"If that's true I'll recognize it."
Peter looked at him. "I want more than that."
"Tell me what you want."
"When I have told you this I want your good regard." Zvegintzov ran his tongue across his upper lip. He turned slightly, until his thick glasses caught the light.
"I've always had high regard for you, Peter."
"But you haven't had respect."
"All right." Hamid was impatient. "What is this about?"
"Last week Aziz asked if I knew of any Nazis in Tangier. I can tell you now that I do."
"I'm listening."
"You're surprised, Hamid. You didn't expect to receive such information today. Admit it. You really do respect me a little now."
Zvegintzov grinned, displaying a row of stained and crooked teeth. Hamid stared at him, tense, annoyed. "Admit it. At least admit that you're surprised."
Hamid exhaled. "Yes, Peter, I'm surprised. Does that satisfy you? You've made your point."
"You really do respect me now?"
"I respect you more and more as each second passes by."
"Thank you." His hands, Hamid noticed, were now loosely curled into fists. His face betrayed a child's pleasure-he'd won himself a trivial point. "There is only one case that I know of undiscovered Nazis in Tangier. These people have gone to great lengths to disguise themselves. I believe I'm the only person here who knows who they really are. When I tell you their names you'll kick yourself for not having thought of them. You'll know instantly that I'm right, and you'll gladly acknowledge that I have formidable abilities which you've underrated much too long."
"In a minute, Peter, I'm going to walk out of here "
"Yes, yes. You're busy. I know. The Freys. You know their house, of course. Their collections. Their paintings and antiques. You know they raise Alsatian dogs. But did you know too that there are indictments against them in Belgium? That there are people in several countries who would give a great deal to know that they are here?"
"How do you know this?"
"I've known for a long time."
"How?"
"I've heard certain things. And I've discovered others on my own."
"You have proof?"
"I'm not a judge, Hamid."
"Who are they?"
"So! You believe me. Good!" He leaned forward, toward Hamid's ear, and spoke rapidly in a hoarse whisper, turning away every so often to clear his throat and cough. "They are notorious. The Beckers. Kurt and Inge Becker. Same first names, you see. During the war they ran a confidence ring, pretended they could help prominent Jews escape. They doublecrossed them, stole everything they had, murdered them after they'd signed over everything and placed themselves in their hands. They amassed a great fortune which they somehow managed to have transferred here. You can read about them in books, I expect, and also in Israeli files. Ha!"
He pulled Hamid by his sleeve over to the window, then pointed up at a palace that hung precipitously above the ravine. "Now they live quietly in their big house on the Mountain. That place is impenetrable as a fort. Walls, wire fences, dogs, electric gates. The Freys are courteous people, always dignified and correct. They give money to the local charities, and their servants report that they are kind. There is a rumor around that they are under royal protection. There's nothing more that I can tell you, except that everything I've said is true. They're excellent customers, by the way. Tell me what you'll do."
"You give information to me, Peter. I don't give it to you. But for what you've just told me I certainly hold you in regard."
He was pleased, walking back to the car. Though he knew he couldn't always trust Zvegintzov, this time intuition told him that he should. He had performed, he thought, a marvel of detective work, forming a theory that would explain the presence of an Israeli agent in Tangier, then uncovering information that suggested his theory was correct.
But later, that afternoon, he thought about Zvegintzov and the curious price he'd extracted for the Beckers' names. Why does Peter want my respect? What possible good could it do him now?
He was disturbed the next morning by something he saw on his way to work-a girl, no older than twelve, swinging a cat by its tail against a telephone pole on Rue de Belgique. He stopped his car, called out. The girl glared at him, heaved the cat away, and ran off down the street. The cat was dead. Hamid wrapped the carcass in a newspaper and deposited it in the trash.
Arriving at his office, he felt depressed. A great number of new cases had accumulated during the night. Aziz had arranged the dossiers in order of importance on his desk. Hamid looked at them, groaned, then set to work. By eleven he was finished, and exhausted from the task.
"About Lake," he said to Aziz. "Any idea why he's hanging around La Colombe?"
"We don't have anything on that, Hamid, except that he and Zvegintzov are friends. Lake's had him to the Consulate several times. The Russian takes part in the conversation, sometimes drinks too much and runs off about his clients. Lake's chauffeur says the Consul drives over there nearly every day, and that Zvegintzov gives Lake cigars."
Someone blew a whistle outside. Hamid walked to the window. Two cops were tussling with a boy in front of the building. A small crowd had gathered. A man in a bloodstained butcher's apron was waving his fist. A police jeep was parked by the curb.
"I've never known Peter to give anything away."
Aziz bent forward. "What do you think, Hamid?"
"Nothing. I don't think anything. I wish I were home in bed."
At noon he picked up his brother, then drove out to a fish restaurant on the Atlantic beach. They ordered seafood tapas, dishes of tiny eels and clams and squids, which they ate with bits of Arab bread.
"I'm worried about Kalinka."
He spoke rapidly, after a silence. Farid looked up and wiped his mouth.
"She's very strange lately. She's stopped smoking-Achar convinced her, but in a way that's made things worse. Now she draws and broods. I come home and find her sitting by the window. When I ask her what she's done, she looks at me and I feel her eyes drilling to my heart. I ask about the pictures. She shows them to me-strange, shadowy scenes. I ask her what they mean. She blinks at me and smiles."
"Well, Hamid, you have to take her to a doctor."
"She's been to Achar. Radcliffe too. They tell me she's just a little nervous, and I shouldn't allow myself to become upset."
"Maybe a psychiatrist-"
"In Tangier? Our so-called psychiatrists are madhouse attendants. Anyway, how can I send her to one of them? I'm an inspector of police. Soon everyone will be saying she's sick in her head. People will use that against me. I don't care, but those pitying looks, those suggestions that I throw her out. Ah!"
He swirled his fork among the eels. Farid pushed back his chair. His face was like Hamid's, but less Berber, prettier. "She's always been strange, Hamid."
"I know. At first I thought it didn't matter. She was what she was, I loved her, and that was enough. But now I feel I must understand her. She suffers. Perhaps she longs for something. Some loss. Torment. I don't know."
Then, sensitive to the fact that he was making his brother uneasy, Hamid switched the subject. "Have you ever sold anything to the Freys?"
Farid shook his head. "They don't collect Moroccan things. They like signed French furniture. Impressionists. Roman coins."
"You've seen all that?"
"One time. With Wax. He was after them for a while. When he smells money on people he warms up to them, and he smelled it on the Freys. He's drawn to rich people. When he finds them the first thing he does is think up a swindle. There was a jade scepter they had, and he wanted it. He had in mind a trade, a pair of short obelisks which he claimed were ancient pieces from Luxor, though I happen to know he had them made by the man who makes gravestones on Avenue Hassan II. Anyway, we went up to the Freys'. This was during the time that Patrick was teaching me interior decoration and good taste."