William Bayer - Tangier

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.