Galveston, Texas, 2002

The Water's Edge marina sits along the Texas coastline a few miles south of Galveston. It is large—over one thousand slips—but quiet. In its moors lay everything from seventeen-foot roundabouts to ninety-foot luxury cabin cruisers. Scarabs, cigarette boats, trawlers, and pontoon day-runners dotted the seascape. All manner of sailing vessels, from Cat 21s to yachts, filled the slips between cruisers. The skyline was laced with fly bridges and great masts. Gulls and other sea birds squawked and drifted lazily along ocean breezes, occasionally diving at the water. The entire marina gently bobbed with the ebbs of the ocean.

The Monkberry Moon Delight, a sixty-foot cabin cruiser, made its home in the Water's Edge. Snuggly, the big boat heaved in its space, its twin Detroit diesels quiet but ready to rumble to life with the turn of a key. At nine in the morning, the marina was mostly placid. Joy riders were waiting until later in the day, and fishermen and charters, whose days began at dawn, were long gone.

The Monkberry was both pleasure boat and permanent residence. Its owner, John David Stoner, or JD, had been up since six thirty. His day had begun with a four-mile jog followed by the reading of several morning newspapers while enjoying a cheese omelet, wheat toast, hash browns, and iced tea at the Crow's Nest restaurant. Content, refreshed, and with a full stomach, he padded along the wooden docks toward his boat. His right foot ached with the pain of an old injury from a time mostly forgotten.

His business was ferrying ships between Texas and Florida across the cavernous Gulf of Mexico. It was uneventful and steady work that paid well. Not that he needed the money. Endless hours on the open, peaceful ocean were reward enough. That's what he needed as he remembered an old song and silently sang it to himself. "I was born in the sign of water, and it's here that I feel my best. The Albatross and the whale they are my brothers. It's kind of a special feeling when you're out on the sea alone, staring at the full moon like a lover. Time for a cool change."

JD had accepted the job of taking a sixty-foot sloop to St. Petersburg for a wealthy German industrialist. The joy of sailing such a magnificent ship would be boundless. Good weather and strong westerly winds promised smooth sailing. He bounced eagerly from the dock to the back of his boat. Immediately he knew something was wrong.

He stepped through the open cabin door down into his galley. It was large and spacious and occupied by four men, four men he did not know. The smallest of the four sat in a recliner and promptly stood. He grinned as if they were old school chums and offered his right hand. "My name is Aaron Greenfield," he said sharply.

JD did not take his hand. He walked slowly to the breakfast bar. "My deckhand, Kevin?" he asked without preamble, his emerald eyes were laced with ice.

"Ah, yes," offered Greenfield. "Sleeping in a forward cabin."

"Not like Kev to take a nap this early."

"His sleep was assisted by a blow to the head. He's quite alright, I'm sure. Dreaming peaceably, no doubt."

"No doubt," answered JD. "You should know if he suffers any ill effects I will not be understanding or forgiving. I'll blame people in this room." The words were delivered with the axe of finality. The other four felt the chill. Greenfield pressed on.

"I should like to explain myself. I'm a station chief with Mossad, Israeli intelligence. I have a story to tell you, Mister John David Stoner. It will not take much of your time, I promise."

JD glanced around the room and noticed the other three men had slid into positions bracketing him. They were being very cautious. Why the muscle? he wondered. All three had the same look—short-necked, thick-shouldered, broad-chested brawlers itching for a fight. Mossad's henchmen, but why? He looked at Greenfield. "Make it quick. My friend may need an aspirin or a CAT scan."

Greenfield grinned. He was always amazed at Americans' sense of humor. In his country, humor had been lost decades ago, replaced with checkpoints, suicide bombings, interrogations, barbed wire, civilian casualties, and fanatical security. Israeli humor was a thing remembered only in the cobwebs of the past. He realized he missed it.

"Through a reliable source, we learned three days ago that wealthy Saudi businessmen hired an oriental assassin to kill our prime minister. The assassin is being paid ninety million dollars and is on his own time schedule. We also know the assassin is the infamous Glass Tiger. There are no known photographs of him and virtually no information exists about him. He came up through the Chinese military but that is all we know."

Greenfield paused for effect. It had none on JD.

"What's this got to do with me? I ferry boats. Does your prime minister wish to sail the gulf?"

Greenfield was not amused. "Years ago, the Americans created an assassin hunter, code name Nomad. He had only one purpose. One directive. Hunt down and eliminate the world's top assassins. Time and cost were not factors. He hunted Carlos, Longfellow, the Crow, the Diamond Buyer, and others. Even the Glass Tiger. It is rumored he fought the glass Tiger to a draw in Pakistan, or that the Glass Tiger won but spared the life of Nomad. Either way, Nomad can identify the Glass Tiger. He is the only man alive to have seen him. We need the services of Nomad. We are willing to pay one hundred million dollars. What do you say, Mister Stoner?"

