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protecting him Rush was. Rush was a part of the Tigon team, and theirs was not to wonder why, theirs was but to shut up and follow orders. That was how, three years ago, he’d found himself in a van outsidethe Marina, putting lotion on his nose, preparing for a shift in the blazing sun on the deck of Trask’s yacht. He looked at his partner, Tony Guzman, ensconced comfortably behind monitors, earphones in place and Dr. Pepper in hand, and felt a twinge of resentment. The van was equipped with video, supplying views of the yacht, inside and out, as well as audio surveillance. It also had air conditioning and its own bathroom. It didn’t seem fair.
    â€œHow come you get to sit in here and play with yourself and I have to go stand in the hot sun?” Rush asked.
    Guzman was Rush’s best friend, but all is fair in love and getting out of shithole assignments. “It’s surrounded by water. I can’t swim. If I could swim, I’d be there for you, Crush.”
    The rear door to the van opened with a rush of sunlight, street noise, and hot air. Donleavy blotted all that out with her anger. “Crush, goddammit, don’t talk. The Principal does not want to hear your voice.”
    â€œThe Principal” was how they referred to the one being protected, which in this case meant Stanley Trask. Trask had been present during a discussion of whether or not terrorists might be responsible for the ongoing death threats, when Rush had offered the opinion that the perp just might be one of the couple of hundred people who hated Trask’s guts. The conversation had lagged after that, Rush remembered.
    Rush nodded, obediently. Donleavy looked at themonitor—the operative on duty was shifting from foot to foot on the yacht’s deck.
    â€œAnd somebody take over for Stegner before he wets himself,” Donleavy said, as she left to go make nice to The Principal.
    When she was gone, Guzman bet Rush five bucks that Stegner could hold out for another ten minutes. Rush won.
    The thing about surveillance duty, Rush reflected, is that you just have to stand there. That’s it. You can’t let your mind wander, not if you’re any good. You can’t be thinking about what or who you’re going to do that night, because at any moment the boredom might be shattered by an odd creak of the floorboard, and if your fantasy life is too rich, well, you might miss it and go in later to find your Principal with his throat cut. This is what’s called a rookie mistake.
    So the thing you do is, you just stand there. Looking imposing, immovable. Scanning the area with your eyes. Keeping your ears open for unusual sounds. Even your nose is sensitive for gas or perfume. And ninety-nine-point-nine times out of a hundred, nothing, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, happens. Still, you stand there. Because that’s what you’re paid to do.
    Rush didn’t shift from one foot to another. He kept his weight equally balanced between them. Ready to go either way. To the right was Stanley Trask’s cabin. To the left was Walter Trask’s cabin. Rush didn’t have to look inside to know that Walter’s would be the smallerof the two. Walter was Stanley’s twin brother—the younger by twenty minutes, Stanley always said. Always. Walter had the same fish face that Stanley had, but somehow on Walter it looked weak, whereas on Stanley it looked like it was about to swallow you whole. Walter did most of the real work in GlobalInterLink, Rush was sure, while Stanley took the glory. Walter always sucked hind tit. Stanley got the glorious boobs.
    Rush had been standing on that yacht for two hours, doing nothing and doing a damn fine job of it, when a lovely young woman in a dark business suit strolled down the gangway. Rush stepped to block her way.
    â€œI’m here to see Stanley Trask,” she said in a lilting Slavic accent. Upon closer inspection, her business suit looked