CAMERON HARDWICK SWAM furiously from one side of the deserted pool in the health spa to the other. It was small but he couldn’t stand to be around a bunch of pesky kids jumping in and out of the larger pool on the Lido Deck, the younger ones being coaxed in and out by their goofy parents. It should be against the law to take kids on these ships. He winced again when he thought of the pictures taken at Chez Buttacavola.

That banquet manager from Atlantic City wasn’t as big a dope as he looks, he thought to himself, surging into the butterfly stroke. God, it felt good to stretch and work his muscles. In the space of fifteen minutes this morning there had been two breaks from his desired anonymity. His gut felt as if it had twisted into a pretzel. He breathed in the scent of the chlorine and felt the water shimmering across his back. I have to cool it, he thought.

He reached the side of the pool, did a somersault underwater and reemerged as he now started the backstroke. Who would have thought that sitting in on some stupid finance lecture would result in that idiot Mario calling attention to him? Hardwick felt his blood start to boil again. Of all the lousy stinking luck. He could have throttled him. And now he had to see him every night at dinner. Willing himself not to let his volatile temper get the best of him, he realized that he was going to have to smooth things over with the dinner crowd. He couldn’t wait until this job was over with. Wouldn’t his old man be proud of him now? he thought angrily. I’m making money, Dad, but not the way you wanted me to. Selling drugs at his prep school twenty years ago had spoiled him for real work. Sure, this was high-risk, but the returns were better. And he liked living on the edge.