“Yes, but he had a very big gun. How do you propose to get past that?”

Trout gave Gamay a lopsided grin. “I was thinking that a beautiful woman could provide a, uh, diversion.”

“Here we go again. Cherchez la femme. The oldest trick in the book. Do you think he'd fall for a ruse like that?”

“You're kidding,” Trout said with a chuckle. “We're talking about a hot-blooded Latin male.”

“Unfortunately,” Gamay said with a sigh, “I think that you're right. Okay, I'll do my Mata Hari impression, but you're buying dinner.”

A half hour later, they were back in their hotel room. Paul mixed a couple of cool rum drinks, and they sat on the balcony sipping from their glasses and taking turns watching the ships through binoculars until the sun went down.

After a dinner sent up by room service, Gamay took a shower, doused herself with perfume and slipped into a low-cut red dress. Beautiful women abound in Rio, but Gamay drew every male eye in the lobby when she and Trout crossed to the hotel entrance.

The shipping dock had undergone a stark personality change. The trucks, longshoremen and stevedores had left for the day, and the dock area had developed a rank, sinister atmosphere. Unevenly spaced pole lamps cast yellow puddles of light that were diffused by a fog that had moved in from the harbor. A foghorn moaned in the distance.

Gamay drove past the empty berth formerly occupied by the Polar Adventure and pulled the car over and parked under a lamppost near the guardhouse. She got out of the car, stood in the light and took a swig from a bottle of rum. With noisy fanfare, she raised the hood and poked her head underneath. Then, swearing loudly in Spanish, she kicked the fender, looked around and waved at the guard. Weaving as she walked, she made her way over to the guardhouse.

The guard was a dark-complexioned, muscular man with an expression of bored suspicion on his flat-featured face. Gamay spoke perfect Spanish, but for the benefit of the guard she slurred her words. She said her stupid car had stalled, and asked him to come take a look. He glanced at the car, which was partially obscured by the shadows, hesitating.

“Don't tell me you're afraid of me with that big gun you're carrying.”

She staggered and seemed to fall before she grabbed the guard's shoulder and gave him a blast of rum-soaked breath. The appeal of a sexy, drunk woman and the veiled insult to his manhood did the trick. He laughed lustily and put his arm around her shoulder. Gamay laughed too, and they made their way back to the car.

“I think they gypped me and there's no engine,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.