Tangier

The Foster Knowles’ Entertain

Much later, when Lake looked back, he wondered if that wasn't the night when everything started to go wrong.

It began, innocently, with a dinner invitation from the Foster Knowles‘. Lake was not particularly keen about the Knowles‘-their sophomoric expressions and youth-culture mannerisms disgusted him no end. And the fact that other people in Tangier seemed to like them only added to his despair. They'd made friends on account of their jogging group and now were on the make, penetrating the society of the Mountain, even rating a tryout at Barclay's house for lunch.

Lake couldn't understand it. They were a pair of straw-haired bumpkins as far as he could see. Jackie Knowles and her gymnastics classes, Foster and his antipathy for meat-perhaps, he thought, it was their wholesomeness that was so attractive in this town where everyone else was either mad or queer. He didn't know, but it annoyed him all the same. The Knowles' were more popular than Janet and himself, though he was Consul General and Tangier was Foster's premier post.

Lake and his wife pulled up to the Knowles' building just as Willard and Katie Manchester were locking up their car. They all embraced on the street, then walked inside. There wasn't room in the elevator for the four of them, so Lake volunteered to take the stairs. By the third landing he was sorry-the Knowles' lived on the sixth floor. He was breathing hard and growing furious at his exhaustion when he heard Jackie greet the others at the apartment door.

"Hi!" she said. "Where's the Consul?" Her shrill voice ricocheted to him on the stairs.

"He's climbing slowly," Janet said. "Dan's not much of an athlete, you know."

"Well, good for him anyway. I think exercise is great!"

Lake swore as he assaulted the final flight. The evening, he knew, was going to be bad.

Foster greeted him. "Hey, Dan!"

Lake didn't know what all the fuss was about, since they'd been working together the entire day.

"Helluva a climb, right? Better have a drink." Jackie glided up and bussed his cheek. Foster handed him a scotch.

Fufu, the UN delegate from Uganda, was on the couch beside his wife. Lake always felt awkward around this man, since he didn't seem to have a first name. When one met him one called him "Mr. Fufu," and then just plain "Fufu" when acquaintanceship became close. He had tribal marks, diagonal slashes cut into his cheeks, and was fond of giving lectures on the destiny of Africa, lectures which he'd enunciate with increasing volume as one tried to wriggle away. Lake shook hands and sat beside Mrs. Fufu, who reminded him of a picture on a package of pancake mix. Big, huge-breasted, full-cheeked, she sat next to her husband like a squaw.

Lake gulped half his drink, then listened to Katie Manchester holding forth across the room.

"Yes, dears, it's true. We're really going to leave. End of summer probably. Willard was just over in Fort Lauderdale talking to the condominium people. He made the down-payment and interviewed a maid. Course it's more expensive than Tangier, but we like the amenities. Pool. Shuffleboard. Golf. If it were up to me we'd live in Wisconsin, but Willard's pension's better suited for southern climes."

Christ, what shit!

Originally Lake had liked the Manchesters, but now he found them stultifying, garrulous fools. In the mornings, when he watched them through his binoculars, he was chilled by a vision of himself, retired, with Janet, killing time in some second-rate resort. Would he prattle on like Willard about the deal he was getting on his Buick? Would Janet send out Christmas cards like Katie-four-page newsletters full of emptiness and transparent cheer? There had to be more to look forward to than a condominium in Fort Lauderdale. Lake felt desperate around the Manchesters, for they reminded him of failure; but there sat the Knowles‘, regarding them as role models, listening attentively to every word they said.

He was just finishing up his second drink when the Ashton Codds came in. They seemed to waltz across the room with a stylish antique gait, Ashton in dinner jacket with Legion of Honor rosette in his lapel, Musica in an expensive caftan, the two of them absurdly overdressed. They were outfitted for a party on the Mountain, not for a dinner with a junior diplomat in town. But the anomaly did not seem to bother anyone else; the Codds made their entrance, then lavishly embraced the Knowles‘.

