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echo of God that is inside of us.”
    “Unanswerable questions,” the dean huffed. “We are concerned with scientific inquiry here that can be demonstrated empirically.”
    Ethan hated to admit it, but Houston had a point. His own interest in the Logos Project had always been from a different angle than Elijah’s. He cleared his throat. “Religion is one of the most powerful motivators of humankind. Over ninety percent of the world’s population believes in God. If we canunlock the biological basis—the neurological and biochemical processes—that leads to these beliefs, we will have accomplished a feat no scientist has ever accomplished.”
    Houston sighed. “That’s a very big if . After five years of university resources, all you have to show for this”—he pointed to the machine in the center of the room—“is, well, nothing.”
    Elijah said, “Samuel, I’m not sure it’s productive for us to revisit this discussion. We just need more time to figure out the right programming. Now that we have our funding, you shouldn’t be concerned. Ethan’s work with temporal lobe epileptics who experience hyperreligiosity holds great promise. The Logos will work, and the results will be spectacular.”
    The professor’s words reminded Ethan of his earlier breakthrough, but he bit his tongue while Houston turned to leave.
    “Don’t screw this up,” Houston said, casting a final wary glance at the machine. “New funding or not, I will shut this program down if I hear so much as a hiccup.”
    Once he was out the door and out of earshot, Ethan turned to his mentor. For the first time, he noticed the strain behind the excitement in Elijah’s eyes. “We’re going to need to show results now more than ever, aren’t we?” he asked.
    “How did your programming go?”
    Now it was Ethan’s turn to smile. “I think I did it.”

CHAPTER 6
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY , VIRGINIA
     
    ----
    “W hen do I see something for my $20 million?” demanded Casey Richards, Deputy Director of SAD, the Special Activities Division of the CIA’s National Clandestine Services. He spoke into the phone on his desk on the sixth floor of the New Headquarters Building at the CIA’s 258-acre campus in Langley, Virginia. While he waited for the delay as his words bounced off the satellite and then rerouted through the scrambler, he massaged the top of his scalp with his free hand. He’d started to lose his hair in his early thirties when he was still a field spook. When he became a desk jockey ten years ago at the age of forty-five, he’d finally shaved it.
    He eyed the bulge created by the pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his suit jacket, which hung on the back of his door. He longed for the old days when he could smoke in the office. Since joining the Company in the eighties after serving a stint in Army intelligence, technological advances had fundamentally changed the business. Not all changes were good , he thought.
    “I’m just as anxious as you, but Project Jericho has only been online for eight months,” the refined baritone voice replied. “PSYOPS aren’t an exact science.”
    Richards propped his feet on the unopened packing box next to his large oak desk. He’d moved into the office four months ago from the OHB, the Original Headquarters Building. He preferred the larger windows and contemporary steel and glass structure of the NHB, but he found it ironic that they referred to a twenty-year-old building as “new.”
    He’d been promoted from being the head of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center to the position that oversaw all of the Agency’s clandestine activities when his predecessor left for a quadruple bypass. He’d only had time to unpack the essentials—his files. The walls and his desk were still bare of any personal mementos. He was always struck by how modest in size and plain in design most government offices were compared to the Hollywood portrayal. But that was fine by Richards. He didn’t care about