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disease. And after the terrorist attacks of ’05, it was the extremists who defied the tolerance laws and rioted, killing Muslims.”
    Paul nodded. He’d studied all this in grad school. Naturally, people wanted revenge for the Super Bowl and Disneyland bombings and the gas attacks on the underground trains in Washington, Boston, and New York. The same thing had happened in Europe, when the Eiffel Tower, the London Bridge, and the Vatican were destroyed. And then the war came—life on earth nearly snuffed out because of religious fanaticism.
    “We’re lucky the war ended the way it did and woke us up,” Paul said. “The abolition of religion has proved the best outcome of tragedy ever.”
    “Tell me about it,” Koontz said. “Peace for more than a generation. Not a single nation at war for the first time in history. But we can’t take it for granted. Not now—and not ever again.”
    “What’s this new task force?”
    “We’re calling it Zealot Underground.”
    “Bob, get me on that. You know I’ve got the background. The corruption of Andy Pass—and so many others—demands vengeance.”

    The following week, Paul was dispatched to Mexico on a consulting job, returning the Tuesday following the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday weekend. The big news in Chicago was that a speaker at a King celebration had twice used the archaic and outlawed term Reverend in connection with the martyr’s name. One TV pundit suggested the city declare a moratorium on King Day observances “until organizers learn to control themselves.”
    Paul’s secretary, Felicia, a tall black woman in her late forties, couldn’t hide her emotion. “Dr. King died long before I was born, but no matter what you say, the man was a reverend. They go stopping King Day for something minor as that, they’re going to have trouble. Tell me the truth, Dr. Stepola. You see any harm in using a man’s title, one he earned and used himself?”
    “Yes, I do, Felicia. And the organizers know better too. It’s playing with fire to link religion with a hero like Dr. King.”
    “Link? Isn’t that where Dr. King got his nonviolence philosophy?”
    “If you’re talking about his tactics, I believe he got them from Mohandas Gandhi. Think about it—what that title links him to is occultism and ignorance.”
    “I just meant—”
    “Dr. King was a product of his time. Do you think highlighting that era’s blindness serves his memory? When we want to honor Thomas Jefferson, do we focus on his slaveholding?”
    Felicia looked stricken. Paul smiled. “Am I going to have to arrest you for practicing religion, Felicia?”
    “Cuff me. You’ll need backup.”
    “Oh yeah?” he said, chuckling. “We’ll see about that. But seriously, I spent four years studying the major religions. And ‘I ain’t gonna study war no more.’ That’s what the history is like. Believe me, religion is the opposite of nonviolence.”
    Though he let it go, Paul was amazed that an NPO secretary would defend religion in front of her boss. But before Wintermas, he himself had given little thought to the likelihood of a Christian threat right here in the USSA. We’ve forgotten that the price of freedom is constant vigilance. We take peace for granted. But not anymore.
    The river appeared in danger of icing over, a rarity. He stared at it past the picture of Jae on his desk and acknowledged that he had thought more about Angela Pass than his wife while he was away. He’d felt so relieved when Koontz said she wasn’t a suspect. Angela had said she’d always wanted to meet him and that she’d love to get together to talk about her father.
    Felicia buzzed. “Koontz wants to see you.”
    Paul pulled on his suit coat, tightened his tie, and grabbed a notepad. He paused for iris scans at two checkpoints, then was waved in by Koontz’s secretary. “He’s on the videophone, but he wants you to come in anyway.”
    Paul entered and shut the door, just as Koontz was saying,