"I'm very grateful to you," said Boris. "That girl is embarrassing."
"You're very welcome," said Craig.
The girl had found an American, had taken off his coat and tie, and was now removing his shirt.
Then she tied the tie across his chest as a bra. The man was pelted like a monkey. She began to coax him into a belly dance, and the crowd was laughing to see what had been desirable made grotesque. Kamar had done that, too: it had given her great pleasure to degrade a man, any man. She had never liked Craig to praise her for it. ..
The American had been released, and was putting on his shirt while his wife told him how relieved she was that there was no one else there from Sandusky, Ohio. The girl accepted her applause almost casually; her body was already concentrating on the next part of her act. Slyly the music began again, and this time it was, Craig knew, the stuff the tourist doesn't see too often. He remembered a party in Fez, where he had been the guest of honor. He'd delivered a hundred Belgian rifles the day before, and this had been for him. It was the first time he had met Kamar . . . The girl's body moved as if tormented by the music, as if the wailing sounds were an aphrodisiac that drove her on and on, and the slow writhing of her body only intensified her need. One by one the instruments cut out, until the drum beats alone spoke to her and she responded exactly to their rhythm, kneeling in front of the drummer, answering each beat with a responsive and rhythmical shuddering, until at last her body arched backward, legs astride, her pretty belly rippled to the swift-flowing sounds. Then she shuddered, and the drums were still, the lights dimmed, then rose, and she was bowing as the audience roared.
"What an extraordinary thing," said Boris.
"Please, I should like to go home now," said
Istvan. "This is worse than Siberia."
They went back, and Craig marveled at Boris's docility. He had allowed Craig to take them all over Tangier, and be seen. That made him a fool. Craig didn't believe that Boris was a fool. This job was too important.
In the hotel a Negro porter in white robes handed over their keys and spoke to Craig in Arabic. His voice was low and rumbling, and he bowed as the three men went to the lift.
"What was all that about?" Boris asked.
"He hopes we enjoy our stay here," said Craig.
"He wants a tip," said Istvan.
Boris said, far too late: "You shouldn't speak Arabic, Craig. Tourists never do."
The three of them shared a suite. There was a living room and verandah, and opening off it, on either side, a double-bedded room for Boris and Istvan, a single-bedded room for Craig. It was Craig who now unlocked the door to the living room, and stood aside for Boris to enter. He didn't, but Istvan in some way he never understood found himself impelled by the sheer force of Craig's will into stepping over the threshold, and so Boris followed. Then came Craig, last of all. They had left a light burning in the room, and he stood outside its soft, golden pool, tense and ready, the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson no longer in his shoulder holster, but transferred to the waistband of his trousers as he followed Boris. He stood in the half darkness, his hand on his hip. The butt of the gun was only inches away from his fingers.
Inside the lamplight a woman sat. Her hair was very fair, almost white, and her eyes were green as a cold sea. She wore a white dress, and a mink lay at her feet like a trophy. Craig noticed at once her quality of repose. She sat completely at ease, not moving; the position of her body and the chair she sat in were sufficient to make sure that she could watch the door, and the men who came through it. In the silence they could hear the whisper of the air-conditioning, then her hand moved swiftly down to the chair. Craig jumped sideways, and the gun was in his hand as he leaped. "No," he said.
The woman chuckled. It was a delightful sound, rich, deep, and lazy. The Smith and Wesson covered the small arc between her and Boris. Istvan began to think of Siberia almost with nostalgia, then the woman rose, and he gasped aloud. She was tall, full-bodied, and very graceful, with the grace of a hunting animal. From the corner of his eye Istvan saw the gun steady and point, its barrel a stubby, accusing finger, aimed an inch below her left breast. Istvan had no doubt that Craig would fire if he had to, nor had the woman.
"I think Boris had better introduce us," she said.
"This is my controller," said Boris. "She's known as Tania."
"I have a letter for you," Tania said. "In my handbag. Just a letter."
"Istvan," said Craig, "get it."
And Istvan obeyed at once. Boris might be responsible for his death, Tania might be responsible for Boris, but never had Istvan seen a man with a gun who looked as Craig did, He produced the letter and handed it over at arm's length.
"Put the lights on," Craig said, and again Istvan obeyed. "Now up against the wall, all three of you. Hands by your sides."
Again Istvan moved as if only his fear were real; the other two followed more slowly. Even lowering her arms in defeat, Tania's grace was deadly. Craig read the letter. "You'd better pour the drinks, Istvan," he said.
Istvan drank the first one himself, and didn't even know he'd done so. By the time the others had glasses in their hands, he was on his third.
"My chief says I'm to take instructions from you," said Craig. "I don't like it."
She spoke in Russian to Boris, and he and Istvan went at once to their bedroom. Istvan filled his glass before he left.
"Craig," she said, and looked at him. It was a long, comprehensive look, sexually arrogant, domineering. Its effect on men was usually remarkable. Craig waited with a stolid patience that was obviously reluctant.
"We have a file on you," she said. "A very thick file. You are a very successful agent. If you become dangerous to us, all we can do is kill you. It will be difficult, but it can be done, I promise you."
Craig yawned. "It's been a long day," he said.
She chuckled again, the same sound of purring pleasure. "Please," she said. "I am not presuming to frighten you. I just tell you a fact. Also, I am trying to avoid wasting time in anger—as you are so tired."
"Let's have it then," said Craig.
"Your orders were to stay somewhere discreet, quiet. I find you in a big hotel. You use the bar and the dining room. You go to cafes and nightclubs.
You are seen all over the town."
"I thought you'd have us followed," said Craig. "Didn't want Boris to have to keep making phone calls, I suppose. Embarrassing, pretending you have to go to the toilet all the time."