Three

In the latter years of the nineteenth century, the center of social activity in the then relatively small city of Rio de Janeiro was centered for the most part about the picturesque arches of the section called Lapa, at the juncture of the Rua Riachuelo, Mem de Sá, and the rest of the spider web of minor streets that also sought haven in the friendly atmosphere of the gay praça. In those days, many who preferred not to live too far away were forced by the configuration of the neighborhood to build their two-storied stucco homes on the rocky shelves that jutted from the serra above, and in many cases to join them with the winding Rua Riachuelo far below with ladderlike streets of granite steps, unmountable by the hansom cabs and fiacres of the day, or even by the high bicycles which were slowly beginning to gain favor among the more affluent.

Today, the Carioca, bound by the imagined necessity of living only where one may be delivered by automobile or omnibus, has abandoned these narrow climbing defiles to those hardy souls too poor to afford mechanical transportation, or to those few aesthetics who consider the low rental and excellent view worth the effort of getting home. And, of course, a few who fall into neither of these categories also live here, for the towering heights of the morro are seldom visited by strangers—such as police—since the climb is a long and arduous one.

Nacio Madeira Mendes, slowly making his way from one wide slippery step to the next up the steep Ladeira Portofino, had long since ceased to protect himself against the gusts of driving rain that had soaked him to the skin seconds after he had left the ambulance. His only hope was that Sebastian was at home, and had a change of dry clothing available, as well as a bottle of something warming, be it cognac, or even pinga. The water rushing down the incline of the granite steps swirled madly about his sodden shoes and several times nearly took him off balance. He paused momentarily to catch his breath and glance about, bracing himself against the onslaught of the torrent, and wiped his face more from force of habit than from any hope of benefit to be gained from the action. Below him the red tile roofs glistened wetly; across the stepped and tilted roofs the buildings of downtown Rio were lost in the gray mist of the driving rain.

He shook his head. The pleasure he had always thought to experience upon returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro after an absence of nearly three years was oddly missing; in his dreams he had somehow always pictured himself coming back on a day when the hot sun would be gleaming from the deep blue of the sea, and when warm winds would be ruffling the giant palm trees, lifting their fronds in welcoming gestures. It was not that he hadn’t remembered how it could rain in Rio—Deus me livre, how it could rain!—but it was only that somehow he had been sure he would come back on a day of good weather, and as a result felt a bit cheated. And even the slight pleasure of having outwitted a seemingly impossible situation by escaping the Santa Eugenia no longer gave him the feeling of calculated elation he had allowed himself once the helicopter was descending at Galeão Airport and he realized he was not going to be destroyed in the flimsy craft after all. If any pleasure could be garnered from the events of the morning at all, it could only have been when he managed to leave the ambulance, and this mainly because he had been sure at any moment they would skid into a lamppost, and that both he and the two maniacs in front would be crushed to bits.

The escape from the ambulance had been much easier than he had anticipated. He had been sitting in the back of the vehicle—for he had not tolerated lying down once his restrictive straps were removed—wondering at what point he should hammer on the front panel and get them to stop, when the ambulance had come roaring into the Frei Caneca to encounter a solid line of trucks trapped behind a stalled omnibus. Fortunately, the driver of the ambulance had managed to halt his careening charge in time. Even more fortunately he had jumped down to answer the reflections on his ancestry offered by one of the truck drivers who wearied of hearing a siren keen in his ear when he obviously was helpless to get out of the way. The ambulance driver had instantly been joined by his helper, who resented trucks and their drivers as a matter of medical principle, since he felt they prevented ambulances from attaining their true and predestined velocity. During the argument Nacio simply got out, closed the doors behind him, and moved swiftly around the nearest corner. No one saw him. The few people who were on the street at the moment were scurrying along with their heads bent against the rain, in no position to observe anything but their shoes, or the potholes in the sidewalk.

