While many passengers lined the upper rails or stood on their balconies to wave good-bye to Vicksburg, Cabrillo and Hanley scoured the Natchez Belle for Tamara or the Argentine hit squad. They found neither.

Both men felt a sense of relief. When the Argentines came, as they no doubt would, it wouldn’t be until they reached their next destination. By then, Tamara Wright would understand the danger she was in, and they’d be able to sneak her off the ship. Cabrillo had already worked out a plan for that.

They sauntered up to the main-deck bar again, where most passengers were enjoying another predinner drink and listening to the house jazz band. A concert by legendary jazz pianist Lionel Couture was scheduled for after the meal.

Max suddenly slapped Juan’s chest with the back of his hand and pointed. “I think I’m in love.”

Most of the people they’d seen were older couples out blowing their children’s inheritances, so Cabrillo didn’t understand what his friend could be talking about. He didn’t think it was the mustached bartender wearing the white suit. At least, he hoped it wasn’t. The bartender shifted position, and Juan had a clear view of the woman sitting on the opposite side.

He got it now.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Notice the necklace. Just like Perlmutter said.”

Tamara Wright had to have been a ravishing beauty in her day, and, in her mid-fifties, she was still a striking woman. She had unlined café au lait skin and shoulder-length hair that was as shiny black as a raven’s wing. She was smiling at something the bartender said, showing a mouthful of the whitest teeth Juan had ever seen. She wore a patterned spaghetti-strap dress that showed off her toned arms.

He had pictured a cloistered academic when St. Julian first mentioned her and he was delighted to admit how wrong he was.

Juan had to stretch his pace to keep up with Max’s bull-in-a-china-shop charge to get to her.

“Dr. Wright,” Max said with as much gallantry as he could muster. “My name is Max Hanley.”

A puzzled but pleased look set her smile at just the right angle. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”

Before Max could start in on what could prove to be a lengthy assault on her virtue, Juan stepped in. “No, ma’am. You don’t know us, but we’re here because St. Julian Perlmutter said you’d be here.”

“You know St. Julian?”

“Yes, we do, and he said you’d have some insight into a Chinese Admiral that he, as much as it pains him to admit, doesn’t.”

Now she was really intrigued. “Who are you?”