The telephone suddenly rang. Nacio walked to the nightstand, reaching for the instrument. A small electric current touched his nerves, the tingle of anticipation that always prefaced a job; it passed in the same moment and he brought the instrument to his ear, not at all surprised by his own composure.
“Hello? Irace—”
A heavy, deep voice cut in, anxiety apparent in its tone. “Hello? Is this Dr. Carabello?”
The unexpectedness of the voice wiped away Nacio’s smugness in an instant; his fingers tightened on the cold plastic. His voice was harsh. “Who’s this?” Who on earth could it be? What could have happened to Iracema that another was calling in her place? Any trouble at this late date could spell disaster.
The voice at the other end hurried on, anxious to avoid interruption, to save time. “This is the portaria of the hotel. We have a very sick man in the hotel, a guest — on your floor, actually — and we’ve called an ambulance, but I’m sure the senhor realizes how long they delay, and since the poor man is only a few doors away from your room, we were wondering if you might be so kind—”
“A sick man?” He stared at the telephone, honestly puzzled. A sick man? What on earth did he have to do with sick men? Why come to him with sick men? Especially in this crucial moment when Iracema would be telephoning from the Gloria?
“A very sick man, I’m afraid.” On this point the deep voice was positive. “And since you happen to be the only doctor registered in the hotel at the moment, we thought...” The voice trailed off, its message completed.
Nacio nodded. Of course; he was supposed to be a doctor. An idiot idea in the first place, but too late to do anything about that now. Now the only thing was to get this pest off the telephone, and fast!
“I’m sorry,” he said brusquely, still irritated by the unexpected call. “I’m afraid I’m not that kind of a doctor. I’m a—” He paused, thinking rapidly. What kind of a doctor could he be and still safely refuse to treat a sick man? The first thought that came to him was of a veterinarian, but somehow his pride would not allow it. Fortunately a substitute occurred to him before his pause might seem suspicious to the other. “I’m a dentist, senhor.”
Disappointment fought with apology in the other’s voice. “A dentist? Then I’m very sorry we troubled you, Doutor. Unless, of course, you happen to be acquainted with a medical man...”
“I’m sorry. I know no one in Rio.” Nacio set the telephone firmly in place. And there was even a bit of luck connected with that, he suddenly thought — if the man had been suffering from an infected tooth, I would have been on that blasted phone for another ten minutes trying to get out of it! He started to smile at the thought and then hurriedly picked up the telephone as it rang again.
Iracema’s voice came on, low and bitter in its denunciation. “You fool! You... you... you irresponsável! You were told not to use the telephone! I’ve been calling...”
“Save it,” Nacio said wearily. “It was the portaria. They called me. They thought—”
“Never mind who called who! We’ve wasted enough time as it is. The motorcade must be halfway there by now.” It suddenly occurred to Nacio that her anger was actually motivated by nervousness; that the girl was close to hysterics. Amateurs, he thought with disgust, and paid close attention to her words. “The man you want is sitting in the second car of the fila. There’s a motorcycle escort first, and then a television camera truck, and then the line of cars. He’s in the second one, an open Cadillac, black. He’s in the back seat, on the side toward the bay. Do you understand?”
Nacio nodded. “What does he look like?”
“There’s no time for descriptions. The second car, back seat, on the side of the bay — the side away from you. Is that clear?”
“The second car in the fila after the television truck, a black Cadillac, open; the back seat—”
He was talking to a dial tone. He set the instrument back into its cradle and moved quickly to the window. The procession was plainly in view, slowly approaching the War Memorial from behind the curtain of foliage that screened the southern approaches of the Beira Mar. The wind caught the high wail of the police sirens, carrying it on the breeze in undulating waves to his window. He nodded and dragged one of the large armchairs from its accustomed place before the television set, swinging it beside the bed. The wide back would serve as an excellent steady for his arm when he fired the shot.
He dropped to the bed and reached for the rifle before he suddenly remembered the television. He came to his feet; two steps and he had twisted the small knob. He waited with growing impatience for the set to warm up, his eyes moving between the blank eye of the screen and the open window with its distant view of the approaching motorcade. There was the sudden sound of a pistol shot; despite himself he flinched. The picture tube came alive, accompanied by the sound of thudding fists and the blur of men fighting in a saloon. He nodded in profound satisfaction and adjusted the volume higher; exactly the proper program for the purpose, and a good omen. Which is always a pleasant thing, he thought, and returned to the bed and the rifle.
The armchair served perfectly, as he had checked before; it allowed just the right angle without being uncomfortable. He rested one elbow on it and slowly brought the loaded rifle into position, peering along the foreshortened barrel in the direction of the distant barricades with their crowds of people. They wanted a show, and for those hundreds directly before the Memorial, he would provide them with one they would never forget! The telescopic sight was almost at proper adjustment; the policemen on the escorting motorcycles leaped into the eyepiece, their vehicles appearing to be stunted by the distorted depth of focus, their handlebars weaving awkwardly at the unaccustomed slow pace. Their intent expressions were clearly discernible before the stark framing of the outer cross-hairs.
The motorcycle policeman in the lead suddenly raised a gloved hand commandingly, and in the same motion veered slightly toward the curb; other motorcycles appeared beside him, pulling up, feet braking their slow motion against the pavement. The motorcade had begun to arrive at the War Memorial.
Nacio nuzzled the gun against his cheek, drawing comfort from its smoothness, moving it slowly in a brief arc to encompass the cars behind the escort. The best time, of course, would be as the motorcade paused at the curb, and the delegates prepared to step down to attend the ceremony. As they rose to leave their cars, the man he wanted would make a perfect target.
His eye noted the first car behind the television truck — an eight-passenger Chrysler, dark blue in color, probably rented by the Foreign Office for the occasion from some funeral parlor. The telescopic sight inspected its occupants briefly; a momentary feeling of omnipotence clutched him. Consider this, he said silently to the men in the dark Chrysler: were you the ones I was paid to kill, even now you would be slumping against the side of the car, blind to the startled milling of the crowd, deaf to the confusion. But you are fortunate; the man I want is not in your car. Still, he thought suddenly, every man’s head lies in the cross-hairs of some hidden weapon, and none of us avoids the shot forever...
The round circle of his tubular view moved slowly to the second car. It was, indeed, a black Cadillac, and Nacio’s lips twisted grimly. Now that the moment was upon him, he seemed in the grip of some cold, inexorable force, directing his movements, controlling even his thoughts. The black cross-hairs crept past the hood of the Cadillac; the driver came into view, one hand shifting the gear lever, the fingers of the other tightening on the wheel as he turned toward the curb. Nacio’s fingers tightened slightly on the trigger of the gun as he started to ease the weapon in the direction of the occupants in the rear seat. The figure on his side of the car was gesticulating, his back hunched; Nacio disregarded him and touched the nob of the sight ever so slightly, shifting the rifle to follow the slow movement of the car. Now was the time! He brought the sight to bear on the right breast pocket of his victim’s jacket; his finger tightening steadily on the trigger, and then froze as he stared in utter disbelief at the familiar features.