The sea, which had been so deceptively peaceful and calm when the freighter Santa Eugenia had discharged a portion of its cargo in Salvador de Bahia and headed south along the Brazilian coast, was now beginning to perceptibly roughen. Whitecaps flecked the growing waves beneath a dismal morning sky rapidly filling with threatening black clouds; a sudden chill touched the rising wind. The increased movement brought protesting creaks from the rusty plates of the ship, which nosed deeper into the murky green depths, as if searching for the cause of this abrupt unfriendliness. In the small galley below, dishes slid haphazardly and pots clattered; dim bulbs in the forecastle angled perilously on their twisted flex, swaying erratically, throwing monstrously distorted shadows across the stacked bunks.

On the small open bridge that jutted from the wheelhouse, Captain Enrique Juvenal, master of the Santa Eugenia, studied the latest radio reports of the storm into which the ship was heading, and shook his head. Captain Juvenal was worried. A cautious man by nature, he knew his beloved Santa Eugenia was neither the newest nor the sturdiest of freighters, and he also knew his cargo was in severe imbalance as a result of their off-loading in Salvador de Bahia. And even more he knew that the sudden tropical storms that could sweep this area, while rare, were certainly no less treacherous for that.

He leaned over the flaking rail of the bridge and stared down at his young first mate, balancing himself expertly on the pitching deck below, busily directing the shifting of the meager deck-cargo in an effort to put some semblance of security into their tenuous position. Captain Juvenal scratched his heavily bearded face and sucked fiercely on his thin black cigar; smoke billowed about him, to be instantly snatched away by the increasing gale. A respectful touch on his shoulder drew his attention; it was the radioman handing him another slip. He nodded dismissal even as he scanned the paper, frowned blackly at the message it contained, and then bent over the rail, his white teeth gleaming about the cigar.

�Miguel!�

The first mate looked up, gave one final suggestion over his shoulder to his men to prevent them from disappearing for coffee while he was gone, and trotted up the narrow companionway. He paused a moment at the top to study the darkening horizon, and then touched his cap.

�Sir?�

�How�s the work going?�

The mate raised his shoulders. �Slow.� His tone seemed to indicate that in his opinion it was also largely useless. He met the captain�s eye squarely. �It isn�t the deck-cargo that�s the problem, sir; it�s those large generators in the hold. The ones for Buenos Aires. And we can�t move those at sea with our equipment.�

�I know.� The captain puffed on his cigar, thinking. His eyes dropped to the slip of paper in his hand and then came up again. �How much of the cargo goes off in Rio? And how much in Santos?�

The mate stared at him a moment, and then smiled in sudden understanding. He dragged a thick batch of papers from his hip pocket, wet a finger, and began leafing through them. The news was good; when he looked up it was with satisfaction. �Not a great deal for either place, sir. Nothing that couldn�t be shipped back from Montevideo, or even dropped off on our return, as far as that goes.�

�And how about the passengers?�

�That�s no problem. Three getting off in Montevideo, and the other one in Buenos Aires.�

�I see.� Captain Juvenal squinted thoughtfully at the end of his cigar, carefully considering the various alternatives. His eyes came up to the horizon; he frowned at it a moment and then made up his mind. The slip of paper was jammed firmly into one pocket of his sea jacket, as indicating his arrival at a decision. He nodded. �All right. We�ll miss both Rio and Santos. And also the worst part of the storm. I�ll make up a cable advising the company and also the Rio agents. You post a notice below.�

�Right, sir,� said the mate in a satisfied tone.

�And then get back to shifting that deck-cargo,� the captain added dryly. �We don�t intend to go to Africa to miss this storm. We�ll still feel enough of it.�

�Yes, sir!� said the mate with a nice combination of alacrity and agreement, and trotted happily back down the companionway.

Captain Jos� Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between the Brazilian police and Interpol, braked his red Jaguar sports car to a skidding stop and stared with a disgusted frown through the blurred windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the main entrance to the Santos Dumont Airport was solidly packed with cars. Sheets of rain whipped at the tall palms that fronted the walk and drummed a bit impatiently on the plastic hood of the convertible, as if demanding that the captain get out and get soaked like everything else; the windshield. The long, narrow entrada that fronted the Brazilian negative to this idiotic suggestion. Captain Da Silva scowled, but not because the cars parked before the long building were in violation of the law; he was merely expressing his envy at others luckier � and therefore smarter � than himself who had managed to enter the building dry.

He swiveled his head. To park in the mire of the regular parking lot on a day like this was to invite drowning, for when it rained in Rio de Janeiro, it did so with typical Carioca exuberance and exaggeration. And to leave the car anywhere but at the curb or in the guarded parking lot was to invite far worse. A missing carburetor, for example, or even a missing automobile. Car thieves in Rio, he recognized, were a hardy lot who were not afraid of getting drenched for a reasonable profit. And a police shield on the windshield would only make the theft more enticing, since it would guarantee the loot at least had a decent motor.

A horn behind him blared indignantly. Da Silva suddenly noted that the wide gate to the airport apron was open; he shifted gears and drove in, splashing through puddles, pulling the small car up under the shelter of a covered loading dock. An airport policeman, shocked by this disregard for rules which were certainly posted in sufficient profusion, moved over immediately from the shadow of a doorway to remonstrate, but one look at the swarthy, pockmarked face of the driver, slashed across by its flamboyant mustache and topped off by its unruly shock of black curly hair, and the policeman hastily saluted instead. Captain Da Silva at the best of times was unpredictable, but in weather like this there was a good chance he might be truly difficult. But then the seriousness of the offense � not to mention the potential consequences to his own well-being � forced the policeman to attempt a protest, although he tried to do it as diplomatically as possible.

�I�m sorry, Captain, but you really shouldn�t park here...�

He tilted his head in the direction of the runways. Airplanes hovered there, grounded for the moment. Their bulging sides gleamed metallically, their huge outlines were hazy in the driving rain. Beyond them across the ruffled waters of the bay the walls of P�o de A�ucar rose starkly to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. The policeman�s eyes returned, bright with emotion, pleading.

�This is where the catering trucks park, Captain � the ones that bring the food for the passengers. With your car in the way, they�ll have to park out in the rain��

�Good!� Da Silva bent to set his brake and then switched off the ignition. �More water, more soup.� Did this cretin actually think for one moment he would inconvenience himself for the comfort of airplanes, or even for the comfort of those people foolish enough to patronize the flying monstrosities? He unfolded his muscular six-feet to the protected pavement and reached back into the car for his raincoat. He slung it over his arm, closed the door firmly, and then paused to pat his pocket. The letter that had been deposited on his desk a brief half-hour before was there, as mysterious and tantalizing as it had been when the Central Office of the Police had forwarded it to him as being more in his province. He pressed it again, as if for luck, and then stepped easily up to the low platform.

Against his better judgment the policeman made one last attempt. �But, Captain, sir�� One look at the fierce expression that suddenly blazed in Da Silva�s eyes and he hastily swallowed the balance of his protest. �Yes, sir!�

�And you will keep an eye on it! A sharp eye,� Da Silva instructed him sternly.

The policeman sighed helplessly. �Of course, Captain.�

�Thank you,� Da Silva said, and smiled cordially.

The policeman, amazed as were so many at how pleasant and innocuous Captain Jos� Da Silva could appear when he chose to smile, as compared to how tough he looked � and was � when he was forced to frown, tried to return the smile, but his heart wasn�t in it. One thing was positive: forcing the catering trucks to park out in the rain was no way to maintain their goodwill and hence to share in their leftovers, which was about the only decent food he and his family ever managed to get their hands on. But, on the other hand, could one of his lowly rank � or any other rank � seriously oppose Captain Da Silva? Not, he admitted sadly to himself, if one were blessed with a normal amount of the good sense.

He stared pensively out at the mottled sky and the veering sheets of rain, and prayed fervently that Captain Da Silva completed whatever errand had brought him here and then took himself and his filho de m�e car away before the first catering truck made its appearance. But even as he prayed he kept his eyes watchfully on the small red convertible, for all in all he was not a stupid man.

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 S�, and the rest of the spider web of minor streets that also sought haven in the friendly atmosphere of the gay pra�a. 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 Gale�o 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 Igua�u 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 Jo�o 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 Tr�s 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 Tr�s 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...�

The storm, with brief interludes, racked the area for another three days and then � apparently deciding it had scrubbed Rio�s craggy face enough and that the spectacular city was now presentable for her auspicious Inter-American visitors � abruptly moved off to the north to attempt the same tactics with Belo Horizonte. Its place was immediately taken by a battery of street cleaners, who fought the debris of mud, broken orange crates, and discarded construction lumber that had washed down from the favelas above and lodged against the seawalls, covering the patterned mosaic sidewalks of most low-lying streets. True, the street cleaners concentrated their efforts entirely on that portion of the city which the O.A.S. delegates were most likely to visit, but only because this was the most logical thing to do. After all, why accustom the Carioca to clean boulevards and debris-free avenues when he would only litter them again in a short time? Besides, under that burning tropical sun the mud would soon be transposed to dust and presumably blown away; and the orange crates and lumber would be snatched back by the slum-dwellers long before the attendants of the cleaning trucks could arrive to commandeer those valuable items for themselves.

Mr. Wilson, driving home that Friday evening from the American Embassy after a particularly frustrating and unproductive day, came through the tunnel that led from Botofogo into Copacabana, swung from the Avenida Princesa Isabel into the Avenida Atl�ntica, and then hastily braked to avoid running into the bottleneck of traffic that stretched ahead of him as far as he could see. He shifted to neutral to preserve the worn transmission of his five-year-old car, and swayed in jerky rhythm with his asthmatic motor, trying to let the soft evening breeze and the always pleasant sight of the sea pulsing under the full tropical moon wash away the aggravations he had been forced to suffer that day.

To begin with, a stenotypist brought down early from Washington to ensure accurate and unbiased transcriptions of the forthcoming O.A.S. conferences, had occupied two hours of his afternoon by tearfully insisting that she had been pinched on the street by � of all things � a native! It had taken Wilson the greater portion of this wasted time trying to understand why anyone would want to so flatter the woman, and the balance to assure her with a straight face that it undoubtedly was part of a sinister campaign aimed at rattling the nerves of stateside stenotypists, and that she could best serve the interests of her country by pretending to overlook the incident. And she had been followed by a rotund businessman from Zenia, Ohio, who had maintained a bit angrily that when any hostelry of the advertised eminence of the Hotel Miracopa failed to provide water for a guest of his importance, it could only be because they wished to insult citizens of the United States, and just exactly what was the Security Officer going to do about it?

