Tangier

nothing had happened, as if they'd never had that conversation in his office the Sunday past. Lake couldn't figure it out. He thought everything had been arranged. Z had as much as said he'd be willing to defect. What the hell had happened? Tonight he was going to find out.

The Manchesters were such boobs. How could he ever have thought of them as friends? They'd brought out every bit of junk they didn't want as offerings to their guests. There was a pile of stuff on the dining room table which Katie kept loading into people's arms. Wrinkled old maps of Morocco from the glove compartment of their car. A swollen can without a label (botulism for sure, he thought). A bottle of home-pickled watermelon rinds. Coat hangers and bent curtain rods. A fondue pot with an enormous crack. They must be nuts, he thought, trying to flog off stuff like that. Why didn't they just heave it in the trash? As it was they'd tried to sell everything they didn't want: potted plants, an ironing board, some inner tubes, a rusted lawn mower. But this other stuff-they had to be kidding, though there was Katie trying to stick Rick Calloway with a dozen lifeless tennis balls.

He stared around the room for a while, then tried to attract the attention of Jackie Knowles. But she and Foster were snuggling in the dining room like a couple of dodo birds in heat. Ever since Foster had come back from the north, all the gas seemed to have gone out of their affair. Why? He still wasn't sure, except that Foster had returned weathered and tanned, sporting a little Vandyke beard. It made him look all the more ridiculous, what with his blond hair curling down his neck. But that little beard seemed to be working wonders on Jackie. She called it 'neat,' said it felt good when Foster gave her head.

That was enough for Lake. He wasn't about to share Jackie with her husband or be satisfied with sloppy seconds. If the Knowles' had solved their sexual problems, that was fine with him. He and Jackie had had their fling. He told her to cool it for a while.

Suddenly he turned around-there was something buzzing in his ear. It was Anne Calloway talking away. Evidently she'd been speaking to him for quite a time.

'— There we were,' she said, 'sitting there at the Shepherd's Pie, all set to give Larry the old heave-ho from the club. You won't believe what happened an hour or so ago. God almighty, what a scene!'

'What did happen, Anne?' he asked, watching the door in case Zvegintzov came in.

'Like I said, Dan, we were waiting there when Larry showed up and flat resigned. Gave a brilliant farewell speech too. Broke us up, I'll tell you. Absolutely broke our hearts. Anyway, next thing you know we've all forgotten we called the meeting to bounce him out. Reelected him president of TP for life. Then created a new job, managing director, so Kelly wouldn't feel put down. You should have seen Kelly's face! He was furious. Stormed right out. But what could we do? Couldn't throw out Larry after all he'd said. They're still down there, the rest of them, eating sausage and guzzling beer-'

Anne Calloway was still chattering, though he'd nearly turned his back. He could see Fufu out on the terrace, spittle shooting from his mouth, holding forth on his favorite scenario, the one that ended with South Africa in a sheet of flames.

'Things are smelling bad here, Dan.' It was Willard who'd sidled up. 'We've loved Tangier, really have. We've had some terrific years. But now we're glad to be getting out. Whole country's rotten to the core.'

Jesus Christ!

Lake couldn't believe his eyes. Old Ashton Codd was swiping the hors d'oeuvres, stuffing a great batch of those foul tuna canapes into his pockets, then looking around to be sure he wasn't seen. Lake turned away, sick to his stomach. It was horrible, just imagining all that furry tunafish sticking to the insides of Ashton's pants. What a nuthouse! Baldeschi was feeling up the new secretary at the British Consulate. Philippa Whittle, making her first appearance since she'd been attacked, glared around with the crisp and wary look of a woman who'd suffered an awful fright.

Z! Where was the little bastard anyway? Pinning him down was like trying to nail a glob of jello to the floor. Ah there he was, the Commie punk. He'd finally shown up, was standing by the door. Now was the time to move in, trap him against the wall.

'Who you supposed to be, lad?' asked Patrick Wax, crossing the crowded salon at Francoise de Lauzon's. He looked sharply at Robin, up and down.

'Robin Hood, of course,' Robin replied. 'Who the hell did you think?'

