by Paul Kenyon
A word caught his eye. Tangier.
It was getting more interesting. Leclerc had been in the Bureau for Moroccan Affairs in the 1950s, a junior government official. He'd had a talent for intrigue. He'd been a chief architect of the French plot to overthrow the Sultan, Mohammed V, and replace him with a French puppet. The Sultan was much too friendly to the Moroccan nationalists in the Istiqlal Party.
Leclerc had conspired with T'hami El Glaoui, the Berber leader. El Glaoui's fierce desert tribesmen had marched on the capital. The "spontaneous" uprising gave the French an excuse to remove the Sultan from his throne.
Leclerc had been ruthless. He'd ordered mass arrests of Istiqlal Party members. Hundreds were imprisoned and tortured. There were riots and massacres throughout Morocco. The French machine-gunned crowds in the streets.
Eric put the paper aside and picked up the next document. In the end, all of Leclerc's plotting had failed. The nationalist movement was too strong. The French had to let the Sultan return. Morocco got its independence. The old International Zone was disbanded. Tangier fell under Moroccan control. The Spanish knuckled under and gave up their major enclaves, including Ifni.
The next document had a big red confidential stamp, and a list of the penalties for any unauthorized person caught reading it.
Eric pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
Leclerc was still at it. Just before his death, he'd been conspiring to overthrow the present Moroccan king, Hassan II.
No wonder the French were keeping the Leclerc dossier under wraps! It was political dynamite!
There was a strong suspicion that Leclerc was involved in the famous assassination attempts against Hassan. In one of them, a Moroccan Air Force jet had tried to shoot down the King's plane and strafed the palace.
If Leclerc had become President of France, he would have done his damnedest to reassert French influence in Morocco. It gave a lot of people a motive for wanting to kill him.
The next document was a confidential medical report. Leclerc had no history of seizures. The autopsy had found nothing. If Leclerc had been murdered, it was by unknown means.
Eric jerked his head up and listened. The footsteps were coming back.
In one lightning movement, he gathered up all the papers and returned them to the file folder. He snapped the telescoping camera stand shut and shoved the Minox into his pocket. In the same swift move, he put the Leclerc dossier back into the dusty file drawer where it belonged.
The doorknob turned. There were two voices. One of them was saying, "1'ai oublié mes clefs…"
Eric flung himself out the window just as the door opened. The last thing he saw, with his amplified vision, was a hand groping for the light switch. He slid down the polymer line, snatching off the goggles and stocking cap as he went. The moment he touched bottom, he touched the flame of his cigarette lighter to the end of the cord. The chemical-impregnated line went up in a brief, sizzling flash. For a moment there was a thin thread of fire up the side of the building; then there was nothing left of the evidence of the break-in except a fine ash that blew away.
Eric strode away casually, just another Parisian out for a night stroll.
"Tangier is seething," Marietta said. "Simply seething! Everybody, but everybody, is wondering why you're here!"
She stared guilelessly over the rim of her Tom Collins at Penelope. She was a small, vivid, birdy woman with bright inquisitive eyes. She'd lived in Tangier for twenty years, undisputed queen of its colony of expatriate artists and writers. She knew all the gossip.
"I know," Penelope said. "The phone hasn't stopped ringing since I arrived."
She sipped her gin and lime. She'd been out on her little scrap of private beach when Marietta arrived, and she was still wearing a tiny bikini that looked as if it couldn't have been spun out of more than one cotton ball.
"But what are you doing here?" Marietta persisted.
"I'm working, darling. Scouting out locations for a new ad campaign. AngelFace cosmetics."
Marietta clapped her hands together. "How exciting! But you'll have time to get into the swim?"
"Of course. What's going on in Tangier these days?"
The tall, faded, weedy man sitting in the wicker chair smiled at her. He was Rex Dole, whose novel, The Sweltering Sands, had made him a literary institution. He'd lived in Morocco even longer than Marietta.
"It's not like the old days," he said. "A lot of the old crowd are moving down to Fez. Anai's Nin led the exodus. And of course Rabat is where things are happening. But there's no place quite like Tangier. Something of the old international flavor remains. That dusty, conspiratorial atmosphere…"
He broke off, staring into his drink and remembering.
