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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 Sûreté
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    A ziz Jaouhari had been working for an hour when Hamid walked in late. It was Monday morning