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.
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.
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-'
