Lauren leaned back in her chair. “You don’t think it will turn off voters to have a religionist associated with me? Because it certainly hasn’t helped so far.”

Hutch folded his hands on the table. “That’s because we haven’t played it right. We’ll paint you as wanting to rescue these people from their Stone Age beliefs. Not in a heavy-handed way, but enough that voters will sympathize with their plight and be drawn to you.”

“And you think Abby will cooperate with that?”

He dipped another slice of bread in oil. “Getting her to come to Washington will be like taking candy from a baby. She’ll see this as the opportunity of a lifetime—tell a national audience about Jesus. She’ll say how great Christianity has been for her tribe, and then we’ll hear about how miserable their lives are, and people will see right through the religious charade. They’ll see how desperately the lesser-developed world needs to be brought into the twenty-second century.”

“And what about Nichols getting his transplant procedure covered by the national health plan?”

“That’s all part of the deal. We can’t promote worldwide AI unless we take the lead. Nichols will get what he wants. So will we. This thing will start snowballing, and you’ll ride it all the way to victory in November. And those aborigines—they’ll get their missionary back as fast as you can skin a jack rabbit. Have to keep their needs in mind.”

Lauren smiled. “Hutch, I never knew you cared so much about the less fortunate.”

He finished his beer. “The less fortunate are the fuel that runs the engine of politics, Ms. Caldwell. Or haven’t I taught you that yet?”

My first evening with Abby revealed more surprises. She had received an old message from her grandparents, saying God would use her to reignite Christianity in America. She was committed to that goal. Another small detail: federal agents had told her to leave the country or face indictment.

“Abby!” I got up from the dinner table, walked into the kitchen, stared at the sink, then turned back to her. “I don’t know what to say. Your village is murdered. Your grandfather is dead. My father, his friend, allegedly commits suicide. And you have federal agents after you. Has it occurred to you that maybe you should leave the country?”

She looked at me for a moment, shaking her head. “And go where? If they came all the way to Papua New Guinea, they can find me if they want to.”

“I’m not as worried about them—whoever ‘they’ are. But the government can track you to my place the moment they want you. That gives us little time.”

She drew invisible circles on the table with a spoon. “How would they do that?”

“Your chip.”

She looked confused. “What chip?”