The line of traffic on the Avenida Atl�ntica edged forward a bit and then, startled by its own temerity, instantly subsided again. Wilson braked automatically, sighed, and from force of habit raised his eyes to the window of an apartment building on the further corner of the next block. To his surprise a light shone at the familiar upper-floor window, which suggested to him that either his rather explosive friend Captain Da Silva was unaccountably at home, or that the apartment was being ransacked by some exceptionally careless thieves. On the slim chance that the former situation obtained, he angled for the curb in search of a parking place. He had nothing planned for the evening and possibly he could have dinner with his old friend. Or even if Da Silva were busy, a drink would still ease some of the tensions of the day and pass time until traffic subsided.

He managed a location between a no-parking sign and a fire hydrant, locked the car, crossed the wide sidewalk and tramped up the five steps that led to the building lobby. The automatic elevator carried him jerkily to the proper floor; he walked down the tiled corridor and leaned on the bell. There was a long wait, sufficient to make him wonder if, perhaps, his second premise might not have been the correct one, and then at last the door swung back. Da Silva, draped in a towel and dripping freely, stared at him a moment and then stood aside, gesturing his welcome with a tilt of his head.

�Hi. Come on in.� He stepped back, dragging the towel about himself a bit more securely. �You caught me in the shower. Have a drink while I get dressed.� He moved toward an inner door. �I just came home for a breather. I have to get back downtown again.�

Wilson nodded, wandered over to the bar, brought forth a bottle and two glasses, and proceeded to fill them generously. He raised his voice to carry into the next room. �Too bad; I was hoping we could eat together.� His tone became curious. �Exactly how many hours are you working these days, Z�?�

Da Silva answered from the bedroom. �These days? Twenty-six. Or maybe twenty-eight and they go so fast they only seem like twenty-six. It could also be thirty � I never was very good at arithmetic.� He came back into the room in his shorts, carrying trousers and a shirt, and pulled them on. A wall mirror allowed him to comb his thick curly hair into a relative semblance of order. He padded to the bar, still barefooted, and accepted the glass Wilson had provided for him. He winked at the nondescript man in a congenial manner, raised the glass in a small gesture of appreciation, and then drank. He put down his glass, smiling gratefully.

�That�s better. I�ve been so busy the last few days I haven�t even had time for my normal drinking. Or even for my abnormal drinking. It�s a good thing you came along to handle the bar chores.�

�Any time,� Wilson said magnanimously. He carried his glass to the coffee table and dropped into a low chair while Da Silva returned to the bedroom for his shoes and socks. The barefooted man came back, retrieved his glass from the bar, and then sat down opposite Wilson to finish dressing. Wilson took a small sip of his drink and studied his friend with a faint smile.

�Why the long hours, Z�? It�s quite un-Brazilian, you realize. You might start a trend that could cause you to become the most hated man in the country, if it were ever traced to you, that is.� Another possibility seemed to strike him. �Or is it simply that you�ve become curious as to how we working folks live?�

Da Silva looked up, affronted. His heavy black eyebrows rose dramatically. �This from an officer of the American Embassy? Whose hours begin at noon and end at one P.M., during which time they are permitted to go out for lunch? And are given PX privileges as a reward for this extraordinary devotion to duty? Please!�

�I�m serious.� Wilson�s smile faded. �Why do you have to go back to work tonight? You look worn out.�

�Don�t let it fool you,� Da Silva said, and grinned. �It�s only a disguise. Behind this fa�ade of weariness lies utter exhaustion.� His grin was interrupted by a sudden and deep yawn. He shook his head. �I guess I�m so tired I don�t even make good nonsense.�

Wilson studied him. �So why go back? Is there anything special on the fire?�

Da Silva looked at him a moment curiously, and then shook his head. �Nothing special. It�s just that the O.A.S. meeting will start before we know it, and we still have a lot of checking to do.�

�And they couldn�t do it without you?�

�Let�s say I�d hate to think so. I�m too old to look for another job.� Da Silva bent forward, studying his large shoes, wondering what there was about them that bothered him. The solution came to him; he leaned over, completed tying the laces, and then fell back again in his chair. �There�s still a lot to do. We heard today that our mutual friend Juan Dorcas will be arriving with his retinue in a few days; he�s been out of Argentina for the past month or two on a vacation or something, but he�s expected back, and he�ll be here, so naturally��

�Traveling? Where?�

Da Silva stared at him sardonically. �Why don�t you ask that question of your head office? I�m quite sure you�ve had a man on his tail ever since he left.�

�And I�m quite sure we haven�t.� Wilson shook his head hopelessly. �You�re really stubborn. And still looking under the rug for some of our big, bad C.I.A. agents...�

Da Silva grinned. �If you�re an example, I don�t suppose they have to be particularly big. And as far as being bad is concerned, I�m sure they�re all very sweet to their mothers.� His grin faded abruptly. �In any event, Dorcas will be here in a few days, and I want to be sure that no misguided patriot � of any country, including you-know-who � decides to violate our hospitality by doing anything foolish.�

Wilson sighed. It was obvious that nothing he could say could convince Da Silva he was wrong. �And how�s it been going so far?�

Da Silva shrugged. He reached into the inlaid box on the table, extracted a cigarette, and lit it, shaking the match out almost absentmindedly. �Oh, we�ve picked up a few people I�m glad will be behind bars during the meetings. If for no other reason than that I won�t have to worry about them. And, of course, we also have a fair bag of known pickpockets down at the Delegacia.� He paused a moment, thinking about his last statement, and then grinned widely. �Which is a bit foolish on our part, when you stop to think about it.�

�Foolish?�

�Certainly.� Da Silva sat up a bit, his normal puckish humor returning. �With all the foreign visitors we�re going to have in Rio in the next week, these light-fingered boys we�ve got locked up could be bringing in some of that foreign exchange our country needs so desperately. And just think� � he brought one strong finger up abruptly for emphasis � �if they held these meetings in a different country each year, and if the local pickpockets were given proper latitude and even encouragement, in a short time the entire problem of foreign exchange for all of Latin America might be solved.�

�But that would mean having more meetings,� Wilson objected. �I thought the other day we�d decided on doing away with meetings and using closed television instead.�

�Only after our budgets are balanced,� Da Silva said. �Once that�s accomplished we could do away with these O.A.S. meetings altogether.�

�You know, that�s really not a bad idea at all,� Wilson said approvingly. He pretended to think about it. �We could disband the diplomatic corps completely, and replace them all with skilled pickpockets��

Da Silva�s bushy eyebrows shot up in shock. �What do you mean �we,� American? Whose pockets do you think are going to have to be picked if this idea of mine is going to work?� He started to smile but ended up with a cavernous yawn instead.

Wilson�s lighthearted manner disappeared. �Really, Z�; how important is this checkup tonight? You�re beat. You need rest.�

�How important?� Da Silva crushed out his cigarette and remained staring at the ashtray as if seeking some answer there. His eyes came up, studying Wilson. �You never know if you don�t do it. But this much I�ll say � for the information of any interested parties � we�re going all out on this, and anyone with any odd ideas would be well advised to reconsider them. Because we�re checking out every building between the Hotel Gloria and the Municipal, and we also intend to hit every hotel and any other potential trouble spot.� He shook his head. �It�s amazing how many alleys and windows and doorways and rooftops there are in a city this size. You don�t really give it much thought until you have the job of making sure none of them are dangerous.�

Wilson was regarding him stonily. �I assume you consider you�ve given me a message?�

Da Silva looked surprised. �You? As a matter of fact, I�ve thought for a long time that this apartment might be bugged; my message was for anyone who might be listening.�

He pulled himself to his feet and reached for his jacket, hanging from the back of a chair. He shrugged himself into it, waited until Wilson was ready, and walked with him to the door.

�All right,� Wilson said quietly. �There�s no sense arguing with you. But you�d be ahead of the game by getting some sleep tonight, instead.�

�Sleep?� Da Silva looked at him curiously. �When I get tired I�m afraid my English suffers. What is this word �sleep�?�

�It�s what I�m going home to get plenty of,� Wilson said. �It�s also the excuse for saying my prayers first, which will give me a chance to pray that you come to your senses about the C.I.A. And also,� he added, considering, �a chance to pray that I don�t have another day like I had today.� He considered his companion critically. �It�s also something you need badly.�

Da Silva reached for the doorknob. �What I badly need,� he said seriously, �is for these meetings to end and for all of the delegates to go back home. Preferably in one piece...�

Even at twelve-thirty, quite early by Brazilian standards, the mezzanine restaurant of the Santos Dumont Airport was beginning to crowd. Wilson pushed his way through the closely set tables, ignoring the combination clatter of silverware, hum of voices, and roar of aircraft that came from the runways beneath the open windows, until he managed to locate Da Silva seated alone near the railing overlooking the main floor of the long, modern building. He swung a chair back from the table and sat down, grinning at his friend. Da Silva merely glared back.

�This is your idea of noon sharp?�

Wilson looked at him innocently. �You mean I�m late?� He shook his head in wonder. �I knew if I stayed around here long enough, some of the national habits would rub off.� He looked across the table curiously. �By the way, how does it feel to be on time for a change?�

�Terrible,� Da Silva admitted, and found himself smiling despite himself. �I know I wouldn�t like it as a steady diet.� He turned in his chair, snapping his fingers loudly for a waiter, his smile fading. �We�re going to have to make it short today, though. I left my desk piled to the ceiling with work. And I want to get a few more things organized before tonight. I�d also like to get some sleep tonight if I can.�

�How are things going, by the way?� Wilson�s voice contained only polite interest, but his eyes were extremely steady on his friend�s face. �Any incidents over the weekend?�

�No,� Da Silva said, �but we really didn�t expect any. The period we�re most concerned with starts tomorrow with that pointless motorcade, and lasts until these meetings are over. And also the man I�m most worried about, our friend Dorcas, won�t arrive until this evening. After which, whether he knows it or not, he�s going to be covered like a nut sundae.� He thought a moment. �Or whether he likes it or not.�

He suddenly realized that no waiter was responding to his finger-snapping and reached out in a predatory manner, grasping a passing waiter by the arm. He ordered their usual cognac and then turned back to Wilson.