"You were here during the riots, weren't you, Rex?" Penelope said, encouraging him.
"Yes, and what a time that was. Corpses in the streets. Casual butchery. The French lost control of the Berbers — if they ever had it — and in the meantime they were filling the dungeons with the nationalists. Two years of it, till they brought the Sultan back. Do you know there was a restaurant in Casablanca that served human flesh? They dragged the corpses in from the streets and served them as lamb stew. They did quite a business until one day when a medical student found a human penis on his fork and fainted. The police closed the place down."
"Rex has been dining on that story for years." Marietta said.
He winced. "Please, Marietta, your choice of words!"
Penelope shook some of the water out of her hair. The bikini top slipped. She hoisted it up again. Marietta seemed more interested than Rex. He was still preoccupied with his memories.
"But you were saying that there's still a lot of intrigue behind the scenes here?" Penelope said.
"Oh, yes. All of the Arab terrorist groups have cells here. And the opposition groups plot against Hassan. And the French and the Spanish keep an eye on their former interests. It's quite like the old days in that respect."
"Darling, how exciting! You make it sound as if Sydney Greenstrect is going to pop up any moment! Has anything interesting been happening lately?"
"Well, of course with the OAPEC conference coming up, there's a lot of activity behind the scenes. I have no doubt that every little Arab splinter group has its own plan to assassinate the President. But Hassan's got things pretty much under control. And the town's been crawling with CIA men and Secret Service advance men for weeks."
Penelope leaned forward across the low table. She almost fell out of her wispy excuse for a bra. This time Rex's eyes followed the swaying movement of her breasts. He couldn't ignore them; they were almost hanging over his lap.
"Tell me, darling," she said, "do you have any inside information? From your Arab sources?"
She waited for his answer. It was a matter of common knowledge that Rex preferred the company of Moroccans to that of Americans or Europeans. His novels reflected that interest. Over the years he'd become the pet infidel of the Moroccan community.
"Not really," he laughed. "They wouldn't tell me."
"You're holding something back, darling."
"Well… I was talking to this young Palestinian the other day, who I believe has a cousin in one of the terrorist splinter groups — but who doesn't? He kept hinting about some great event that was going to strike a great blow for liberation. But of course he didn't really know anything."
"What kind of blow?"
"Oh, the usual wild talk. Atomic bombs — these people delude themselves into believing that Egypt is secretly making them out of reactor fuel. And assassinations. And something about a Spaniard."
"A Spaniard?"
He laughed. "The indispensable element in any young Arab boy's fantasy. There's quite a Spanish enclave between here and Ceuta. The rich Spaniards, of course, own the most luxurious seaside villas. They employ a lot of local labor. The young men's idea of wealth and luxury comes from what they see there."
"That's enough!" Marietta said. "This conversation's becoming too s
erious. Penny, I'm going to throw a party for you. It's going to be the biggest blowout of the year. Now that I have you here, I'm going to show you off!"
"Marietta, you're a love!" Penelope said. "Who'll come?"
"You'll be surprised at how many of your friends are in Morocco this month. Or near enough to fly in for a party. The Contessa's in Southern Spain just now, and Christina is in Fez. I can get the von Hindenbergs, Mick and Consuela, Burton Ives, Ruggiero…"
"That'll be fine, Marietta, dear. But how about some local color, too? After all, I want to know that I'm in Tangier. How about inviting some of these rich Spaniards that Rex mentioned, the ones with the seaside villas?"
Marietta looked doubtful. "Well…"
Rex leaned forward. "Great idea! I'll make out a list. We can start with the Marquis de Otero. He's a living relic."
"Don Alejandro?" Marietta said. "He's a bit somber."
"Nonsense! He's just the sort Penny wants to meet!"
Penelope looked at them both. "But will he want to meet me?"
"Will he?" Rex said. "You can bet your life!"
6
There were hundreds of people milling around her. The babble of voices, competing in a dozen languages, was deafening. An orchestra of Arab musicians, sitting cross-legged on cushions over against one tapestry-draped wall, added to the din. A haze of hashish and tobacco smoke drifted high overhead against the carved Moorish ceilings.
