As had been the case all afternoon, an even dozen men were stationed around the ship at precise intervals. None would be mistaken for crewmembers — the uniforms they wore were not nautical, but more akin to special forces attire, to include the automatic weapons they displayed openly. Twenty miles out to sea, the only other ship presently in sight was a distant oil tanker, yet in these chaotic waters one could never tell when a show of force might be necessary to discourage the odd band of pirates.
The helicopter's skids planted firmly on the large H, and its thumping rotors changed pitch as the aircraft's weight transferred to Sol y Mars sturdy afterdeck. Moments later, a man in a flowing white robe stepped down, assisted at the elbow by one of the security men. It was the sixth and final delivery of its kind. The man, a Saudi, walked quickly across the helipad, his robe snapping and fluttering in the idling chopper's down wash.
He made his way to the main salon and found the others waiting — Dubai, Russia, Singapore, Abu Dhabi, and Switzerland. There were exactly six seats at the large conference table, and the Saudi settled into the only vacancy. Each place was set with a crystal carafe of water and a goblet. Nothing else was offered, no tray of fruit, no decanter of premium liquor. Unique to the day's hastily arranged meeting, there were also no servants hovering at the room's perimeter, no one to attend to the principals' whims and demands. All extraneous staff had long departed.
The rich cherry table was circular, reinforcing to all the nature of their arrangement. The men were here on equal footing, and while the Saudi was today recognized as "chairman," the tide was little more than a parliamentary convenience. Determined by rotation — there was simply no other way — the main duty of the acting executive was to act as facilitator, arranging transportation and a venue for the gathering.
Without so much as a "good afternoon," the Saudi brought the meeting to order.
"Do we know why this has happened?" The question was open to all.
Russia said, "I have spoken with our operative in France. He has theories, but it may be some time before we have an answer. Fortunately, the same can be said for others — there will be an investigation."
Singapore, "The man has become worrisome. Is he still necessary?"
None spoke, and this lack of response was an answer in itself.
The Saudi addressed Switzerland. "Are the finances in order?"
"Ninety-five percent," a beefy man answered, not bothering to reference the ledger in front of him.
There was a distinct pause as each of the men performed a more personal calculation.
The Saudi said, "Very well. We have no choice but to advance our timetable." The other five nodded in concurrence." I will notify Caliph by the usual means."
Singapore said, "Might I suggest — when he has finished his tasks, let us send him to France. We may have work for him there."
More nods. And with that, the meeting adjourned.
Twenty minutes later, all six of the meeting's participants were aboard two helicopters streaking westward over the Gulf of Oman's azure waters toward Muscat International Airport. There, they would disperse into six private jets and speed to six far-flung points on the globe.
As soon as the last helicopter had lifted off, the security crew lowered the runabout from Sol y Mars aft davits, a twenty-two foot Boston Whaler. When the last man was aboard, the helmsman gunned the twin outboard motors until the little craft was a hundred meters abeam its mother ship. There, the engines fell to idle and everyone turned their eyes to Sol y Mar. The commander pulled a small device from his shirt pocket and pressed a button. With a muffled thump and maelstrom of foam amidships, the glistening yacht buckled, her back broken.
Three minutes later she was gone.
Chapter ONE
Jammer Davis had always made a lousy cup of coffee. He dumped the trails of this mornings effort into the kitchen sink and went to the foot of the stairs.
"Jenny!" he barked in his best drill sergeant voice." Get a move on! School in thirty minutes!"
There was no reply. He heard music blaring. Davis stomped up the stairs, his boots anything but subtle. Nearing the top, he saw his daughters bedroom door partially open. He stopped in his tracks. Jen was standing in front of the full-length mirror, twisted around, and checking out her own jean-clad rear end.
His mind blanked in ways it shouldn't have. In ways it never had. Davis wondered what the hell to do. Tell her she had a great butt? Tell her it didn't matter what kind of butt she had because no young man was going to get within a hundred yards of it? He decided to punt. Davis put his head down, and gave the banister a swift kick. He didn't look up until he came through her door.
Jen had straightened up, but there was a mortified look on her face. "Don't you ever knock, Daddy?" she huffed. "Come on, sweetheart. Two minute warning."
"But my hair isn't ready. I can't find a scrunchy!"
"A what?"
"A scrunchy for my ponytail."
"Well — use something else."
"Like what?"
He threw his hands in the air. "How should I know? Try one of those plastic cable ties, the ones that zip up. They're in the garage."
She glared at him, then picked up a hairbrush and began yanking it through her shoulder-length auburn hair. At fifteen, she was changing every day. Jen was nearly a full-grown woman in stature, yet still awkward and frisky in that filly-like way. And she was beginning to look more and more like her mother.
She said, "It's those new housekeeping ladies. They clean too much."
"How can they clean too much?"
"They put stuff in the weirdest places. Can't you talk to them?"
"No. They speak Portuguese."
She put the brush down and picked up a tube of hair gel. "Do you know what they did?"
"We don't have time for—"
"The two books I'm reading for English were on the night stand next to my bed. The housekeepers put them in a stack and then pulled out the bookmarks — they laid them on top, as if that was more orderly or something!"
Davis saw it coming. She was a cresting wave headed for shore, just looking for a spot to crash.
"They pulled my bookmark out of The Odyssey. Do you know how hard it is to find your place in The Odyssey?" Her voice quivered, "Do you?"
"Yes — I mean, no. God dammit!"
"Daddy!" She threw the tube of hair gel at him, striking him in the knee.
Jammer Davis, all six foot four, two hundred forty pounds, stood helpless. He had no idea what to do. Jen collapsed on the bed, a sobbing heap of convulsions. He thought, Nice going Jammer. Now what?
Davis went to the bed and sat next to his daughter. He heaved a sigh. This wasn't getting any easier. Her moods were like the weather. Sunny, breezy, gloomy — and always changing. He wondered how much was hormones and how much was the lingering effects of losing her mother. It had been nearly two years since the accident, but the tears still came almost every day.
Jen leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder. Years ago he might have whisked her up and taken her in his arms. But that couldn't happen anymore. Davis knew he had to just sit there and wait things out. As he did, he noticed the room. It looked different. The posters on the wall had changed — High School Musical was gone, replaced by a graffiti-strewn banner of something called Less Than Jake. A band, he figured. The old dolls and stuffed animals were gone too, probably stuffed in a closet. This bothered him. Not that she was discarding her childhood, piece by piece, but rather that she was doing it on her own. No, Dad, can I give this stuff to Goodwill? He wondered how long ago things had started working that way.