William Bayer - Tangier

"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.

Lake knew what he had to do. He'd have to drive up to Henderson Perry's, call the Ambassador out, confess everything, and resign, right there, tonight.

A little after midnight Robin was driving up the Mountain in Herve Beaumont's car when he noticed a light in the glass studio on the top of Martin Townes' house.

"Slow a little, Herve," he said, squinting at the tower and smiling to himself. Everyone else in Tangier was at a party, he and Herve were on their way to Jimmy Sohario's, but there sat Townes, scribbling away, working into the night.

He was glad when they finally reached "Excalibur," such a change from the atmosphere at Francoise de Lauzon's. Jimmy, a diminutive and affable Indonesian, was always an excellent host. His food was the best on the Mountain, and his villa one of the most fabulous in Tangier. Robin thought of its interior as a bestiary since so many parts of animals were displayed. The chairs were made of entwined antlers, the wastebaskets were hollowed-out elephants' feet, the floors were covered with zebra skin rugs, and the walls were adorned with polished giant tortoise shells.

It was only half past twelve, but already the house was jammed. Everyone in Tangier was there, it seemed, except the hosts of the four earlier parties, brooding alone in their homes now that their guests had fled to better things.

Robin was struck by how easy it was to recognize where everyone had been-they were all distinguishable by their modes of dress: formal evening attire on those who'd been at "Castlemaine," absurd costumes on Francoise's bunch, business suits on the Manchesters' friends, garish resort clothing on the scummy TP crowd.

He plunged in, anxious to accomplish a self-appointed task, to fix up Herve Beaumont with the hustler Pumpkin Pie. He finally found the "tart of gourds" brooding in a window seat, bare arms poking through the sleeves of his tank top, muscles gleaming in the night.

"Hi, Pie," he said, sitting beside him. "What's the matter? You're looking sad."

"That bitch Francoise," Pie replied. "She didn't invite me to her thing."

Robin saw the boy was hurt and felt sympathy, since he understood the cause. Pie had been the Countess's gardener, and her lover after that. She was the person who'd introduced him to society and had given him his extraordinary name.

"It's that fuckin' Inigo. Everyone's against me now."

"Not so," said Robin, patting him on the arm. "Inigo was in love with you, so he can't bear to see you anymore. Francoise is his friend, and doesn't like to see him sad. She didn't invite you tonight, despite the fact that she adores you, so Inigo could have a little fun."

"Hey, man-you really think so? Well, Okay. Everything's cool now."

Robin was pleased to have so easily cheered him up. Also he was amazed by Pie's mastery of jive talk. Moroccan boys were like that, he knew, instant mimics of Europeans, but what astounded Robin was how quickly Pie had abandoned the refined Latin American mannerisms he'd acquired from Inigo. It was as if that relationship had never existed. How little we really leave these boys , he thought.

"Remember my picnic, Pie?"

"Yeah, man. That was a bitch."

"There was a French boy with me. Herve Beaumont."

"Yeah. Lives on the Mountain. I know the cat you mean."

"Well, he's with me tonight, Pie, and very interested in meeting you. I think you'd like him. He's quite rich, by the way."

Pie, who'd been staring out at the room, on the lookout for some queen he could hustle for the night, suddenly turned his attention back to Robin, who congratulated himself for knowing the secret word that opened all Moroccan hearts.

"Rich, huh?"

Robin nodded.

"Sounds nice, man."

"I'll bring him over."

"He's not cherry, is he?"

"No, but he doesn't know the Moroccan scene. We know how special that is. Yes, we do-don't we, Pie?"

" Yeah ." Pie grinned, held his palm out straight, and made little cutting motions at it with the edge of his other hand. It was the first reference he'd ever made to the time he'd held a knife against Robin's balls. Robin raised both his hands in mock submission, backed off a little, smiled, then both of them began to nod their heads. They were acknowledging, Robin supposed, the curious relationship that they had.

How marvelous , he thought, as he hunted Herve down, how marvelous these transactions of the flesh.

After he made the introductions, watched Pie and Herve share a pipe of hash, he wandered off to explore the party, search out material for his column. People had become wary of him ever since Townes had convinced him to write with a harder edge, but his stock had risen after a biting column on Vicar Wick, and now his sources were speaking to him again.

He circulated for a while, picking up tidbits-nothing of substance, however, nothing to rival the scandal at the church. The big story was the TP party, and Laurence Luscombe's unexpected finesse. Robin finally found Joe Kelly, drinking heavily, holding forth to Madame Fufu and the Drears.

"Know what Aunt Jemima said to Uncle Ben?"

The question was directed at Madame Fufu, who didn't understand it and shook her head.

"'You're a credit to your rice,' " said Kelly. "Ha! Ha! Ha!" He yowled, pounding at the sides of his chair, nearly unloosing the antler arms.

Robin winced. It was such an awful joke. Madame Fufu didn't get it and shook her head.

"That's a Yank joke," said Jessamyn Drear as Madame Fufu excused herself and wandered off.

"Better be careful," whispered Jessica to Kelly. "We might need her husband for Emperor Jones in the fall."

"Oh, fuck that burr head," Kelly said, "and fuck O'Neill too." He took a long sip from his drink. Robin sat beside him in Madame Fufu's place.

"So, Joe, I hear Luscombe won the game."

"Yeah," said Kelly, "him and that lousy Derik Law. I had a great plan going till those two screwed it up."