Penelope stood in the center of the crowd, getting jostled, puffing on a joint that one of her guests had handed her. She was dressed for the party in filmy black pantaloons, gathered at the ankles, with gold slippers and a halter top that left her almost bare above the waist.
The crowd was motley. It included practically the entire international set who lived on The Mountain and a generous sprinkling of Moroccans, mostly young, who were modern and worldly enough to attend. There were men in evening dress and cummerbunds, business suits, casual clothes, Arab dress. The women wore everything from gowns to hip-huggers and bare midriffs.
"Everybody knows everything about everyone," said a bleary-eyed young man in a white silk suit who had materialized beside her. "Tangier is a hotbed."
He plucked the joint from her hand, took a deep drag, then returned it.
"A hotbed of what?" Penelope said.
"A hotbed of hot beds." He lowered his voice dramatically. "And intrigue. Everyone is a spy." He made a huge sweeping gesture to include the entire crowd, and knocked a drink out of someone's hand. "Everyone!"
She laughed. "Including you and me?"
"Including me, anyway. If you're a foreigner living here, you're expected to report any interesting gossip you run across to your government. It's a hangover from the old days of the International Zone. The English and Americans do it for nothing. I get paid." He lowered his voice again. "By two different governments."
"Which governments?"
"England and America."
Marietta appeared. "I see you've met Charles," she said. She borrowed Penelope's joint for a puff. "Has he told you that everybody's a spy?"
"I'm going to report," Charles said with offended dignity. "I'm going to report that the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini is in Tangier to photograph military installations." He shouldered his way through the crowd.
"Actually Charles reports to the Russians," Marietta said. "And the French. Everybody knows it. He came out here five years ago to paint. Or so he intended. Now he supports himself by running these little errands. But Charles is a nice boy. Everybody tells him little things so he'll be able to go on supporting himself. He's marvelous for taking elderly ladies home. We wouldn't want to lose him."
"How did you ever put this huge affair together in one day?" Penelope said.
"It's the floating party. It goes on all the time. It just moves from villa to villa."
"And you just hijacked it for the night?"
"They couldn't resist the chance to get a glimpse of you. There hasn't been such a turnout since Lucy Devereux snared Jackie."
The Contessa Paoli lurched by, her face bright and flushed. "Penelope! Cara! I flew over from Malaga when Marietta told me you'd be here! Where's that marvelous brutal Indian of yours?"
"Out getting drunk, probably," the Baroness said. "He calls it scouting locations."
"Marietta!" the Contessa said accusingly. "Why didn't you invite him? Such a primitive!"
"I did invite him, dear," Marietta said, her eyes sparkling with malice. "Skytop just prefers low dives. There are plenty of other primitives out there. Why don't you try your luck?"
She pointed her chin at a hairy young Arab in jeans and T-shirt, talking to Rex Dole. The Contessa's eyes narrowed. Clutching her drink firmly, she lurched off in the Arab's direction.
Geoffrey Farquhar bumbled over, a powerfully built figure with curly gold hair and the chest of a bull. The international Who's Who listed him only as a "sportsman." It was hard to find anything else to say about him.
"Penny, m'dear!" he said. "What are you doing in Tangier?"
"I might ask you the same question, Geoffrey, darling."
"Oh," he said vaguely. "I'm here to hunt boar. The Arbaoua game reserve, don't you know? Nothing like it in Europe anymore. A million acres, and they keep the natives out, except on Sundays. Jolly good sport!"
Someone jostled Geoffrey's elbow, sloshing his Scotch. Geoffrey turned to apologize. "Sorry, old man," he said.
It was the fierce-looking young Arab who'd been talking to Rex. The Contessa hadn't succeeded in snaring him. He didn't accept Geoffrey's apology very graciously. He glared, and said, "You should be more careful! This is not your country!"
Geoffrey nodded, accepting the logic of that. "Perfectly right, old chap." He set a course for the nearer of the two bars for another Scotch.
"Qasim!" Marietta giggled. "You were dreadful to poor Geoffrey." She turned toward Penelope. "Baroness, I want you to meet Qasim al-Hakim, our resident iconoclast."
"Oh?" Penelope said. "What icons are you clasting?"
"Qasim's been in jail four times," Marietta said. "The last time, they beat him."