Nacio sighed, staring up at the apparently endless steps still waiting to be climbed, and then resumed his dreary march. One thing was certain; the job that Sebastian had for him had better be worth all the trouble and discomfort he had suffered. He was referring, of course, to the fee he would receive, and not to the nature of the assignment, for this had not only been understood, but had also been discussed in Lisbon. In any event, anyone who employed Nacio Madeira Mendes did so for one reason only, and that was to utilize the one true talent he possessed. There was nobody in Brazil, interior or urban, more accurate with a high-powered rifle than he; and extremely few with less compunction as to where it was aimed.

The broad steps narrowed as they neared the summit, as if the builders had tired of dragging the heavy slabs up the hill, and had also realized that the traffic at that level did not warrant any more labor than was necessary. Nacio managed the last of them and turned wearily into the semi-protection of the doorway to the last house on his left. Beyond him the thick matto of the mountain ran up to a spur and then disappeared in the eerie fog of the rain.

He pushed at the bell for several moments before the darkness of the house struck him; his head swiveled sharply, almost animal-like, in sudden concern that Sebastian might be away and that his long climb had been in vain. But then he saw the flicker of a candle behind the heavy curtains of the house below, and a sigh of relief escaped him. It was only one of the periodic breakdowns in the services of the Companhia de Light, probably caused by the storm, or by an engineer pushing the wrong button. For some reason this assurance that his native city had not changed in his absence did nothing to soothe him; he withdrew his hand from the bell and pounded on the door instead, taking some of his pent-up frustration out on the peeling panel.

There was a slight twitch of a curtain at an upper window, and a few moments later the door opened to the restricted gap allowed by a chain bolt. In the opening an attractive girl in her late twenties stood, one hand behind her, as if demonstrating the possibility of a weapon for protection. Her large dark eyes took in the sodden figure, and then glanced down the deserted steps of the Ladeira before returning to his face warily. She pushed her thick hair back from her face, satisfied that this visitor offered no threat, unconsciously taking a slightly coquettish posture. Her voice was low and musical, although still slightly cautious. Visitors at this height were rare.

“Yes? What do you want?”

“Senhor Pinheiro. Is he in?”

She studied him a moment. “He’s sleeping.”

Nacio glowered, exploding. “Well, damn it, wake him up!” In the name of the sixteen saints blessed to Rio, was he expected to travel halfway around the globe and then stand out in a driving rain until Sebastian finished his beauty nap?

If he had hoped to impress the girl by either the harshness of his tone or the scowl on his face, he failed completely. There was a slight withdrawal in her appearance, but her black eyes continued to study his face with no expression at all.

“Wake him for whom?”

“Tell him that Nacio—” Nacio’s eyes narrowed a bit, flickering over the girl, over the empty doorway behind her, as if assessing every potential danger. “Tell him it’s a friend of his. From Lisbon.” A gust of wind drove water against the thin cover of his shirt; despite his intention to appear tough before this girl, he winced. “And tell him to hurry!”

“Momento.” The door closed slowly but firmly in his face.

He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders against the rain, staring bitterly down past the stepped red roofs. Far below, hazy in the rain, a car passed the entrance to the Ladeira, sheets of water spraying from its wheels. He shook his head angrily. What a day to come home! What a miserable day to come home! And how could the warm rain of Rio that he remembered so well manage to chill so unaccountably? And, even more important, what in the devil was keeping Sebastian?

There was a more prolonged wait this time, and then at last the door was eased back slowly, suspiciously, and then hastily relaxed to allow the chain bolt to be removed. A heavyset, handsome man in his late thirties stood in the doorway, brown hair tousled. Astonishment fought with sleepiness on his fleshy face.

“Nacio! How in the devil—?” Sebastian seemed to realize at last that it was raining, and that not only his guest but he, himself, could get wet. “But get in here first!”

The soaked man pushed himself brusquely across the threshold, disdaining the proffered hand; Sebastian paused to peer down the empty granite steps—it was apparently an ingrained habit—and then slammed the door and reset the chain. He turned to the girl, standing quietly and watchfully to one side.

