He reached the car and fell below the door panel for protection. He reached up for the handle.
Another gunshot, this one louder, the vibration deafening. Accompanying the detonation was another kind of explosion, one that rang with the violent smashing of glass. The car’s rear window had been blown out.
There was nothing else to do! Holcroft pulled the door open and leaped inside. In panic he turned the ignition key. The engine roared; his foot pressed the accelerator against the floor. He jammed the gearshift into drive; the car bolted forward in the darkness. He spun the wheel; the car swerved, narrowly missing impact with the wall. His instincts ordered him to switch on the headlights. In a blur he saw the downhill road, and in desperation he aimed for it.
The descent was filled with curves. He took them at high speed, sliding, skidding, barely able to hold the car in control, his arms aching. His hands were wet with sweat; they kept slipping. Any second he fully believed he would crash; any moment now he would die in a final explosion.
He would never remember how long it took, or precisely how he found the winding road with the intermittent streetlights, but at last it was there. A flat surface heading left, heading east, the road into the city.
He was in dense countryside; tall trees and thick forests bordered the asphalt, looming up like the sides of an immense canyon.
Two cars approached from the opposite direction; he wanted to cry with relief at the sight of them. He was approaching the outskirts of the city. He was into the suburbs. The streetlights were close together now, and suddenly there were cars everywhere, turning, blocking, passing. He never knew he could be so grateful to see traffic.
He came to a traffic light; it was red. He was again grateful—for its actually being there, and the brief rest it brought him. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. God, he wanted a cigarette!
A car pulled alongside him on his left. He stared once more in disbelief. A man beside the driver—a man he had never seen before in his life—had rolled down his window and was raising a pistol. Around the barrel was a perforated cylinder—a silencer. The unknown man was aiming the gun at him!
Holcroft recoiled, ducking his head, spinning his neck, yanking the gearshift, plunging the accelerator to the floor. He heard the terrible spit and the crash of glass behind him. The rented car sprang forward into the intersection. Horns blew crazily; he swerved in front of an approaching automobile, turning at the last second to avoid a collision.
The cigarette had fallen from his lips, burning a hole in the seat.
He sped into the city.
The telephone was moist and glistening with sweat in Noel’s hand. «Are you listening to me?» he shouted.
«Mr. Holcroft, calm down, please.» The voice of the attaché at the American Embassy was disbelieving. «We’ll do everything we can. I have the salient facts and we’ll pursue a diplomatic inquiry as rapidly as possible. However, it is past seven o’clock; it’ll be difficult reaching people at this hour.»
«Difficult to reach people? Maybe you didn’t hear me. I was damn near killed! Take a look at that car! The windows were blown out!»
«We’re sending a man over to your hotel to take possession of the vehicle,» said the attaché matter-of-factly.
«I’ve got the keys. Have him come up to my room and get them.»
«Yes, we’ll do that. Stay where you are and we’ll call you back.»
The attaché hung up.
Christ! The man sounded as if he had just heard from an irritating relative and was anxious to get off the phone so he could go to dinner!
Noel was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. It gripped him and panicked him and made breathing difficult. Yet in spite of that sickening, all-pervasive fear, something was happening to him that he did not understand. A minute part of him was angry, and he felt that anger growing. He did not want it to grow; he was afraid of it, but he could not stop it. Men had attacked him and he wanted to strike back.
He had wanted to strike back at Graff, too. He had wanted to call him by his rightful name: monster, liar, corrupter … Nazi.
The telephone rang. He spun around as if it were an alarm, signifying another attack. He gripped his wrist to steady the trembling and walked quickly to the bedside table.
«Senhor Holcroft?»
It was not the man at the Embassy. The accent was Latin.
«What is it?»
«I must speak with you. It is very important that I speak with you right away.»
«Who is this?»
«My name is Cararra. I am in the lobby of your hotel.»
«Cararra? A woman named Cararra called me yesterday.»
«My sister. We are together now. We must both speak with you now. May we come up to your room?»
«No! I’m not seeing anyone!» The sounds of the gunshots, the explosions of concrete and glass—they were all still too sharp in his mind. He would not be an isolated target again.
«Senhor, you must!»
«I won’t! Leave me alone or I’ll call the police.»
«They can’t help you. We can. We wish to help you. You seek information about the Von Tiebolts. We have information.»
Noel’s breathing stopped. His eyes strayed to the mouthpiece of the telephone. It was a trap. The man on the phone was trying to trap him. Yet, if that were so, why did he announce the trap?
«Who sent you here? Who told you to call me? Was it Graff?»
«Maurice Graff does not talk to people like us. My sister and I, we are beneath his contempt.»
You are contemptible!
Graff held most of the world in contempt; thought Holcroft. He breathed again and tried to speak calmly. «I asked you who sent you to me. How do you know I’m interested in the Von Tiebolts?»
«We have friends at Immigration. Clerks, not important people. But they listen; they observe. You will understand when we speak.» The Brazilian’s words suddenly accelerated; the phrases tumbled awkwardly. Too awkwardly to be studied or rehearsed. «Please, senhor. See us. We have information and it is information you should have. We want to help. By helping you, we help ourselves.»
Noel’s brain raced. The lobby of the Pôrto Alegre was always crowded, and there was a certain truth in the bromide that there was safety in numbers. If Cararra and his sister really knew something about the Von Tiebolts, he had to see them. But not in an isolated situation, not alone. He spoke slowly.
«Stay by the reception desk, at least ten feet in front of it, with both hands out of your pockets. Have your sister on your left, her right hand on your arm. I’ll be down in a little while, but not in the elevator. And you won’t see me, first I’ll see you.»
He hung up, astonished at himself. Lessons were being learned. They were basic, no doubt, to those abnormal men who dealt in a clandestine world, but new to him. Cararra would not have his hand gripped around a gun in his pocket; his sister—or whoever she was—would not be able to reach into a purse without his noticing. They would have their attentions on the doorways, not the elevators, which of course he would use. And he would know who they were.
He walked out of the elevator in a crowd of tourists. He stood briefly with them, as if one of the party, and looked at the man and woman by the front desk. As instructed, Cararra’s hands were at his side, his sister’s right hand linked to her brother’s arm, as if she were afraid to be set adrift. And he was her brother; there was a distinct similarity in their features. Cararra was in his early thirties, perhaps; his sister, several years younger. Both dark—skin, hair, eyes. Neither looked at all imposing; their clothes were neat but inexpensive. They were out of place among the furs and evening gowns of the hotel’s guests, aware of their awkward status, their faces embarrassed, their eyes frightened. Harmless, thought Holcroft.