At their arrival the conversation turned to "Tangier," the sort of gibberish that had been maddening Lake for months. Prices at the market, crisis in the theater club, scandal at the British church. All he wanted was to lie back and drink himself to sleep, but the talk buzzed around him like tormenting mosquitoes in the night.

"Poor old Luscombe," Musica was saying. "They've broken his spirit, you know. Ran into him on the Boulevard the other day. He was talking to himself, twitching as he walked."

Ashton Codd was entertaining Jackie Knowles, his wrinkles dancing as he chattered away. "The Moroccans are so damn stupid, my dear. I don't know why we writers choose to live in such a place. They're afraid of books here. Can you imagine? I heard a good one the other day. Seems they seized a chess book at the customs. It was the title that got them: New Ways to Attack the King!"

"Ha! Ha!" It was Fufu, doubled over with mirth. In his country they shot people for criticizing the regime, but Lake restrained himself from mentioning that. Across the room he heard Musica Codd say that Vicar Wick was losing his grip. Termites were at work on the beams of St. Thomas, and considering all its other troubles, she was wondering whether the British community could survive.

"A table! Diner est servi!" Jackie called to them in unaccented foreign-service French.

Lake finished off his third drink, then stood up too fast. He felt dazed, reeled, wondered if he'd make it through dessert. There was an awkward moment after they sat down when Jackie reminded her guests that she and Foster didn't eat meat. They were regenerate health nuts and had moral reservations as well, but she said she thought the deprivation might do the rest of them some good.

Actually, Lake thought, the food wasn't bad-crisp vegetables, a mushroom salad, a Moroccan stew of greens. But the whole business annoyed him, and he suffered through the meal, listening to Jackie chatter on about exercise and diets while she filled and refilled his wine glass half a dozen times. The Knowles‘, he decided, were impossible, patronizing and sanctimonious, but looking around he could see that the others liked them very much.

Right after dinner he shot back a double cognac, and this time the drink hit him hard. It had been a while since he'd tied one on, but if ever he had an excuse for serious drinking, this, he felt, was the night. The conversation drifted around him, and he began to chuckle to himself. He got the idea into his head that Fufu was a baboon and felt an urge to stand up, strip a banana, and jam it into the Ugandan's mouth. Mrs. Fufu looked like she needed a good fucking, but he wondered if he'd have the will to take her on. "Moo moo," she would moan, just like the cow that she was. When she and Fufu were in bed together she'd cry out, "Foo foo moo moo."

He looked around for Janet, saw her with the Codds. The flabby flesh of those old curmudgeons bounced about their brittle facial bones. The noise level rose and Lake felt flushed. He might have passed out a while, for the next thing he knew everyone was quiet, listening to Foster address them as a group.

He had a new recording of the Bach B-minor Mass, he said, which he wanted to play for them without waking the building up. Suddenly an apparatus was set upon the coffee table, and the floor was running with wires. Knowles brought out a tangle of headsets he'd snitched from various airlines. Jackie distributed them off a tray.

She handed one to Lake. He handed it back.

"I pass," he said. "No thanks."

"Oh, please, Mr. Lake. It's really good."

He gestured thumbs-down, mumbled an excuse, and headed out to find the john. Once inside he tried to refocus. He was drunk-no question about it. He hiccupped, splashed cold water on his face. On a whim he opened the medicine cabinet and was flabbergasted by what he saw. The Knowles' had two of everything: matching "his" and "hers" deodorants; men's electric razor for the beard and women's for the legs; matching toothbrushes, one pink, the other blue; a big toenail clipper and a little one for fingernails; anal and oral thermometers; an unopened sixpack of condoms; and a powdered pessary in a plastic case.

Jesus-they don't take any chances. He shut the cabinet door.

