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each other mercilessly in the downtime.
    “The way you snore,” Kurt said, “I don’t know if an air horn would do the trick.”
    Thirty minutes later, after a quick run through baggage claim and customs, Kurt and Joe found themselves in an open boat, otherwise known as a water taxi, crossing the narrow straight between Hulhulé and Malé.
    Kurt was studying the open water. Joe had his nose in a crossword puzzle he’d been working on for half the flight.
    “Five-letter word for African cat?” Joe asked.
    Kurt hesitated. “I wouldn’t go with tiger,” he replied.
    “Really?” Joe said. “Are you sure?”
    “Pretty sure,” Kurt said. “How come you look so tired?”
    Joe normally traveled well. In fact, Kurt often wondered if he had some secret handed down from generations of explorers in his family that allowed him to cross a dozen time zones and feel no ill effects of the journey. But right now, there were dark circles under Joe’s eyes, and despite his rangy, athletic physique, Joe looked bushed.
    “You were in D.C. when the call came in,” Joe said. “Ten minutes from the airport. I was in West Virginia, with fifteen kids from the youth program. We’ve been running cross-country and doing confidence courses all weekend.”
    In his spare time, Joe ran a program for inner-city kids. Kurt often helped with the outings, though he’d missed out on this one.
    “Trying to keep up with the teenagers, huh?”
    “It keeps me young,” Joe insisted.
    Kurt nodded. The fact was they were both athletes. To withstand the rigors of NUMA’s Special Projects branch, one had to be. There was literally no telling what would come their way, only a fairly high probability that it would be strenuous, demanding, and likely to exhaust every last bit of mental and physical energy a man or woman had.
    To survive such rigors, both men kept themselves in great shape. Kurt was taller and more lean and agile. He rowed the Potomac or ran nearly every single day. He lifted weights and took tai kwan do, as much for the agility, balance, and discipline as for its value in combat.
    Joe was shorter, with broader shoulders and the build of a boxer. He also played soccer in an amateur league and swore he could have gone pro if he’d only been just a little faster. Right now he seemed obsessed with finishing the crossword.
    Kurt grabbed the paper out of his hands and tossed it into a basket. “Rest your eyes,” he said. “You’re going to need them.”
    Joe stared forlornly at the folded bit of newspaper for a second, shrugged, and then tilted his head back against the headrest. He shut his eyes and began soaking in the warm sun for the ten-minute ride across the strait.
    “You come here for vacation?” the water taxi’s pilot asked, trying to make conversation.
    In a white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Kurt looked every bit the tourist arriving at an eagerly awaited destination. The taxi driver couldn’t know any different.
    “We’re here on business,” he said.
    “That’s good,” the man replied. “Lots of business on Malé. What kind do you do?”
    Kurt thought about that for a second. It was all but impossible to explain exactly what NUMA’s Special Projects Team did since they basically did a little bit of everything. The truth came to him, simple and quick.
    “We solve problems,” he said finally.
    “Then you come to the wrong place,” the driver said. “Maldives are paradise. No problems here.”
    Kurt smiled. He only wished the man was right.
    The transit continued, slow and easy, until the buildings of Malé began to loom in front of them. The taxi moved through the breakwater and slowed. The turquoise color gave way to clear shallow water with only the slightest hint of blue.
    As the boat bumped the dock, the taxi driver cut the throttle and threw a rope to another man onshore.
    Kurt stood, tipped the driver and stepped off the small boat. Ahead, on the