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that the Angel called Adam and Eve must be brought safely into his own custody eventually, but he had all the time in the world to locate them. Hodge didn’t worry about the children; the Angel guaranteed him that they had been created immune.
    Any virologist who survived at ViraVax would be no help to anyone. Flaming Sword was swift and deadly, too swift and too deadly for anyone to produce an effective defense. In the short time they had left, anything any virologist knew was moot. Besides, if there were survivors, Hodge would take care of them, too.
    Hodge was proud of the stroke of genius that got his dummy corporation, a Catholic corporation, the contract for the Catholics’ communion wafers. Easter Masses throughout the world would precipitate a great flambé over the next couple of weeks. The viral agents in the wafers were the slowest of the lot, taking up to twenty-four hours to hit critical mass.
    The Gardeners, as the Children of Eden called themselves, would fall to the Sabbath water, swift and shocking, but painless. Or so he was told. The Gardener holocaust would provide the proper diversion while Flaming Sword did its work in clinics, churches, refugee centers, cafeterias and airlines throughout the world.
    Hodge wondered about the inevitable mess, the billions of suppurating bodies, but he supposed the earth itself would clean that up, in time. The Angel had assured him that this would be no problem. He felt bad about all the animals that would starve in their pens, and worried about whether or not vermin would thrive in the aftermath. Ezra Hodge hated rodents of all kinds, but especially rats. He had asked the Angel Mishwe to eliminate them, too, but was told that, of all God’s creatures, only this sinful pack of humans offended Him. Flaming Sword would spare the rats.
    Hodge had to admit the possibility that he himself might not be there to see it, but his faith was so strong that this was something he did not regret. He had, in fact, no regrets and was eager to play such an important role in God’s plan. Still, when he fingered his sidearm and imagined its cold steel in his mouth, his heart raced and his sweaty palms turned cold.
    Major Hodge turned his attention to the closed-circuit view of the emergency communications center that he had provided at the embassy. He studied Nancy Bartlett as she spoke with her father, the United States Secretary of State, via satlink.
    Nancy Bartlett, mother of the new Eve, stood behind the desk of the U.S. ambassador to the Confederation of Costa Brava while her aide finished the link to Washington, D.C. Nancy’s blue eyes were red from crying and from the smoke. She kept her hands on the desktop in an obvious attempt to control their trembling. The clock on the console in front of her chimed once to announce the six o’clock hour. The office was a madhouse of people and makeshift electronics in the aftermath of the embassy bombing. In just a couple of hours, Hodge had converted the ambassador’s personal quarters into the new embassy command center. He didn’t care that they didn’t thank him; it gave him the chance to install certain monitoring devices like the one he was viewing.
    “Mrs. Bartlett,” the aide said, “your call to the Secretary of State is ready. Go ahead.”
    Nancy’s blonde hair was disheveled, and she tucked it behind her ears. Her blue power suit was streaked with plaster dust and water. Hodge presumed she hadn’t cleaned up after the bombing because she wanted her father to see her this way. Nancy Bartlett was prepared to use every emotional tool at her disposal to get her daughter back. Hodge respected her for that, and thought maybe the woman would feel better knowing that her daughter had been chosen—no, created —to be Eve.
    It didn’t matter. Nancy Bartlett was a Catholic; she wouldn’t live long after Easter Mass, anyway.
    The peel-and-peek on the opposite wall lit up, and the Secretary of State appeared—ashen and