He turned from the window, returning to the gun he had just finished assembling, picking it up and caressing it once again. It was, indeed, a beauty. It seemed to him as he slid his hands over the stock almost sensuously, that it was even more lovely than when he had first handled it at Sebastian’s house. The balance was perfect; the fine-grained wood had been polished by some previous loving owner until its patina gave the surface the smooth feeling of glass, or of soft skin. He slid the telescopic sight into place and locked it, and then stood well back in the shadows of the room, raising the gun, bringing it to bear on the War Memorial.
The angular modern figures postured in frozen metal before the gaunt tower of the memorial sprang into sudden sharp outline; an overalled workman, sweeping the broad patio in a last-minute bit of housekeeping, seemed to be but inches from his eye. Nacio’s gloved fingers touched a knurled knob, bringing the cross-hairs into focus. He lowered the sight slightly, bringing the sight to bear on a tattered breast-pocket of the blue denim coverall, following it evenly as it swayed in unconscious rhythm with the movement of the broom. The gloved finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger and then relaxed. With a smile he lowered the gun, nodding to himself. With that clarity of light, and with that excellent equipment, he knew there wouldn’t be the slightest problem in completing his assignment successfully.
Behind him, Iracema watched his performance through the mirror of the dressing table. Her cheeks were still slightly flushed with anger as she recalled waking with a stiff neck to find the missing Nacio snoring, a beatific smile upon his face. She thrust the thought aside and completed her toilet, dabbing lightly at the corners of her full lips with a bit of tissue. Time enough for explanations when the three of them were all together at Sebastian’s after the event. Her hand paused in the act of discarding the tissue; after the event, what Nacio had done the night before would matter little. They would each take their share and disband, and the tensions of the past week would soon be forgotten in the vast horizons that would open with that much money at their disposal.
She swung about on her stool, studying the man before her. Nacio met her eye squarely, grinning. He was quite aware that she attributed his cheerfulness to a liaison the evening before that had not — unfortunately — occurred; he was also aware that, for some unknown reason, there seemed to be a bit more feeling in her eyes. He was, however, astute enough to suspect it had nothing to do with him as an individual, but only reflected her growing anxiety regarding the job as the moment of accomplishment finally approached.
She looked at him steadily. “How do you feel?”
His grin widened. With the gun in his hands he seemed a different man, more assured, less affected by her presence. “If you mean am I nervous, the answer is no. This isn’t my first job, you know.”
“I know.” Her eyes studied him evenly. “But it’s the most important job you’ve ever done.”
He looked at her sardonically. “To the men I’ve killed, all of my jobs have been of equal importance.”
“And to you?”
“To me?” He shrugged. “To me they’ve been of equal unimportance. To me a job is a job.”
“Except that this one pays more money than you ever dreamed of.”
“I know. And I’m sure it will also pay you and Sebastian more than you ever dreamed of, as well.”
“It will.” She came to her feet rather abruptly, as if indicating that that phase of the discussion was ended. Her eyes studied the room carefully. “I’m going now. I’ve got everything I want in my purse; the rest of my things stay here. You’d better start getting ready yourself.”
“I’ll be ready.”
She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. She reached for her purse. “I’ll call you from the Gloria as soon as the motorcade leaves, to tell you which car he’s in, and in which seat. Be sure to keep the telephone free...”
Nacio looked at her with a faint smile. And who’s nervous now? He hadn’t used the telephone since they had been there, and obviously wouldn’t be using it at such a crucial moment. Iracema colored slightly as she read his thought, but chose to disregard it. “And don’t forget the television. Any program except—”
“I know. Any program except music.” He laid the gun on the bed and straightened up. “You’d better be going.”
“Yes.” She moved toward the door and then paused. “And the knob; wipe it off on your way out. And be sure to put out the sign for the maid not to disturb you.” She hesitated a moment, as if torn by the desire to repeat all of the instructions once again, and then forced herself to refrain. Her eyes came up.
“Good luck.” The door closed quickly behind her.
Nacio stared after her with a faint sneer on his lips. Good luck! Somehow it was the wrong thing to say. As a professional assassin he gave small thought to the problems of his victim, but it still struck him as being out of place to wish good luck for a killing. And besides, luck didn’t enter into it; it was strictly a matter of skill.
He sighed thoughtfully. Maybe it was just as well that nothing had come of their spending almost a week together in the same room; even with her cooperation it would probably have been like going to bed with a piranha. In a way he felt sorry for Sebastian; that maternal feeling of hers would one day swallow him up. Still, that was Sebastian’s problem and not his. His problem was to do the job properly and get away with a whole skin; wait until the excitement had died down, and then figure out how to spend that fabulous fee. Which shouldn’t be any harder than the killing itself, he thought with a grin. Certainly no harder than the killing the previous evening, and that had been no problem at all. The one with the problem would be Sebastian; his share of the fee would buy him the girl.
With a shake of his head at the thought of the strange people one was forced to associate with in the course of a job, he slipped out of his dressing gown and slowly began to dress.
The crowds were forming two and three deep about the low wooden barricades; military police in their faded brown uniforms and their oversized helmets were stationed every twenty or thirty yards along the inside of the barrier, facing each other at rigid parade rest, their hands locked behind them, but within easy reach of their holstered guns. From the recessed window above, Nacio studied the scene, his eyes carefully calculating distances and potential problems. Between the hotel and the Beira Mar stretched the Praça Paris, a green band of foliage and formal gardens; a few trees at the southern end of the Praça blocked portions of his view of the route, and the same held true of sections to the north of the War Memorial. But the important part of the route was open; those vital yards that stretched to the immediate sides of the stark structure. He clenched and unclenched his fists, relaxing his fingers, staring down thoughtfully. A television truck passed slowly along the deserted avenue, its camera weaving from the roof like the antennae of some strange monster searching out prey.
Nacio glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock — Iracema should be calling very soon. His hand patted his jacket pocket; his glasses were in place. His cheek-pads were also in place, a bit uncomfortable, but necessary to save time at the moment of his departure. A glance about the room assured him that all was in order according to the plan; he nodded and wandered to the window, frowning down. The crowds had increased at the barricades, and cars were beginning to pull to the curb of the adjoining drive, prepared to risk the displeasure of the police in order to see the visiting delegates at close hand.