Moses asks?' And the priests had no answer.
7. And so Moses said to the Israelites,'Gather your children and your wives. Take with you your asses, sheep, and other animals, for God has granted us Pharaoh's mercy and we shall leave Egypt.'
8. But when Pharaoh saw how many Israelites were to depart Egypt and saw the labors that thereby would be undone, his heart became as a stone and he sent soldiers to stop the Israelites from going forth. And Moses came to him, saying, 'You have decreed that the Israelites may go forth from Egypt but now you say not. 'And Pharaoh answered, I do as does a god, for is not Pharaoh a god also?' And Moses went away angry but there was naught he could do.
9. And Moses went forth into the desert for forty days, during which time he spoke with the one God. And the one God directed him to a mountain where the Egyptians and their slaves labored both day and night to make great wonders with gold, some of which Moses took with him and returned to Egypt to again plead with Pharaoh.
10. And Pharaoh heard Moses and let the Israelites go forth into the desert before he again hardened his heart against the Israelites.
EIGHT
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
11:40 EST
Lang had a lunch date.
Since Gurt's departure he had resisted the overtures of the predatory single women in his condo building. Divorced, they uniformly decried the size of their alimony checks and the injustice of their prenups while refusing to seek gainful employment. Instead they prowled Buckhead's better spas, restaurants, and social events like coyotes at the edge of a campfire. They searched endlessly for lifestyle support systems in the form of eligible men. No wealthy male was exempt. Age or infirmity of the prey was no detriment, as both potentially shortened the wait before inheritance. Many of these ladies had been trade- ins on newer models, another cruel twist of fate, but one that had paid dividends in increased settlements.
Lang was that most desirable game: wealthy, and without the inconvenience of greedy heirs.
Lang had withstood the siege like a well-fortified castle.
A week ago he had met Alicia Warner, and cracks had appeared in the wall of the keep.
A recent addition to the U.S. Attorney's staff, she had moved to Atlanta from Denver and what she minimized as an 'unpleasant' divorce.
Were there pleasant ones?
A person was more likely to enjoy a root canal.
Lang pressed for no details and she did not reveal any. They had started with sharing a coffee break at the federal courthouse and met for drinks after work.
She was refreshingly cautious; he was in no hurry.
He was busy; she was more interested in her career than in a second husband.
They were circling each other like two animals claiming the same turf.
Lang was going to make his move today: He would ask her for a real, no-kidding, adult-type date, like going to a real restaurant, where, perhaps, they would discuss something other than the criminal justice system.
Lang was not timid by nature, but the possibility of facing rejection from this woman filled him with more dread than did the several attempts that had been made on his life in the last few years. Of course, in the past he hadn't had time to brood before an assassin appeared with a knife, or a shadow government's bomb destroyed his car.
He checked his watch and pushed back from his desk. He went down the hall to the men's restroom, where he combed hair that was already in place, ran a hand over cheeks still smooth from the morning's shave, and grimaced for the mirror, checking teeth that had touched nothing since being brushed.
Although he had never served as a regular in ops, the Agency had preached to its agents to check their equipment, recheck it, and then check it again.
Training or nerves?
He straightened an already perfectly centered tie, shrugged on his tailored suit jacket, and headed for the elevators.
Other than fast-food chains and hotels, downtown Atlanta could boast of few places to have lunch. Once the office workers fled to the suburbs, the streets became the domain of druggies and beggars, the first unsightly and the second overly aggressive. Other pedestrian traffic consisted of hotel guests with great courage or greater ignorance of the city and the few hardy urban pioneers who insisted on going about their nocturnal business even if they had to step over sleeping bodies in doorways and ignore loud and accusatory panhandling.
The homeless and the needy, as termed by the politically correct, were, however, voters and therefore impervious to efforts to remove them.
Understandably, most restaurants were located in somewhat more upscale areas.
One of the few brave eateries was located in Underground, a section of the city that had been bridged by a succession of viaducts over the late nineteenth-century railroads, leaving the first floor of many old buildings subterranean.
In the late sixties and early seventies, a village of unique restaurants and bars had moved in, bringing a nightlife downtown had never seen before. Ever watchful of possible revenue, the city had subsequently taken over, with a predictable decline into low-end apparel and tacky souvenir shops, a succession of chain restaurants, and an equally foreseeable black hole of taxpayer money.
Former habitues stayed away in droves.
But the place was within walking distance, roughly between the federal building and Lang's office, and the day was warm and sunny. He stepped out with a brisk walk, futilely hoping to outdistance persistent street people. He ignored the hands shoved at him as mercilessly as microphones jabbed by the press at a celebrity or newly bereaved relative of a disaster victim.
Most of the beggars had cell phones on their belts.
Was there a panhandlers' network, exchanging the time, place, and description of easy marks?
One kept pace with him, insisting he had been robbed and only needed bus fare to get home. The story would have been convincing had the same mendicant not made the same pitch last week. It would also have helped had the man's breath not reeked of MD 20/20. At $2.75 a half pint, it was downtown Atlanta's most popular fine wine.
Lang reached the Five Points MARTA station, its entrance transformed into a shabby North African bazaar. Stands displayed everything from fresh fruit to pirated rap CDs. Two tall, suited black men preached from the pages of the Bibles they held. Passengers streamed by, unconcerned that the end was at hand and damnation certain.
As Lang turned left to enter Underground, he noticed one stand's potential customer, a man in an overcoat and watch cap who seemed occupied with an arrangement of fruit juices.
Although Lang had left the Agency almost two decades earlier, its training had become habit, as natural as sleeping or eating. Anomalies were like a missed note in a symphony: a scruffy car in an upscale neighborhood, someone running away from, rather than toward, the sound of a burglar alarm.
The day was far too warm for the coat and cap.
Possibly the man had already scored enough cash to feed whatever pharmaceutical demons he snorted, smoked, or shot up. He could well believe he was in an arctic winter.
But Lang didn't think so.
Addicts tended to move at a less animated pace, if they moved at all. This man appeared to be in a lively argument with the stand's owner..
Lang was fairly certain the man had been among those who had pounced with demands for money as soon as
