“We know who the players are. They are God and they are the forces of darkness. The white side and the black side. What we don’t know is which players they are prodding and whether those players will actually move. But I have this feeling, Bill. The black side doesn’t have a clue about what’s really happening. This is an end run.”

“As long as the players cooperate.”

Helen was silent for a moment.

“Have you ever wondered what kind of man embraces evil, Bill?”

“What kind of man? Every man. What do you mean?”

“I mean, what kind of man would kill others?”

“Many men have killed others. I’m not sure I follow.”

“It’s just something that’s been gnawing at me. One way or another Tanya is going back to confront the same evil that killed her parents. I was just thinking about what kind of evil that was. That drove those men. And I think you’re right . . . I think it’s the same kind of evil that’s in every man. But not every man embraces it.”

“And the death of Christ destroys it.”

“Yes. The death of Christ. Love.”

THE VALLEY would have looked like any other valley in Venezuela’s Guyana Highlands, except for the black cliffs jutting to the sky. As it was, the stark contrast between the green jungle and the sheer rock served as a reminder to the Indians that the men occupying the valley were men with black souls. Death Valley, that’s what they now called the region that had only eight years ago been occupied by messengers of God.

In a fortified complex within the mountain at the plantation’s northern border, Abdullah Amir sat with folded arms, like a sentinel overseeing his brood. A shock of white split his black hair at the crown, accentuating a sharp nose that jutted from a naturally dark face. His eyes glistened black, casting the illusion that no iris, only pupil, had formed there. His right cheek blistered with a long scar rising from the corner of his mouth.

The room he occupied was nearly dark, plain, with stained concrete walls. But mostly it was damp and smelly. The smell came from the large black insects in the room. He had long ago given up with the bugs, and now hundreds of them occupied all four corners, climbing over each other to form small mounds, like hanging wasp nests. Not that he minded them. In fact, they had become like companions to him. No, he didn’t really mind them at all.