'Yes,' said Wax, stepping back a pace, squinting at Robin again. 'I see that now. You're all dressed in green. I presume that silly little stick is supposed to be your bow. Well, Robin, very nice indeed. Just think of the rest of us as your very merry men.' He laughed, then smacked Robin on the back. 'Good try, lad. We're all aware of your impecunious state. Francoise will forgive you. At least I think she will.'

Wax crossed the room to embrace someone else. He'd come as 'Jack and the Beanstalk,' dressed as a swishy yokel, carrying a huge green phallus in his hand.

Robin didn't know if Francoise would forgive him, and he didn't give a good goddamn. He'd done the best he could with his costume, taking a metaphorical approach. He'd improvised a hood out of an old scarf he'd found beneath his bed, then scratched up a bent piece of driftwood from the beach and strung it with a bit of string.

He loathed costume parties, refused to take them seriously. It was particularly awful, he felt, to be at Francoise's 'fantasy evening' tonight. Nothing was worse than to be at the second best. Far better, he thought, to be at the bottom, at the Manchesters' thing, or with the TP scum at the Shepherd's Pie. He knew that Henderson Perry's party would almost certainly be a bore, but to be seen tonight at Francoise de Lauzon's was to have it proclaimed that one hadn't made the grade.

Still there were a lot of people there, seventy or eighty at least. The room was a sea of costumes, and there were people skinny-dipping in the pool. Robin pulled out a wad of paper and began to jot down notes. He'd get back at Perry when he wrote his column-he'd stretch the truth, make Francoise's party sound like better fun.

Florence Beaumont, he noted, made a nice Cinderella; Inigo was her Prince Charming in tow. Percy Bainbridge played an aging Mary Poppins. (Barclay had helped him with the nanny's outfit, Percy'd claimed.) Darryl Kranker was a lisping Sinbad the Sailor, and Herve Beaumont looked cute as the Lone Ranger, with a couple of silver-painted water pistols and an effeminate horn-rimmed mask.

Some people were so elaborately made up that Robin had difficulty discovering who they were. Heidi Steigmuller, the proprietress of Heidi's Bar, wore a rubber mask modeled on the features of Charles De Gaulle. Countess de Lauzon, the quintessential faghag, was Count Dracula, her appearance rivaling Bela Lugosi, while Inge Frey had come as Little Red Riding Hood and Kurt Frey as the Big Bad Wolf. There was, Robin realized, an air of savagery in the room, and all sorts of wicked things going on around the pool. Everyone knew the better party was up at 'Castlemaine,' but they were all trying to ignore that fact.

Patrick Wax, he thought, put it best when, at one point during the evening, he came up and shook his head. 'For a bash like this,' he said to Robin, 'it's even too much trouble to bathe.'

Monsieur de Hoag was driving. Claude, very quiet, sat in the back of the Mercedes with General Bresson. Jean Tassigny, beside Monsieur de Hoag, peered ahead into the night. He watched the Mountain Road narrow and steepen as they climbed through darkness toward the crest.

They were stopped at one point by security police, who swept the car with flashlights, then politely waved them on. Jean turned to look at Claude as the beam passed across her face. She sat still, like a sculpture, staring straight ahead, as cold and pale as marble, he thought, except for her turquoise eyes and the diamond necklace that glowed against her throat.

A little later he looked back again, saw the lights of Tangier glittering far below. Then they were stopped at great iron gates. They gave their names and were waved through to the grounds. They followed a road that ran parallel to the cliffs, past terraces, gardens, pools cut into rock. Finally the road curved and 'Castlemaine' came into sight. Jean gasped as they approached it, a huge Moorish palace lit from within by thousands of flickering candles, its great tower looming in the night.

In the front hall they were searched by royal bodyguards, patted lightly through their clothes. Jean thought this frisking was performed with skill, but General Bresson was indignant all the same. 'I don't know why they're afraid of us,' he muttered. 'We don't want to kill them. We're not Moroccan, after all.'

They were escorted into a huge reception room where scores of people milled about. Jean recognized the American Ambassador right away; the man had once run for vice-president of the United States.