Tangier (44 page)

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.

The Hawkins' were there—the last time Jean had seen them they'd been posing nude for the erotic double portrait by Inigo. Pierre St. Carlton, in a gray velvet suit, chatted with Vanessa Bolton against a wall. Jean was introduced to a number of Brazilians, a grandee of Spain, some confident businessmen from Iran. There was a famous Greek actress who wore fabulous jewels, and an Italian leading man invited up from Marrakech, where an historical film was being shot. Omar Salah came up to them, kissed Claude's hand. Then he put his arm across the shoulders of Monsieur de Hoag and guided him away.

They were waiting, Jean understood, for members of the Moroccan royal family, off somewhere with Henderson Perry in another part of the house. Jean brushed close to Claude, tried clandestinely to take her hand. She showed her annoyance by turning away: she was like that sometimes, ready one minute to risk exposure, furious the next because he'd dared to look at her and smile. He shrugged and started toward the Hawkins', passing near Peter Barclay and Camilla Weltonwhist on his way.

"The trouble with Henderson," he overheard Barclay explain, "is that he has no taste at all. Look at these third-rate paintings. He lives like a very rich dentist, don't you think?"

Jean nodded to himself. The interior of "Castlemaine" was disappointing, especially after the fabulous entrance through the grounds. The walls were covered with dark pictures in heavy frames. There were a few Moroccan antiques, candelabra from Farid Quazzani's shop, but most of the furniture was contemporary and expensive, the sort one might find in the waiting room of a society physician on Boulevard Malesherbes.

Jean tried to talk to the Hawkins', who were uncommunicative and wrapped up in themselves. When he looked back at Claude, he saw her speaking with Salah. The chief of customs was making forceful gestures with his hands. Claude, he was happy to see, was staring back at him unimpressed.

Vanessa Bolton caught his eye, motioned him to her side. "We must stick together," she said, kissing both his cheeks. "We're the only young people except the Hawkins', who of course are stoned."

She brought him into her conversation with St. Carlton. The couturier was holding forth on the phenomenon of American millionaires. "Perry's from Texas," he said, "the only place in the world besides Tangier where people still think titles count. The man's phenomenal. Absolutely ruthless and filthy rich. You've seen the yacht, of course."

"Speaking of toys," said Vanessa.

"Yes, my dear." St. Carlton raised his eyebrows. "All the talk is true. Perry adores them. There's a room here someplace filled with electric trains. And perpetual motion machines—my God! There're all sorts of them around the halls."

"We must look around later, Jean," Vanessa said. "There're such lovely gadgets—"

"Yes," said St. Carlton. "And then there's his cryonics stuff."

"Cryonics?"

"Oh, yes, my dears. He's got equipment that accompanies him everywhere—cylinders of liquid oxygen, a preservation box. If he contracts cancer or falls ill of an incurable disease, his people have been instructed to freeze him in a flash. The idea, you see, is that eventually medical science will find a cure. Then he can be defrosted and treated, even a hundred years from now. Mad? Maybe. The poor man wants to live forever. But who doesn't? Just tell me that."

St. Carlton paused, gazed across the room. "Look at that viper," he said, pointing toward Barclay. Then suddenly he brought his hand up to his mouth. "Oh, dear—here they come, I think. We must all remember to curtsy and bow. I always get goose pimples around royalty. Then, damn it, I forget—"

Henderson Perry, a neat little man, led the six Moroccan royals into the room. There was something impersonal about his style, more of the tycoon giving foreign dignitaries a tour of a factory than of a man hosting a party in his house.

There was a hush as they appeared. All the guests fell back. Perry led the royals to the center of the room, then introduced them one by one.

There were three princesses, sisters of the King; two princes, brothers; and the adolescent Prince Heritier, which explained the elaborate security around the house. Jean found them a curiously unimpressive group, rather short, darker than most Moroccans he knew, slightly awkward, he thought, with quite ordinary Moroccan features, the sort he'd expect to see in the Socco on a market day.

He watched as they moved about, greeting Perry's dazzled guests. When they reached the de Hoags he was moved by the sight of Claude bowing with elegance, never lowering her turquoise eyes.

Now that's a real princess
, he thought, suffused suddenly by waves of love. He wanted to go to her, take her hand, lead her away from this stuffy party out to Cap Spartel, where they could lie together on the sand and make love to the rhythm of the surf.

At dinner Perry, Barclay, the royals, the movie stars, and the Ambassador were seated at a big table on the terrace protected from the wind by a screen of glass. Jean sat with Vanessa Bolton, Pierre St. Carlton, and one of the Iranian wives. St. Carlton did most of the talking, gossiping away and complaining of the "sparseness" of Camilla Weltonwhist's bouquets.

Jean barely touched his food. He was too preoccupied with Claude. She was sitting with Salah, Lady Pitt, and Skiddy de Bayonne. He stole furtive glances at her all through dinner, but she never once returned his gaze.

After the meal the guests were led away for coffee to a huge room where musicians beat on drums. Soon belly-dancers appeared and began to roll their stomachs. There was nothing erotic about them, Jean thought, and he slid, after a while, into a state of soft malaise. He'd drunk too much champagne and now dreamed of Claude, all the things they'd done, the wonder of her eyes, the mystery of her smile.

He was in the midst of this when Vanessa Bolton grabbed his hand. "Now's our chance," she whispered. "Perry's about to take the royals on a tour."

Jean nodded, stood up. Together they edged their way outside. Perry was already in the hall explaining the principles of perpetual motion. Jean, glancing back just as they were leaving, saw Monsieur de Hoag, but not a trace of Claude.

The tour was delightful. Perry liked showing off, and the Moroccans, all connoisseurs of Western gadgetry, were most responsive to the charms of his machines. They looked in at his kitchen and his communications center in the tower, full of transmitters and a telex by which he kept track of his business interests around the world.

