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.
Lake 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.
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."