

## The Faithful Patriot

### JMBrowning

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by JMBrowning

All Rights Reserved.

### Chapter 1

The humidity hung heavy in the late afternoon. Bart Manning found himself laboring to breathe normally as he lumbered down the jetway headed towards the terminal. His feet seemed to drag, tripping on nearly every step as the long journey began to exhibit its' toll on Manning. He had boarded a plane some 20 hours earlier, beginning his journey in a small airport on an 8-seat plane in a remote area of western Canada.

The call which prompted the journey had come in much like many others before; early in the morning hours and short in nature and information. "You've been called to serve. Pick up assignment papers at the designated location. May The Lord bless you in your journey and in your service." The designated location was always the same: the church house and the congregational leaders' office.

Manning's mind flashed back to his the to his church leader's office nearly a day ago. His phone buzzed with a text just after 4am, waking him with the news that his world was about to change yet again but such was the nature of his unique calling. After rubbing the sleep from his deprived eyes, he entered a number and sent a text of his own. Brother Dunn- just notified of transfers. The Lord answers prayers. Elder Manning; that was always the content of the text. It was the predetermined verbiage and by sending it to the appropriate person, it acted as acknowledgement that the assignment had been received and the process was set in motion.

The process was just one of the many parameters to which Manning's superiors demanded complete and utter adherence. His dress, his manner of behavior, his daily routine including regulation of extra curricular activities and contact with friends and family- everything had protocol and absolute strict obedience. And for Manning, his very existence depended upon it.

Hermano, Bienvenidos a Paraguay!

Manning's attention snapped back to the present. Standing directly in front of him was a pair of young American men dressed in crisp white shirts, neck ties, dark slacks, and short hair cuts. Mormons. Mormon missionaries. Officially they were known as Elder Flint and Elder Slater. One from eastern Idaho- a Mormon mecca of sorts, that was Elder Kurt Slater. The other, Flint, hailed from Colorado, deep southern Colorado on the Arizona border. As Manning would later learn- Flint was actually the son of a long time polygamist and was raised in a colony by no fewer than five different mothers. Slater and Flint were part of the process and as expected-- nothing about their presence nor actions was unexpected.

"Gracias." said Manning. His spanish was adequate, or at least had been adequate up to this point. He'd learn in the days and weeks ahead that his skills were woefully behind and would draw attention to him; something he desperately tried to avoid. "Como esta usteds"? Manning replied.

"Como estan ustedes"? said Flint who left the words hanging in the air nearly as heavy as the humidity that still sat on Manning's chest like a 30lb dumbbell.

"Uh, bean", "I mean, bien" said Manning. "I'm still learning".

"No hay problema Elder", said Flint. "You'll get there. How was your flight?"

Again Manning's mind, although exhausted from travel and an inherent inability to sleep on flights, raced back to the first time he had ever boarded a flight in this capacity. It was just over two years ago. He was a third-year student studying political science and international relations at the University of Montana in Missoula.

Manning was boarding a flight in Missoula headed for San Diego for a week of sun, margaritas, some fishing and what he liked to call; extreme relaxation. His high school buddies awaited him on the other end- all gathering from various places and stages in life. They had similar backgrounds growing up but after graduation- all went about their individual way. Yet, each year, they made a point of getting together to spend some time with each other, catching up and always vowing to do it again the next year.

A 21-year old Bart Manning took his seat on the plane, stashed his backpack in the overhead and settled into his seat. A set of ear buds wrapped around his neck and a laptop on the tray table in front of him gave all the signals that he didn't want to be bothered, nor engaged in conversation on the flight. It worked, at least for a while for this segment. The return flight would be quite different.

### Chapter 2

Bart Manning was born and raised on a family farm in western Montana, the first son in a family of what eventually would be five children. To the outside world, his was a life that fairly normal, one might even say straight out of the Saturday Evening Post and Norman Rockwell. His parents were humble, hardworking, God-fearing farmers and small business owners. They took pride in what they did, how they did it and that they were as self-sufficient as possible. While self-sufficient, they valued relationships with neighbors and the opportunity to serve each other and that is what lead them to answering the call- a call that would change their lives and certainly Bart's forever.

Uncle Willard.

When Bart's parents, Harry and Jewel Manning were asked, they answered the call to care for Harry's then brother in law, Willard. Willard had been married to Harry's sister. He was not all that accepted by the Manning family but he was family nonetheless, albeit by marriage. Willard had a colored history. He had been active in a number of causes and philosophical groups- most notably the John Birch Society in the 50's. He had been extremely active in the outing of people he felt were communist sympathizers during the McCarthy era of the 50's. He declared it was his duty as an American and as a "God-fearing Republican" to rid the world of what he called "pinko commies". Willard was not widely liked nor respected and when his zealous nature overrode his common sense one time too many- Willard was on the outs; on the outs with his surviving community, his organizations and his family. Banished from his own family, Willard wandered looking for someplace to land and eventually found his way by bus to western Montana. A phone call from the Greyhound terminal to the family farmhouse lead to a trip to town and Willard coming to the Manning family farm.

The first few days were normally awkward. Willard's comments made Jewel and Harry uncomfortable. There would be exchanges back and forth about appropriate discussion in front of the children and Willard would ultimately launch into some far flung conspiracy based rant that would alter between racist attacks on minorities to political philosophizing with deeply held convictions about Kant, John Locke and other classical theorists. In a strange way, it was some of these conversations that led to Bart's continued interest in political science and international connections.