�Now, what was on your mind that was so important that you arrived here a half-hour late to tell me?�

Wilson looked across the table a moment and then leaned forward. �Do you remember that character that got lost from one of Stranger�s Hospital�s ambulances last week?�

Da Silva stared at him. �Who?�

Wilson remained patient. �You must remember. It was about a week ago � the last time we had lunch together. In the middle of that terrible storm, remember? Our ambulance picked him up and he was gone by the time they got him to the hospital?�

�Oh!� Da Silva nodded, the incident returning to his mind. A faint grin creased his lips. �Now I recall it. He was the advanced appendix case. The one we decided would be suffering from double pneumonia or flat feet when you found him. And also flying. Well, with all those clues you should have found him, and from that glint in your eye I gather you did.�

�No,� Wilson said quietly, �we didn�t find him. We didn�t even look for him. But I have a strong feeling that you will. And with all the men you can muster.�

�You? Meaning me?�

�You, meaning the entire Brazilian police force, in all its pristine glory.�

Da Silva stared at him with slightly narrowed eyes. �Overlooking your obvious ignorance as to what the word �pristine� means � not to mention �glory� � just why should the Brazilian police waste time on this obvious nut? And even if we managed to catch him, what crime would we charge him with? Leaving the scene of an ambulance?� The thought seemed to amuse him; he snapped his fingers. �I have a better one. We arrest him for failure to pay his fare on a public vehicle.�

�If you�re through trying to be cute,� Wilson said coldly, �I�ll tell you why. Because he happened to be a sailor, and the Air Force people were the ones who delivered him to our ambulance. From Gale�o Airport,� he added significantly.

Da Silva frowned at him and then looked up as a waiter bent to place a bottle and two tall-stemmed glasses on the table. The swarthy Brazilian acknowledged the service with a thankful nod, and then poured the two glasses full. He started to push one across the table and then hesitated. When he spoke his voice reflected his doubts.

�Wilson, are you sure the reason you were late wasn�t because you stopped in a bar some place? You sound as if you may have had a couple too many as it is.�

Wilson nodded, not at all perturbed. �Exactly what I thought when Dona Ilesia relayed the information to me.� He reached across the table, retrieving his drink, and then bent forward, his voice serious. Da Silva, from long experience with the smaller man, listened carefully. When Wilson assumed this attitude, it was usually wise to pay attention.

�This man,� Wilson said quietly, turning his glass between his thin fingers and watching Da Silva�s face closely, �was a sailor � a steward � on a freighter called the Santa Eugenia. The ship was originally scheduled to dock here in Rio, but because of the storm, and because the ship was in bad balance because of its cargo, the captain decided to pass up both Rio and Santos and go directly to Montevideo.� He brought his glass to his lips, sipped, and set it down. �Well, just after the captain came to this decision � and had a notice posted to the effect for the benefit of the crew and the passengers � this steward supposedly became deathly ill. Suddenly and with no previous warning...�

Da Silva was listening closely now. �And?�

�And the captain, afraid of taking any chance that a sailor might die on him, and unable to dock, got in touch with the Sea Rescue Squad here by radio, and they sent out a helicopter and brought the man to shore. They had already called for an ambulance��

Da Silva�s eyebrows had risen. �They brought him ashore in a helicopter in the middle of that storm?�

�That�s right.�

Da Silva shuddered; it was not acting. �Better him than me! The thought of being in any aircraft, but especially a helicopter in that weather!� He grimaced and then looked up. �I�m sorry. Go ahead.�

�Well, that�s about it. They picked him up, brought him ashore, and delivered him to the Stranger�s Hospital Ambulance at Gale�o.�

Da Silva stared at him intently a moment and then upended his drink. He reached for the bottle. �And from the ambulance he disappeared on the way to the hospital.�

�Exactly.� Wilson nodded and leaned back. �I thought you might find it interesting.�

�Damned interesting.� Da Silva stared at the bottle a moment and then slowly refilled his glass. He studied the amber liquid as if trying to see a clear motive in the depths of the cognac. �It would be a rather neat way to get into the country without going through the formality of Customs, or Immigration...�

�Or the police, either, if it comes to that,� Wilson added.

�Especially when we were checking out all airplanes and ships from top to bottom. It would be a very cute gimmick, indeed. Unless, of course� � Da Silva frowned � �the man really was sick and needed attention.�

�You knocked holes in that argument the other day,� Wilson objected. �You pointed out that no man who was genuinely sick was going to leave an ambulance, especially in the middle of that storm.�

�That�s true,� Da Silva admitted. �But that was before I knew about his coming ashore by helicopter. It�s hard to believe that any man would do that unless he had a desperate reason.�

�Exactly,� Wilson agreed softly. �But that desperate reason doesn�t necessarily have to be a bad appendix...�

�I suppose not.� The swarthy face frowned; the black eyes came up. �By the way, where did you get all this information?�

Wilson shrugged. �The captain of the ship cabled the Air Force to find out how the man was, and the Air Force called the hospital. All very delicado and routine. And the hospital called me, since they had no idea of how to explain a lost patient, and apparently felt that trustees did. And then once the facts finally clicked in my brain��

�You checked back.�

�Right.� Wilson raised his glass, smiled at it, and then drank it. He reached for the bottle. �And found that the ship was still docked in Montevideo, unloading, and its personnel were available for questioning.�

�And this questioning was done by whom?�

Wilson looked at him steadily. �By Interpol, if you must know. Not by the C.I.A.�

�I see.� Da Silva�s face was expressionless. �And what was this mysterious steward�s name?�

Wilson dug into a pocket and brought out some papers. He leafed through them and finally extracted one. �Here it is. On the ship�s manifest he was listed as Cacarico. Z. Cacarico.�

�What!�

Wilson stared at him. �Do you know him?�

The somber expression changed to a broad, but slightly rueful grin. �Whoever this character is, he either has a sense of humor or he�s smart enough to pick a name that probably few Portuguese recall if they ever knew it. For your information, Cacarico was a rhinoceros in the S�o Paulo zoo who was elected in a write-in campaign some years ago to the House of Representatives.�

Wilson looked interested. �And how did he do?�

�They wouldn�t seat him. I forget now if it was because he wouldn�t swear allegiance to the flag, or because he couldn�t salute it. Or maybe because he might represent too much competition to the other solons.�

Wilson shook his head sadly. �Well, that�s politics.�

Da Silva�s smile faded. �Whatever it is, it seems to put the finish on any arguments of mine. Anyone who comes into this country the way this one did, with a name obviously picked from the blue, especially in times such as these, certainly does rate being picked up by the police.� He glanced at his watch and started to rise. �And today don�t tell me we haven�t eaten because I know it. And resent it. But, also knowing the Brazilian police, I think we ought to get them started on the job as soon as possible.�

�A fine way to talk about your colleagues,� Wilson said chidingly. �Sit down and relax. The plane from Montevideo won�t be in for at least another four hours. We�ll have lots of time for a good meal � if they�ve got one here � and you can still spend a few hours at your desk before they arrive.�

�Whose plane from Montevideo?�

�Well,� Wilson said slowly, �that�s a bit hard to say. Officially, of course, it was assigned to the delegates to the conferences beginning tomorrow. Unofficially, I suppose it belongs to the American people. In any event, since no one was using it, I�m afraid I arranged to have it fly down to Montevideo. A blow to the crew, since they probably figured they had a week�s unearned vacation to investigate the beaches and fleshpots, but that�s the way it goes.�

�I�m sorry I put it that way.� Da Silva sounded anything but sorry. �I meant, what plane?�

�What plane? Why, the one with the pictures, of course,� Wilson said cheerfully.

�Pictures?� Da Silva smiled across the table, but it was a taut smile, and there was steel beneath the softness of his voice. �You know, Wilson, I have an odd feeling you�re trying to tell me something.�

�You noticed that, eh? Well, as usual, you�re right. I�m trying to tell you the chances are good that we have some pictures of the man we�re talking about.�

�Pictures?�

Wilson shrugged. �Photographs, anyway. If you were expecting oils, I�m sorry. But even these are a break, because the descriptions the Interpol man down there got from the crew were about as useful as pockets on a shroud. A composite of what they told him would have resulted in a man anywhere from four to eight feet tall.�

�How about fingerprints?�

�After almost a week? Not on that ship. But, as I say, we got a break with the pictures. Or anyway, maybe. The captain was cooperative enough, but he barely remembered they had a steward, let alone what he looked like. To him a steward was just a body in a white jacket; and, of course, a statistic to be checked when it got sick. However��

�Well, let�s hear it!� Da Silva was close to barking. �Don�t drag it out into an eight-part serial!�

�Calma,� Wilson said evenly, and then grinned. �After all, I did all the work, so let me have the fun of telling it my way.� He took a deliberate drink and set his glass down. �As I was saying, it seems the first mate, a promising lad named Miguel, bought himself a fancy Japanese camera in Funchal when they stopped there, and after that he took quite a few candid shots around and about the ship � two rolls, as a matter of fact. He thinks � mind you, he doesn�t know for sure � but he thinks our elusive steward may have unconsciously figured in some of them.�

�He thinks? Why doesn�t he simply look at the pictures?�

�I can tell you�re upset,� Wilson said. �Not thinking clearly. Obviously because they haven�t been developed yet. The ship hasn�t been in any one port long enough to get them back from a processor. He was planning on having them done in Buenos Aires.�

�I see,� Da Silva said slowly. �Instead of which we�ll develop them for him � free of charge � in our police laboratory here.�

�Right!� Wilson said, and smiled at him proudly. The character of his smile changed slightly. �Actually, I didn�t know it would be free of charge, but I think it�s a nice gesture.�

Da Silva considered him seriously. �Just one question,� he said slowly. �Granting you used your head this morning, and did a nice bit of follow-up, just how do you expect this to clear your C.I.A. of my nasty accusations?�

�Well,� Wilson said a bit expansively, �if this suspicious steward is uncovered through my efforts � and I have faith in you to do it � and if he should prove to be one of the bad guys, and if all this walking hand-in-hand into the sunset comes about through my modest efforts, then� � he raised his shoulders, but the light tone of his voice had somehow diminished � �then, obviously, it has to clear the C.I.A. of any suspicion, at least in connection with him. Because otherwise why would I do it?� He became completely serious. �Look, Z�; I don�t deny that there might be a try at Dorcas. There has been in the past. But if there is, we have nothing to do with it. I want that understood. And that�s why I�ve been breaking my back trying to dig up anything that might identify, and at least � well, say disarm � any potential assassin.�

Da Silva looked at him wonderingly.

�You are marvelous!� he said with admiration. �You are absolutely incredible. Fantastic! I love the way that brain of yours works. I especially love the way you assume I never heard of the word �decoy� or any of its thesaurian synonyms.� He leaned forward. �I�m not saying I don�t want to see these photographs of yours, because I do. What I�m saying, simply, is this: if the United States feels it imperative to uplift us poor ignorant heathens, why do they insist on sending us such unimpressive things as money? Or wide-eyed youngsters to build us ice hockey rinks in the middle of the Amazon jungle? Why don�t they simply send us more Wilsons?�

Wilson considered him with a jaw that was tightening perilously. For several moments there was a charged silence at the table. Then Wilson took a deep breath and forced himself to smile.

�More Wilsons?� he asked, and then shook his head. �Why? You don�t know what to do with the ones you already have...�

He turned abruptly and raised his arm for the waiter.

