Tangier

were known for their fanaticism, their resistance to reason and the soft life styles of the West. But still he imagined himself engaging Z in a debate. They would wrestle together over the salvation of his soul.

Z would waver at first, then pull back. The struggle would teeter this way, totter that. But Lake would prepare himself well, laying the groundwork for a solid friendship while dropping increasingly unsettling hints and boning up on crucial Marxist texts. In the end he would send Z off to Washington, where for months the Russian would spill his guts.

He'd have much to tell of the intrigues in Indochina, and vital information on the North African spy nets. With luck he might even be converted into a double agent, then used to feed back false information to the Soviets. Or he might opt for a new identity in some Midwestern state, where he could begin his life again, perhaps open up another shop.

Lake knew it was a grandiose idea, and also treacherous with risk. He'd be putting his entire career on the line-if he failed he'd be fired for sure. But still, it seemed to him, he had very little choice. Better to end in glory or defeat than to die slowly of boredom and despair.

The day after he got the idea he began to intensify his assault, extending his visits to the shop, stopping in at odd hours when no one else was there, buying paperback espionage novels on Peter's recommendation, reading them and then returning to discuss the intricacies of their plots.

'Now, Peter,' he'd ask, 'if you'd been the spy here, would you have done the thing this way?' The two of them would then talk it out, their conversation laced with friendly tension and double entendres. Z would dance about behind his counter, hopping from foot to foot. His eyes would dart back and forth behind his spectacles. He'd cough and sputter and try to change the topic to something else.

'Now, Peter,' Lake had said another time, apropos of nothing at all, 'if I were a spy and wanted to set up a network in Tangier, first thing I'd do would be to get hold of a little shop like this. Place is a natural, a crossroads, great situation for a drop. I could keep an eye on everything, position myself in the center of the web. Like a spider, Peter, spinning wider concentric circles all the time.'

Z had stiffened at that, but then Lake had smiled, and the Russian had relaxed. Lake wanted him to wonder whether he was merely being teased or whether he was being snared in a complicated plot.

One day he came in and spoke blandly about the weather. Then, as soon as Peter let down his guard, he threw him a tricky curve. 'When I read about these deep-cover agents,' he'd said, 'I feel sorry for them, their loneliness, their difficult, dangerous lives. How tempting it must be for them to turn themselves in, to 'come in from the cold' as the expression goes-'

Peter, Lake thought, had betrayed himself, grasping one hand in the other, blinking involuntarily, turning to straighten merchandise on the shelves. Lake felt he'd touched a nerve and resolved to keep the pressure up. When, finally, he offered the alternative of defection, Z would be grateful and relieved.

The trouble was he didn't get much feedback, nothing but these occasional signs of strain. The Russian would stare at him attentively, or glance up with a grin, but he never countered with a quip of his own and sidestepped when Lake became direct. It was impossible to know what the man was really thinking. Lake felt he was working blind. The more unsubtle he became, the more Z backed away. Often when he left the shop, he felt the pieces weren't falling into place.

It was getting to be time, he knew, to make his move, time to stop pussyfooting around. The previous Friday, when he'd dropped in at La Colombe, he'd asked Peter to meet him at the Consulate Sunday afternoon. 'Come on over after you close,' he'd said, 'after the church crowd's passed on through. I'll show you around the building. Then we'll have ourselves a little talk.'

Now it was Sunday, nearly four o'clock. Peter, he guessed, would just be closing up La Colombe. He took the elevator down to the Consulate's lobby floor. He wanted to be there waiting when he arrived.

The glass that faced the street was one-way, mirrored, put in at great expense. The object was to cause confusion in case there was a terrorist attack. Lake paced the lobby, pausing every so often to straighten a stack of 'customs hints' brochures. On the wall by his order was posted an enormous sign listing the Americans languishing in Malabata prison on account of drug arrests.

Lake loved this building, so antiseptic, so clean, an air-conditioned American oasis, his fortress against Tangier. Here the corridors were straight, the elevators were silent, the city was hermetically sealed off. Everything was new, made of glass and steel, so unlike the teeming streets outside.

A few minutes later he saw Z pull up, then watched, unseen, as the Russian locked his car. Peter mounted the Consulate steps, struggled with the locked front door. He paused, pulled out a handkerchief, and applied it to his dripping face.

Christ-if he's afraid to ring the bell, then I've really got him by the balls.

Peter did ring finally, and Lake waited a full minute before he opened up. He just stood there, ten feet away, face to face with Z, feeling powerful because he was invisible, carefully inspecting the Russian's face. Z was stubborn, all right, crafty, but he looked vulnerable outside his shop. Lake enjoyed the idea of watching coolly from the lobby while the Russian perspired in the sun.

'Peter.' He opened the door. Z edged his way inside. 'No one here,' said Lake, 'just the two of us. Come in-I'll show you around.'

He led Z through the building, down corridors, into offices, even into the garage. Finally he brought him upstairs to the Consul General's suite, then seated himself behind his desk, before his ensign and the American flag.

'You're the first Russian to get the grand tour, Peter. VIP treatment-nothing less.'

'Thanks, Dan.' Peter peered around. 'You Americans know how to live.'

'Yes,' said Lake. 'No little grubby cubbyholes for us. And the whole building's regularly debugged. We don't want anyone listening in, you know, listening in to all our secrets from some back room behind some shop.'

He grinned. Zvegintzov tightened up.

'Come on, Peter. I'm only kidding around. Let's face it, it's terrific the two of us are friends. Here we are, citizens of opposing powers, yet we really like each other, so to hell with the struggle out there.' He motioned with his arm toward the Straits of Gibraltar, indicating Europe and the world beyond. He was pleased by this extravagance of gesture, and the perplexed expression on Peter's face.

'There is something between us, isn't there, Peter?' he asked, narrowing his eyes. 'This little wedge of suspicion, this little game we've been playing since we've met.'

Z smiled weakly, then he shrugged. Lake sat up straight. Suddenly he slapped the desk.

'Oh, hell, Peter-drop your guard for once. Let's forget all this cat-and-mouse stuff. Christ-don't you see? We're buddies now. We're pals.'

Z nodded cautiously and stared down at the rug.

Work the old seesaw. Keep him on edge, Lake thought. Change the mood. Don't let him settle down.

'You know, Peter,' he said, trying to work some sympathy into his voice, 'when you think about it there's a limit to the things a man can be expected to endure. There's only so long a man can go on living with deceit. Know what I mean? Ever think of crossing over? What a terrific feeling that would be?'

Peter stared at him quizzically. Lake toughened up his eyes.

'Defection, Peter. That's what I'm talking about. Defection. Giving yourself a second chance.'

Z was staring very curiously now. Lake congratulated himself-he had the Russian hooked.

'Of course, the question in such a case would be-well, there'd be many questions in a man's mind. Such as how he'd be received by the other side, and how well he'd be protected from the people he'd worked for before. How much would he be expected to betray? How many of the old beans would he be expected to spill? And then there'd be the question of confidence, the person he'd defect to, the guy into whose hands he'd, quite literally, be placing his life.'

He looked at Z again, highly attentive now. Is there a Russian agent anywhere, he wondered, whose mouth isn't full of rotten teeth?

'And motivations! Let's not forget about them! A man who'd defect-he'd have to have a motive for doing that. It might be a matter of high moral principle. Maybe it would have to do with his political beliefs. Or it could just be that he wanted to change the nature of his life. An escape maybe from something in the past. A complicated personal situation, say, involving his wife, or someone else. Comfort. Money. Change. It could be a combination of