JD paused. "I already said it. What's it got to do with me?"

Greenfield was not deterred. "We believe that you, Mister Stoner, are Nomad. We wish to hire you."

JD said nothing, silence. A rather loud silence.

"We've done our homework, Mister Stoner. You are Nomad. We need your help."

"The reliable source you tortured for this information? Where is he now?"

Disappointment showed on Greenfield's face. "Unfortunately, the man's heart gave out under questioning. But we believe the information is accurate. We do not believe he lied."

They probably used a blowtorch on the poor schlep, JD thought. He disliked the Israelis immensely. "If I were Nomad," he said slowly, "why on earth would I help you?"

This seemed to shock Greenfield, but he recovered quickly. His voice was steady and sure. "Stability in the region, sir. We are the only democracy in the area. Your country needs us."

"I don't give a damn about your country. If George W. needs you, go ask his help. He seems ready, willing, and able to kill or bomb anything he doesn't like. Why come to me? Stick your precious prime minister in a bunker and blast hell out of everything non-Israeli. Christ, you do that anyway."

"You mock us, sir. We are at war."

"With yourselves. America needs you like it needs leprosy. But we're stuck with you because twenty years ago, another half-assed president gave you the bomb. And now we're afraid you'll use it. Hell, you will. Before you'd let the Arabs push you into the ocean, you'd nuke Baghdad or the Aswan Dam or Mecca. You'd start World War Three without a thought to anyone else. You tolerate the Americans because we pour money into your little fiefdom. In reality, the Jews have never cared about anyone else. And why should you? Your god says you're the chosen ones. Americans are different. We know we're full of shit, and it pisses us off you won't admit the same about yourselves."

Greenfield stood agape. JD continued, "The Arabs hate us because we support you. If we didn't have to baby sit your temper tantrums we'd be in clover. Terrorists would leave us alone, and George W. could go back to plundering the economy and the environment. Help you? Don't be ridiculous."

This was not what Greenfield and his thugs had expected, but then they knew Nomad had been retired for three years. He was glad most Americans bought into the "We need Israel" spiel from their government. Stoner was right, of course; Israel did not give a tinker's damn about anyone or anything but itself. Jehovah had promised them the land, and that was all they needed to know. Screw the Arabs and other desert niggers! But now they needed Stoner.

"One hundred million, Mister Stoner. What else would you require?"

"A partial lobotomy."

"You're no longer amusing, sir." The words held a veiled threat of implied violence.

"Neither are you, Greenfield. You don't need me, so why don't you and the three stooges here slink back to Tel Aviv. Bulldoze a few Palestinian houses. That always makes you feel better."

"I am losing patience, sir. These men are quite capable, you know."

The threat was no longer implied; it was no longer veiled. JD could sense the tension rising in the three henchmen. He decided to relieve that tension.

"Relax, Mister Greenfield," he said evenly. "You don't need me because I know something you don't."

Greenfield eased slightly. "And what might that be, sir?"

JD strode to a bag of golf clubs leaning against the bulkhead. He stopped when he reached the set of clubs.

"Since you've done your homework, Mister Greenfield, tell me, what else identifies the Glass Tiger? What else do only a handful of people know about him?" JD eyed Greenfield suspiciously.

Greenfield smiled. "The Glass Tiger carries a fourteenth-century samurai sword with a silver inlaid handle."

"Not enough," answered JD. "What else?"

"The weapon has a phrase etched in the blade."

"Yes?"

"It says, `The sword does not jest', in Mandarin.'"

JD reached into the golf bag and grabbed the topper from one club. But it wasn't a club. He pulled a magnificent sword from the bag and dropped it on a table in front of Greenfield. It was exquisite, a handcrafted piece of art from six hundred years ago.

The blade glistened in the low light of the cabin. Greenfield's eyes widened as he looked at the polished steel. There; an inch from the handle in letters a quarter of an inch high, the Mandarin words,

"The sword does not jest."

How? Greenfield wondered. How is it possible?

JD could see Greenfield's bewilderment. "The Glass Tiger is no more." A certain reverence carried in his speech. "Three years ago, in Kashmir, I took the sword as proof. There was a fight, indeed, but your information is incorrect. There was no draw, only the death of the Glass Tiger. Your prime minister has nothing to fear from the Glass Tiger. Your reliable source lied. You don't need me. You can go now."

Greenfield held the sword. No doubt it was authentic; he somehow instinctually knew that.

"So you are Nomad?" he said, not looking up from the sword.

"I ferry boats across the gulf," replied JD. "And if my friend Kevin doesn't fully recover, you'll hear from me."

A moment of graveyard silence followed. Everyone in the room understood. Greenfield put down the sword and motioned to the others. They began to file out. Greenfield knew he had a labyrinth of lies to unwind, but his mission at the marina was over. He paused at the galley door and looked at JD. "A pleasure, sir."

