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...