"I am working to liberate Morocco from all foreign influence," Qasim said. "The King is nothing but a lackey of you Western imperialists."
"Qasim!" Marietta said reproachfully. "You're insufferably rude."
"When the day comes, we shall drive all you ferengi into the sea," he said seriously.
Marietta shrugged. "What can you do with him?" she said.
Penelope smiled. "But in the meantime you don't object to coming to European parties? And drinking alcohol? And sleeping with Western women?"
He looked shocked. "I am not a fanatic!"
Penelope laughed. "Would you really drive Marietta into the sea?"
"Of course. And all the other rich people who live in these villas. They should be for Moroccans."
"He has a thing about the Spaniards," Marietta said.
"They're the worst," Qasim said. "Worse than the French."
Marietta looked across the floor. "Here comes one now. Why don't you tell him off?"
Qasim scowled. He followed the direction of her glance, his lips already rehearsing a tirade. His face suddenly closed like a trap. "Excuse me," he said. He departed hastily in the opposite direction.
The man who was approaching them was tall and distinguished, with a handsome, cadaverous face that had aristocrat written all over it. He had a great beak of a nose, thin as a knife-edge, and a short, pointed beard. He wore black evening clothes with a red ribbon across his chest and some kind of a decoration at his lapel.
"Marietta," he said. "Como está? I'm delighted to be here." He looked inquiringly at the Baroness.
"The Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini," Marietta said. "Penny, this is the Marquis Don Alejandro de Otero y Quimera."
"I have heard about you," Don Alejandro said. "Your arrival was noted."
"So I've heard," Penelope said.
"Are you staying in Tangier long?"
"Ah! Depends on what?"
"On how much shooting there is."
He raised an eyebrow.
Marietta said, "The Baroness is here to pose for pictures for a series of American cosmetic advertisements. Un campaña muy importante."
Don Alejandro gave her a look of polite skepticism. "Strange that you'd choose Tangier. Morocco is a place of fierce light. The sun here doesn't permit pale complexions. It reaches down and creates all those brown, leathery faces you see that are prematurely aged. I should think a cosmetics firm would prefer a light that is less harsh."
"You seem to be well informed on the subject of light."
Marietta gave him a proprietory look. "Don Alejandro is a neurologist," she said. "He's made a great study of vision."
Don Alejandro looked displeased. "Marietta!" he said sharply. Then, more gently, "It's true that I entered the medical profession. One must do something, eh? But it is… not polite… to discuss one's business affairs during a social occasion. It is true that I am interested in light. But I spoke from an aesthetic point of view."
Undaunted, Marietta said, "Don Alejandro has a fabulous collection of paintings. Goya, El Greco, Murillo, Velazquez…"
"Ah, that is a subject I can talk about," Don Alejandro said. "With pleasure."
"The Baroness has a magnificent Tiepolo in her villa in Florence," Marietta volunteered.
"That's in my Rome apartment," Penelope said. "I keep mostly Florentine painters at the villa — Verrocchio, Giotto, Uccello, Masaccio…"
"You own a Masaccio?" Don Alejandro said with sudden interest.
"Yes. A little Madonna in a landscape."
"Ah, he taught us a thing or two about light!"
"And shadow."
"One cannot exist without the other."
Marietta began to look uncomfortable, the way she always did when the conversation strayed from the particular toward the abstract. She made an attempt to get things back on course.
"Don Alejandro has a huge portrait of a Spanish noblewoman by Velazquez," she said. "It looks just like you."
He gave a small, sardonic smile. "My ancestor, the Duchess of Quimera," he said. "She was a lady of the court of Philip IV. She suffered a curious fate. She was discovered with a Moorish lover. If the lover had been a Spaniard, her husband would simply have killed her. But since she'd been unfaithful with a Moor, she was suspected of betraying her faith. So he turned her over to the Inquisition. She refused to confess. So, with her husband present, they sat her astride a headsman's axe and tied weights to her ankles one by one. At each new weight, they asked her to abjure her heresy. She kept insisting that she had nothing to confess to. In the end, of course, they split her like a sprat, still unrepentant. Her husband wanted to burn the portrait, but he was persuaded that paintings have no souls."