For Nacio Madeira Mendes, the week that had passed since his return to his beloved Brazil had seemed endless. While he had long since developed the patience necessary for one in his selected profession, he had never developed any patience beyond this. To Nacio, waiting could be tolerated only when it served a purpose, and he was far from convinced that in this case it did. And each day that passed made him more certain that the entire complicated scheme was unnecessary, and that his victim � whoever he might be � would have long since been dispatched had he been left to his own methods.

His daytime hours had been spent in complete boredom, for while he disagreed with his instructions, he still had no intention of jeopardizing his fee by going contrary to them. In addition, it would not have surprised him a bit if Sebastian had put a tail on him to make sure his instructions were carried on during the day. At night, of course, he was under the cold and sterile inspection of Sebastian�s girl. As a result life was monotonous. The Zoo, which he visited several times, certainly had no denizen more restless than he, nor one who paced the edges of his cage with more growing frustration.

Nor had the hours spent at the Serrador done anything to ease the situation. While Nacio was by nature a man who could control his emotions, including passion, where it served his purpose, the fact was that he had been without a woman for a long time, and living and sleeping in the same room with Iracema did nothing to help. However, any ideas he might occasionally have had regarding the girl had instantly been scotched by Iracema herself; and although she left a flimsy nightgown on a bathroom hook to be discovered by the room-maid in the morning, she actually slept in a severe pair of slacks and a full blouse, topped off by a long and sexless robe that, together with the uncompromising and slightly superior look in her dark eyes, successfully defied violation.

Many times in those days � and even more in the long and increasingly sleepless nights � Nacio had considered disregarding his instructions to the extent of visiting his old hangout at the Maloca de Tijuca on the beach. He had spent many happy hours there in better times, and for the first time was beginning to appreciate just how happy they had been. Certainly a drink there could do no harm; nor, he was sure, could any of the girls in the rooms back of the bar present any great threat, since they changed frequently, and it was doubtful if any of the old ones would still be around to remember him. Still, it would be a chance, and therefore each time the thought came to him, he thrust it away. Time for these things when the fee was earned and paid. Still, it was a shame...

On the Monday night before the day of the fateful motorcade, Nacio slumped in a soft chair before the television set attempting to concentrate on an old movie that had little to recommend it when it had first been produced by Vitagraph, and had not been improved by its more recent translation into Portuguese. It was no use; he bent over and twiddled with the knob, and was rewarded in quick succession by a woman either explaining or apologizing for a recipe, a busty and brave singer whose �lan did not slacken as technicians dragged cables between her and the camera, and a man who kept searching confusedly through a stack of papers before him for the latest news.

It was too much! He leaned down and switched the set off, coming to his feet to prowl the room impatiently. Thank God tomorrow would see an end to this nonsense! His steel-rimmed glasses were on the dresser, as were the uncomfortable cheek-pads; he continually wore his mustache and gloves, and now he scratched at the heavy brush, irritated as always by the itching of the gum arabic, and even more irritated by the difficulty of doing a proper scratching job while wearing surgical gloves.

He glanced at his watch. Where on earth was Iracema? She was usually here long before this; as a matter of fact he normally found her in the room when he returned from having his evening meal. Could anything have happened to her? And, as a result, to the scheme? Which would have made his week of sacrifice a mockery? He shook his head violently, putting the thought aside. If anything were to have happened to the plan, it would have happened before this; nor would he still be free and undisturbed. No; the plan was safe. By now their routine was well-established and accepted at the hotel; on the few times they entered together the room clerk handed them their key automatically, and the elevator operators carried them to their floor without a second glance. Or at least a second glance at him; occasionally their second glances at Iracema had resulted in passing the proper floor.

There was a faint tap at the door, followed in a few seconds by the sound of a key in the lock. He hurriedly slipped his glasses into place and swung about to face the door, his gloved hands jamming themselves into the pockets of his dressing gown. Iracema pushed the door wide, smiling at him brightly, but he knew the smile was really for the benefit of the small bellboy who followed her into the room worshipfully, his arms loaded with gaily wrapped packages all bearing the mark of Mesbla�s, the leading department store in the city. The boy placed his load on the bed, accepted his tip and a grateful smile from the girl with a blush that clearly demonstrated which he considered the more valuable, and closed the door softly behind him. Nacio took off his glasses and glared at the girl, his irritation compounded by the fact that her smile had disappeared the moment the door had closed.

�Well?� His voice was harsh. �Where have you been? Out shopping? Is that all you have to do? You were supposed��

Her abruptly raised hand cut off his complaint. She walked over, swaying, bent and switched on the television set. When the volume had risen enough to form a proper cover for any conversation, she straightened up coolly and looked at him.

�Yes?�

Nacio bit back the anger that automatically rose at the snub. He forced himself to speak calmly. �You were supposed to bring the rifle here tonight.�

She tilted her head toward the bed, her eyes mocking. �The gun is in those packages.� The sarcasm that tinged her voice brought a slow flush to his sallow face. �I couldn�t very well march through the hotel lobby with a rifle on my shoulder.�

He disregarded her sarcasm, moving toward the packages. Her voice stopped him.

�And don�t unwrap them now. Everything�s there; they�ll keep until tomorrow. Put them away in the dresser drawer.�

�I�ll do what I��

He might just as well have kept silent. Her voice went on, curtly, as it always seemed to be when she spoke to him. �And I�m going to bed. I�m tired.�

Nacio clamped his jaws on the angry words that rose in his throat. It was a good thing the affair would be over and done with tomorrow; another day or another night with this � this � iceberg, and he would not want to be responsible for the results. He would either throttle her, or rape her! Or both! Good God, what an impossible woman!

She walked to her suitcase, her full hips swaying as usual, unlocked it and brought out her slacks and robe. Her eyes came up to study him evenly; she might have been looking at a piece of furniture. �And don�t play the television too loudly. I want to sleep.�

�Wait.� The word seemed to come from Nacio�s lips without volition. He took a deep breath. �Why do you talk to me the way you do? And look at me the way you do? As if I were some � some animal or something? You�re in this business as much as I am!� The anger that had been building in him for days threatened to come to the surface. �Who are you to act so much better than me? Or to act as if Sebastian is so much better than me?�

The expression on her face did not change at all. �Sebastian and you? There is no comparison.� She leaned back against the dresser, the robe folded over her arm, pressed against her bosom. �Sebastian is a man...�

�A man?� Nacio stared at her. �Sebastian? Sebastian is a coward, a big, fat, good-looking coward. Who makes a living getting commissions for killing people, and then doesn�t have the nerve to do the jobs himself. You call this a man?�

�Yes.� Iracema looked at him evenly. �I know he�s a coward. That�s what makes him a man.� For the first time something approximating pity touched her eyes. �You wouldn�t understand that.�

�I wouldn�t.�

�You see,� she went on slowly, �Sebastian needs me; he can�t face problems alone.�

Nacio grinned. �For the problems Sebastian faces, he needs me a lot more.�

She shook her head slowly. �No. I knew you couldn�t understand. And there�s more. Sebastian took me from the rooms back of the Maloca de Tijuca over two years ago. He�s been good to me. I�ve been happy with him��

�The Maloca!� The grin that had crossed the sallow face widened, tinged with evil, and also tinged a bit with anger. �And you sleep in that outfit, and alone?�

Iracema straightened up abruptly, her face hardening. It was evident she was sorry she had ever engaged in the conversation. �That�s right. And that�s the way it will always be.� She disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her.

Nacio stared at the closed panel; the sound of a shower being turned on came to him. A girl from the Maloca de Tijuca and he had slept alone for the past week! The sound of the shower increased; in his mind�s eye he could see her stepping out of her clothing, reaching up to push the shower curtain back, and then standing under the streaming water. It was the same picture that had formed in his mind for the past six nights, and it had been bad enough before he had known of her past. Now it was worse.

The sound of the shower stopped. Now she would be stepping out of the tub, her trim body glistening with tiny droplets of water, her hands stretching for a towel to stroke those lush curves, to rub here, to pat there... And then she would take a powder puff... There was a low growl in his throat at the thought. So great was his concentration on the vision in his mind that the sharp rap on the outer door of the room completely escaped his attention.

The knock on the door was repeated; louder and more insistent this time. He came out of his salacious dream, shaking his head vaguely to clear it, staring at the panel. Someone at the door? But who? He frowned; it was probably only the bellboy, inventing some idiotic excuse to see the lady of the room again. But still... He walked over and placed his head next to the panel.

�Who�s there?�

�Open up!�

No bellboy ever spoke in those tones, not to guests! His eyes narrowed instantly, swinging about the room as if seeking some means of escape; his hand reached automatically to the spot beneath his belt where a revolver would have been under standard conditions. The rap was repeated impatiently. He willed himself to calmness, thinking furiously.

�One moment...�

The steel-rimmed glasses were snatched from the dresser top and thrust into place; there was no time for the cheek-pads, which were swept into his pocket. He reached for the door and then realized he still had his gloves on. With a muttered curse he dragged them off and jammed them into his pocket on top of the cheek-pads. He�d have to worry about fingerprints some other time. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Two men stood in the opening confronting him, both bulky and with the unmistakable appearance of plain-clothes police. Nacio had seen them often enough in the past to recognize the type instantly. For an instant panic almost gripped him, but then he realized that had he been recognized they would not be standing there; they would be grappling with him. The thought eased his tension a bit, but he remained wary with the experience of years. The eyes of the larger of the two men studied him almost curiously, and then dropped to refer to a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up again.

�Dr. Carabello?�

�Yes?� He tried to make his voice normal, noncommittal, but despite himself it came out harsh, suspicious. �What is it?�

The man in front shouldered his way into the room. He held out a billfold opened to display an identification card, and then flipped it shut before Nacio could even study it, and thrust it into a hip pocket. �Sergeant Ramos. Police. Do you mind if we look around?�

Nacio�s jaw tightened. �Look around? For what?�

The detective stared at him with suddenly narrowing eyes; the reaction of this particular hotel guest was certainly different from the others he had checked that evening. He motioned abruptly to his partner, who came farther into the room, taking up a position that effectively blocked the doorway. Nacio realized his previous tone had been a mistake; he changed it, attempting to merely sound aggrieved. �What�s this all about?�

�It started out as just routine.� The black expressionless eyes were studying him evenly, but the hunched shoulders and the readiness of the large hands indicated suspicion. �I don�t know where it will end.� Ramos turned away, moving over to stand beside the bed, staring down at the packages there. �We�ll want to see what�s in those, and check out the rest of your things as well.�

Nacio�s body tensed. Damn that idiot Sebastian and his refusal to allow him a revolver! And damn his own stupidity in wasting time talking to the girl when he should have been assembling the rifle! At least with a weapon there might have been a chance to shoot his way to safety, instead of being trapped! Sergeant Ramos continued to contemplate the sallow face before him with hard suspicion.