On his way back to the living room he stopped at the hall closet, paused, scratched his head, and opened it up. The closet had a peculiar smell-a mixture of deodorant and a girls' gym. Immediately he understood. The Knowles' sweat-suits were hanging on opposing hooks. He peeked behind one of them, saw Foster's jockstrap hanging limp. He poked at it with his finger. Ugh! He was curious to see what size it was, but couldn't bear to touch it again. Then, on a hunch, he looked under the other suit. There was only a bikini bottom there. He studied it a while, felt a strange desire to sniff it, and felt an erection sprouting up.

What's wrong with me tonight?

He was about to slam the closet door when he heard a sound behind. He jumped and turned. It was Jackie, staring at him through big blue eyes.

"Looking for something?"

Even as he grabbed her, moved in for the kiss, he knew he was behaving like an ass. They clinched; he felt her strong gymnast's hands grab his shoulders tight, and then a sharp pain as she pushed him back.

"Mr. Lake!"

"Sorry," he muttered. "I was looking for the john."

"Oh," she said. "I see. Oh, dear. It's over there."

She took his hand and led him back to the lavatory. He had a glimpse of her grinning as he shut the door. He bolted it, sat down on the toilet. He felt dizzy.

I've just kissed Jackie Knowles!

For a moment he couldn't believe he'd done it, and began to fantasize his disgrace. Foster would go to Rabat and complain to the Ambassador. There'd be an inquiry, Janet would hear of it, and, confronted, he'd sob and confess. She'd leave him, take away the boys. He'd lose his job, his pension, his privileges at the PX. There was only one way, he knew, to save the situation. He'd have to go back into the living room, go straight to Jackie, and apologize.

He stumbled in expecting to find the others staring at him with hate. But no one paid the slightest attention. All except Jackie were encased in earphones. Foster and Katie Manchester were conducting with their hands, but curiously, he noted, to a different beat.

This is a madhouse!

He sat beside Jackie on the couch. She looked at him, giggled, placed her headset on his lap.

"I owe you an apology," he whispered. "I guess I drank too much."

"It's OK, Mr. Lake. I thought you were kind of cute."

"Shhh," he begged her, but she giggled again.

"Don't worry. We can talk. None of them can hear us. They're into Bach."

"You're not angry-"

"Oh, no." She smiled. "I like impulsive men."

"Jackie-"

"Look at him." She gestured toward Foster, now conducting along with Ashton Codd. "Oooo, what a jerk. In bed he's a stick. I wish he knew how to kiss."

"I thought you two were so-"

She slid her hand along his thigh. "I often ask myself why I ever married Foster. We both like sports. We were both on the track team at college. Tell me, Mr. Lake-do you really think that's enough?"

He looked at her, saw a sulky discontent. "I suppose not," he mumbled, edging away.

Suddenly she pushed her mouth against his ear. "After you and Janet leave, drop her at the Consulate and double back. Park at the traffic circle at the end of the street. After everyone's gone I'll tell Foster I'm going out for a jog. Then I'll meet you, and we'll talk."

Even as he nodded he knew he was making a mistake. But something about her, something aroused and voracious, had suddenly jerked his lust. She wiggled her nose and patted his knee. He stood up, went around to Janet, and motioned that it was time to go.

Janet ripped off her earphones. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Sorry to break things up, Foster. But we've got to be getting back."

The others rapidly stripped off their headsets, grateful for the chance to get away.

"But-but it's not over yet." Foster pointed at the turntable. Now they were all on their feet.

"Good-by."

"Good night."

"Thanks."

"But there's more-the whole second side."

They were all tearing toward the door.

Driving back to the Consulate, Lake banged his fist against the wheel. "What an evening! Glad to be out of there." He glanced at Janet. "Have you ever felt so trapped?"

"Gosh, you're critical, Dan. I thought you liked Willard and Katie at least."

"Not anymore I don't. I'm sick of them. All that crap about Fort Lauderdale-you'd think it's Eden over there."