“Iracema! Some candles from the kitchen! And a drink of something warm!” He turned back, reaching out, taking the other by the arm. “Nacio! You made it! I never expected …”

Nacio shrugged himself loose from the unwelcome hand and looked about the dim room as if determining upon which chair he might discard his wet clothing. Sebastian for some reason seemed to understand this vague gesture.

“And get out of those wet clothes. Iracema! A robe—” It occurred to him that the soaked man might easily cause one of his robes to shrink, or to fade. “Or better yet, a blanket.” He turned back to the waiting Nacio; the thin man’s lips were curled, as if he could read the other’s mind. “Get out of those wet clothes. All we need at this point is for you to get sick.”

Nacio smiled grimly. “Don’t worry about me. If I haven’t gotten sick listening to you for the past few minutes, I’ll never get sick.”

Sebastian chose to disregard the comment. “Get out of them anyway.” He nodded as another thought struck him. “And don’t worry about Iracema. She’s seen men before.”

“I’m sure.” Nacio peeled off his shirt and followed it with his clinging trousers. The girl appeared from the stairway, walking with an even sway, carrying a folded blanket; she placed it on a chair and left the room for the candles. With the barest turn to allow himself to remove his underclothes with some semblance of privacy, Nacio wrapped himself in the blanket. Its soft weight felt good. He turned to face Sebastian. “And how about that drink?”

“The drink? Oh, yes, the drink. Iracema—”

The girl was already returning, her full hips moving sensuously, her large breasts a lush promise behind her loose sweater. One hand dangled a bottle; the other carried several candles. Sebastian bent to provide glasses from a sideboard as the candles were lit; the girl came forward, poured the drinks, and then stood back. Nacio eyed her calm beauty with inner wonder that a person like Sebastian had ever manged to get a girl like that, and then dismissed the thought, sinking into a chair. There was a time and a place for everything, and the present moment was not for girls. Right now the time was for doing the job and getting paid for it. If the fee were decent, he could have all the girls he wanted. He sipped his drink and felt the headiness of the raw pinga ease away the last vestiges of his weariness.

“Ah … that’s better!”

Sebastian was frowning at him. “I’m certainly glad you made it, but how the devil you did I can’t imagine.”

Nacio looked at him with a curiosity suddenly tinged with suspicion. “Why all the surprise? You’re the one who came to Lisbon and—” He stopped abruptly, his narrowed eyes moving to lock themselves on the silent girl.

Sebastian smiled faintly. “It’s all right. You can talk in front of Iracema.”

“I’m sure.” Nacio’s cold eyes hardened. “But I won’t.”

Sebastian’s smile faded. “I said you can talk in front of her. She knows who you are and why you’re here.”

Nacio’s face froze. For a moment it appeared as if anger might explode, but then his expression became calculating as he studied the girl. She watched him evenly, as one watches an inanimate object, curious, but not particularly interesting. Nacio swirled the liquid in his glass a bit and then nodded.

“All right,” he said at last, slowly. “We have to start this discussion someplace, and I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any. Iracema knows why I’m here? Good. Now suppose you tell me.”

Sebastian shook his head. “First I want to know how you got here. I understood you were coming on the Santa Eugenia, and I’ve been checking on it every day.” He tossed his shot of pinga down his throat, grimaced at its harshness, and handed the empty glass to the girl for refilling, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “This morning I found out she wasn’t stopping in Rio.”

He took the replenished glass from the girl and dropped into a chair across from the watchful Nacio. Iracema came to sit on the arm of his chair, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder. Nacio studied her face; there seemed to be something almost maternal in the glance she was giving Sebastian; Nacio’s lip curled. The heavyset man drank and laid aside his glass. “And it’s just as well she didn’t dock.…”

Despite the soothing narcosis of the liquor a slow burning anger began to grow in Nacio. Just as well the ship didn’t dock? Just as well for whom? Maybe just as well for this overstuffed middleman of crime, too cowardly to do his own killing, sitting here in comfort with his overblown girl friend, while he had had to suffer to make it to shore. Some of the anger showed in his voice.

