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  Jae had been a local girl studying economics, and Paul’s immediate attraction to her was returned. She was tall and lithe, a celebration for the eyes. He—she said—would easily pass muster with her father, an ex-army general and one of the founding fathers of the NPO. They married in 26 P.3.,right after grad school.

  Paul dreamed of a corporate job, but when his Ph.D. in reli gious studies didn’t open those doors, Jae urged him to pursue the NPO. The National Peace Organization had risen from the ashes of the FBI and the CIA after World War III. Like the CIA, it was a foreign intelligence force—though a skeletal one, since in the postwar world the United Nations oversaw global peace-keeping. And like the FBI, it handled interstate crimes—which, these days, were as likely to be international—such as fraud, racketeering, terrorism, and drug trafficking.

  Paul trained at Langley, Virginia, then spent his first few years in Chicago on the racketeering squad, where, surprisingly, his graduate work found purchase. Studying the world’s major religions had introduced him to a broad range of cultures, background that proved invaluable when investigations drew him or his colleagues overseas. Now he did much of his work abroad, on one of the consulting teams the NPO hired out to help other governments train their own peacekeeping and intelligence forces.

  Ranold Decenti seemed to view Paul’s work as a cushy desk job. Paul never felt put down in so many words, but his father-in-law’s tone and demeanor were condescending. Ranold clearly considered the early years of the NPO, when he was helping build and run it from its original headquarters in Washington, as its golden age. “Back then guys joined the agency for the action, not to teach and consult. And no one wanted to get stuck in some regional capital. The best and the brightest came to Washington.”

  “Well,” Paul said, “maybe that made sense when it was the capital of the country. Nobody listens to Washington anymore.”

  “Tell me about it. Now, instead of visionary leadership, a national director baby-sits a bunch of bureau chiefs who all set their own agendas.”

  “Task forces work across regional lines.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  The kids burst in, trailed by Jae, now in their pajamas and begging to know whether Wintermas presents might be opened that night instead of the next day. Margaret expelled an audible sigh.

  Ranold gave her a look that could have stopped the snow. “No!”

  He growled with such menace that Brie backed away, but Connor kept staring at the Wintermas tree. “Why do you have a flag on top of your tree, Grandpa? My friend Jimmy’s mom says when she was little people put stars or angels on top of their trees. She’s still got some.”

  Ranold waved dismissively. “Not in this house. And not in yours either, I hope.”

  “Of course not,” Paul said.

  Connor climbed into Paul’s lap and wrapped his arms around his neck. Paul sensed the boy’s fatigue. “Why not, Dad?”

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Paul said. “Now why don’t you and your sister—”

  “But why not? They sound pretty, like they’d look better on a Wintermas tree than an old flag.”

  Ranold stood and moved to the window with his back to them. “That flag stands for everything I believe in, Connor.”

  “He wasn’t saying anything about the flag,” Paul said. “He doesn’t understand. He’s just a—”

  “He’s old enough to be taught, Paul.”

  “It’s never come up before, Ranold. I plan to tell him—”

  “See that you do! And you ought to check into that mother who’s harboring contraband icons.”

  Paul shook his head.

  “What’s wrong with angels and stars, Daddy?”

  “I promise I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Tell him now, Paul!”

  “Ranold, give it a rest. I’ll decide when and how to educate my son. . . .”

  Jae stood and nodded at Brie, taking Connor’s hand. “Right now he’s going to bed,” she said.

  “Tell him in bed then,” her father said.

  Jae avoided Paul’s gaze as she led the children to the stairs. “Say good night to Grandpa and Grandma.”

  Both singsonged a good night. Margaret formally wished them the same. Ranold said, “Yeah, yeah.”

  Great, Jae thought. Paul and Dad are already sparring.