Janet sighed. "Sometimes I just don't understand you, Dan."

Well, that was something-he didn't understand himself.

He dropped her at the residence gate, told her not to wait up. He was going to his office to plow through a stack of paperwork. She left him without looking back.

He pulled around to the side of the building, waited until their bedroom light went on. Then he drove slowly through town to kill some time before his rendezvous with Jackie Knowles. It was only a little after eleven, but the Boulevard was empty, just a few straggling tourists in the cafes. He knew the action at this hour was down in the medina, but he felt depressed by the emptiness, the flashing neon, the Arabic banners he couldn't read. One of their damn holidays again, he thought. There was always something going on-King's birthday, anniversary of his coronation, Arab Unity Week. He turned left and drove along the beach, listening for the faint music of bellydancer bands playing in the nightclubs of the big hotels.

Back in the suburbs he slowed as he passed the Knowles‘, then drove on to the traffic circle and parked. He turned off his headlights and lit a cigarette. There was no one about.

It was another twenty minutes before she appeared, jogging around the corner at a rapid pace, the white stripe of her sweat-suit flashing light from the dim street lamps. She loped around the circle, waved at him as she passed, then raised three fingers and started around again-meaning, he supposed, that she was going to run the circle thrice.

He watched, becoming dizzy as he followed her with his eyes. On her third pass she suddenly stopped, then leaped beside him into the car.

"Hi!" She smiled, leaned forward, planted a long, wet kiss on his lips. Her forehead was sweaty and so was the rest of her-he could feel the moistness as they embraced.

"Can I call you Dan, Mr. Lake?"

"Sure, Jackie. Sure."

"Well, Dan-"

She reached for his tie, loosened it, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck. Then with a single stroke she unzipped the front of her sweatshirt. Her breasts popped out. She was naked underneath.

"I'm horny, Dan. It's not healthy to keep urges bottled up." She placed her hand on his crotch. He couldn't believe it. She started fumbling with his fly.

"Jackie-"

"Shhh!"

"Jackie!"

"Don't talk, Dan. We've only got a few minutes. Foster will worry if I'm gone too long." She kissed him again, struggling with his zipper. "I want you, Dan. I want you inside of me. But not tonight. It's really impossible to ball in a car." She got the zipper open then and started to fondle him through his shorts. "Drop them, Dan. I want to suck."

She mopped her forehead on her sleeve, then lay her head across his lap. She was sucking him, humming while she did it, the vibrations of her clinging lips bringing him alive.

He felt frightened at first, then hopelessly aroused, the object of fellatio in a diplomatic car. It was crazy the way she lay across him like a vixen, body contorted, straw hair strewn across his lap. But suddenly he was delighted by the danger, and slipped down in his seat. He forced her head against the steering post, and with terrifying spasms shot off in her mouth.

The whole thing had taken less than a minute. When he opened his eyes he saw her making obscene swallowing motions with her throat.

"God! What if someone saw?"

"Never mind, Dan. It's over now."

She sat up and cupped her breasts. There was a radiant, triumphant expression on her face. He reached for her, but she pulled back.

"No, Dan. Not now. Next time you'll have me. I'll call you tomorrow as soon as Foster leaves for work."

She zipped up her sweatshirt and backed out of the car. From outside she blew him a kiss, then jogged around the circle and disappeared. He sat alone then, his limp cock oozing onto the plastic seat.

What, my God, have I done?

For a while he drove around the city, losing all track of time. He drove the Boulevard again, and Avenue d'Espagne, then turned and twisted through the maze of narrow streets that ran between the Grand Socco and the beach. He drove up through the old Jewish quarter and into the Casbah, madly honking his horn. He passed beneath the arches, the narrow street along the walls, until he arrived at the Place de Casbah and pulled to a screeching halt.

He looked about. The great square was deserted. He got out, walked to the battlements, stared down the cliffs at the moonlit bay.

What's happening?

