"Just as surely as if they put a gun to your head," Mr. Isaac said, "They held an entire nation, an entire religion, an entire world hostage." He stared, swiveling his head as he spoke, catching each pair of eyes along the way, pacing. Mr. Isaac, pacing like a rope-chord muscled panther.

"Well," he said, "Suppose one day a group - not some radical group, no no - but some group who would die for the Lord, stood up and said 'Take your heathen, bloodspilling, sand covered religion and go back into hiding, because the Lord isn't going to sit by and watch." Murmurs of agreement came from the crowd, "The Lord is going to send his people into the flames and like gold in a refiner's crucible, they will be cleansed. The Lord sets the table before us in the face of our enemies. The Lord will not forget his one true people."

He paced. People in the front row heard him make a low noise in his throat. "The Nation of Israel, the people of the tribe of Judah, and the followers of the Christ - God be praised - His followers all will unite. They claim to be the Sons of Abraham," he cocked an eye and grimaced, "Decendents of Abraham, yes. Sons and Daighters?"

"Have you ever heard of Ishmael?" Mr. Isaac asked them. People nodded and shouted affirmatives. "Ishmael was born to a servant girl, fathered by Abraham. Ishmael was cast out because he displeased God! Thus are the decendents of Ishmael not true Sons and Daughters of Abraham. Only those decended from Isaac can call themselves Sons and Daughters of God Almighty, and Allah is NOT the name the Father gave us to call him. Ask any Jew. Ask a well read Christian scholar. The name was Y - H - V - H and its pronounced Yadhevah, not Allah, may God strike them dead in their ignorance."

"If we are consecrated in God, by God, and for God, then we can join his Holy Struggle against the serpent sons of Ishmael, the heathen Islamists." He stepped of the stage and walked into the crowd. Like lightning, as quick as he had come, he left.

******************************************


The assasinations started twelve days after the bombings. Every hour another news broadcast interrupted regular programming. Twelve world leaders died, one every hour. Reports landed on secret desks in nonexistent buildings.

Beneath the streets of Baltimore, a small cadre of advisors rehashed Special Agent Dempsey's assesment, ammended to reflect his voicemail message.

"No one," the Guru said. He leaned back, the only one out of the eight assembled there that looked relaxed.

"How the hell does he get briefed, then?" asked the National Security Advisor.

"It gets to him," a young Intelligence Officer said.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's all we can say," said the Guru. "It's for his protection."

"Your job is to protect this country," Langley said, "We'll protect the President."

Every phone in the room rang at once. The Guru felt his heart squeeze to half its size. In the eerie half silence between ringtones, they looked at one another. They heard heavy boots marching down the corridor. Langley answered his phone. General Phillips answered the door.

"We need to move now," General Phillips said.

"Agreed," Langley said as he snapped his phone shut.

They stood and moved for the door. The Guru leaned in close to the NSA. "Stay behind for one second, Sharon," he said. The others left. He pulled a packet from his inside breast pocket and threw it down on the desk. "Go ahead," he said. "Open it. You want answers, there they are."

She felt the needle in her neck. Shock stopped her from responding. She fell and slid off the table.

"Bet they don't teach you that at kickboxing class," he said. She landed face up. She twitched. She tried to talk. Nothing worked. "Maybe we'll take you to see him after all," he said.

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