Free Tangier by William Bayer Page A

impatient and telephoned her at home. She was in a daze, as usual, and there were long silences as they spoke. She asked him to buy her a television set. He said he'd think about it—it depended on the cost. He didn't think much of Moroccan TV—Saudi Arabian love dramas and propaganda from the Ministry of Public Works—but he knew she needed something to amuse her as she sat alone at home. She needed stimulation. In the summer, he promised himself, he'd take her regularly to the beach.
    By the end of the afternoon he'd cleared up all his papers. A few minutes before six he set off for the Prefecture. He waited in the Prefect's anteroom for ten minutes, until a young man in a sharply tailored European suit approached him with a nod. "Inspector Ouazzani, I'm the Prefect's new assistant. He's ready to see you now." Hamid followed the assistant, a type he didn't like—glossy, smooth, educated at a French lycée, a young man destined to grow rich on bribes.
    The Prefect was another sort, fat and charming, dressed in a traditional Moroccan robe. Hamid knew he was corrupt, but with a moderation his assistant would never understand. The Prefect stole just enough to keep his family in a decent style. It would never occur to him to milk a fortune from his job, or to look away from an injustice which might do a poor man harm.
    "Sit down, Hamid," he said, waving toward a leather couch. "I already have one complaint today. The British Consul called, said you refused to investigate some nonsense at the British church. Well, don't worry. You did exactly right. I defended you, as I always have."
    "Thank you, Prefect," said Hamid. "Now listen to a complaint of mine. Over the weekend we arrested some British ballet dancers. When they asked to see their consul, his wife lied and said he was out of town."
    The Prefect laughed. "I'll remember that. Really, Hamid, you have the most difficult job."
    "It's going to become even more difficult. Among the diplomats now we have two philanderers—Mr. Fufu, the UN man from Uganda, and Baldeschi, the Italian Consul. Both of them are accumulating mistresses at a greater than normal rate. Of course I'm grateful they're heterosexual—such a rarity among the foreigners here. But eventually someone's husband's going to find out, and then we're going to have one of those 'diplomatic affairs.'"
    The Prefect laughed again. "I know you can handle it, Hamid. But I didn't call you here to gossip. A serious matter's come up. The Ministry of Interior has received information from Egyptian intelligence through our Cairo Embassy. The Egyptians claim an Israeli assassin is coming to Tangier.”
    Hamid was puzzled. It didn't make any sense. There were no important personalities in Tangier who could possibly interest an assassin, and as for the King, he espoused the Palestinian cause in a half-hearted way, but he was unpopular in the north and rarely used his palace in Tangier.
    "Perhaps they've confused Tangier with Algiers. They've been that stupid before."
    "Any ideas, Hamid?"
    "The only thing I can think of is that there's an old Nazi here they want to get."
    "Very good. Anyone in mind?"
    "That's the trouble, Prefect. I don't think there're any left. But I'll look into it and let you know."
    Driving home, he thought about the problem. A Nazi hunter made sense, but who could the target be? He thought and thought, sifting through hundreds of names. The implications were difficult to accept, for if he was right there was someone living in Tangier, someone quite poisonous, who lay dormant and had escaped his scrutiny for years.
    That night when he made love with Kalinka all his tensions ebbed away. She was a mystery to him—she smoked hashish, her mind worked the opposite way from his. But none of that mattered when she touched him with her tiny hands, curled her long, thin legs around his thighs, tickled his genitals with her toes. Feeling himself grow hard within her, feeling her fragile,