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or footsteps but heard only the noise of the breakers, rushing softly over the reef beyond the lagoon.
    The last part of the climb required a dynamic exertion; Kismet could touch the lip of the precipice with his outstretched fingers, but in order to complete his ascent he had to simultaneously jump and heave himself up onto the edge in a single movement. If the sentinels of the fortress' night watch were looking his way when he did, things would get ugly. He exhaled softly as he immediately dropped low and rolled away from the edge, seeking cover.
    The walls of the fortress were precariously near to the edge. Kismet cleared the distance to the base of the stone barrier in a few steps, and flattened himself there, trying to pick out the sentries on the battlement above. For thirty seconds he watched, fighting to keep his breathing soft and shallow despite the exertion of climbing in the thick tropical humidity. Then he saw it, the faint glow of a cigarette ember high above, to his left.
    The smoldering red point of light hovered motionless for a long time, then flared brightly. A moment later, it soared out over Kismet's head and vanished into the jungle carpet. A barely audible thumping noise indicated that the sentry had resumed a walking tour of the battlement. Kismet counted twenty footsteps before going to work.
    He stripped out of his tuxedo jacket and the dress shirt underneath. The latter garment he wrapped tightly around the hooks of the grapnel he had seized before departing the cruise ship. He played out two arm lengths of rope and began whirling the hook and line in a broad circle. When the hook had achieved sufficient momentum, he released it, stepping away as he did, lest it fall back on his unprotected skull.
    It did not. The hook sailed over the parapet and landed with a muted thud. The thin layer of fabric wrapped around the metal prongs had effectively muffled the noise of impact. He pulled in the line until the hook caught, giving it a final tug to make sure it was set, then wrapped the line around his body. Almost as an afterthought, he donned the jacket over his naked torso.
    His biceps screamed in protest as he began ascending the vertical surface. His stocking-feet slipped uncertainly against the damp upright poles that formed the perimeter of the fortress. Nevertheless, three minutes later, he was atop the palisade, peering up and down the length of the battlement for any sign that he had been noticed.
    The only sentry, the man he had spied before, was poised with his back to Kismet on an adjacent wall. His posture suggested that he was urinating out into the jungle canopy. As quietly as he could, Kismet heaved himself over the wall. His landing was light, though to his ears the noise was certainly enough to arouse suspicion. He loosened the hook from where it had bitten into the wood, and drew in the line, coiling it once more over his shoulder.
    The pirates had done a great deal of work in order to reclaim the old fort from the jungle, fully restoring several buildings and evidently erecting the three pre-fabricated huts that looked completely out of place in the setting. Kismet nevertheless got the impression that this was a temporary base of operations; a transition point where they could lay low and gradually filter back into the civilized world with their newly acquired wealth.
    He moved quickly and quietly, keeping an eye on the less than vigilant sentry who still roamed the battlement, and dropped down into the compound. When he was certain that no eyes would see him, he darted toward one of the nearby structures, taking shelter beneath a large window, covered by a gauzy veil of mosquito netting. There was a light burning from within, but Kismet heard no indication that the room beyond the window was occupied. He cautiously raised his head and peered over the sill.
    Elisabeth Neuell sat with her back to the window, gazing into a streaked vanity mirror as she patiently brushed her hair. She now