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The Night Manager tried to placate the American. "I am sorry," the woman said in English. "Thees is not hees hotel. I tell heem, but he do not believe me." She gave the Night Manager the name of a rather seedy, lower-class hotel.

"Please, Senhor," he said in excellent English, "This is the Hilton. It is not the Excelsior. May I get you a taxicab to your hotel?"

The American looked around blearily. "Not the Excelsior? Hilton? 'Way too expensive fer me." His bleary eyes settled on the Night Manager. "Say, boy, cud you call us a cab? I think we're in the wrong place."

The Night Manager hailed a taxi and put them into it, breathing a huge sigh of relief.

Susan laughed. "I think you're a frustrated actor," she said. "Was all that really necessary?"

Frank shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. But when the CIA comes around asking, no one will remember when Mr. Weatherly and Miss Andrews left. There won't be a checkout record, but their passports will be gone."

"How did you arrange that?"

"Money talks." Frank replied. "I bribed a desk clerk. And since what he did was against the law, he won't be in a hurry to admit to it." He shed the garish flowered shirt, and donned a much more conservative one from his suitcase. He leaned forward and changed their destination to a dock on the waterfront, slipping the driver a bill.

They reached their destination, and Susan looked around fearfully. It was a dark, rather lonely fishing pier, with a line of fishing boats already preparing to set out for the day. They walked down the line until Frank saw the boat he sought. He and Susan went aboard, and Frank spoke to the captain. Susan didn't hear everything that was said, but she did hear "Montevideo," presumably referring to the city in Uruguay. Frank passed the captain a packet of bills.

He came back and escorted her to the boat's tiny cabin, ignored by the boat's two crewmembers.

"Relax, Honey," Frank said. "We've got a long ride ahead. More than a day. Maybe two. I hope you don't get seasick."

Susan stared at him. "Two days? On this tub? And did I hear you say 'Montevideo'?"

Frank grinned. "Yes, yes, and yes. Remember, we're trying to lose the CIA, and they're sharp. If they catch us anywhere outside of Brazil, they'll have us in cells so fast we'll leave a hole in the air."

She looked around at the dingy, greasy cabin. "I was going to change clothes, but it's so dirty I think I'll just stay with the hooker image. I'm going to throw these away anyway."

He looked distressed. "Don't do that! I like them."

She rolled her eyes. "Men!" She said, "I'm halfway falling out of this top, and you like it."

He looked at her quizzically. "Why do you think hookers dress the way they do? It's because the customers like it, and the customers are men. Any man that tells you that low tops and high skirts on attractive women don't turn him on is either lying, or he's gay."

She looked at him coldly. "I suppose this other junk appeals to men, too."

He shrugged. "Sure. Big bangle earrings, stockings with seams or fishnets, no pantyhose, please. High high heels and big, loose hair. All part of dressing to please a man."

She looked disgusted. "Come on, Frank, I mean, I know that stuff appeals to a certain low kind of man, but you're supposed to be civilized!"

"Civilized isn't the same as dead. One of my pet peeves for years has been that women don't, or won't, dress for their man; instead they dress for their girlfriends or some gay designer."

She scowled. "Now you're being silly."

He shook his head. "Think about it. Women don't buy clothes from Frederick's of Hollywood; men do, in hopes they can talk their woman into wearing it, even in private. Be honest; how many articles of clothing have you bought because a girlfriend thought it was 'cute'?"

Her scowl had faded. Now, she looked interested. "Dozens. Hundreds."

"And how many because a salesclerk told you it was 'you'?"

She smiled. "Okay, hundreds again."

"And how many have you bought because your current man told you it looked sexy?"

"Uh, maybe some bras and things." Now she was looking thoughtful.

"Okay," Frank persisted, "has any man bought you sexy clothes and asked you to wear them for him?"

"Yes." The flat finality of her answer told Frank that no other information would be forthcoming.

"Well, don't tell me," he said, "let me guess. If you were like most women, you looked shocked and said, 'Oh, I could never wear something like that!' If he pleaded long enough, perhaps you said, 'Well, all right, but just this once,' all the time planning how to discourage him from ever doing that again.

"And yet," he continued, "ask nearly any woman and she'll tell you she dresses to look nice for her man, right?"

"Well, of course!" Now she was looking doubtful. "But we can't go around looking like whores! What would you have said if I showed up in the office in this outfit?"

He grinned. "We might have gotten together a lot sooner. No," he interrupted her attempt to speak, "You're bright. You know that clothing must be appropriate. And there are many women for whom sexy clothing would never be appropriate. A 70-year-old grandmother shouldn't wear a miniskirt or a tank top, for example." Susan shuddered. "And there are men who would never want their women to dress that way. But your man should be the judge. If he thinks you are attractive in sexy clothing, shouldn't that be what you wear? Especially since you all claim that you dress for your man? And in private, well, anything should go.

"What that man was saying was that he was sure you were beautiful enough to wear something like that, and that he was proud of you and that he dearly wanted to know that you were wearing that fancy finery for him, because you knew it was important to him. It's about time women figured out that a little of the right kind of clothing is much sexier than nakedness.

"Men are very simple creatures, Susie. Much simpler than women. Give us regular meals, a pat on the head from our lady once in a while, and enthusiastic sex occasionally, and we're happy."

There was a long pause. "Frank," she said finally, "When we get where we're going, will you get me a Frederick's of Hollywood catalog? I think I've got some studying to do."

Frank grinned. "They have a website. I'll even bookmark it for you." He shrugged. "Victoria's Secret is that her stuff is nothing special. But they have women convinced that all they need is a wonder bra to drive men wild. Actually, Frederick's is pretty tame compared to some of the other kinky clothing sellers. I haven't been to their web site in years, but a lot of their stuff used to be pretty classy, while still being sexy."

They talked for a while, and slept for a while. Then they talked some more. Susan complained about not having her tablet.

Frank sighed. "We've been through that. That's why we smashed our tablets and took out the hard drives, and then threw the tablets in a dumpster in Rio. If you had your tablet, and tried to connect to the Internet, you could be located, down to a few meters. You're going to get new e-mail addresses, and forget you ever knew the old ones. Do NOT go to them 'just for a moment' or 'just to check something real quick'. You're going to have to learn about anonymous surfing, because the Internet is how I'm going to be able to talk to Man's Hope."

Susan looked surprised. "You think you will? Be able to talk to them, I mean."

He smiled. "Sure. I'm signed up with four different proxy sites. I sign onto one, and suddenly people backtracking my signal get an address in Iowa. Then I use that one to sign onto another one, and that address is in California. Then I call a certain number in Brazil over VoIP, and they connect me with the transmitter.

"The crew has been retransmitting our side of the conversations, so everyone could listen in; but now, if I ask them to cut off the rebroadcast, I can talk to them all I like, at least until they go behind the sun."