“What do you mean, just as well?”

“Just what I say.” Sebastian frowned at him, not understanding why Nacio appeared irritated. “I mean that every ship that has docked in Rio these past few days—freighter or passenger liner—has been checked by the police from one end to the other. I mean if you had been aboard her and the Santa Eugenia had docked here, you would almost certainly be in the hands of the police right now.”

Nacio stared at him blankly, his anger disappearing. Sebastian nodded. “That’s right. So how did you get here?”

A slightly wolfish smile touched Nacio’s thin lips. “By the Santa Eugenia.” He shrugged. “When I found out they weren’t docking, I managed to get sick—sick enough so that the captain arranged to have me taken off the ship. By helicopter.” His grin widened. “Very simple.”

Sebastian shook his head slowly. “You were born with the luck of a seventh son. Let’s just hope you stay lucky.”

“Don’t worry about my luck.” Nacio reached over for the bottle, poured himself another drink, and tossed it down. He considered the bottle a moment and then placed it at arm’s length from the chair, as if indicating that the time for relaxation was over. “Anyway I’m here. So what’s the job? And regardless of what Iracema knows or doesn’t know, I still prefer to talk business with you alone.”

Sebastian leaned forward. “I told you before that Iracema knows about you and about the deal. In fact, she insisted on knowing all about you before she agreed to work with you.”

“Work with me?” The smaller man’s cold eyes became even colder. “I work alone. You know that.”

“Not on this job,” Sebastian said calmly. “On this job you work with Iracema. Because it’s necessary to the whole plan.”

“Then change the plan! I work alone.” His tone was flat. “And if I ever do work with anyone else, it won’t be a woman.”

Sebastian studied the thin tense face calculatingly. The larger man was well aware of the potential dynamite stored up in his smaller companion, but he was also aware that for the job he had been commissioned to complete, nobody could do it as well as Nacio Mendes.

“Listen to me, Nacio. This is the biggest thing I’ve ever had a hand in. This thing has been planned to the last—”

“I don’t care how it’s been planned.” Nacio’s lips twisted slightly and then straightened. “I still work alone.”

The larger man took a deep breath. “Then I’m sorry, but you’re out.” He raised a fleshy hand, forestalling any immediate reply. “I’m sorry, but there’s too much at stake here, and far too much money involved to change any plans now.”

Nacio’s eyes narrowed; an argument from Sebastian was something he had never expected. The big florid man was a coward, and Nacio knew it. And was also aware that Sebastian knew it. He suspected with a sudden touch of insight that the girl also knew it, but that for some unaccountable reason found this one of the man’s attractions. Well, whatever the motives, Nacio had no intention of changing his methods. He relaxed, shrugging.

“And where does that leave me?”

“Just where you are.” Sebastian seemed to be relieved that there had been no outburst. He spread his hands, but his eyes remained sharp. “In Rio, where you wanted to be, and at my expense, if I may remind you. And with no obligations.” He turned his head to the girl on the chair arm. “So I guess we’ll have to go into Nova Iguaçu after all, querida, and talk with Pedroso.…”

The smaller man across from him smiled sneeringly at this transparent attempt to intrigue him. “Pedroso? He couldn’t hit the deck of a ship if somebody dropped him off the bridge.”

“He could hit the man I want him to hit,” Sebastian said evenly, turning back. “And that’s all that counts. And he’ll work with Iracema, and follow orders. And that also counts.”

Nacio sneered. “Fair enough. You’ve just hired yourself João Pedroso. Good luck to all three of you. I’ll see you in jail.” He reached out and retrieved the bottle, pouring himself another drink. He raised it in a sardonic toast and then paused. “Just for the record, though, how much money did I talk myself out of?” His eyes were mocking the pair across from him. “In Lisbon you kept talking about how big the job was, but you never did get around to mentioning figures.”

