James Wong could not fault Tauriq Haddad’s performance. Their joint operation was masterful and enormously successful. But it was clear that Haddad had a much more sinister agenda. For now, he needed a prosperous America to pay for his global schemes. It would be only a matter of time before he enslaved the American economy and used it to enslave the world.

JAMES WONG ACCOMPLISHED in thirty days what some men could not have done in thirty lifetimes. He wanted to leave Washington for a rest, but he was unable to do so because of what had happened to his wife.

Joyce Wong, the former Joyce Cumberland, came from old money. She had grown up as the daughter of privilege. Her passion was for the outdoors. At ten, she was winning blue ribbons in equestrian events. At twelve, she won a junior sporting clays skeet tournament. She was also an excellent swimmer, played tennis, and was a low-handicap golfer.

Blonde, tanned, with beautiful but prominent features, Joyce looked every bit the patrician. Her clothes were always the most expensive, yet her look was understated elegance. Before the chaos began, her name often appeared in programs as a patron of major southern California charities—art museums, symphonies, charity auctions, and hospital events.

For Joyce Cumberland Wong, this was all there was in life. She was never ostentatious, but she took for granted a mansion filled with costly antiques, Impressionist paintings, and imported Oriental carpets. She believed that memberships in exclusive clubs, high-powered imported cars, a staff of servants, and a circle of equally privileged rich friends were normal. She had never known anything else.

No one would say that Joyce was immoral, or even amoral. She cherished the standards and values of her class. She was, pure and simply, secular. She lived life on only one level—the level of the materialist. She was extraordinarily self-assured. She knew who she was, and she liked that person very much.

When the torment came, Joyce Cumberland Wong believed that she could handle it. A few insect bites could not faze her. But as the onslaught grew more intense, she began to break. She could not sleep. She could not eat. Her mind and body were tormented. Her face became gaunt. Black circles appeared under her eyes. Her appearance was, for the first time in her life, unkempt. She would walk the floor at night and scream for relief.

Her husband was among the unaffected, and he tried to persuade her that her torment would cease if only she would surrender her life to Jesus Christ. But she rebuffed his entreaties. She was Joyce Cum berland, not some weakling who had to prostrate herself before some bleeding Messiah. The Cumberlands could endure pain. But never would a Cumberland become one of those weird holy rollers!