He knew now he'd never get to sleep. His head was on fire, though he was sure he was no longer drunk. The encounter with Jackie had taken care of that, and now he felt caught up by something, some passionate force that had seized hold, and to which he'd relinquished all control.

Am I going to snap? Is this the night I'm going to break?

He didn't think so. Despite all that had happened he felt a new, clear vision taking hold. He was a man of the night, a man who acted while others slept. There was a destiny for him in Tangier. Z! Z was the quarry, the man he must begin to hunt.

In Dradeb there were still people in the streets, but he felt no fear of them as he drove through. He'd heard much lately of their vicious taunts and flying rocks, but tonight he felt invincible, the master of Tangier.

After he crossed the Jew's River he slowed down, searching for Zvegintzov's car. He saw it, a rusting old Peugeot. He parked behind it and looked about. The shop was closed. The grill was down, but he could see light coming from a window off the side. He'd never been in there, the room behind the store. He knew it was where Peter slept.

He locked the car, crossed the street, then moved carefully, pressing against the side of Zvegintzov's house. There was a window ahead that cast out light. He stooped beneath it, rose slowly, and peered in through the glass.

He saw Peter then, sitting on his bed not a dozen feet away. He was talking-Lake could hear the sound, though he couldn't make out a single word. He ducked, fearing he might be seen, then realized he was in darkness, invisible to those inside. He backed off a bit, then rose again. He had to see who else was there.

It was the girl, the one living with Ouazzani, Kalinka, Zvegintzov's wife. She was standing, facing Z, at the 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.

Thank God! Something I can understand.

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.

I've done it!

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-"

— secrets!"

"I don't remember. Can't!"

Another silence. Lake craned his head. They were walking around, he guessed, or had turned from the window. He lost their thread, then caught it again.

"— going to talk to him again. I can make him leave-close him up-"

"What good-"

"Don't you see, Kalinka? I have to know!"

It all stopped then, as if they'd suddenly left the room. Their bedroom probably-if they'd gone in there he'd not hear anymore. What were they talking about? A letter, a document, something she'd destroyed. They'd been arguing about Z-no doubt of that. But he thought Ouazzani had sounded less angry than he should. Patience, gentleness-these qualities surprised him. The Inspector's voice didn't match the tone of a man who felt himself deceived.

Lake crawled closer to the glass door, but there was no more to be heard. They must have closed themselves in their bedroom. Now he'd never know what all of it had meant.

He looked up. He had to get out. But an instant later he felt despair. How? It was impossible. He'd never get back on the roof. There was nothing to hold on to. The ledges and cornice he'd used protruded out, and he didn't have the strength to hoist himself up. Now he was stuck. He'd gone to all this trouble, taken all these risks, learned little, understood less, and now he was going to be caught.

God, I've been a fool.

An hour later he was racing down the apartment stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He'd done a dangerous thing, taken the ultimate risk, and by some miracle, part of the chain of luck that had supported him all night, he was out of danger, free and safe. He'd waited on the terrace for an hour until he was sure the Ouazzanis were asleep. Then while his heart pumped thunderously he'd simply walked into their apartment, across their salon, opened their front door, and slipped out through the hall. It was the only way, and he'd taken it. In the lobby he stopped to gasp.

His hands were still shaking when he arrived at the Consulate, opened the garage, parked the car. In his bathroom in the residence he studied himself in the mirror, his eyes, bulging and red, the filth on his hands and suit. He stripped and stepped into the shower, ran the water hot. Then, ravenously hungry, he went to the kitchen and scrambled eggs.

Slipping into bed beside Janet, he thought of Jackie Knowles. In the morning she would call him. What would he say to her? Where would all that lead?

He knew he'd never lived before with such intensity, acquiring a mistress, spying on a spy, detecting a detective, all in the space of a few short hours. Now the possibilities were unlimited. There was nothing he couldn't do. He'd been master of the city. Tangier had whimpered at his feet.