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convincing. From what I learned from the videotapes on your work here, there is a need to convince people to act.”
    A.J. sat up in his chair. “What did you think of it?”
    Now it was David’s turn to sit silently. His mind filled with the images he had seen: poverty beyond imagination; debilitatingdiseases; young people whom hunger had made old before their time; the heroic efforts of people he did not know struggling to survive and the equally heroic efforts of Barringston staff members, doctors, nurses, language experts, and others giving chunks of their lives to help people in distant lands. The tape had touched David deeply, shaking him to his emotional core. He had known of famine, but he, like so many, had been too busy to pay attention.
    “I think,” David said softly, “I think I’m glad to be here helping you do something about the problem.”

    Ian Booth’s office couldn’t be called opulent, but then neither could it be called Spartan. It possessed just enough dark wood paneling, just enough art, and carpet just thick enough to be impressive but not gaudy. The office was a reflection of the man: prim, proper, and just right in every way, the way Booth thought an international bank president ought to be. Standing at his window that overlooked the rolling azure Caribbean Sea, he thought of his good fortune. Here he was, president of the Americas Bank, a bank that had grown from humble beginnings twenty years ago to an international operation handling money not only for individuals and businesses, but for countries as well. It was true that occasionally he had to deal with unsavory types, but every successful endeavor has its drawbacks. Besides, some of those unsavory types were weighed down with money and needed his help in placing their currency in safe and untraceable places. It was an important service for which people paid a handsome price.
    A knock on the door jarred Booth from his musing. “Enter,” he said in a strong voice made all the more authoritative by his thick British accent.
    “Good morning, sir,” George Barr said as he entered. Booth couldn’t help noticing the facial expression of the bank’s senior vice president. Barr was a capable man who seldom got ruffled or lost his temper. He lacked the aristocratic appearance of Booth with hisgraying temples, aquiline nose, and obsidian eyes, and who, despite his average height, projected a bigger-than-life persona. Barr was the kind of man that ladies described as roly-poly, an attribute that was heightened by his short stature and a head that had long since been divorced from its hair. Despite his height and lack of sophisticated bearing, he had a sharp mind. There was nothing that he didn’t understand about banking. If there was a problem, Barr was called to facilitate a solution.
    “Good morning, George,” Booth said amicably. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look a little out of sorts. Didn’t you sleep well last night?”
    “Last night was fine, sir. It’s this morning that troubles me. I was just informed by one of our internal auditors, who was conducting a routine audit of our special accounts, that something … disastrous has happened.”
    “Disastrous?” Booth questioned with an invisible shudder. Such words were distressing to the bank president who could remember the BCCI scandal that rocked all the banks in the Grand Cayman Islands. In 1991 the Panamanian government brought suit against the International Credit and Commerce Bank—generally referred to as BCCI—to recover money it believed it was owed by former dictator Manuel Antonio Noriega. It was alleged that BCCI had allowed Noriega to send millions of dollars abroad for safekeeping. One of the defendants was a British banker. The scandal made news in nearly every country of the world. Since Americas Bank provided the same services to its unique clientele, Booth had reason to be afraid.
    “Oh, yes, yes. Disastrous indeed,” Barr said emphatically.