For a moment a cruel gleam of satisfaction came into the heavy man’s face. Beside him, Iracema’s breath quickened a bit. “Just for the record,” Sebastian said softly, “just so you appreciate the situation, you just talked yourself out of twenty million cruzeiros.…”

There were a few moments of dead silence.

“That’s right,” Sebastian said quietly. “Twenty thousand conto.”

Nacio set his full glass carefully on the floor and sat back again, his eyes sharp on the other’s face. Sebastian never joked with him. He glanced at the girl and then back again. “All right. Who is it? What’s the deal?”

“No deal,” Sebastian said and shrugged a trifle elaborately. “Unless, of course, you’re willing to work with Iracema.”

The smaller man waved this aside with the contempt it deserved. “You know better than that. For twenty thousand conto I’d work with the devil. What’s the deal?” He frowned, considering. “Who’s worth that much dead? Or at least twice that much, since you never take less than half?” His eyes narrowed further. “And who’s paying? Who’s paying that much money to have someone killed?”

Sebastian shook his head. “As to your victim, you’ll be told at the proper time. As for the principal? You’ll never be told.”

Nacio accepted this; the identity of the principal was one he rarely knew, and one that never meant any more money in his pocket in any event. But the victim? “Why not the name of the victim now?”

“Because,” Sebastian said evenly, “if anything should go wrong, or if the police should recognize you and pick you up—beforehand—the less you know the better. Because the scheme wouldn’t stop. It might mean Pedroso, or even another, but the scheme wouldn’t stop.”

Nacio nodded. It was a logical answer and one he was prepared to also accept. Twenty thousand conto! A fortune! Even translated to dollars, accepting the miserable exchange of the day, it was over twenty-two thousand dollars, far above any fee he had ever dreamed of! He recalled once when he had killed for as little as five.

“All right,” he said quietly. “What’s the plan?”

Sebastian took a deep breath. So far everything had gone pretty much as he had anticipated, and he wanted to be sure and explain things quite clearly, so that they would continue to go as he anticipated.

“Listen and listen carefully,” he said slowly. “To begin with, next week the Organization of American States—the O.A.S.—has meetings scheduled in Rio. Delegates from all the countries of the Americas will be here; ambassadors, foreign ministers, secretaries of state—” He spread his hands impressively to indicate the importance of the delegates, and then dropped them flatly to his knees. His eyes were fixed on Nacio’s face with a slight glitter, but his voice remained steady. “One of these people will be your target.…”

If he had expected any reaction he was bound to be disappointed; no muscle moved on Nacio’s face. Obviously the affair was more than a simple husband-wife disagreement, or a falling out of partners. At those prices it had to be something of this size.

“Go on.”

“All right.” Sebastian bent even closer; Iracema’s hand moved almost tenderly along his arm. “The first day of the meetings, before they start their actual work, there are going to be ceremonies. The meetings are planned for the Hotel Gloria, where most of the delegates will be staying, but before they begin there is going to be a motorcade to the War Memorial, where they plan to place a wreath, and from there they’ll be going on to the Municipal, where some other ceremony is being planned. Now—”

Nacio frowned. “And how do you know all this?”

“By reading the newspapers,” Sebastian said with a faint smile. The smile disappeared instantly. “Let me finish. The man who will be your target will be in prominence both in the motorcade and at the War Memorial. The best time to do the job will be during the wreath-laying ceremony, or just before. They’ll be in open cars—”

“Unless it rains,” Nacio pointed out. “Like it did today.”

“If it rains they may not be in open cars, but they’ll still get out for the wreath-laying ceremony. And that’s when you’ll take him.”

Nacio thought a moment. “When does all this take place?”

“On Tuesday, a week from tomorrow.”

Nacio sat up in growing anger; a flush began to suffuse his sallow face. “So what was the big rush in my getting here by tomorrow? I could have stayed with the Santa Eugenia until she docked in Montevideo and still have been here in plenty of time!”

