Tangier (5 page)

After service in the French army, Z returned to Hanoi, where he opened and operated a shop for five years. In the late 1940s he was put under surveillance by French colonial authorities who suspected that his shop was an intelligence drop, and that he was a Soviet agent working with the Viet Minh. Later, on the basis of captured enemy documents, he was accused of being a Soviet field officer responsible for the delivery of arms to caches along the coast. Subject denied accusations, but was expelled in 1952. Made his way from Hong Kong to Vladivostok, where he disappeared. In 1955 he resurfaced in Tangier on a Polish passport. Worked here in several banks and import-export houses. Founded La Colombe in 1959.

Z has regular habits and is considered highly reliable by his clientele. He is an accomplished linguist who reads and writes Russian, Polish, English, French, Spanish, and Vietnamese.

Thinking back to that night when he'd read the file for the first time, Lake tried to analyze its compelling effect. Why, he wondered, removing it from his desk, had he almost immediately begun to shake? What was it that had gripped him and started all those notions swirling through his brain?

He opened up the file, read it through again. There was much more than the covering summary, all sorts of things that belied the words "inactive" and "low-grade." He labored furiously with the documents provided by the Deuxi
è
me Bureau, trying hard to understand all the nuances in French. Red pencil in hand, he underlined his way through a maze of cold war intrigue. Z's life was filled with twists and turns. Why, Lake wondered, hadn't the case been closed?

Fantasies began to flood him as he let the papers slip back upon his desk. All his readings in the other files gave him material for a thousand dreams. His scenarios were rich pastiches of borrowed vignettes. He had a vision of himself following Z down narrow Tangier streets, observing meetings from dark archways in the Casbah, close calls in empty squares. There were suspicious transactions observed in rusting café
 
mirrors, and mad chases up flights of wet stone stairs. He lost him in the Grand Socco, among a crowd of veiled women and hooded men, then picked him up again on a deserted beach at night, while the periscope of a Soviet submarine emerged slowly in the middle of the Straits. Prozov, the much-feared Prozov, was aboard, and Z was rowing out to him in a small black boat. Quick flashes of light from the sub, and a reply from Z. He would have to act now if he was going to intercept.

The water was ice cold against his body. There was danger in the currents, treachery in the tides. Something gelatinous and phosphorescent grazed his leg. His arms ached as he swam, then hoisted himself aboard. There was a mad fight then with the rough wooden oars. They dueled like savages while his hands bled, and when the boat capsized the salt water stung the damaged flesh. Finally he threw away his oar and went after Z with bare hands. A knee to the groin, and a fast chop against the neck. Z's eyes bugged out—he could smell the garlic on his breath. He grabbed his head and held it under water until he drowned. When it was done the Russian's spectacles bobbed away on a spumy wave.

N
ine
o'clock in the morning. Standing at the window of his office, Dan Lake could see the Mountain, bathed in sunlight, and the valley of Dradeb below. He was peering through binoculars at Willard Manchester's terrace, trying to hold Willard and Katie in focus against the pinkness of their house. There were pots of geraniums near the wrought iron table; a stainless steel coffee pot caught the light. Katie was writing—probably a shopping list; Willard was drawing on a pipe.

"Now tell me, Foster—slowly, please. And don't leave anything out."

Foster Knowles was sitting on a couch at the far end of the office, staring absently at the American flag behind the Consul General's desk. He looked at Lake's back, broad and straight against the window. Then he twitched a little and cleared his throat.

"Gee, Dan, there's not too much to tell. I watched the place all day. People go in and then they come out. There's sort of a buildup between ten and eleven in the morning—people coming back from the market, I guess. Then there's another rush between six and eight. At one he closes down and drives off for lunch. He opens again at four in the afternoon."

"Where does he go?"

"When, Dan?"

"For lunch, Foster. When do you think?"

"I don't know." Knowles shrugged. "I couldn't follow him. He might have recognized my car."

"You used your own car?"

