It was Jackie, finally, who came up with the idea of sending Foster out of town.
"Just get rid of him," she said. "Get the jerk out of our hair."
The idea of traveling alone across northern Morocco, making contacts and reporting on the political scene, should have intrigued Foster, if only because of the adventure involved. But for all his jogging he turned out to be soft. He balked at the idea, claimed he was needed in Tangier, to handle visas and visit arrested Americans in jail.
"He's really a schnook," Jackie said after Lake had ordered him to go. "I'd like to divorce him, but then I wouldn't know what to do. Join the Women's Army Corps, I suppose, or maybe take a masters in phys. ed." Lake felt touched by her limited ambitions. Something about the contrast between her naivete and her expertise in bed struck him as entrancing and profound.
With Foster finally out of the way, he was free to zero in on Z.
At the beginning he had no idea why he was cultivating the man. He'd been fascinated, of course, by his file-Zvegintzov's past as a Soviet agent and the warning that "personal contact by consular officials" was specifically "not advised." There'd been something contrary, he realized, about his pursuit of Z, something deliberately disobedient that drove him on. Assigning Foster to watch the shop, then going there nearly every day, inviting the Russian to dinner at the Consulate, spying on him through his window late at night-it was as if all of that was a way to thumb his nose at the Department, which had exiled him so unfairly to Tangier.
Yes, he'd been fascinated by the idea of becoming friends with a Russian agent, ignoring instructions, doing what he pleased. It was a way to assert his independence, but still, he felt, there was something more. A link-that was it; the link he felt with Z. Two men used up, two old cold warriors stationed in the backwater of Tangier. There was much in common, he thought, though they were employed by opposing powers. Two men mired in boredom, thrown on the ash heap by superiors indifferent to their fates.
The trouble was that despite a veneer of intimacy, the Russian never really opened up. His fleshy face remained noncommittal. He sidestepped Lake's overtures and kept himself aloof.
But then one day it came to Lake-the real reason behind it all, an explanation of what he was doing, a justification for his pursuit. He'd seen it in a moment, a revelation that struck him like a bullet and exploded a whole new level of ideas. It was very simple really, a mission he'd been destined to fulfill. The reason he'd been pursuing Z was to cause the Russian to defect.
Once he realized that, everything started making sense. He became flooded with fantasies of such intensity that even his interest in Jackie began to wane. He knew it would not be easy to cause defection. Russian agents were known for their fanaticism, their resistance to reason and the soft life styles of the West. But still he imagined himself engaging Z in a debate. They would wrestle together over the salvation of his soul.
Z would waver at first, then pull back. The struggle would teeter this way, totter that. But Lake would prepare himself well, laying the groundwork for a solid friendship while dropping increasingly unsettling hints and boning up on crucial Marxist texts. In the end he would send Z off to Washington, where for months the Russian would spill his guts.
He'd have much to tell of the intrigues in Indochina, and vital information on the North African spy nets. With luck he might even be converted into a double agent, then used to feed back false information to the Soviets. Or he might opt for a new identity in some Midwestern state, where he could begin his life again, perhaps open up another shop.
Lake knew it was a grandiose idea, and also treacherous with risk. He'd be putting his entire career on the line-if he failed he'd be fired for sure. But still, it seemed to him, he had very little choice. Better to end in glory or defeat than to die slowly of boredom and despair.
The day after he got the idea he began to intensify his assault, extending his visits to the shop, stopping in at odd hours when no one else was there, buying paperback espionage novels on Peter's recommendation, reading them and then returning to discuss the intricacies of their plots.
"Now, Peter," he'd ask, "if you'd been the spy here, would you have done the thing this way?" The two of them would then talk it out, their conversation laced with friendly tension and double entendres. Z would dance about behind his counter, hopping from foot to foot. His eyes would dart back and forth behind his spectacles. He'd cough and sputter and try to change the topic to something else.
"Now, Peter," Lake had said another time, apropos of nothing at all, "if I were a spy and wanted to set up a network in Tangier, first thing I'd do would be to get hold of a little shop like this. Place is a natural, a crossroads, great situation for a drop. I could keep an eye on everything, position myself in the center of the web. Like a spider, Peter, spinning wider concentric circles all the time."
Z had stiffened at that, but then Lake had smiled, and the Russian had relaxed. Lake wanted him to wonder whether he was merely being teased or whether he was being snared in a complicated plot.
One day he came in and spoke blandly about the weather. Then, as soon as Peter let down his guard, he threw him a tricky curve. "When I read about these deep-cover agents," he'd said, "I feel sorry for them, their loneliness, their difficult, dangerous lives. How tempting it must be for them to turn themselves in, to 'come in from the cold' as the expression goes-"
Peter, Lake thought, had betrayed himself, grasping one hand in the other, blinking involuntarily, turning to straighten merchandise on the shelves. Lake felt he'd touched a nerve and resolved to keep the pressure up. When, finally, he offered the alternative of defection, Z would be grateful and relieved.
The trouble was he didn't get much feedback, nothing but these occasional signs of strain. The Russian would stare at him attentively, or glance up with a grin, but he never countered with a quip of his own and sidestepped when Lake became direct. It was impossible to know what the man was really thinking. Lake felt he was working blind. The more unsubtle he became, the more Z backed away. Often when he left the shop, he felt the pieces weren't falling into place.
It was getting to be time, he knew, to make his move, time to stop pussyfooting around. The previous Friday, when he'd dropped in at La Colombe, he'd asked Peter to meet him at the Consulate Sunday afternoon. "Come on over after you close," he'd said, "after the church crowd's passed on through. I'll show you around the building. Then we'll have ourselves a little talk."
Now it was Sunday, nearly four o'clock. Peter, he guessed, would just be closing up La Colombe. He took the elevator down to the Consulate's lobby floor. He wanted to be there waiting when he arrived.
The glass that faced the street was one-way, mirrored, put in at great expense. The object was to cause confusion in case there was a terrorist attack. Lake paced the lobby, pausing every so often to straighten a stack of "customs hints" brochures. On the wall by his order was posted an enormous sign listing the Americans languishing in Malabata prison on account of drug arrests.
Lake loved this building, so antiseptic, so clean, an air-conditioned American oasis, his fortress against Tangier. Here the corridors were straight, the elevators were silent, the city was hermetically sealed off. Everything was new, made of glass and steel, so unlike the teeming streets outside.
A few minutes later he saw Z pull up, then watched, unseen, as the Russian locked his car. Peter mounted the Consulate steps, struggled with the locked front door. He paused, pulled out a handkerchief, and applied it to his dripping face.