On the sluggish green-brown river, farther down where the ravine widened into a jungle-thickened valley, a gunboat lay against a set of rickety pilings covered with moss and tangled with waterweeds. Banana leaves and long vines drooped toward the water. Bats swooped among the hanging creepers, grasping gnats.
In the moonlight the gunboat bristled with dark searchlights and a protruding artillery cannon in the bow. On deck, off-duty sailors tossed poisoned breadcrumbs down to a flock of ducks swimming around the pilings.
Captain Morales stood inside the gunboat’s bridge house, yawning as he picked up his radio handset. “Hola, Morales speaking. Sí, glad to hear from you, Señor O’Halloran. A fine night for swimming, is it not? The moon is out, and the piranha are not biting.” He covered his
