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is a different thing.” He spread his hands. “And at what magnitude? Even the Three Gorges Dam was built only to withstand a seven-point-zero, not an eight-point-one. At least that’s what I was told years ago by the staff of the Commerce Committee.”
    Wallace rose and gazed down on Seventeenth Street, already closed to traffic in anticipation of Saturday’s anti-World Bank and International Monetary Fund demonstration. He hummed Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth” as he surveyed the flak-jacketed D.C. police officers posted at the corners.
    Nichols heard the music in his head and recognized that neither of them knew what was really happening outside and what it meant for them or the country. He watched Wallace’s head nod in rhythm as he looked out, as if the images were melding with the words: guns, signs, and songs embodying divisions deeper than mere political disagreement.
    He remembered the first time—the exact day—he’d heard the song in 1967. He’d gone to a friend’s house after school where they’d played the record on the stereo over and over, memorizing the words. His father, a police captain who was home on his day off, rose from his chair and glared at Nichols as he walked in through the front door singing:
    Paranoia strikes deep
    Into your life it will creep
    It starts when you’re always afraid
    You step out of line, the man come and take you away—
    Then the man stepped out of the song, walked across the living room, and slapped his son across the face.
    Nichols blinked away memory and focused again on Wallace.
    “I was right when I warned RAID not to build over there,” Wallace said, then held up his hands.
“So Jeshurun waxed fat and spurned the Rock of his salvation.”
He lowered them again and turned back toward Nichols. “I guarantee you that Spectrum won’t call today. They couldn’t wait for me to be gone so they could go into China, and now look how they’ve been punished for it.”
    Nichols cocked his head toward the reception area where the president and executive officers of the Baptist Missionary Convention waited.
    Wallace smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t say that in front of the cameras. The public isn’t quite ready to face the truth without blinders on. When the time comes, they’ll rip them off themselves.” He paused in thought, then snapped his fingers. “This may be a chance for BMC to send some missionaries into China, maybe as relief workers. We should encourage RAID to take a few along when they go over to assess the damage.”
    “There’s no way they’ll get visas.”
    “We’ll make it a human rights issue. That way—“
    “And I’m not sure we should put kids at risk. Things are only going to get worse.”
    “Then that’s exactly where they need to be to do the most good. What do the Chinese say about crises creating opportunities? This is one of those times.”
    Nichols tensed. Wallace’s central weakness was that he was impulsive. It was a defect Nichols had long ago discovered in the character of boys with strong but loving fathers, like Wallace’s, who forgave mistakes too easily.
    “You’ll need to run it by the president’s people before you start down that road,” Nichols said, but knew Wallace wouldn’t.
    The last time Wallace had shoved the president in the direction of religious freedom in China, the Chinese maneuvered him into a position where he either had to speak out in support of the anti-Christian Falun Gong or step back. He retreated and was weakened when he went to Beijing to negotiate the terms of a revised trade agreement.
    “The president shouldn’t have chickened out last time,” Wallace said. “Anything that encourages instability in China helps us. Combine a hundred million landless laborers rioting in the streets and fifty million Falun Gong members lotusing in the intersections and a bunch of Tibetans and separatist Muslims bombing the power stations, and the whole government will collapse