"Well, what else could I use?"

"Christ!" Knowles was hopeless, his surveillance a flop.

"Look, Dan, I'm new at all this. If you'd just tell me—"

"Later, later—"

Lake let the binoculars droop around his neck, then looked at his vice-consul slouching on the couch.

"For Christ's sake, Foster," he said gently, "will you please sit up straight."

He moved around to his desk and shook his head. Knowles was an idiot. His blond hair curled down his neck and covered half his ears. He was exactly the same size as his wife, Jackie, who taught girls' gymnastics at the American School. They were vegetarians, smoked pot on the weekends, jogged around early in the morning in unisex sweatsuits like a matched pair of ponies parading on a course.

"All right," he said, settling into his chair. "What sort of people go in there, and what did you see them do?"

"Oh—people from the Mountain. The Manchesters, for instance."

"Willard Manchester goes in there?"

Knowles nodded. "Yesterday he went in twice."

"And?" Why hadn't Willard told him about the Russian and his past?

"The British. A lot of them. The Whittles. Vicar Wick. Retired people. People with big cars. They get their mail, pick up packages, buy newspapers—things like that." Knowles looked down at the rug. "I don't know—maybe I should have kept a log."

"That's all right, Foster. I just want a feel of what goes on. Any Moroccans?"

"Well, he gets deliveries. Ouazzani was in there last night."

"Inspector Ouazzani?"

"Yeah."

"Did he buy anything?"

"Not that I could see."

"OK, Foster." Lake yawned. "Thanks very much. You can go back to whatever you were doing now."

Knowles sat still. "You know, Dan, I've been thinking."

"Yeah? What about?"

"This whole business seems kind of crazy."

"Forget about it then."

"You mean forget the whole thing?"

"Uh huh. I thought you'd like it—snooping around. I sort of thought of you as a good snoop-around type. But I guess I was wrong. Forget about it. I'll handle it myself."

"Gee, Dan—"

"I've got a lot of paperwork this morning, so if you'd just—"

"Yeah. Right." Knowles nodded, unraveled himself, and started toward the door. Halfway there he paused and turned around. "There's one other thing, Dan, you ought to know. Might turn into a hassle later on. Couple of young Americans, hippies I guess, were camping out in the Rif. Seems they went hunting for psychedelic mushrooms and ate some poison ones by mistake. After a while they started feeling bad, so they hitched a ride to Tangier. They're at Al Kortobi Hospital now. According to the doctors they're really sick."

"OK. Keep me informed."

Knowles nodded and went out the door. When he was gone Lake made a fist and pounded it against the desk. Hassles! Psychedelic mushrooms! God, what an asshole, he thought.

He paced around the office for a while, feeling caged, bad-tempered, worn. He hadn't slept properly in a week, and now his mind was clouded by all sorts of things he didn't understand or know how to control. The wind was still blowing, though the sealed windows of the Consulate cut the noise. Outside he could see the palms thrashing and a small surf lapping at the sides of the Consulate pool.

He took hold of the binoculars again, trained them on the Mountain, found the Jew's River at its base and tried to move along it to La Colombe. Damn those palms! Just in the corner they blocked his view. He was about to call downstairs, order the gardener to cut them down, when he stopped himself and shook his head.

Madness, he whispered. Mad! Mad!

But a few seconds later he broke into a sweat. Ouazzani! There was some connection. He remembered it now. Through the winter Willard and Katie had talked of little else. Z's wife had left him for a policeman, Hamid Ouazzani, who headed the foreign section at the Sûreté. The Manchesters had been worried. Zvegintzov was despondent, and they were afraid he was going to close his shop. When he snapped out of it they'd been relieved. Now Foster said Ouazzani had visited Z. The whole setup began to stink.

Could it be, he asked himself, that Z planted the girl with the Inspector in order to infiltrate the police? With a policeman in his pocket he would have information on all the foreigners in town. He could blackmail them, use them as couriers, employ them any way he liked. And he'd arranged his own protection too: with a link to the police his espionage operation could go on and on.