�And, of course, we�ll want to see your carteira de identidade.�

There was the loud rasp of a bolt being slid back, and the bathroom door opened. All three men swung around at the sound. In the opening Iracema stood, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers rubbing them. �Darling, I�ve gotten some soap in my eyes. Could you�?�

The light behind her outlined her lush figure through the sheer nightgown; the deep slash at the neckline made no attempt to contain her full breasts. Nacio�s eyes widened.

�Darling�?� Iracema opened one eye to squint at him and then for the first time seemed to notice the two strangers in the room. With a feminine squeal she attempted to cover her charms as best she could, and then retreated in confusion, closing the bathroom door sharply behind her. Nacio turned, dazed, to find the two men grinning at him in a knowing manner. The larger of the two backed to the doorway, drawing his partner with him.

�I�m very sorry, Doutor. I hope you�ll forgive us. I don�t believe it will be necessary to take up any more of your time. Or that of your � ah � your senhora.� The other winked at him almost envyingly, and pulled the door closed behind them. Nacio dropped on the bed closest to him and rubbed his hand almost wearily over his face.

This time when the bathroom door opened, Iracema appeared in her usual nightgarb, covered as usual by the long robe. She walked to her bed and turned down the thin top cover, lay down, and drew it to her chin. When she spoke one might have thought there had been no incident with two detectives a few moments before. Her tone also closed the door on any further personal confidences.

�You can turn off the main light; the lamp is sufficient for the television. And keep the volume down. I�m tired and I want to get some sleep.� She looked up at him a moment calculatingly. �And you�d better get some sleep, too. We both have a busy day tomorrow, and it has to go right.� She rolled over and closed her eyes.

Nacio stared down at her. Sleep! After the narrow escape they had just had, not to mention the memory of that lovely vision standing in the bathroom doorway, made even more enticing for not having been completely nude? Sleep! The woman wasn�t human! His jaw tightened. Well, he was! He reached out, twitching the thin cover from the girl, reaching for the neck of the blouse beneath the robe. Iracema rolled over instantly, facing him; her eyes were icy. In her hand was a long needle that had been concealed at her side.

There was a moment�s silence. Then Nacio growled low in his throat and turned blindly toward the door. His hand was on the knob when Iracema spoke.

�Where are you going?�

He looked back at her a moment without answering, opened the door, and closed it softly behind him...

Tuesday dawned clear and warm; from the window of the eighth-floor room at the Hotel Serrador the view was of unalloyed beauty. The Beira Mar drive and the curving bay framing the mountains in the background both sparkled with the combined efforts of a bountiful nature and an active Rio street-cleaning department. Nacio, standing there in his dressing gown, watched a city truck slowly make its way along the drive, pausing at suitable intervals to place down sections of wooden barricades which scurrying workmen instantly lined up along the curbs. Traffic was apparently being diverted from the drive south of the Hotel Gloria; the route selected for the motorcade lay bare under the growing heat of the bright sun. Nacio smiled grimly, nodding in satisfaction. The arena for his dramatic act was being prepared as well as if he were directing the operation himself.

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.

A few hours earlier, on that same bright Tuesday morning, Captain Jos� Da Silva rolled over in his comfortable bed and glowered angrily at the telephone; the instrument, unintimidated, continued its shrill ringing. With a muttered curse for the idiots who had invented the mechanical busybody, he reached over and lifted the receiver, growling into it.

�Yes?�

At the other end of the line, Wilson winced painfully. �Z�, do me a favor � don�t scream. Whisper. In fact, whisper quietly...�

Da Silva shoved aside the cover, swinging his feet to the floor, slowly coming awake. He rubbed a large hand across his face to facilitate the process and then yawned. �Wilson? What an hour to call! I didn�t get to bed until after two this morning. Now what�s the matter?�

�Matter?� Wilson sounded bitter. �Not a thing. Only my head�s coming apart at the seams.�

A slow smile spread across Da Silva�s swarthy features. �Too much pinga? I tried to warn you.�

�And I thank you very much. Only you forgot to warn me about mickeys, and that�s what they fed me��

�A mickey? Who? And why?�

Wilson started to nod and then thought better of it; the twinge of pain that shot from his neck to the top of his head almost made him lose his grip on his ice bag. �That�s an excellent question. When � and if � I ever recover, I expect to go back there and take that waiter by the scruff of his neck and get an answer to that very question.�

Da Silva�s grin faded. �What happened?�

�Well,� Wilson said, pressing his ice bag tighter against his head and turning from the glaring sunlight at his window, �I went out to this Maloca de Tijuca, parked in the parking lot, and went into the main bar. The place was empty except for one couple � it seems everyone in Rio gets moral on Mondays � and I had a drink and prepared to wait around. And...�

�And what?�

Wilson sighed. �And then I had a second drink. And that, it appears, was a major error, because the next thing I knew the room started to get fractious and jump around, and the lights started to get bright, and then they went out. And when I woke up, which was about half an hour ago, I was in my car outside, and the joint was closed. And my head...� He shuddered, preferring to try to forget his head.

�So?�

�So how I managed to make it home is going to remain one of the classic mysteries of all times. The Marie Celeste pales in comparison. I mention this in case you start getting reports of a dangerous drunk weaving along the Lag�a in an old Chevy.�

Da Silva nodded at the telephone in a polite manner, but his thoughts were anything but polite. Where the devil had Freire been? And why hadn�t he called in with a report? �I�ll remember. And just what would you like us to do about the affair? Send a squad car out to the Maloca and tear the joint apart?�

At the other end of the line Wilson stared at the telephone in amazement. �Do you mean you don�t wonder why they would slip a knockout drop to a perfect stranger? It doesn�t rouse the slightest curiosity? I know you�ve been on a sleep diet these past nights, but even so!� He leaned forward, as if in this manner to impress the man at the other end of the connection. �Look, Z�; we know this Nacio used to hang out in this place, and when I go looking for him, I suddenly get taken out of the action.� He started to shake his head and then winced. �There has to be a connection.�

�Why?� Da Silva asked curiously. �How would Nacio Mendes know who you were, or even what you looked like? When he made his escape, I don�t think you were even in Rio yet. Or if you were, I�m sure you two never went around in the same social circles. So why would he go to the trouble of arranging a mickey for you?�

�Do me a favor and don�t ask me my own questions.� Wilson sounded stiff. �I just asked you why.�

�Unless,� Da Silva continued thoughtfully, �he did know you, or at least knew who you were. Possibly he had seen you in Washington...�

Only the knowledge that any sudden movement would prove painful prevented Wilson from exploding. �Honest to God, Z�! Are you still on that maniac C.I.A. kick?� Heavy sarcasm entered his voice. �And I suppose we hired him when he came begging for a job on his knees, and his method of expressing his gratitude is to feed us all knockout drops!�

�I wouldn�t know,� Da Silva said thoughtfully. �I certainly wouldn�t rule it out. For example, what action are you suggesting that we take? That we pull a bunch of policemen from their duty guarding the motorcade � all as a result of your unfortunate selection of drinks at the Maloca � and rush out there to waste their time searching the place and putting hot needles under the fingernails of that poor waiter?�

�I wasn�t suggesting...�

�And have him look at us with innocent baby-blue eyes and tell us that the pobre Americano simply couldn�t hold his liquor and passed out? And that as an act of compassion � and not to endanger inter-American relations � he put you in your car to sleep it off?�

�And I also suppose,� Wilson said, almost gritting his teeth, �that he decided to put the note in my pocket just to keep me warm. Certainly he wouldn�t want me to catch cold!�

Da Silva bent back and stared at the telephone. If Wilson�s assignment by his superiors in Washington was to confuse either him, or the issues, he was doing it in fine style. �What note?�

�That�s one of the things I called to tell you,� Wilson said. He sounded a bit smug, as if happy to have finally aroused Da Silva�s interest. �When I woke up from that mickey-induced fog, I had this note tucked in my jacket pocket, wrapped around my car keys, where I couldn�t miss it. And it simply said: �Sebastian � here�s your watchdog.�� He took a deep breath, almost of triumph. �And just what do you think of that?�

Da Silva reached over, picked a cigarette from the ever present package on the nightstand, and lit it. He drew in deeply and blew a wavering cloud of smoke toward the open window. �If you want an honest answer, I don�t know what to think of it. One answer, of course, is a romantic triangle. If someone thought you were a private detective who had followed him to the Maloca, then the note makes sense. After all, some people take their own dates to the Maloca, and I hear not all of them are married.�

�Except the only people I saw there were a couple who never stopped dancing all the time I was there. And I doubt if they even knew I was there. But just suppose Nacio was there and thought I was trailing him?�

�In that case,� Da Silva said slowly, �why would he address the note to someone named Sebastian? Who�s Sebastian? Certainly nobody in the police department that I know of.� A faint smile crossed his lips; he took a last puff on the cigarette and then crushed it out. �It isn�t a common American name, but I have heard it occasionally. Who do you have in your department, or up in Washington, named��

�Hold it!� At the other end of the line Wilson started to shake his head hopelessly, and then instantly pressed the ice bag against it more tightly. Arguing with Captain Jos� Da Silva was certainly no way to relieve a pounding headache. �Look, Z�, I know you�re tired, and I know you�ve got this crazy idea fixed in your brain � though I�m damned if I know why � but the fact remains I�m telling you the truth. And I�m sure it ties in with this Nacio Mendes.�

�On what basis?�

Wilson sighed. �God, you�re stubborn! Forget it; I was just trying to be helpful. As soon as the four aspirin I took begin to work, I�ll come down to your office.� The sarcasm returned to his voice. �I don�t suppose you�d mind terribly if we compare the handwriting on this note with any samples you might have in your folder of this Nacio�s handwriting, would you?�

�Not at all,� Da Silva said magnanimously. �Be my guest.�

�My, you�re sweet when you get up in the morning!� Wilson said bitterly, and hung up.

Da Silva frowned at the telephone a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then depressed the button. He released it and began to dial. The operator at central police took his call, transferred it to the proper extension, and began to ring. The telephone was lifted instantly; a bright and wide-awake voice answered.