Perry guided them into his room of electric trains, then sat down at a console and started them by remote control. Soon the Crown Prince was busy lowering barriers, flashing signals, while Perry explained that the network was "fail safe"— if a collision were imminent, the power automatically cut off.

A good thing, Jean thought, since the Prince seemed reckless. He pitied Morocco when this young man became the King.

The tour continued. They mounted stairs, wound through corridors, looked out at different views. When they came at last to Perry's personal suite, Vanessa excused herself, but a few minutes later she sneaked up behind Jean and whispered in his ear. "Pretend you have to pee," she said. "Then use the bathroom on the right."

Jean, obedient, did as he was told, and for his trouble was vastly entertained. There was a sunken tub in the middle of the bathroom floor with little piers built along its sides, and a great fleet of miniature boats floating there, neatly tied. There were tiny warships, toy yachts, meticulous reproductions of famous craft—a whole flotilla, perfect in every detail, all with wind-up motors to make them sail.

He laughed then, finally touched by Henderson Perry, his magic world, his secret vice. This legendary tycoon, reputed to be so ruthless, liked to play in his tub with tiny boats, like any toy-struck American boy.

When he left he found the others by a window. Perry was demonstrating a telescope. It was an infrared model, based on devices developed during the Vietnam war. One could see people in the dark with it, Perry explained: the human body gave off waves of heat.

Perry offered the scope to the Crown Prince, who stepped up to it and scanned the grounds. Jean and the others were standing behind him waiting their turns to look, when suddenly the Prince let out with a giggle and pulled at the gown of his youngest aunt.

She took hold of the instrument, gazed through it, then she too began to laugh. Soon all the royals were pushing and shoving. There was much chattering in Arabic and wild gesturing with hands.

Henderson Perry, a little confused, watched them with a smile. "I don't know what they see out there that's so damn funny," he said. "Whatever it is, it must be pretty good."

After a while, when the royals had tired of their game, Jean, who was nearest, stepped up to the telescope to look through it for himself. Being careful not to move the instrument, he brought his eye down slowly to the lens. He was bewildered at first—the infrared effect made things look strange. But a moment later he felt a rush of pain. It was Claude, he was sure, not inches from his eye, somewhere out there in the gardens of "Castlemaine," naked, he could see, and with a man. Jean stared, felt sick, then turned away. She was making love with the customs' chief, Omar Salah.

L
ake knew he'd had it. Everything had backfired. He felt crazy, about to run amuck.

He was driving down the Mountain at a furious speed, like a kamikaze pilot daring death. His tires squealed as he took the curves. The American flag on his fender snapped crazily in the wind. His lights caught someone standing in the road, a policeman maybe—he wasn't sure. He stabbed about with his toe, searching for the high-beam switch. By mistake he activated the windshield wipers. He nearly hit the cop, swerved away just in time.

Better slow down
, he thought, trying to turn the wipers off. At the bottom of the hill, just before the Jew's River bridge, he brought the car to a screeching halt, then lay his head against the wheel.

That noise!

The awful sound stopped as he jolted back. He'd been pressing his forehead against the horn.

If I just don't lose my head, then maybe things will be all right
. But he knew they wouldn't, that there wasn't any way he could obliterate the past, not just the last fifteen minutes, but the whole time he'd been in Tangier, his whole damn sorrowful life. He leaned forward, peered out at the street. No one there; Dradeb was quiet. He turned, fastening his eyes on La Colombe.

That bastard! That stinking Russian bastard! That goddamn son of a bitch!

Feeling himself beginning to go mad again, he fought to regain control. He had to keep cool, not allow himself to crack. He had to figure out what to do.

Z had been blunt when he'd made his proposition a quarter of an hour before, out on the terrace at the Manchesters, with thirty people milling around, and that asshole Willard standing there, snapping pictures for his memory book.

Proposition! Ha!
Blackmail was a better word. Zvegintzov said that if he heard another word about defection he'd tell the American Embassy about everything Lake had done. "Everything"—that was the word he'd used, drawing out the syllables in his obnoxious Slavic whine.

"Such as what?" Lake had asked, feeling an awful burning in his chest.

"Such as how you broke security," Z'd replied. "Such as how you invited me into the communications room at the Consulate, then offered to defect to me with an American code machine in hand."

"Don't be stupid, Peter. No one's going to believe that."

"They will," he said, "when they see my evidence, the photographs I took inside the vault."

Photographs! What photographs?
His palms were sweating then. Zvegintzov pulled the little Minox out of his pocket, waved it around, nearly stuck it in his nose.

Christ! It could be true. Z could have done it without his noticing anything, without his even hearing the shutter click. He'd been so wrapped up in himself then, so flushed with feelings of power and success. Now the bastard was threatening him. Blackmail—it was nothing less.

"What do you want from me, Peter?" he'd asked. "How much money do you want?"

"I don't want money," Peter replied, "I just want you to leave me alone. Stop harassing me, Lake, and tell your people to lay off too. Or I'll give my pictures to the Russians and ruin your career."

That was it, the blow that had done him in. He went blind with fury, could have strangled the bastard then and there. But he hadn't—had been too scared. Instead he'd run out of the house, knocking a fondue pot out of Katie's arms. He'd heard it crash to smithereens just as he'd slammed the door, heard someone calling after him ("Dan, Dan"—it sounded like Jackie) as he'd started the car and begun the wild drive down toward Tangier.

Well, now he'd had it. He'd done so many stupid things, playing the spy, underrating Zvegintzov, vastly overrating himself, compromising his country besides. Impossible to let Z hold those photographs over his head, which left him, he realized, with little choice. The Ambassador was in town.