Christine Temetri had, through her own blind initiative, become an integral part of the plan. Harry, preoccupied with powers and principalities, hadn’t initially thought to cover the fringe elements – the crazy cultists who kept popping up and predicting The End. But when Christine sent in her first story, he realized that the Banner’s readers would eat it up. And hell, didn’t John the Baptist himself start out as a lunatic eating locusts and ranting about the arrival of the Messiah? Maybe one of these commune-dwelling crackpots had the inside track. Harry certainly wasn’t about to miss out on the big story just because it came from a disreputable source. And now, more than ever, he needed all of his eyes open. If what he had been able to glean from the angelic voices was true, then the End was very close indeed. And this business in the Middle East with the Israelis and the Syrians, didn’t it seem to point to a dispensational acceleration? Sure, there had been a lot of abortive skirmishes in the Middle East in recent years, but this one seemed like it had some legs. And yet, his next move remained unclear – and so he fretted.

Harry’s fretting was, however, cut short when he heard the voice of the Banner’s news editor, Troy Van Dellen, somewhere in the cubicle maze outside Harry’s office.

“Hello, gorgeous!” said Troy’s lilting voice.

That kind of labored flirtation could only mean one thing: Christine was back from… Wisconsin, or wherever she had been. He had some vague idea that Christine had been somewhere remote and insignificant – Michigan? Minnesota? – following up on another crackpot lead. Harry rarely got involved in the dispensing of assignments; although his fondness for Christine afforded her more direct access than his other reporters, he ordinarily allowed Troy to manage Christine. Troy Van Dellen was a perky blond Baylor graduate who had started three years earlier as copy editor and worked his way into his current position through a combination of shrewd political maneuvering and unparalleled journalistic instincts. It was said of Troy Van Dellen – not to his face – that the only story he couldn’t sniff out was that of his own sexual orientation. Or maybe he did realize it, and was merely adhering to the Banner’s unofficial “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

Harry opened his door to see Christine trying desperately to disengage herself from conversation with Troy. Christine had never gotten along with Troy; it seemed to Harry – who was admittedly not the best judge of other peoples’ emotions – that she was frightened by his intensity, resentful of his age and, perhaps, jealous of his hair. Harry generally tried to at least make a show of discouraging Christine’s attempts to make an end run around Troy to get to him, but today he wasn’t in the mood.

“Christine,” Harry said authoritatively. “I need to see you in my office.”