Lake toyed with the idea for several minutes, then slumped back into his chair. He knew he was being ridiculous, that all his fantasies were absurd. Z was inactive, a man much like himself, broken, put out to pasture, mired in failure and despair. He felt a surge of sympathy for him then. He and Z were a pair of relics, aging cold warriors stagnating in Tangier.

At lunch he was distracted, glum. He hardly listened as Janet rambled on about their social life, nodded absently when she asked him if he'd like her to get them tickets for the play. Joe said his French teacher was a queer. Steven said there was a kid at school with a mustache who threatened to take him into the bushes and "spread his ass." Janet was shocked and begged him to intervene. "You ought to call the headmaster, Dan. It's the very least that you should do."

He nodded, promised he would, but he was really concentrating on Z. What could he do about him? Or might he do better to leave him alone?

When he crossed the garden again to his office, the wind had begun to slack off. There was a circular in his in-box, something from the Department asking how many square feet in the Consulate were devoted to offices, public areas, garage. "Foster—please take care of this" he jotted in the margin. Then he leaned back and groaned. It was asinine—a request like that, the sort of thing that could drive you mad. But he made certain that every memo received was answered by the following day. He insisted on "responsiveness" even if it meant that Foster would have to work at night.

He went to the vault, unlocked it, and walked inside. Here only Foster and himself were allowed. The cryptographic equipment lay immaculate on the table. The machine was quiet—no messages to be cracked. He walked along the bank of green steel filing cabinets, his fingers giving an extra twist to each of the gleaming locks.

Why had he been sent here? How could he convince the Department that he was cut out for grander things? Maybe he ought to come clean, admit to his instability, seek help, confess. But he knew the Department, knew there was no mercy there. Washington was littered with broken foreign-service officers, men like himself who'd cracked up overseas. He couldn't accept that. He had to educate his sons. On a disability pension he'd lose his self-respect—nothing to do, that's what was killing him. He needed action, crisis, work.

Feeling claustrophobic, he left the vault then carefully locked the door. Back in his office he was about to phone the school when he received a call from Knowles.

"Jesus, Dan—the shit's just hit the fan. One of those mushroom kids croaked, and it looks like the other may croak tonight."

"Christ, Foster! Do you have to use that word?"

"Sorry, Dan. What are we going to do?"

Lake thought a moment, back through his years of experience. When an American died overseas it was up to the Consul to take charge.

"Got a pencil, Foster? Get this down. First, find out the name of the next of kin and call him at our expense. Then get hold of the personal effects, put the consular seal on them, and store them away downstairs. Find out who handles corpses around here and get him to work. Be sure and get a death certificate from the hospital, and some documentation from the police. Have it all translated, make Photostats of the originals, and prepare a covering letter for my signature, laying out the circumstances and expressing regrets. Then get in touch with the airlines about flying out the body. That'll wrap it up."

There was silence at the other end. Then he heard Foster gasp. "Gee, Dan," he said. "You really are a pro."

Lake smiled and hung up. Yes, he thought, I've still got what it takes. He'd done well in Laos, that never-never land of three-headed elephants. Even in Guatemala he'd been good—especially during the affair of the left-wing Maryknoll nuns. But here there was nothing—a lousy mushroom poisoning, for Christ's sake. How could he prove himself? What could he do? The question gnawed at him through the afternoon, as the wind subsided to a breeze. There seemed no way out of the dilemma. He was stuck in Tangier, boxed in.

Finally, at five o'clock, impatient with himself and his despair, he ordered his car brought around to the front of the building, then dismissed the driver and took the wheel himself. His intention was to drive out to Cap Spartel, park there, somewhere on the back of the Mountain, and stare down at the Atlantic toward the setting sun. But as he emerged from Dradeb, crossed the Jew's River bridge, he pulled up suddenly in front of La Colombe. It was time, he knew, to go inside and try to read the Russian's face.