The man whose undercover name was Anton, landed at Gibraltar in a BEA
roco-jet, passed quickly through customs and immigration with his
Commonwealth passport and made his way into town. He checked with a
Bobby and found that he had a two-hour wait until the Mons Capa ferry
left for Tangier, and spent the time wandering up and down Main
Street, staring into the Indian shops with their tax-free cameras from
Common Europe, textiles from England, optical equipment from Japan,
and cheap souvenirs from everywhere. Gibraltar, the tourist's shopping
paradise.
The trip between Gibraltar and Tangier takes approximately two hours.
If you've never made it before, you stand on deck and watch Spain
recede behind you, and Africa loom closer. This was where Hercules
supposedly threw up his Pillars, Gibraltar being the one on the
European shore. Those who have made the trip again and again, sit down
in the bar and enjoy the tax-free prices. The man named Anton stood on
the deck. He was African by birth, but he'd never been to Morocco
before.
When he landed, he made the initial error of expecting the local
citizenry to speak Arabic. They didn't. Rif, a Berber tongue, was the
first language. The man called Anton had to speak French to make known
his needs. He took a Chico cab up from the port to the El Minza hotel,
immediately off the Plaza de France, the main square of the European
section.
At the hotel entrance were two jet-black doormen attired in a
pseudo-Moroccan costume of red fez, voluminous pants and yellow
barusha slippers. They made no note of his complexion, there is no
color bar in the Islamic world.
He had reservations at the desk. He left his passport there to go
through the standard routine, including being checked by the police,
had his bag sent up to his room and, a few minutes later, hands
nonchalantly in pockets, strolled along the Rue de Liberte toward the
casbah area of the medina. Up from the native section of town streamed
hordes of costumed Rifs, Arabs, Berbers of a dozen tribes, even an
occasional Blue Man. At least half the women still wore the haik and
veil, half the men the burnoose. Africa changes slowly, the man
called Anton admitted to himself all over again--so slowly.
[Illustration]
Down from the European section, which could have been a Californian
city, filtered every nation of the West, from every section of Common
Europe, the Americas, the Soviet Complex. If any city in the world is
a melting pot, it is Tangier, where Africa meets Europe and where East
meets West.
He passed through the teaming Grand Zocco market, and through the
gates of the old city. He took Rue Singhalese, the only street in the
medina wide enough to accommodate a vehicle and went almost as far as
the Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in the
world.
For a moment the man called Anton stood before one of the Indian shops
and stared at the window's contents. Carved ivory statuettes from the
Far East, cameras from Japan, ebony figurines, chess sets of water
jade, gimcracks from everywhere.
A Hindu stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands in a gesture so
stereotyped as to be ludicrous. "Sir, would you like to enter my shop?
I have amazing bargains."
The man they called Anton entered.
He looked about the shop, otherwise empty of customers. Vaguely, he
wondered if the other ever sold anything, and, if so, to whom.