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 Surete. 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.
Monday at the Surete
Aziz Jaouhari had been working for an hour when Hamid walked in late. It was Monday morning and as usual there was much coming and going at the Surete. Civilians and police mingled on the bottom floor, and the basement was filled with people arrested over the weekend.
'Well, Aziz, what have we got this morning?' Hamid hung up his leather jacket and sat down at his desk.
Aziz was looking at his list. 'Six tourists in the jug, Inspector-five of them members of a British ballet. They played Rabat, then came up here for fun. We caught them with little boys on Saturday night having an orgy at the Oriental Hotel.'
'Robin, of course.'
Aziz nodded. 'He turned them in. They demanded to see the British Consul, but Mrs. Whittle told me he was out of town. Actually I think he was here but didn't want to be disturbed.'
'Doesn't surprise me. He hates the queers.' Hamid lit a cigarette.
'Then there's an American, brought in late last night. He picked up a whore at Heidi's Bar. They were walking back to her place when she began to scream. That's his version, of course. She says he was going to break her arm. Anyway, a cop named Mustapha Barrada came along and found a kilo of hash in his jeans. There was a scuffle, and Mustapha beat him up. Doctor saw him early this morning, and I've been in touch with Knowles.'
'Good, Aziz. Very good.'
'There's more. The hustler they call 'Pumpkin Pie' wracked up Inigo's Mercedes on the Tetuan Road. In the process he hit an old man and crushed his legs. What concerns us is that Inigo reported the car stolen a couple of hours before, so we're holding the boy, whose name is Mohammed Seraj, until he comes in here and swears out a complaint.'
'How's the old man?'
Aziz shrugged. 'In pain. This Seraj is a wild one. Maybe he didn't even blow the horn.'
'Right. Anything else?' Hamid felt weary already and wished he was back home in bed.
'The Prefect wants to see you this afternoon. And Vicar Wick, the one who runs St. Thomas Church, has an urgent matter that he will only discuss with you.'
'Tell him to come in.'
'You want the Vicar to come in here?'