  When they were first married, Paul seemed to look up to her father, but there was always an undercurrent of competition. Paul had declined a good offer from the Washington NPO bureau, asking instead to be assigned to Chicago, his hometown, to escape his father-in-law’s shadow. For Jae it was an adventure to settle in a new city, and she was thrilled to land a position with the Chicago Board of Trade. Then the kids came along and she became a stay-at-home mom. Now that they were in school, she missed the camaraderie of the office but didn’t feel she could go back to work with Paul on the road so much. Even when he was home, he wasn’t much of a companion. In fact, he was so distant and distracted that her old suspicions came flooding back. She had been looking forward to Wintermas in Washington as a break from those worries.

  At the top of the stairs, Paul caught up with her. “What?” she said.

  “You know what. I don’t like your father criticizing the kids.”

  “I don’t like it either,” she said, “but you know how he is. And you know what he lost because of a bunch of religious fanatics.”

  “Jae, come on. He overreacted. Connor brought it up and—”

  “He has a reason to be hypersensitive about it.”

  “We all have painful areas, Jae.”

  “Of course we do.” Jae steered the children toward their beds and tucked them in. “But, Paul, he did lose his entire army and the population of a whole state. Hawaii was a state then, you know.”

  Paul bent to embrace Connor, who turned away, appearing upset by the tone of the conversation. “There were a lot of states then, Jae.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  They closed the kids’ door and stepped into the hall. “Just that it’s not like losing a whole region would be now. And it doesn’t give him the right to tell me how to raise my kids.”

  “Oh, Paul, he doesn’t mean it that way. He was a general. He’s used to speaking his mind.”

  “So am I.”

  Tears welled in Jae’s eyes. “Paul, please—I want this to be a nice holiday. Mom thinks Dad’s testy because he’s having trouble adjusting to his consultancy—being out of the limelight.”

  “That was his choice, to hear him tell it. He was tired of management and could be more ‘creative’ in special projects, whatever that means. And it’s been more than a year.”

  “Yes, but for someone like him, it’s tough giving up the big staff and the authority and the perks, even if he’s doing what he wants. So go easy on him. Can’t you go back down there and try to make nice?”

  “How’m I supposed to do that? I’m not going to apologize because I didn’t—”

  “I’m not asking you to apologize. Just smooth things over. Have a drink with Dad. There’s a lot you two could talk about. Let’s not start the holiday off on the wrong foot.”

  “I guess I could do that. Whatever you think, I don’t enjoy butting heads with the old blowhard.”

  Trudging down to the den felt like going to the principal’s office. Paul was well aware that nothing upset his father-in-law more than religion. Ranold had been commander of the U.S. Pacific Army during the war. He was on his way back from Washington to his headquarters at Fort Shafter, north of Honolulu, when disaster struck. Conflict between Asian religious factions in the South China Sea resulted in the launching of two nuclear warheads. A colossal chunk of southern China, including Kowloon, was literally separated from the rest of the continent. Besides the devastation from the bombs themselves, which snuffed out tens of millions of lives, the violence to the topography caused a tsunami of such magnitude that it engulfed all of Hong Kong Island, swamped Taiwan with hundreds of feet of wat
er, raced to the Philippine Sea and the East China Sea, obliterated Japan and Indonesia, swept into the Northwest Pacific Basin and the Japan Trench, finally reaching the North Pacific Current.

  It was upon the whole of the Hawaiian Islands, swallowing the entire state before any evacuation could take place. Not one person in all of Hawaii survived. The great tidal wave eventually reached Southern California and Baja California, reaching farther inland than expected and killing thousands more who believed they had fled far enough. It changed the landscape and the history of millions of acres from the Pacific Rim to what was then known as North America. The global map would never look the same, and decades later the grief at the human toll still lingered.

  A million times more destructive than the atomic bombs that had brought an end to the previous war, the killer tsunami seemed to sober every extremist on the globe. It was as if, over-night, every nation lost its appetite for conflict.