�Lieutenant Perreira��

�Perreira, this is Da Silva. How are things going?�

�All right, Captain. Everyone�s on the job, and for a change half of them didn�t report in sick. The motorcade is scheduled to start in about an hour, and all of our people are in place.�

�Good,� Da Silva said, and meant it. �And how about the reports on last night�s check-up?�

�Most of them are in, on your desk. Sergeant Ramos is writing his up now. He ought to be done pretty soon.� His voice remained cheerful, the result of having gotten a full eight hours sleep the night before. �I went through them. Nothing out of the way.�

�That�s good. I�ll be down as soon as I get dressed. And there�s one more thing � Why didn�t Freire report in?�

�Didn�t he call you? I assumed when he didn�t report to me that he was reporting directly to you. I�ll... Pardon me a moment, Captain...� There followed a few minutes of silence as Perreira spoke with someone in the office; when he came back on the line the light cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a savage anger. �Captain, we just got a report. Some kids playing out on the beach at Tijuca found a man�s body. They told a cop and he checked it out. It�s Freire.�

�What!�

�The body was about a hundred yards up the beach from the Maloca de Tijuca, if you know the place. He was shot. Just once.� The first burst of anger in his voice had been replaced by the cold official tones of a lieutenant reporting a crime to his superior. �Do you want us to pick up the man he was following? That American, Wilson?�

�No,� Da Silva said. �I just finished speaking with Wilson. He didn�t know he was being followed, and anyway it isn�t necessary. I�m sure he didn�t have anything to do with it, and in any event he�s coming down to headquarters in a little while.� He took a deep breath, staring at the telephone, a harsh light in his dark eyes. So Wilson had somehow managed to stir up a hornet�s nest, even if he wasn�t aware of it. And as a result a good man was dead. He leaned forward. �Perreira, how many bad boys do we have around named Sebastian?�

Perreira accepted what seemed to be a change in subject without surprise; he knew Captain Da Silva and knew he never wasted his questions. �Sebastian what?�

Da Silva frowned at the telephone. Apparently too much sleep was as bad as not enough sleep for clogging the brain. �If I knew his last name I wouldn�t be asking you. I don�t know his last name. Just Sebastian.�

Perreira shook his head. �Just Sebastian, Captain? That�s a fairly common name. My guess would be quite a few. Is there anything else you can give me? A bad boy in what respect?�

�A very bad boy.� Da Silva studied the wall opposite him without seeing it. �He might have had something to do with Nacio Mendes, maybe sometime in the past, although I don�t recall that name anywhere in his dossier.�

�I saw the notice on Mendes,� Perreira said, and then sat up. �Do you think he could have been responsible for�?�

�I�m not thinking anything,� Da Silva said shortly. �I�m just trying to fit a man named Sebastian into the picture. He may be somebody who has some connection with killing in general � killing for profit, that is. Or he might have...� He paused. Or he might have what? A record for spitting on sidewalks, or parking in illegal zones such as the unloading dock for catering trucks at Santos Dumont? He rubbed his face wearily. �I don�t know. All I know is the name Sebastian.�

�I�ll check it out.� Perreira didn�t sound too sanguine.

�I wish you would. Or, wait a minute!� Da Silva leaned forward, frowning down at the rug. �What about Sebastian Pinheiro? Whatever happened to him? He was tied into a few killings.�

�Pinheiro? I haven�t heard of him for years. And there never was anything to tie him to Mendes that we could ever find. As a matter of fact,� Perreira added bitterly, �there was very little to tie him to anyone. He was a real cute one. We never did get a conviction, though I�m damned sure he arranged at least four killings I know of, and God knows how many I don�t know of.�

�True.�

�And anyway,� Perreira added thoughtfully, �I seem to remember a notice from Immigration about him. He left the country a few months ago; went to Argentina, as I recall. There wasn�t any basis for stopping him from traveling, but they still keep us informed.�

�But did he come back?�

�I don�t know. I�ll have to check.�

�Do that,� Da Silva said. �And also check on any other stray Sebastians that might fit the bill.�

�Right, Captain.� Perreira paused a moment. �And how about the Freire deal?�

Da Silva grimaced. �The usual, I suppose. Damn, I wish we weren�t tied up so much with this blasted O.A.S. thing! Although,� he added slowly, �I have a feeling that Freire�s murder was somehow part of it.�

�And you think this man Sebastian was somehow connected with it, Captain?�

�Yes,� Da Silva said, and was surprised to hear the word fall from his own lips. �Yes, I do.�

�Then in that case,� Perreira said with a coldness that was almost ferocious, �we�ll dig him out if we have to unearth every Sebastian this side of hell!� He seemed to realize suddenly that he had been bordering on the dramatic. �I�d better get right to it. Is there anything else, Captain?�

�That�s it,� Da Silva said, and hung up.

He got to his feet, beginning to shed his pajamas. Perreira was a good man, and if there was anything to be dug up on this new name, Sebastian, he would dig it out. If the name means anything as far as this case is concerned, he added sourly to himself; if Wilson isn�t just leading me around by my nose. He shook his head wearily. And, of course, if it isn�t too late as far as the O.A.S. meetings are concerned, even if it does mean something...

Nacio Madeira Mendes, slowly climbing the Ladeira Portofino, reviewed for the fourth or fifth time the steps he had taken once he had seen the small figure in the black Cadillac slam back against the side of the car, and had seen the look of incredulous shock flash across the small round face. There had been no time for further observation, nor had any been required. Nacio�s mind had coldly blanked out the frozen tableau caught in the tubular gunsight, and had turned instantly to the steps now necessary to be taken. Nor had his recollection of those steps uncovered any error or oversight.

The gun had been thrust deep beneath the bedclothes and a pillow tossed on top to disguise its outline; the armchair had been swung to a new position. His eyeglasses had been hooked into place, his revolver recovered from the dresser and tucked beneath his belt and his jacket buttoned over it; the doorknob of the room had been properly wiped when he left. All according to schedule. He even recalled with a touch of amusement the head poked inquiringly out of a door near his when he emerged, a head seeking the source of the strange noise; without breaking his stride he had pointed farther along the dim hallway and then had reached the stairway exit and was trotting down the steep concrete steps. The corridor below led to the employees� entrance, and he had paused in the shadowed hall to strip his gloves from his hands and shove them deep into one pocket, and had then pressed with his shoulder against the heavy locking-bar, stepping out into the street.

The growing sound of a siren coming along the Beira Mar had echoed in the distance, no very unusual sound in Rio, identifying an ambulance he was certain would be of no use to his victim. He could picture the growing excitement and startled disbelief of the spectators stirring across the Pra�a Paris before the War Memorial, but here in the narrow Rua Senador Dantas no knowledge of the event had had time to penetrate. Nor had there been any further indication of the fateful event as he had calmly walked to the Lapa arches, marched beneath them into the Rua Riachuelo, and had eventually come to the Ladeira Portofino.

He paused a moment on the ladeira, relaxing, leaning against the low stone railing that edged the steep stairs, staring off into the distance over the red roofs below. Eight days before, he had climbed those steps for the first time in over three years; cold, wet, uncomfortable, uncertain as to his future or the wisdom of having returned to Rio at that time or under those circumstances. Now, in the bright sunlight and the warm breeze, he was mounting them again, but this time with all doubts resolved. Now a job had been successfully accomplished, and a fee was waiting to be collected, a fee beyond anything he had ever dreamed of earning. Plans would have to be made for removing himself from the city as quickly as was consistent with proper safety, but for the moment these plans could wait. For the moment there was triumph to be savored and money to be counted, and if there was enough money to be shared with Sebastian, then there was also enough triumph to be shared as well. No harm could come from admitting to Sebastian that the scheme, which he had never liked too well, had indeed been quite good. Or at least, he added to himself, it had worked, and that was the only thing that counted.

He resumed his climb, taking his time, approaching the top of the stairs, anticipating the smile of welcome on Sebastian�s face, a smile he realized would be mostly self-congratulatory for having engineered the complicated plan, but a welcoming smile nonetheless. Even Iracema would be forced to demonstrate some sign of admiration. His eyes came up as he turned into the small areaway fronting the paneled door; a curtain dropped on one of the first-floor windows, swaying back into place. This time, it appeared he would not be kept waiting.

Nor was he. Even as he reached for the doorbell the door swung open in his face, but the welcoming smile he had anticipated from Sebastian was oddly missing. In its place was a frown so fierce, a glare so out of character for the large fleshy man, that for a moment a slight chill struck the smaller man. What on earth could be the matter with Sebastian? What could possibly have caused this reception? And then the explanation struck him. Of course! The murder of the police officer at the Maloca de Tijuca had undoubtedly hit the newspapers and the radio, and Sebastian would have known by now of his presence there the previous evening. So what! He shoved himself past the larger man, swaggering into the dim room. On the arm of a chair Iracema sat, her head turned down, her hair shadowing her face, her eyes staring at the rug. Nacio shook his head. Amateurs, he thought with an inner sneer; beginners! Did they honestly think the killing of the police officer more important that the successful assassination he had accomplished just a short while before? Or that he was so careless as to have left anything at either killing to lead to himself, or through him, to them?

He shrugged and swaggered into the room farther; the girl came to her feet and moved to the window, as if to keep a distance between them. Nacio smiled faintly. �How about a drink?�

Sebastian stared at him a moment as if in disbelief. When he spoke it was in a half-whisper, his voice almost barren of any emotion. �You fool... You incompetent idiot...�

Nacio looked up, his eyes narrowing, his thin lips tightening. Talk like this from anyone, but especially from a fat coward like Sebastian, was far from common. He bit back his temper, forcing himself to relax. Success had crowned the more important killing, and if Sebastian was irritated with the other, it was just too bad. There was no need to see each other ever again after today, and the fat man could stew in his memories.

�What did you say?�

�I said you were an incompetent idiot! An imbecile! That I had to go all the way to Lisbon to find!� The repetition of the insults seemed to have strengthened the deep voice; the large hands clenched and unclenched in anger.

Nacio stared at him a moment and then shrugged carelessly. �Those are pretty strong words, my friend.�

�Strong words?� Sebastian�s eyes widened at the other�s attitude; he almost sputtered. �Strong words?� His voice rasped in his throat as if speech were painful. �Three months in planning this thing � three months? More! Every last detail! And over five thousand conto spent in expenses�� His voice grew even more bitter. �Idiot things, like buying you a fake passport, and those fancy clothes you�re wearing. And you call it strong words when I don�t congratulate you for blowing the whole thing?� His large body leaned forward a bit; he seemed to be holding in an explosion with an almost superhuman effort.