Sebastian shook his head. “Not according to the plan, and that’s what we’re all going to live by.” He leaned closer. “Listen closely; there is no doubt the police will be checking out the buildings along the route of this motorcade; a routine check, but it can still be thorough. They’ll check out both apartments and office buildings, or at least as many of them as they can. And they’ll have people stationed on the roofs as well as in the motorcade itself, and in the crowds—”

Nacio watched the heavy face across from him. “Why all the precautions? Are they expecting something?”

“No. Or at least not that I know of. But ever since Dallas—” Sebastian shrugged. “At any rate, we have to be prepared for them doing it. So as you can see it won’t be as easy as some of the other jobs I’ve fixed you up with in the past. On the other hand, it wouldn’t pay this kind of money if it were simple. In any event, the job still shouldn’t be too hard, despite all their precautions. Because”—a faint smile spread across his face—“you’re going to be in the Serrador Hotel, on the eighth floor, facing the Beira Mar and the War Memorial, and you’re going to be using a very fine rifle with a very high-powered telescopic sight.…”

The smaller man’s jaw tightened. “And you think they won’t check hotels?”

“Of course they’ll check hotels.” Sebastian’s smile became a bit disdainful. “But they’ll pay the most attention to people who register in the last day or two before the meetings—and you have a reservation for tomorrow, a full week early. Which, of course, is why it was necessary for you to be here early.” His smile broadened, proud of the attention to detail which had gone into his plan. “And the police will also check most carefully on single people, and mainly men; and you are registered there”—his voice dropped to permit his full genius to be appreciated—“as Dr. and Senhora Carabello of Três Rios.”

“Senhora?”

“Iracema.” Sebastian looked at him quietly. “As man and wife, but only for the purposes of the scheme. And let me repeat that and save you from any mistaken ideas you might get. For your information, Iracema and I—” He cleared his throat, breaking off the discussion as being irrelevant. “In any event you have a reservation for tomorrow, and I have proper luggage for you here. Proper clothes and everything else you’ll need. So everything is set as far as that part of the plan is concerned.”

“And that’s why Iracema is involved?”

“Partly. I’ll tell you about the rest later. Now—”

“And who’s paying for all this?”

“Someone who can afford it, believe me.” He waved off further interruption. “The most important thing, of course, is this: how accurate can you be at that distance?”

Nacio tugged the blanket about his lean body and closed his eyes, picturing in his mind the Serrador Hotel, the War Memorial, and the distances involved. His eyes opened slowly; he nodded. “If it’s a good rifle and a good telescopic sight, there should be no problem. Depending, of course, on how open the target happens to be.”

“He’ll be open,” Sebastian said confidently. “Either in the car, or standing at the Memorial. Actually, it doesn’t make too much difference whether you get him in the car or standing at the ceremony. So long as you get him. Any questions?”

Nacio’s hands stroked his thighs beneath the blanket as he considered the facts given him. Now that the intimate details of the assassination were being examined, he seemed to be oddly relaxed and less tense, more in his element. “Yes, quite a few. For example, what do I do for the week between now and next Tuesday? Sit in the hotel room?”

Sebastian shook his head. “You do not. You use the hotel room—you and Iracema, together or alone—as any other visiting couple would do. You show signs of normal occupancy. You leave toothpaste stains in the washbowl and used razor blades lying around.” His voice listed these items with almost mechanical precision; it was obvious he had considered each facet of the problem carefully. “You leave pajamas on the bed, and you drop socks on the floor for the maid to pick up. Iracema leaves tissues around with lipstick stains—things like that.” He leaned forward. “And you leave the room each morning at eight o’clock, before the floor maids start on the rooms, and you come back in the evening after dinner, after the floor staff has left for the day. In other words, you do nothing to cause the slightest attention to be drawn to you, but still nothing to make it appear you are avoiding attention. Is that clear?”

Nacio nodded, absorbing the details of the scheme. Sebastian continued his litany.