  Antireligion, antiwar factions toppled nearly every head of state, and an international government rose from the ashes and mud. The United States was redrawn to consist of seven regions:

  Atlantica in the Northeast encompassed ten former states, with New York City as its capital. Columbia encompassed nine southeastern states, with Washington, D.C., as its capital. The president of the United States was deposed and the vice president installed as regional governor, reporting to the international government in Switzerland. Gulfland took in Texas and five nearby states, with Houston as its capital. Sunterra was comprised of Southern California, Arizona, and New Mexico, with Los Angeles becoming its capital. Rockland was made up of seven states, and Las Vegas became its capital. Pacifica, with its capital in San Francisco, encompassed Northern California and four northwestern states, as well as Alaska. And Chicago became the capital of Heartland, which took in ten Midwestern states.

  Paul’s own father had died earlier in the war, when the Coalition of Muslim Nations attacked Washington, D.C. Ranold’s loss isn’t the only one that matters. His whole generation still focuses on the horrors they saw. We’re never allowed to forget how they suffered so we could enjoy a lifetime of peace.

  Paul felt an immediate pang of guilt. Early in the twenty-first century the world had been uglier than he could conceive, and the devastating war had left scars—personal and global, physical and psychological—that would never be healed. He shouldn’t have let his father-in-law provoke him. He hated the old man’s self-righteousness, but maybe he could cut Ranold some slack.

  When he reached the den, however, neither host nor hostess was still there. Paul glanced at his watch. Eleven straight up. He turned on the big-screen TV and settled in a chair.

  “Local police report tonight the grisly discovery of the charred remains of a decorated military man, apparently the result of a tragic accident. The body of retired Delta Force Command Sergeant Major Andrew Edward Pass was found among the ruins of an abandoned warehouse just north of the Columbia Zoological Park.”

  Paul stood, mouth agape, holding his breath. Andy? Andy Pass?

  “Police spokespersons say they have not determined any reason Major Pass would have been in the building, but they have ruled out arson. The fire has been traced to an electrical short, and police speculate that Pass may have seen the fire and attempted to put it out. Pass reportedly has been involved in community service since his retirement from the military five years ago. Full honor guard funeral services are set for Arlington Regional Cemetery at 10 A.M., Saturday, December 27.”

  Paul crossed the room to his father-in-law’s bar. He poured two fingers of Scotch, raised the glass, then added two more. Ranold entered in robe and slippers. “No ice, Paul?”

  “No thanks.”

  “That’s a pretty good slug of booze.”

  “I just found out my Delta Force commanding officer is dead. He was like a father to me, and—”

  “Pass?”

  “You know?”

  “Pour me one too. Make it bourbon.”

  “The news said he was caught in a burning warehouse.”

  “Paul, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just that it’s debatable which came first: his being caught or the warehouse burning.”

  “Caught by whom?”

  “When was the last time you heard from Pass?”

  “I don’t know—seven, eight years ago.”

  “So you don’t have a clue what he’s been up to since you were his protégé at Fort Monroe.”

  “No, but Andy was the finest—”

  “Sit down.” Ranold took his glass from Paul, gesturing toward a chair.

  Paul sank into the padded leather.

  Ranold leaned in close. “Pass headed up an underground religious cell right here in D.C., in Brightwood Park.”

  “Religious? What faction?”

  “Christian.”

  “Andy Pass? That’s hard to believe. He was a veteran, a patriot . . .”

  “Those are the ones who turn, you know. The true believers. Only a man who’s capable of faith can be converted.”

  “So they say.”

  “It’s true. Paul, we’ve got cells popping up like snakes in the woodpile. You gotta catch ’em while they’re small. Lop off their heads and their tails soon die.”

  “Their heads? What’s your involvement here, Ranold?”

  His father-in-law smiled. “I hate snakes.” He clinked his glass against Paul’s and took a sip. “Let Andrew Pass serve as an example to other subversives.”

