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toward the wall. He envied the calm rhythms of her breathing, so unlike his own harsh gasps. In a shelf by their bed was his collection of self-help books, paperbacks worn out by use. He checked his sons, paused for a moment in the doorways of their rooms. Steven slept peacefully amidst his games. Joe slept quietly too, and Lake was moved by the disarray: various sneakers, unmatched, spread in odd corners of the room; a limp tracksuit on the floor.
    He let himself out the back door, braced before the wind. It swept him across the garden, between the yuccas and palms. Looking back toward the residence, he was struck by its enormous size. The moon was only half full, and that annoyed him—he couldn't abide uncompleted things, unanswered mail, unpolished shoes.
    He turned a key in the back door of the Consulate, entered, then locked himself inside. Suddenly the wind was cut off by the thick sliding glass. For the first time that evening he felt relief. Here in the empty building he could be alone, sealed off from the wind, safe from his demons. Even the smell here made him feel good: the floors were cleaned in the early evening, and the odor of the cleansers still perfumed the air.
    He took the elevator to the top floor, unlocked his office, sat back in his swivel chair, safe between his consular ensign and the American flag.
    I am , he thought, the Consul General of the United States .
    He loved the title. After tours in Guatemala, Beirut, Vientiane, he had come to Tangier excited by the prospect of two years of well-earned peace. For a decade he'd served in countries racked by street riots and guerrilla wars. Now at last he'd be able to rest, restore his balance, contemplate the dangerous world that lay beyond détente.
    He'd been wrong. The post was a nightmare, and now the tedium stole his sleep. Too many lost passports to be replaced; too many hippies arrested on drug charges who had to be visited at the Tangier jail. He loathed his ceremonial duties, the endless, boring banquets with Moroccan functionaries and the irate tourists who wandered in, complaining because their reservations hadn't been honored at the hotels. His vice-consul disgusted him, and he felt no love for his Moroccan staff. The only friend he'd found was Willard Manchester, who'd once held the Coca-Cola franchise in southern Spain. But even Willard, full of advice on ways to cope, could not sustain him here. Thinking things over, pondering them for months, Lake had come to the conclusion that the Department had found him out. How had it happened? For years he'd gone to pains to conceal his disorders, used drugs to control his depressions, stayed clear of psychiatrists, bluffed his way through physical exams. Now they'd put him out to pasture, assigned him to Tangier. The town, so pleasant, so relaxed, had become for him a maelstrom where his demons gnawed without pity and his soul withered beneath the glittering sun.
    It was so unfair. He loved the Department, loved to face foreign officials and say: "Speaking on behalf of the United States. . . ." What had happened? Were his symptoms really so bizarre? He didn't take off his clothes in public or sit in cafés speaking to the air. He was not one to teach a parrot dirty words or chase servant girls down scullery stairs. What was it then? Something not quite right, something that spooked people, an aura of failure that surrounded him like a cloud. Yes, that was it; he knew, could feel it in himself. There was madness at work inside, and that made him afraid.
    By the light of half a moon he could see the wind tearing at the trees. In the distance the Mountain was dark, except for the yellow lamps that lit the road.
    Thank God for the files. They'd saved his life. Dating back to the time when the Consulate had been a full legation, they told tales of gun running, the recovery of stolen bullion, the sorts of intrigues that had given Tangier its fabled name. It was as if the city he read about was not