lousy mood."

"I see that. What's wrong?"

"The Hotel Americain—that's what's wrong. You're supposed to keep me informed about places like that."

"I didn't know, I swear." He spoke too quickly. Hamid could always tell when Robin lied.

"Don't pretend," he said. "You know the place is swimming in queers."

"OK, Hamid. Stop shouting, please. You shut down one and another opens up."

"I'm talking about our arrangement, Robin. Your job is to fill me about these places. Mine is to keep them from getting out of hand."

"Oh, come on. Is that the real nature of our relationship? Wait! Don't answer!" Robin shook his head. "Look," he said, "people come to Tangier in the summer, they come down here to get laid. They want boys, boys who offer themselves, you understand—because they surely aren't seduced. All right, they need a place to find them. If you close the Americain, it'll just be someplace else."

"You still don't understand."

"What?"

"That I've been relying on you, and you've been holding back."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Hamid. An informer has to save things up, keep the policeman's interest. It's in the nature of my work as your devoted snitch that I feed you information in little bits. That way you like me better, and I get to see you every week. Honestly, Hamid—I was going to deliver on this. Maybe even today."

"You make me sick."

"You're not angry anymore?"

"Thank Allah, you bastard. Now start talking. I want it all."

"Here? In public? Just being seen with you is bad enough."

"Embarrassed? Good. I don't care—it serves you right."

Robin ordered coffee and then began to talk, rubbing every so often at his crusted eyes and unshaven cheeks. "Gottshalk owns the place. Not the building—
les fonds de commerce
. You know him—he wears dark specs and a ratty djellaba like a cape. He's an American, been here for years. He's got an 'arrangement' with the American Consulate. I thought you knew about that."

"I try
not
to remember the details about every seedy foreigner in town. What 'arrangement'? Damn it, Robin, don't spin out a tale."

"Well, Gottshalk's got this deal with the Consulate that when they have an American who's lost his passport or who's out of money and waiting for funds, they stash him temporarily in his hotel. Gottshalk lodges him, feeds him on credit, and doesn't bother to register him with the police. He gets reimbursed, of course, and a service fee besides. For this the Americans think he's great. He's very close over there to Lake and Knowles, which gives him status, because otherwise he's just a bum. Anyway, he's had hot and cold running boys for a while—"

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"Years?"

"A season or two. It's known now in London and Amsterdam. When the queens come down here they know where they can go."

"Disgusting! What's he like?"

"A bastard. Hard as nails. Charges too much and rakes it in from the boys. If they don't kick back seventy-five percent he's got a couple of goons who mess them up. But he guarantees them a place to sleep, and for a lot of boys that's good enough. It would be a pity if you closed him down, Hamid. Put a lot of kids out of work."

"Do you really care?"

"Well, I'm human."

"Yes, Robin, I suppose you are." Hamid pushed back his chair. "Not a word of this," he said. "I'm going to move on Gottshalk. I'll know who to blame if he's been warned."

As he walked back to his car, he allowed his anger to seep away.
Robin's just an informer
, he thought.
How
much can I expect
? But he knew perfectly well that Robin was more than that—that over the years he'd become a friend.

He found Aziz waiting in his office, a glass of tea in hand. Hamid looked over the reports that had piled up through the night, then announced that they were going to raid the Hotel Americain. Aziz was delighted, and seeing his pleasure Hamid explained what he had in mind. They'd mount the kind of operation he'd seen in European films—flawless, cool, sleek.

"Midnight," he said, "we'll move in. Empty the place, every room, every closet, every bed. Anyone who isn't registered we'll bring here and interrogate. Photograph them, fingerprint them, warn them, and let them go. Same with the Moroccan boys—no point in holding them. What I want is a case against Gottshalk, enough to kick him out. After we close down his bordello we'll start a cleanup along the beach."

"Magnificent, Hamid. But why have we waited so long?"

"I don't know. Lethargy, I suppose. Now it pains me the way Tangier's turning into a dump. Every June the beach becomes a meat rack. We must change it back into a place to take a swim."

He spent the morning with the state prosecutor discussing pending cases, plowing through dossiers. When, finally, he returned to his office, he found a message from Farid.

The bazaar was closed when he arrived, so he parked and walked up the Boulevard looking for his brother in each of the cafés. He found him at Claridge reading a newspaper, eating lunch.

"Ah, here you are." He slid into a chair.

"I knew you'd find me, Hamid. How are you today?"

"Terrible. I've got too many cases. It's summer, and the town's gone mad."

He ordered swordfish. After the waiter left Farid put his newspaper down.

"I found the book you wanted."

"Good. Thanks."

"At the French library. They have a shelf on Indochina there. This one, about colonial Hanoi, was covered by half an inch of dust."