Read Tangier for Free Online

close calls in empty squares. There were suspicious transactions observed in rusting café   mirrors, and mad chases up flights of wet stone stairs. He lost him in the Grand Socco, among a crowd of veiled women and hooded men, then picked him up again on a deserted beach at night, while the periscope of a Soviet submarine emerged slowly in the middle of the Straits. Prozov, the much-feared Prozov, was aboard, and Z was rowing out to him in a small black boat. Quick flashes of light from the sub, and a reply from Z. He would have to act now if he was going to intercept.
    The water was ice cold against his body. There was danger in the currents, treachery in the tides. Something gelatinous and phosphorescent grazed his leg. His arms ached as he swam, then hoisted himself aboard. There was a mad fight then with the rough wooden oars. They dueled like savages while his hands bled, and when the boat capsized the salt water stung the damaged flesh. Finally he threw away his oar and went after Z with bare hands. A knee to the groin, and a fast chop against the neck. Z's eyes bugged out—he could smell the garlic on his breath. He grabbed his head and held it under water until he drowned. When it was done the Russian's spectacles bobbed away on a spumy wave.
    Â 
    N ine o'clock in the morning. Standing at the window of his office, Dan Lake could see the Mountain, bathed in sunlight, and the valley of Dradeb below. He was peering through binoculars at Willard Manchester's terrace, trying to hold Willard and Katie in focus against the pinkness of their house. There were pots of geraniums near the wrought iron table; a stainless steel coffee pot caught the light. Katie was writing—probably a shopping list; Willard was drawing on a pipe.
    "Now tell me, Foster—slowly, please. And don't leave anything out."
    Foster Knowles was sitting on a couch at the far end of the office, staring absently at the American flag behind the Consul General's desk. He looked at Lake's back, broad and straight against the window. Then he twitched a little and cleared his throat.
    "Gee, Dan, there's not too much to tell. I watched the place all day. People go in and then they come out. There's sort of a buildup between ten and eleven in the morning—people coming back from the market, I guess. Then there's another rush between six and eight. At one he closes down and drives off for lunch. He opens again at four in the afternoon."
    "Where does he go?"
    "When, Dan?"
    "For lunch, Foster. When do you think?"
    "I don't know." Knowles shrugged. "I couldn't follow him. He might have recognized my car."
    "You used your own car?"
    "Well, what else could I use?"
    "Christ!" Knowles was hopeless, his surveillance a flop.
    "Look, Dan, I'm new at all this. If you'd just tell me—"
    "Later, later—"
    Lake let the binoculars droop around his neck, then looked at his vice-consul slouching on the couch.
    "For Christ's sake, Foster," he said gently, "will you please sit up straight."
    He moved around to his desk and shook his head. Knowles was an idiot. His blond hair curled down his neck and covered half his ears. He was exactly the same size as his wife, Jackie, who taught girls' gymnastics at the American School. They were vegetarians, smoked pot on the weekends, jogged around early in the morning in unisex sweatsuits like a matched pair of ponies parading on a course.
    "All right," he said, settling into his chair. "What sort of people go in there, and what did you see them do?"
    "Oh—people from the Mountain. The Manchesters, for instance."
    "Willard Manchester goes in there?"
    Knowles nodded. "Yesterday he went in twice."
    "And?" Why hadn't Willard told him about the Russian and his past?
    "The British. A lot of them. The Whittles. Vicar Wick. Retired people. People with big cars. They get their mail, pick up packages, buy newspapers—things like that." Knowles looked down at the rug. "I don't know—maybe I should have kept a