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Station bombing and the one hundred and twenty five dead and wounded. He nodded in agreement.
    “We will pay to acquire the items,” the other man went on. “You must promise to use them as we discussed.”
    Abu Sayeed flicked his hand. “We have already agreed to your terms,” he said.
    The “items” the man referred to would be terribly costly. Over the past several years as the Wahaddi Brotherhood’s bank accounts had been systematically seized or blocked by Western intelligence services,any attack like the one they were plotting had become increasingly impossible. How miraculous that the tools he needed were being laid at his feet, by a Christian no less, whose sole demand was that the Wahaddi Brotherhood use them to kill the American President!
    Clearly, the Christian believed this act was going to bring about the onset of Armageddon, which meant Allah had prepared the Christian’s mind. Thanks be to God for my enemies, Abu Sayeed prayed in silence. “There is of course one proviso,” he said.
    The American raised his eyebrows, his look suggesting that beggars did not propose conditions. “What would that be?”
    “That you undertake the transportation,” Abu Sayeed replied. “Such a mission must not be exposed to needless risk.”
    The man nodded. “Of course. I will be in touch with the details.”
    Abu Sayeed reached into his briefcase and turned off the frequency-masking transmitter that would have prevented electronic eavesdropping on their conversation. “I look forward to our business relationship,” he said as he stood. Anyone observing the two men, particularly if they recognized either one, would have found it unremarkable that Yusuf ben Abu Sayeed had hired Prescott Biddle’s highly acclaimed Genesis Advisors to manage some of his family’s massive fortune. It was the kind of deal done in a city like Paris every day.

EIGHT
NEW YORK, JUNE 15
    PRESCOTT BIDDLE GAZED DOWN FROM the mountaintop. He wore a white robe and held a scepter in his right hand. Far below, a ruined battlefield held millions of dead and dying sinners. Somewhere over his head a voice like thunder intoned, And then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in heaven, and all the tribes of the earth will mourn, and they will see the Son of Man coming upon the clouds of heaven with power and great glory.
    As the voice faded, an angel appeared bearing a golden crown. The angel placed the crown on his head and named him —Messiah Bringer . He snapped awake, blinking in surprise at his French Regency desk, the familiar walls of his office, and realized he’d dozed off. He wasn’t the Messiah Bringer yet, but that would come soon enough. He rose from his chair and strode around his office, forcing blood through his jet-lagged veins.
    When he opened his office door, Betty Dowager turned from her computer screen with an anxious glance. “Go with God,” she mumbled.
    He nodded. He was utterly exhausted, but he had one more task before everything was in place. Afterward he would rest several days before heading back to Europe for the final meeting that would set the plan in motion. Messiah Bringer! The memory of his dream brought a jolt of elation, as he once again imagined the roar of a million Christian voices singing his praise.
    He climbed to the third floor, praying as he went for one more sign, one more assurance. Show me, Lord, he beseeched. Forgive my doubts.
    Brent Lucas was hunched over his keyboard, his back to the door. His head jerked slightly at the sound of Biddle’s knock. “Yes?” he said, not looking around.
    Biddle cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt such intense concentration.”
    Lucas turned, and his expression changed from annoyance to surprise. He jumped to his feet and came around the desk to shake hands. “Mr. Biddle!” he exclaimed.
    “I wanted to personally welcome you on board,” Biddle said, thinking as he had the other times they’d met how physically imposing Lucas was and how brimming