“And you leave no fingerprints—”

Nacio frowned. “How do you live in a hotel for a week and leave no fingerprints?”

“By wearing gloves. Surgical gloves. I have two pairs for you here. You put them on as soon as you enter the room each night, and you take them off as you leave in the morning. And you remember to wipe the knob of the door each time you use it.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “I told you this job was thoroughly planned.”

“So it’s planned. And all right, I wear the gloves. I don’t know how, but I do. What do I do with my time in the hotel room every night?”

“Whatever you want to do, but very little drinking. As a matter of fact, until this job is over, no drinking at all would be better.” He shrugged. “You watch television, as most people do. Or you read, or listen to the radio. Or play cards with Iracema—”

Nacio could not prevent the sarcasm. “With gloves on?”

“It’ll keep you from cheating,” Sebastian said dryly. With Nacio firmly fixed into the scheme, he felt more relaxed, more sure of himself. And, of course, far less afraid of the other. “Any other questions?”

“What do I do during the days? Come here?”

“You do not. You take a taxi away from the center of town each morning; one day to the beach at Copacabana—or Leblon would be even better, it’s less crowded. Another day to the Botanical Gardens, or the Zoo—” He shrugged. “We’ll lay out a schedule.”

“Fine.” The smaller man eyed him coldly. “When you’re laying it out, though, just remember that every policeman in Rio knows my face.”

“Except that you are not going to look like you,” Sebastian said calmly. “You will look like Doctor Carabello of Três Rios, who is a man with a full mustache that I have ready for you, and who is a bit older than you and a bit taller than you—or at least who stands straighter than you—and with a full face that some cheek-pads will provide.”

Nacio shook his head with exaggerated admiration. “You really did plan this thing, didn’t you? About the only thing you’ve left out is a pair of dark sunglasses …”

The sarcasm was disregarded by the heavyset man. “You will definitely not wear dark glasses. You’re supposed to be a visiting doctor from the interior, not an American tourist. You will wear glasses with thin gold frames and just plain glass in them. You will look quite distinguished, as a matter of fact—the type no policeman would consider twice. Is that clear?”

“If you say so. And does Iracema, my devoted wife, go with me every day? To the beach, I mean, or to the Zoo?”

“No.” Sebastian shook his head and smiled faintly. “How many men take their wives to the beach, or anywhere else, in Rio?” His smile faded as an additional precaution occurred to him. “Nor will you take anyone else, or look up any of your old friends, male or female. There’ll be plenty of time for that when the job is over. And plenty of money, too, as far as that is concerned.”

“Ah, yes.” Nacio nodded almost lazily. “Speaking of money, I assume I get an advance? And a sizable one, considering the ultimate fee?” His tone was light, almost bored, but Sebastian recognized the steel in the other’s voice.

“One thousand conto.”

“Five thousand conto,” Nacio corrected, and passed unhurriedly to the next subject. “And the gun?”

For a moment Sebastian looked as if he might argue the question of money, but he changed his mind. It wasn’t his money and there was plenty of it. “The gun was stolen over a month ago from the home of a British Embassy employee. It’s a good hunting rifle—he must have thought we have elephants here in Brazil—and it can’t be traced to us in any way. Iracema will bring it to the hotel the night before the parade. There’s no point in having it lying around for a week where some nosy maid or somebody might bump into it.”

“I’ll need a chance to test it and see if it pulls, and how the sight works.”

“When we’re through here, you can see it. It’s upstairs.” Sebastian tilted his head toward the windows, still streaked from the driving rain. “And when it stops raining you can check it all you want outside. Up on that spur it’s just woods, and anyway, people around here mind their own business.”

“Good enough. And how about a handgun, too?”

Sebastian shook his head. “No handgun.”

“You mean you expect me to go around this town for a week with no protection?”

“No handgun.” The heavy man’s voice was firm. “We’re not taking any chances of your getting involved in any arguments. That’s definite.”

