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obvious.”
    Loeb entered several commands into the computer and waited. “The problem is that not everyone has a static IP address like they do a phone number. When they log into a service provider, that provider assigns them the first available address from the bank of numbers they’ve purchased. It can be different every time they log in, within the limits of their range of numbers, naturally. That makes it nearly impossible to trace someone who uses a large service provider, unless you also have access to that provider’s login records to connect the dots, and thanks to the CIA, we just happen to have that.”
    “I’m going to nod and pretend I understand every word of what you just said, okay?”
    Loeb swiveled the screen so Cameron could see it more clearly. “Whoever watched the video did so from inside the White House.”

 
    The Watcher
     
    Loeb raised his glass to the others around the table: “Here’s to the holidays: peace and good will to men, at least to what’s left of us. If only we had da Vinci to paint this last supper.”
    He and Cameron had prepared Christmas dinner from the turkey and fixings set aside for the president, had the president chosen to celebrate the holiday there, and, more importantly, had he survived 12|21|12. Michael, bolstered by stronger meds from the dispensary, had been talking nonstop about heaven, hell, and redemption. The more he talked, the more Bowen drank. That was his idea of an anesthetic. Ferret ignored them all.
    “What’s the matter, Ferret, we’re not good enough for you?” Bowen asked.
    “You shot me, remember? And you don’t smell right.”
    “I don’t smell right? You’ve had two showers, and you still stink like a skunk, you waste of a bullet.”
    “I wish I had gone home for Christmas,” Cameron said, more to his cloth napkin than anyone in particular. “I miss my parents. I’ll never see them again, will I?”
    “It wouldn’t have mattered, Cameron,” Loeb said. “They would still be gone.”
    “I suppose they would, but then maybe I would, too.”
    “So we’re not good enough for you either?” Bowen’s elbow slid off the table, knocking his water glass onto the floor.
    “You drink too much, Bowen,” Loeb said.
    “Yeah, and you talk too much.”
    “What’s going to happen to us?” asked Cameron.
    Bowen grunted and waved a thick finger, stirring the fog that had settled around his brain. “We’ll grow old and die. Or I’ll shoot you. One of the two. You pick.”
    “No, I mean the human race. Is this it? Are we finished?”
    “God has judged us, and found us guilty,” Michael coughed. “Repent while there’s still time.”
    “Fine words for a man who’s told us he’s lost his faith, cheated on his wife, and robbed his church.”
    “At least I had faith once, Mr. Bowen. What have you got? To you, life is nothing more than survival. The one who deserves to live is the one who’s better at taking what he wants from others.”
    “Damn straight, padre. You see, that’s the difference between you and me. I know there’s nothing more than this crap, so I can deal with it. You think there’s got to be something else, something you’re going to miss out on because you screwed up, and you can’t handle it. Just remember, everyone goes the same way when they die and that’s six feet under. The sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be.”
    “God left the five of us here for a reason, Mr. Bowen. I believe that now. Everyone is here on Earth for a reason. I’d just lost sight of mine and, God forgive me, I’m sorry for that, but now it’s clear to me that the Almighty has left me here to tell you that it’s not too late to come to Him and confess your sins.”
    “If that’s your reason for living, padre, you’re wasting your time. I’ve got nothing to confess.” Bowen looked into his empty glass. “I’ve got no reason to be here.”
    “I know why I’m here. It’s because them dumb bastards missed,”