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approached. “So you’re Paul Stepola,” she said, smiling through tears and taking his hand in both of hers. “Daddy spoke so highly of you.”
    Her dignity and warmth had been evident when she spoke, but up close her beauty was disarming. And she smelled of lavender. Despite his anger at her father and the gravity of the occasion, Paul’s attraction to Angela was immediate, intense, and visceral.
    “Oh, surely not,” he managed. “Your dad had so many trainees and subordinates over the years—”
    “I’m totally serious,” she said. “You must have epitomized what he was looking for in Delta Force. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
    Paul could barely murmur how pleased he was to meet her. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain . Though no stranger to the power of seduction, he had never before felt this kind of instant, overwhelming connection to any woman—not even Jae.
    Good thing she’s not here.
    “Your remarks were perfect,” Angela said. “It was obvious you really knew him.”
    “Well, Angela, he meant a lot to me—to all of us. I hope we get a chance to talk some more about him one of these days.”
    “Me too,” she said. “I would love that.” She let go of his hand to gesture toward two young boys. “Those are my sons, and I’d like to introduce them to you.”
    “Certainly,” Paul said, sobering. So she was married. Well, so was he.
    He shook hands with the boys, and both had to be coaxed to look him in the eye and tell him it was nice to meet him. Paul slipped Angela’s business card into his pocket.

    The burial was restricted to family. Walking to the parking lot with his buddies, Paul declined their invitation to lunch because of his flight. Their departure left Paul once again isolated in his anger. Unready to head back to the car, he veered off the pavement into the snow-covered cemetery. Tromping past the rows of headstones and the Robert E. Lee and John F. Kennedy memorials, Paul moved into a section where all the headstones were crossshaped.
    A plaque read: Religious symbols were common before World War III, when it was the custom for every enlisting soldier to declare his denominational preference.
    Paul spat in disgust.
    As he walked on amid the tombstones, his outrage mounted. Life had been torn from all these young men and women—so many barely out of their teens—and for what? Because fanatical Muslims waged holy war on the West? Because religious groups in Bosnia jockeyed for primacy? On and on it went, back to the dawn of history, people persecuting each other over abstract ideas. That their tombstones symbolized the ideas they died for seemed the cruelest of ironies.
    And what were these ideas about? Outlandish notions of an afterlife. Sure, it was hard to imagine that this life was all there was. Paul could identify with the need to believe there was some form of nirvana in the end. He’d like to have known his father, and, short of that, to think he might still meet him one day. But were such wishes worth killing for? dying for? His mother was right. That these religious fanatics all thought they knew the truth—with many convinced that theirs was the only truth—proved they all were deluded.
    Even worse than delusion was the compulsion to inflict delusion on others—to corrupt even strong-minded men like Andy Pass.
    Paul’s stomach was empty and his feet were cold. He had worn nothing over his shoes, not planning this foray into the dead zone. He headed back for his car, turning to look at the crosses that seemed to line up all the way to the horizon. I hope it gave them some comfort. And yet here they lie.

    By the time Paul got back, Jae had everything packed and the kids ready to go. Once the pile had been transferred to the car, the good-byes began. Ranold held Paul’s arm to slow him as he approached the car. While Jae was getting the kids buckled in, the old man spoke quietly. “You may not have done the best for yourself, attending that