�Blowing what thing?� Nacio suddenly laughed; the whole thing was too absurd. So it wasn�t the affair of the police officer that was bothering Sebastian after all; the poor stupid fat slob somehow seemed to have the crazy idea that he had missed his target! What foolishness! �What are you talking about?�

Sebastian gritted his teeth, hissing through them. �I�m talking about a radio announcement that came through less than five minutes ago, saying that despite an attack that had just been made upon him, Juan Dorcas of Argentina expects to address the opening session of the O.A.S. tomorrow morning! That�s what I�m talking about!�

Nacio�s laughter died instantly, replaced by an icy calm. He seemed to shrink into himself; the wary instinct of an animal defending himself against a threat suspected but not confirmed. �You�re crazy!�

�Am I?� A big thumb jerked angrily toward one corner of the room. �Am I? Would you like to hear it for yourself? There�s the radio over there; tune it in. Listen for yourself. It�s all they�re talking about; it�s on every station.�

�It�s impossible! I saw him when the bullet hit him!� Nacio�s eyes suddenly narrowed; his jaw clenched. So Sebastian was still trying to play games! �What are you trying to pull?�

�What am I�?� Words failed the larger man. �What am I�?�

�That�s right. I did the job and I want my money. And I want it right now!� Nacio�s hand crept toward his belt; his eyes were points of ice in his lean face. �So get it!�

�Get it? Get what?� Sebastian stared at him. �You want to be paid for costing me a fortune? For throwing away what I planned on so long and so carefully?�

The revolver suddenly appeared in Nacio�s hand. The time to end this charade had arrived; his surprise that Sebastian would attempt to pull something like this was tempered by the knowledge that no man could be trusted forever, and particularly not where a sum this size was involved. His voice hardened.

�You heard me. I want that money.�

Sebastian faced him, frozen, his widened eyes riveted on the revolver. �Where did you get that gun?�

�In a bag of popcorn! Come on! I did my part of the job and I intend to be paid for it.�

�Put down that gun��

�I�ll put it down when I�ve been paid. Come on! I�m sure the money�s here in the house!�

At the window Iracema suddenly spoke. Her voice was dull, almost uninterested, as if the disappointment of the day had drained away the last of the vitality that had kept her going for the past week. �There are some men coming up the ladeira... Strangers...�

Nacio almost sneered at the pitiful attempt to draw his attention. Strangers never came to the top of the ladeira. Across from him Sebastian took a tentative step toward a table in one corner. The gun came up swiftly, rigidly.

�Stay where you are! Move away from that table!�

�They�re still coming,� Iracema said quietly, almost conversationally.

The disinterest, almost boredom, of her voice caused Nacio to waver a moment. He stepped quickly backward, toward the window, sweeping the girl aside with a stiff arm. The revolver came up, checking the larger man in place, before he chanced a quick glance about the edge of the curtain. There were men coming up the ladeira! Still, there was no reason to suspect they had anything to do with either him or Sebastian, or the house; there were other houses on the Portofino. But still, there was no doubt it was rare.

A frown appeared on his old-young face; he took a second glance, studying the men below with greater care, and then froze in rigid anger. One of the men he recognized; the watchdog Sebastian had set on him the night before at the Maloca! He swung back, his face white with fury.

�So that was the idea, eh? I pull the job and then you have some of your boys take care of me, eh? So you keep the whole bundle. Well, if they take me, you won�t be around to watch!�

Sebastian took a step forward, staring at him as if he were mad. �What are you talking about?�

�I�m talking about this,� Nacio said quietly through clenched teeth. He raised the revolver and calmly pulled the trigger. The explosion rocked the room, mingled with the sudden terrified scream of the girl. The large man staggered back under the force of the bullet; his hands came up, fingers curled like talons, and then he lurched forward toward his assailant. The second bullet tore through his neck, swinging him about sharply; his hands groped blindly at the spurting blood, as if trying to hold life within him by sheer force, and then he crashed to the floor.

A whirlwind of thrashing arms and legs struck Nacio, driving him to his knees before he knew what had happened. He tried to twist loose, to bring up the gun again, but an infuriated Iracema was swarming over him, clawing at him madly with sharpened fingernails, her full body used to press him down; her breath was hot and sweet on his face. Her hands locked on the gun, tearing it brutally from his grasp. An almost insane continuous crooning came from her throat, more frightening than any sound Nacio could remember. With a supreme effort bordering on panic he thrashed about and finally managed to break the hold and squirm loose, coming to his feet in a wild stagger to make for the door.

The three men trudging warily up the long granite stairway, paused at the sharp flat cracks of the pistol shots, echoing in the narrow defile and resounding from the mountain above. Da Silva was the first to recover. He started up the remaining stone slabs at a run, his eyes bright, his revolver out and gripped tightly in his large hand. Behind him Wilson and Ramos clambered up the steep steps, panting, their eyes locked on the small house at the top.

The door they were watching as they climbed was suddently torn open; a disheveled figure appeared there, head jerking wildly from side to side in search of escape. The small spectacled man outlined against the black of the open doorway took the two steps necessary to reach the edge of the ladeira and then swung about, preparing to make a dash for the protection of the wooded serra above. Da Silva brought his gun up, shouting, but in that moment there were a series of sharp explosions from within the house. The figure jerked, twisted as if uncertain, and then slowly turned in a grotesque pirouette. It took a hesitant step, and then another, paused at the edge of the top step a moment as if considering the extensive view, tottered, crumpled, and came hurtling down the ladeira toward the three men pressed back in frozen shock against the low stone railing. It landed above them, bounced flaccidly twice, and came to a final rest against the wall, hands flung outward as if in supplication, face crushed cruelly into the crevice formed by the step and the rough stone wall. A small trail of blood instantly stained the pale stone, running from the hidden smashed face to trickle delicately to the step below.

Da Silva took the two steps to reach the body in a leap, bending down instantly to examine it; Wilson paused at his side, crouching, breathing heavily, one hand going automatically to his forehead to ease the pounding pain there. Sergeant Ramos went on up past his chief without awaiting instruction, bending low to take what little protection the short wall offered, jumping from step to step. There was a cry from the woods beyond the house and Lieutenant Perreira came running down from the green cover of the matto, followed by another man. They dashed across the open space, dodging from side to side, and then paused at the wall of the house, edging cautiously toward the corner.

Da Silva rolled the body over; it seemed to resist a moment as if resenting the invasion of its privacy, and then came heavily, arms flopping wide, slapping down at the stone step. The eyeglasses had smashed and were white circles of powdered glass skewed on the bloody face. Da Silva bent over distastefully and stripped them away. The unseeing eyes stared back at him; the thin lips dribbling blood were drawn back from the broken teeth. Da Silva made a small grimace of repugnance.

�It�s Nacio Mendes, all right...�

There was a shout from the house above; Ramos was standing in the open doorway, tucking his gun into his holster, waving him to come up. Perreira and his companion had disappeared within the house. Da Silva straightened up slowly, replaced his gun in its holster, and then with a shake of his head stared up at the house.

�Let�s go.�

The dim shadows of the room, after the brilliant sunshine outside, caused the two men to pause as they entered, waiting until their sight had adjusted to the semi-twilight within. The sharp odor of cordite filled the room; wisps of smoke still eddied in the still air. The other three detectives were standing hesitantly to one side, their expressions an odd combination of professional interest in the dead man sprawled on the floor, and a certain sympathetic respect for the girl sitting beside it, cradling the bloody head in her lap. She made no sound at all, but merely continued to brush the wavy hair with her hand, stroking it gently, rocking back and forth in silent grief. Da Silva studied the dim room a moment and then walked over to a chair and picked up a small briefcase resting there; he opened it, stared into its empty depths, and then studied the manufacturer�s name impressed on the inside of the cover. He laid it aside, glancing at Perreira; the lieutenant nodded as he tipped his head toward the body.

�It�s Pinheiro, all right.� His voice was restrained, as if in respect for the girl�s wordless sorrow.

Da Silva nodded. He made his voice brisk, businesslike, in order to break the spell the scene was casting on its viewers. �All right. Let�s get her away from here. I�ll talk to her later at headquarters.� He frowned down at the spread-eagled figure. �And cover him up with something. And also cover the one down on the ladeira as well, until the wagon comes. The kids around this neighborhood see enough without having to see that.�

�Yes, sir.� Perreira muttered an instruction to his assistant and then bent to take the girl by the hand. She rose quietly, almost majestically, stared down at the dead body a moment, and then docilely followed Perreira to the doorway, unconsciously wiping her bloody hands against her thighs. The other detective took a serape from the couch and draped it as best he could over the dead man, and then followed the lieutenant to the door. Ramos picked up a small throw rug and also left the room, going down the steep ladeira toward the body wedged on the stone step.

Wilson, watching the scene from one side, stared down a moment at the shapeless mound on the floor and then raised startled eyes to Da Silva�s rigid face.

�My God! What on earth happened?�

�A disagreement,� Da Silva said dryly, and slowly shook his head. �An apparent difference of opinion. In which both lost.� He looked up. �It seems fairly clear that the girl shot Mendes, and most probably because Mendes shot Pinheiro. Why?� He shrugged humorlessly. �Maybe we�ll find out from the girl down at the Delegacia. And maybe not. I can�t really see it as being too important. Neither one of them will be missed.�

�And who is Pinheiro?�

Da Silva glanced at him curiously. �I keep forgetting you don�t know. He�s the Sebastian you wanted me to look for so desperately. Well, we managed to find him.� His eyes dropped to contemplate the body on the floor broodingly. �If you still want him, you can have him.�

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut a moment against the pain that was returning to split his head, and then opened them. �The man in the note, I gather. But who, exactly, is he?�

�Pinheiro?� Da Silva shrugged. �He is � or was, rather a middleman in arranging for people to be killed. A go-between. A one-man employment agency with enough contacts on both sides of the law to bring both a murderer and a victim together. A marriage-broker, in reverse. Who hired one assassin too many.� He brought his eyes up from the lump on the floor. �He is � or was � the one who arranged for Nacio Mendes to come back to Brazil.�

�But why?�

Da Silva stared at him. �Why? To kill Juan Dorcas, of course.�

Wilson shook his head impatiently and instantly regretted it. He waited until the pounding had subsided. �I don�t mean that, I mean, for whom? Who paid for the job?�

A faint smile touched the corners of Da Silva�s lips, a smile that did not extend to his brooding eyes. He studied Wilson�s pale face a moment, and then picked up the briefcase that had interested him before. �That�s right; you really don�t know, do you? Well, I don�t think this is a time for secrets. This was apparently used to bring the payoff, and the money isn�t here. And it has a Buenos Aires manufacturer�s name. So...�

He walked to the foot of the stairway leading above and called up it softly. In the quiet room his voice echoed clearly to the floor above, emotionless and steady.

�Senhor?� There was complete silence in the small house; in the distance the faint echo of a dying siren seemed to give an almost false touch of drama to the scene. Da Silva took a deep breath. �Senhor? I�m sure you hear me. I think you�d better come down now. I know you�re up there, and I think there has been enough killing for one morning...�

Wilson was staring at him in surprise, as if the events of the past few moments had driven his tall Brazilian friend out of his mind. �Z�! What on earth�?�

Da Silva raised a hand sharply for silence without taking his eyes from the stairway. He stepped a bit closer to the foot of the stairs, calling again. His voice remained soft, but there was steel in the steady tones.