  Paul headed to bed gnawed by doubt. How could Andy Pass become a subversive, religious or otherwise? People changed, of course, but Andy had always seemed rock solid. And Ranold was so smug. Was that whole story prompted by his trouble adjusting to his new job, an effort to keep himself in the limelight? Could he have cobbled it together from the gossip of his old agency cronies? Ranold was rabidly antireligious, and he loved being in the know. Maybe all those years in the cloak-and-dagger game had made the man conspiracy buggy.

  Paul wanted to believe Ranold’s story, but he knew better—and it filled him with rage.

  2

  JAE WAS SHOCKED at the news about Paul’s old commander. She had met him only a few times—most recently at their wedding—but she knew how deeply Paul had admired and even loved him. She tried to console Paul but he remained withdrawn, civil but distant and seemingly depressed, even on Wintermas Day. He spoke so little that it was Saturday before Jae realized he was bent on attending Pass’s funeral.

  “We have a two-thirty flight,” she reminded him. “Can we make it back by one?”

  “I’m going by myself,” he said. “I’ll be back in time.”

  “Why can’t I come?” she said.

  “It’s business.”

  “Business? Why would the NPO cover an accidental death? And if Andy was under investigation, wouldn’t the D.C. bureau handle it?”

  “You know I can’t discuss my work.”

  “Are you sure there’s no other reason you don’t want me to go?”

  “Stop it, Jae. I’m not in the mood.”

  “You have to admit that it seems strange—”

  “Leave it alone.”

  Jae knew pushing Paul further was pointless. Secrecy was paramount in his work, but what could be so hush-hush about a funeral?

  Then it struck her: What if Andy Pass was in the NPO? What if he was killed in the line of duty? Her reflexive mistrust filled her with shame. She reached out to embrace Paul, but he turned his head so her kiss landed on his cheek. “Okay,” she said, backing off. “I guess I deserved that.”

  Paul shrugged.

  She accepted that as forgiveness. I’ve got to get a grip on these suspicions.

  Paul’s mood was darker than he had let on to Jae. He could have told her the gist of Andy’s situation without specifics, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. Ranold said nothing more about the case either, though Paul sensed his father-in-law studying him, and
now and then they had exchanged loaded glances. Three days of brooding about Andy Pass had only stoked Paul’s sense of betrayal. Attending the funeral was business, as he told Jae, but it was personal rather than official—to try to confront the enemy that had devoured his mentor from within.

  In an angry fog, he drove south over the Potomac River into Virginia to Arlington Regional Cemetery, due south of where the Iwo Jima statue had once stood and slightly northwest of the Pentagon Memorial Crater. The famed statue—destroyed by an Islamic terrorist dirty bomb early in the war—was now represented by a photo, sheltered in a kiosk, of the actual incident a century before when four United States Marines planted a flag on Iwo Jima during World War II.

  The crater where the Pentagon had been was ringed with an ornate chain-link fence, on which visitors pinned mementos of the thousands of loved ones lost there during World War III. It took the largest warhead ever to land on American soil to obliterate one of the world’s largest buildings, six months before the end of the war. It was a North Korean submarine-launched ballistic missile shot low enough to evade radar. It scored a direct hit inside the courtyard of the Pentagon and virtually vaporized the structure.

  The cemetery itself, still a national shrine, had escaped war damage and was as beautiful as ever. Today it was covered by several inches of snow, making row upon row of veterans’ white headstones appear to have grown from the icy blanket.

  Paul was directed to a low stone building in the new, postwar section, where all headstones were rectangular—no crosses or Stars of David or any other ancient religious symbols. When he identified himself as a government employee, his car was parked by an army cadet.

  Inside, the building was long, narrow, and plain. At the front a closed coffin was draped with a seven-star American flag. On the wall behind it the only decoration was a display of American flags of the past, from Betsy Ross’s thirteen-star model to the fifty-star banner that preceded the present version.