JD looked away. "Just go," was all he could say. They left, the hard men no doubt disappointed they were not allowed to flex their massive muscles.

JD was relieved he did not have to kill anyone.

A moment after they were gone, Kevin slid open the door to the staterooms and walked into the galley.

"You heard?" JD asked.

"Everything," Kevin replied.

"How's the head?"

"I got a headache that would kill a mere mortal. Other than that, fine."

"They bought it."

"I know. I expect the Chinaman will be happy. He's out now. All the way out."

"Yeah," agreed JD. "All the way. I'm glad to help him." He held the sword and saw his reflection in the blade. "He's probably sitting on a beach somewhere sipping fruity drinks and playing footsies with a babe, counting his money."

Kevin chuckled. "He doesn't drink, but that's what I'd do."

JD thought back two weeks. He had been retired for nearly three years when the Chinese man known as the Glass Tiger came calling. He explained his situation to JD. He wanted out, so he set up the Israeli deal and gave JD his famous sword. He knew the Israelis would approach JD because they needed JD's help to convince them of his death. JD would pass on the information, and everyone would believe him dead. He would disappear and live happily ever after. Simple, if JD went for the deal. And he had. Why not? I'm out, so why not help the Chinaman? One less assassin makes for a better world. It's good business. Smiling, JD returned the sword to the golf bag.

Kevin decided to move on. "We're taking the German sloop to St. Pete tomorrow?"

JD looked up. "Yeah. The weather's supposed to be good for a week. It'll be fun."

Kevin knew better than to ask but asked anyway. "Molly going?"

"She loves the water, Kev. It's a two-week turnaround. You know I can't go that long without seeing her goofy grin."

Kevin knew all too well. "I'll make the arrangements. She's a handful."

"I know, but we love her. And I cleared it with the Germans. Their insurance can cover another body onboard. I want to leave by seven."

"Everything'll be ready. You think the Israelis will be back?"

"I hope not. If they do, someone may die."

Kevin said nothing. He picked up the cell phone and punched in a number from memory. Arrangements had to be made for Molly. She was a handful.

Galveston has an old town square dominated by a massive, vintage, stone courthouse. Maple trees planted fifty years earlier lined the square and provided shade for the sidewalks. Tourists and businesspeople strolled the pavements and were cooled by ocean breezes that drifted lazily from the sea some miles away.

That morning, the courthouse buzzed with anticipation. The "twins" were scheduled for their preliminary hearings. These local celebrities would ensure a packed courtroom. Court TV had even set up a live feed. Attorneys were dressed in their best and sported very recent haircuts.

Judge Janice Garcia didn't share the excitement. The last thing she wanted was for her courtroom to be turned into a Barnum & Bailey sideshow. The "twins" were Tim Rothstein and Adam Lyons, both twenty-year-old computer geniuses. Nerds. Instead of slide rules, these boys carried laptops. They were notorious, famous, likable, and a little screwy. No, more than a little, they were downright banana wacky. She had to maintain control of her courtroom, her domain. Justice was needed, but she was not about to allow the hearing to become fodder for late-night comedians. An iron hand was called for. She wished she knew where to find one.

The courtroom was packed by nine thirty. Not an empty seat. The bailiff surveyed the crowd and groaned to himself. His day would get worse, he knew. The district attorney was already seated at his table when the defense attorney, Fredrick Rutburg, ushered his clients to the table across the aisle. Rutburg was forty-five but looked ten years older. He was nearly bald, and he wore glasses that had been in fashion decades ago. Some people referred to them as birth-control glasses; anyone wearing them didn't have a chance in hell of having sex. But Fredrick was frugal; he saw no need to have new glasses and had long ago given up sex with his second wife. She preferred shopping and bridge with her gal pals.

Rutburg was dressed smartly in a thousand-dollar linen suit while the twins looked like refugees from a thrift store; fashion junkies they were not. Their hair was wild, Einstein wild, and their ragged duds looked slept in. Still, the crowd looked at them as though they were rock idols from England.

At 10:01, Judge Garcia entered her bailiwick amidst the silence the bailiff had called for. "Good morning," she said quickly. When she sat, the rest in attendance followed suit. Through wire-rimmed bifocals, she surveyed the crowd. They were packed in as if waiting for a heavyweight title fight. She motioned to her clerk and took a deep breath. The day began.

Though it was only a preliminary hearing, prosecution and defense were ready to slug it out. The prosecution swore the two boys were dangers to national security, while the defense simply called them misguided youngsters. Early on, the judge realized she had to find a compromise between execution and Club Med. The twins, not related at all, sat nervously, as if someone had slipped a couple of trout down their trousers. Like water on a hot skillet, their behinds fidgeted on the stately oak chairs. The state's attorney, a tall, dapper man, near forty, was painstakingly trying to persuade the judge of their villainy. His voice had a barking, seal-like quality, and that was grating on the judge's nerves. She knew what she had to do.