“I don’t want to hear about it,” she said stubbornly, the romantic cocoon they had built for themselves dissolving.

He placed a hand on her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she replied, but had to wipe at her eyes. “Philippe tells me very little, but I have always trusted him. You should, too.”

“Okay,” Jimenez said, and reached for her.

Maxine slithered out of his grip. “I must be getting back now. Even with Philippe in BA, the servants talk. You understand?”

“Of course. My servants are always gossiping.” They both laughed because he had come from a poor family.

Maxine moved off to dress. She climbed aboard Concorde, who had stayed near them the entire time.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked, stuffing the blanket back into the saddlebag.

“So long as you promise not to discuss my husband or his work.”

“I will be the good soldier and do as you order.”

THE CHOPPER PILOT WAS RELIEVED that his passengers had paid cash because when he saw their destination he knew any check they wrote would have bounced. As it stood, he considered radioing his business partner and having him make sure the money wasn’t counterfeit.

He was taking the two men from Rio’s Galeão International Airport to a cargo ship a hundred miles offshore. From a distance, it looked like any of the dozens of vessels that approached Brazil every week, but as they neared and details came into focus he could see she was a floating heap of rust barely held together by duct tape and baling wire. The smoke from her stack was so black, he suspected she burned bunker fuel and lubricating oil in equal ratios. Her cranes looked like they could barely hold themselves up, let alone lift any cargo. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger passenger as if to say: Are you sure?

The man had the sallow look of someone who hadn’t slept for days, and whatever burden he carried was just ounces away from crushing him. And yet, when he realized the pilot was looking at him, the passenger winked one of his bright blue eyes, and the mask of consternation melted away.

“She’s not much to look at,” the passenger said over his mike, “but she gets the job done.”

“I don’t think I can land on the deck,” the pilot said, his English tinted with a hint of Portuguese. He didn’t add that he thought the weight of his Bell JetRanger would probably collapse a hatch cover.

“No problem. Just hover over the fantail, and we’ll jump.”

The second passenger, a man in his late fifties or early sixties with a bandage on his head, groaned at the prospect of leaping from the helicopter.