�Senhor? I know you�re there. If I am forced to come up and get you��

There was silence for a moment, and then the hesitant scrape of a foot on the landing above. A man appeared on the steps, placing one neatly shod foot before him slowly, carefully, almost daintily descending. Da Silva moved to one side, twisting the switch of a lamp, his revolver rigidly held before him. In the cone of light that sprang up in the dim room the small body came into view a bit at a time. First the tiny feet in their highly polished shoes, then the short legs, then the round stomach and the arms held with his fists clenched tightly at his side, and finally the full fat face with the hairline mustache and the hair that seemed to be painted in place. He reached the bottom of the steps and stood quietly, watchfully, staring at the two men before him with wide liquid eyes.

Wilson turned to Da Silva, frowning in amazement. �And who the devil is this?�

�This?� Da Silva was considering the little man with almost clinical detachment. �This is a hungry, vicious, ungrateful little monster with large ambitions. Who might have gotten away with it if he hadn�t tried to be cuter than he is. And who caused the death of three men, one of whom worked for me and will be missed...�

The small man opened his mouth as if to say something and then closed it, locking his jaw. The large swarthy man before him was frightening in his very lack of emotion. The fat face was pallid; beads of sweat began to form on his broad forehead. Wilson stared from the perspiring face to Da Silva�s narrowed eyes and stony expression.

�But, who�?�

�You want an introduction? Of course.� Da Silva turned to the small pale man and tipped his head slightly in a grotesque parody of politeness. �This is Senhor Wilson, of the American Embassy, and a very close friend of mine.� His head moved, contemplating Wilson.

�And this animal� � his voice remained the same � �is Senhor Alvinor Dorcas, brother of Juan Dorcas, but unfortunately for him and his plans, not at the moment his brother�s heir...�

Wilson watched his friend Captain Jos� Da Silva push his way through the crowded tables of the Santos Dumont restaurant; he leaned over and poured a glass of cognac to the brim, and then carefully placed it across the table in position for ready consumption. Da Silva, arriving, removed his jacket with a profound sigh of relief, draped it over the back of his chair, and dropped into his seat. He noticed the glass before him and reached for it gratefully. Wilson frowned.

�You might at least say hello first.�

Da Silva paused with the glass halfway to his lips. �Hello.� He finished the drink, wiped his lips, and shook his head reproachfully. �And never interrupt a man in the midst of a delicate operation. I might have spilled some of it.�

�Sorry.� Wilson shook his head forlornly. �You appreciate the injustice of it all? I set up a scene expecting thanks, and end up apologizing. It happens every time.�

�But I do thank you,� Da Silva insisted. �I needed that drink.�

Wilson studied his friend a moment and then reached for the bottle. �They�re all gone?�

Da Silva nodded happily. �Every last little one. And about time. The final bunch left from Gale�o about half an hour ago. After the head of their delegation made a touching speech about the hospitality of our fair country, and the beauty of our wonderful city.� He shook his head envyingly. �It must be wonderful to be a policeman in some place where diplomats don�t look for an excuse to visit. Some place like Kamchatka, for example.�

�Or Pittsburgh,� Wilson added, and grinned. �So now you can go back to taking your jacket off at lunch again.�

�Right.� Da Silva winked at him. �And about time for that, too. I was beginning to walk lopsided, and my maid complained that my jackets kept sliding off the hangers. My tailor also threatened suicide; he claimed I was frightening off custom.� He leaned back, staring out of the large windows benevolently. �What a lovely day!�

�You sound relaxed,� Wilson commented.

�Completely.�

�Then, in that case,� Wilson said slowly, �you might finally get around to clueing me in on that Dorcas case. You never did, you know. After you picked up brother Alvinor, you shut up like a clam. And this is the first time I�ve had a chance to talk to you since.�

�That�s right,� Da Silva said slowly, and looked up thoughtfully. �I keep forgetting that you people didn�t hire Sebastian, after all. Well, where do you want me to start?�

�How about at the beginning?�

�A reasonable request,� Da Silva agreed equably, and then paused to put his thoughts in order. �Well, once upon a time there were two brothers named Juan Dorcas and Alvinor Dorcas, who bore an extraordinary resemblance to each other, but who otherwise had little in common. Alvinor was used to play and fun, while brother Juan��

Wilson raised a hand in interruption. �Let�s not go back to their nursery days. Let�s take it from within the last decade. For example, just how did you get onto brother Alvinor?�

�Through you, of course. You got onto him for me, and I thank you.� Da Silva dipped his head in an exaggerated salute of appreciation. �When you were lucky enough�� He studied the expression that had sprung to Wilson�s brow and modified his statement accordingly. �I beg your pardon. I mean, when you were astute enough to locate that ship with its first mate who was a camera-bug, I happened to notice among that first batch of terrible pictures one photograph that oddly enough reminded me of Juan Dorcas. I�ll admit it was just a faceless figure leaning over the rail, but I�ll also admit that at the time I guess I had Juan Dorcas on the brain��

�You didn�t just have Juan Dorcas on the brain,� Wilson commented sourly. �You also had the C.I.A. on the brain. Or off the brain, rather.�

Da Silva nodded brightly. �True.� His heavy eyebrows cocked quizzically. �Do you want to hear how I brilliantly solved this case, or do you want to waste your time � plus our entire lunch hour � angling for apologies?�

�Both,� Wilson said firmly.

�Well, in that case we�ll take my brilliance first. As I was saying, I thought it rather strange that Dorcas would travel on the same boat as a known killer � in fact, I thought it strange he�d travel on a freighter at all. And I thought it even more strange that I should get an anonymous letter from Salvador de Bahia � where this ship docked about the time the letter was posted � advising us that Dorcas would be killed.�

�Letter? What letter?� Wilson was frowning across the table. �You never told me anything about a letter.�

Da Silva shrugged delicately. �I didn�t want to hurt your feelings. The letter sort of hinted that your Government would be the ones most interested in the � ah, the removal � of Juan Dorcas, and knowing how inordinately touchy you had become on the subject...� He smiled and lifted his shoulders. �In any event, it suddenly occurred to me that possibly you might be telling the truth.�

�Possibly!�

�Probably, then,� Da Silva conceded. �When I was learning English, I was taught never to argue about an adverb. Anyway, I sent the letter and the photograph down to an old friend of mine in Montevideo and asked him to do some checking of handwriting in Buenos Aires, and he confirmed what had only been a wild hunch��

�A hunch you had to fall back on because you hadn�t been able to think of anything else.�

�Exactly!� Da Silva made it sound as if he had just been complimented and appreciated it. �And I was right. The handwriting was that of brother Alvinor Dorcas. The picture, of course, was also of him, although I will freely admit it could have been of any short, faceless man. Even you.� His hand went out for the bottle of cognac.

Wilson reached it first, poured himself a drink, and then proceeded to fill his companion�s glass. �And Sebastian?�

�You brought us that,� Da Silva said. �Among other things, his traveling to both Argentina and Portugal and then returning to Rio made it sound very much as if he was our boy. And also,� he added honestly, �we didn�t have the time to follow through on any other suspects. Not that we had any others...�

Wilson frowned at his glass of cognac thoughtfully. �This Alvinor went to a lot of trouble, though. Hiring Sebastian so many months early, and taking the same boat just to see that Mendes actually got off in Rio...�

�We don�t know that that was his only reason. He preferred to be out of sight somewhere, and the boat was as good a place as any. And it also gave him a chance to post that letter in Salvador.� He shrugged. �As to the trouble, it would have been worth it to him � or to anyone else in that position. After all, an assassination at the O.A.S. meeting would have been a perfect cover for a private killing, especially of a man as controversial as Juan Dorcas. So naturally he was forced to wait for the meeting to be held. And you want to remember he was playing for extremely high stakes. If it had worked, he would have been a very wealthy man.�

Wilson nodded. �If he hadn�t written that letter��

�He wrote the letter as a clincher; as insurance. He didn�t want me � or us, rather � led astray by anything as ridiculous as the truth.� Da Silva shrugged. �I think even without it we�d have come up with the right answer in time. Especially the way you kept nagging me.�

�Maybe,� Wilson said. �And maybe not. If I hadn�t been lucky enough�� He suddenly grinned. �Or, rather, astute enough � to be a trustee of Stranger�s Hospital; or if Les Weldon hadn�t been playing golf that morning and Dona Ilesia had gotten hold of him first with her story of the missing patient, then brother Alvinor might well have gotten away with it, because we�d never have gotten onto Mendes.�

�He might still have had his troubles,� Da Silva pointed out. �Because I would have still insisted on Juan Dorcas wearing that bullet-proof vest. Though I will admit having proof that a known assassin was gunning for him helped me to insist.� He shook his head. �You�d think that after three previous attempts on his life he�d listen to reason, but I had to practically threaten him to get him to wear it.� He suddenly grinned impishly. �I have a feeling he feels the way I do about clothes. A bullet-proof vest under a morning coat is bound to bunch up and wrinkle. And it must have been uncomfortable in the heat.�

�Except that it saved his life.�

�But only at the expense of a ruined shirtfront.� Da Silva�s smile disappeared; his eyes came up thoughtfully. �You know, when he was told it was his brother who tried to have him assassinated, he insisted on his government instituting extradition proceedings immediately, to transfer dear Alvinor out of our hands.�

Wilson stared at him. �And you�re going to let them have him? You�re going to let him get away?�

Da Silva nodded slowly. �I think so. Of course it isn�t in my department to say yes or no, but I�m definitely in favor.�

�But why?�

�You see,� Da Silva said slowly, �neither Brazil nor Argentina has a penalty for his crime that is either excessive or even equitable. The maximum here is thirty-three years, no matter how grave the crime, and nobody I know of has ever served more than half of this. But� � his dark eyes came up, expressionless � �I have a feeling that once Alvinor is in his big brother�s backyard...�

Wilson nodded in sudden understanding. �Then you think his punishment may be more severe, is that it?�

�More certain, anyway,� Da Silva said, and turned in his chair, searching for a waiter. He frowned. �Where the devil is everybody today?� He turned back. �Wilson, why don�t you be a good fellow and go over to the ma�tre d� and get us a waiter?�

Wilson stared at him. �You�re marvelous! You manage to avoid an apology you still owe me, you completely overlook the fact that everything you had to help you in this case came from me and my efforts, you forget that once I was an associate, and then I was reduced to a suspect � and now I�ve come all the way down to being a servant.� He shook his head. �What is this?�

Da Silva grinned at him. �Do you remember not so very long ago I asked you why the United States didn�t send us more Wilsons, and you accused me of not knowing what to do with the Wilsons we had?�

�I do.�

�Well, then,� Da Silva said, spreading his hands in explanation, �I�m merely trying to find a use for the Wilsons we have...�

The smaller man from the American Embassy stared across the table a moment, and then his face broke into a wide smile. �I knew if I waited long enough I�d get that apology,� he said, and rose to his feet to get a waiter...