For a few seconds their glances locked; Nacio was the first to look away. “One last thing, then. Will Iracema be with me there—in the room—when I—?”

“No.” Sebastian relaxed a bit. “And that’s another reason she’s in on this plan. She can go where she wants without any suspicion. On the morning of the parade, Iracema will be at the Gloria Hotel and watch the motorcade start. Once it’s formed and leaves, she’ll telephone you. She’ll tell you in which car your man is, and if there’s more than one man in the car, which one he is.” His eyes were steady on the other. “After that, it’s up to you.”

“Good enough. And what then? How do I get away after it’s over?”

“Afterwards, you’ll get away as quickly as possible. While you’re doing the job you’ll have your television on loud; any program with talking, but no music. Preferably a play or an old movie, but any talking will do. If anyone hears the shot, they’ll assume it was part of the program. I know you don’t want to use a silencer—”

“Not at that distance.”

“Then afterwards, you simply turn the set down and leave the room. You’ll also leave all your luggage, none of which will be identifiable. And since the gun can’t be traced to anyone except that idiot at the British Embassy, you’ll leave that, too. It won’t take the police long to find out from which room the shot was fired, in any event. So just shove it out of sight somewhere, and leave.”

“And where do I go?”

“You come here. You’ll have plenty of time to get clear of the hotel and the area before the excitement strikes there. Just the same, be damned sure you’re not followed by anyone. I’ll be here, even if Iracema hasn’t gotten back yet. After that—” He shrugged. “You take your share and you go.”

Nacio pursed his thin lips and considered everything he had heard. It looked possible, as most of Sebastian’s schemes were possible, but it also looked a lot more complex than he liked. In most of his previous jobs he had simply walked up to his victim in a bar or on the street, shot him, and then walked away. He appreciated that this case was considerably different, and that obviously very big people were involved to attempt an assassination of this character, but still …

Sebastian was becoming impatient. “Well?”

Nacio looked at him coolly. “Well, if you want my opinion, the whole thing is unnecessarily complicated. If you’d simply tell me who you want shot, and then leave the thing to me—”

“No. Not this time. This time we do it just as I’ve outlined it. Because this time it’s essential that you don’t get caught and talk.” He seemed to realize that his words implied that at previous times it had been less essential; he spread his hands apologetically. “You know what I mean. The people involved in this are paying this fantastic sum to be damned sure they do not become connected with it in any way, and the best assurance of that is for you not to be caught. And the best way not to be caught is to follow the scheme. If you have any changes or improvements, I’m more than willing to listen to them. But the basic scheme stands. Well?”

“Well, I suppose the thing could work …”

“Good.” Sebastian took this as acceptance and came to his feet. “Then if you’d like to get cleaned up and dressed, the bathroom and your clothes are upstairs. I’ll help you with the mustache and the cheek-pads and the rest of your gear. Then you can play with the gun until you’re satisfied with it. And tonight we’ll go over the whole thing again—or again and again if necessary—until we all have clearly in mind just what you’re supposed to do.”

“Fair enough.” Nacio came out of his chair, drawing the blanket about his lean body. He looked over at the girl, running his eyes slowly and almost insultingly over her charms. “You haven’t said much.”

Only the faintest heightening of her color indicated her resentment of his inspection. She smiled at him in a disdainful manner. “I only talk when I have something to say.”

Nacio studied her a moment more. “I’ll appreciate that in the hotel,” he said abruptly, and started for the stairs. Suddenly he paused, frowning, looking back over his shoulder at Sebastian.

“Just one last question. You talk about what each one of us is to do to earn this big money. Iracema will be at the Gloria, spotting the man for me. I’ll be at the Serrador doing the job. Just what will you be doing?”

The heavyset man smiled; for the first time it seemed to be a genuine smile. The fingers of one fleshy hand rubbed themselves together in a standard Brazilian gesture.

“Me?” he said. “I’ll be doing the most important part of the entire job. I’ll be arranging to get paid for it.…”

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