Five sets of eyes went to Switzerland.
"As have mine," he said defensively. "I tell you, I have operated from these tax havens my entire professional life, but never have I seen such a level of government involvement. Switzerland, the Bahamas, Lichtenstein — all of them. Banking laws that have been on the books for five hundred years are being ignored, thrown away only for us. We have bitten off too much."
"You were supposed to be the expert," Saudi Arabia accused. "Now is not the time to realize this could happen."
There was finally a break, a moment of stillness.
It was Medved, the Russian, who filled the void. "But what bothers me most, gentlemen, is what has not happened. Why are we not sought individually? Our personal finances have been shut down, and we can no longer access the wealth of our nations. Clearly, they know who we are. Yet our names are not in the newspapers, nor our pictures on television. And here we sit, united as ever. Why?"
Quiet fell again, for none could answer that question.
Ten miles to the west, a U. S. Air Force B-2 bomber was gliding smoothly at twenty-four thousand feet. It was, like the C-500, a flying wing design. Indeed, from an aerodynamic standpoint, there were great similarities between the two aircraft. The glaring difference involved payload. On this night, the jet designated Spirit of Texas was carrying twelve GBU-31 JDAMs — two thousand pound bombs that were guided by an intensely accurate marriage of inertial and satellite inputs.
The weapons operator in the right seat monitored his display. They had been watching the site for two hours, long before the target set had become complete. Under magnification, the right seater momentarily amused himself by distinguishing which of the guards were smoking and which were not. He confirmed his coordinates before announcing, 'Target locked, weapons master arm shows a green light."
The pilot in command keyed his secure radio. "PORTAL, Plank 21 is inbound hot, standing by authorization."
The transmission traveled by satellite link, and settled in a bunker seven thousand miles west and four miles down. "Roger, Plank 21. PORTAL, here. Confirm no change in target status."
"Plank 21, negative. No vehicle movement, and all choppers still cold." The aircraft commander adjusted his course ever so slightly. He didn't have to wait long for a response.
"Plank 21, PORTAL. You have authorization Golf Oscar. You are cleared hot."
"Plank 21 copy, Golf Oscar."
Eight seconds later the bomb bay doors snapped opened and six JDAMs fell sequentially from their rotary launchers. Another clutch of six weapons was reserved for the second pass — assuming there was anything identifiable left to hit. The pilot announced that his bombs were away.
Halfway around the world in a Pentagon bunker, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Robert Banks, answered. "Plank 21, PORTAL. We copy. Standby for possible reattack."
Banks stood watching a satellite monitor. The picture of the tent in the Empty Quarter was quite clear — until the first two-thousand pounder hit. The next five bombs were certainly overkill, all right on target. "Shack!" he said on the radio. "Nice work, Plank."
Banks, a native of Austin, couldn't resist muttering under his breath, "There's a little Spirit of Texas for you, you bastards."
"Okay, Dad, I'm ready!"
Davis was fiddling with the coffeepot in the kitchen. "All right, hang on! I'm coming!" he called. The thing finally started chugging and he went to the living room. Jen wasn't there. He looked up the stairs and saw her standing at the top. Davis had not been prepared. The view took his breath away.
She was posed on the top landing. Her evening dress was stunning, her hair shimmered in the light. And then there was the smile — the one he'd seen a thousand times before. Jen was the image of her mother.
Her smile suddenly sagged. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Don't you like the dress? Aunt Laura and I spent a whole day shopping for it."
Davis wiped the stupefied look off his face. "It's beautiful, baby. You can't imagine how beautiful."
The glow returned, a smile that could light the world. She came down the stairs carefully, awkwardly in mid-rise heels. She stopped two steps from the bottom and stood along the banister. He wondered when she'd become a woman. Soon Jen would be driving, graduating, heading off to college. Navigating life's waypoints all on her own.
Davis went closer, engaged his daughter eye-to-eye. "You're a vision, sweetheart."
She checked the clock on the wall. "Bobby's going to be here any minute!"
Don't remind me, Davis thought. He said, "Great."
"Dad, do you really have to stay the whole time? Can't you just drop us off and then—"
"Jen!" he said. "No more! We have been over this. I talked to Bobby's mom and we agreed I'd chaperone. I drive you there, I stay. Period."
"You don't trust me!"
"I trust yow."
"So you don't trust Bobby?"
"I don't even know Bobby."
He watched her face, saw the cracks begin to form. Here it comes, he thought. Great going, Jammer. When he'd first gotten home from France, there had been hugs and kisses. They lasted ten minutes. Then it was back to the usual parent-teen roller coaster — one minute they were best friends, the next inmate and warden.
Davis was saved by the doorbell.
"Oh my God!" she cried. "He's here!"
Davis made a move for the door.
"No!" Jen whispered, horrified.
Davis stopped in his tracks. Facing away from his daughter, his eyes went to the heavens. "All right," he said, "all right. Give Bobby the full treatment. I'll be in the kitchen."
Davis strode away, forced himself to close the connecting door. The coffeemaker was in top gear, making a throaty gurgling noise like it was choking on whatever he'd put in the filter. So he didn't hear the front door open. Didn't hear anything until Jen called out, "Daddy/"
Something in her tone made his blood go cold.
He bolted to the living room and saw Jen backing away from the door. Davis rushed to put himself in between the two. It wasn't Bobby Taylor. On the left and right of his doorstep were two clean-cut men nearly as big as he was. Between them was the president of the United States.
The two bodyguards looked very alert, and Davis realized he was set in a strong stance. He eased up.
The president put out a hand. "Hello, Davis. Good to meet you."
Davis shook hands. "Hello, sir."
Truett Townsend looked past him into the living room. "I hope I haven't come at a bad time."
"No, no. Not at all."
Townsend looked at him expectantly.
"Oh, sorry," Davis said. "Would you like to come in?"
"If you can spare a few minutes."
The president stepped over the threshold, his two Secret Service men right behind. Davis looked outside and saw an armored convoy on the street in front of his house — three limos, four Suburbans, and a half-dozen black-and-whites. The vehicles were surrounded by a platoon of Secret Service and uniformed police. Mrs. Irving across the street was standing in her driveway wearing a housedress and a priceless expression of bewilderment.
Davis eased the door shut and saw Jen eyeing the president. She was positively starstruck.
"Oh," Davis said, "sorry. This is my daughter, Jennifer."
Townsend shook Jen s hand and said, "You look magnificent, dear. Are you going out with your father?"
"Uh — well, no. I don't dress for him — I mean — it's not for him. I'm going to a dance. You know. With a boy." She closed her eyes, bit her bottom lip.
Townsend smiled. The president was probably used to it. "Have a seat," Davis said, sweeping the sports section up from the couch.
Townsend did.
"Can I offer you some coffee?"
"Yes, actually. Black would be great."
"Jen," Davis said, "would you mind?"