It was only after several weeks of this routine- that it all changed. Harry had gone to the barn to check on a set of newborn lambs when he found a scene that literally dropped him to his knees. Willard was standing over his eldest son, Bart, with a pitch fork in hand ready to drive it through the jugular vein while screaming the name of God and claiming sacrifice was necessary to appease God and cleanse the race.

### Chapter 3

The streets were rough. A strange mix of cobblestone and river rock- most suburban Asuncion streets were a repair shop's dream. Shocks, brakes, glass and body work- the city cousins of the country dirt road beat a vehicle with an aggravated enthusiasm. Elder Slater embraced the challenge of navigating the chaotic traffic with half a notion that he should have been called to a mission driving a dune buggy in the Baja 500 in Ensenada. Flint on the other hand seemed to more focused on quizzing Manning and further cementing the fact his Spanish was not field fluent. Esta' certificada con su charlas Elder Manning? Are you certified to teach the lessons Elder Manning?

Elder is the term used by all Mormon missionaries to refer to the office which they hold in their priesthood. When Joseph Smith founded the modern day Mormon Church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints in upstate New York in 1830, the organization claimed to have restored a divine authority, a priesthood, under which they would govern the church, and receive modern revelation from God to help guide doctrine and affairs of the members. There are two levels of priesthood within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, also known as Mormons for their belief in an ancient church prophet by the name of Mormon after whom an entire book of scripture is named. The lower level of minor priesthood is called Aaronnic after Aaron of the Old Testament. It is generally given to all worthy young men, never women, ages 12-18 within the Church. There are three offices within the Aaronic Priesthood; Deacon- ages 12-13, Teacher, ages 14-15 and Priest, ages 16-18. Each of the offices has specific duties, and with each advancement, more responsibility and prestige is given. Deacons pass the sacrament each Sunday to the congregation during services and help collect cash donations for the Church's welfare system called Fast Offerings. The offering is the equivalent to what a member would spend on two meals, which are skipped on the first Sunday of the month as a fast. That money is given to the ward- the Mormon term for a congregation of approximately 250-500 members.... Members in need can then in need make application with the Bishop, the leader of the Ward. Teachers prepare the sacrament (bread and water- never wine) before the main worship service, called Sacrament Meeting. They also function as door ushers helping to keep a quiet and reverent atmosphere, or at least, attempt to keep it reverent. Mormon wards are notorious for their crying babies and young children of large families. Priests are given the authority to baptize new members into the Church and also bless the sacrament through a recited prayer. Priests are not allowed to confirm new members; a prayer through which new members are given the "gift" of the Holy Ghost, the third member of the Godhead according to Mormon theology. That duty is only done through someone who holds the Melchezedik Priesthood- the higher of the two powers.

Melchezedik was a king and a high priest in the Old Testament and is mentioned only briefly. Manning was always struck by this fact; a major namesake in the Church, the faith that provided for his life, was for all intents and purposes a passing mention one of the main cannons of scripture. Manning, like most all of the young men who donned the white shirt and tie uniform of the Mormon Church, knew enough of the basic tenants to be conversant about the faith, but there were deep details that escaped his full understanding. One of those lack of connections was the role and significance of Melchezedik.

The higher priesthood, named for the briefly appearing Old Testament figure, also had three offices within its' purview: Elder- the office for the majority of worthy men (always men, never women), ages 19-45. Elders were the worker bees of the faith. They serve as home teachers; teams of two who are assigned to visit and bring messages of reassuring faith to assigned families within the Ward at least once a month. Elders also served as missionaries- assigned to proselytize the message of the Mormon faith to all corners of the world. Missionaries in the Mormon faith are one of its' most recognizable features. The legion of primarily young men between the ages of 18 and 21 are paired, always paired- never to be alone- walked, biked, and trudged through nearly every country in the world. There are two other offices within the Melchezedik Priesthood- the office of High Priest and the office of the Seventy. The Seventy are few in number and function in a high end, nearly doctrinal capacity. High Priests are the upper end leaders of the Mormon Church; both on a global church-wide scale and most certainly on the local and regional level. High Priests are called to be Bishops, Stake Presidents and General Authorities of the Church.

Manning knew all about the Church history, its' infrastructure and governance system. He had a level of mastery that should have put him on a fast track to senior level leadership, but he knew he'd never be any of those. His calling was much greater.

### Chapter 4

Don Crook was half-asleep when the phone buzzing in his pocket stirred him. A text message. "Package delivered".

Crook was now fully awake, his senses stimulated and his brain racing. This had been his project, his baby since the beginning. It was brilliant, at least in his mind: Combine two things he felt most passionate about; his faith and his country. God was leading him and Crook knew that his country was chosen of God. Many Mormons profess that God led the Founding Fathers of the United States to form a nation that would provide a setting in which and only which a Republic like the US could be born and in turn, provide the freedom for a "new" religion, a restored faith like Mormonism could be established.

Crook stepped off the train onto the TRAX platform and zipped up his jacket to cut the early winter wind racing off the Wasatch Mountains. Crook worked on the 14th floor of one of the tallest buildings in Salt Lake City just a few blocks to the east; Church Headquarters. The 14th floor was home to the missionary operation of the LDS Church. More than 80,000 young Mormon men and women are serving at any one time throughout the world. Crook was responsible for a number of the logistics for several of regions, but his primary concern was one single missionary; Bart Manning.

Crook had the idea to use the shield of the globally known Mormon missionary effort while plowing snow a few years earlier. He'd been raised in the snowy climate of Minnesota. He was working as a snow plow driver- pushing snow and watching the blade push the snow- the main focus of the operation- but the real crux of the event took place out of the main view of most; the spreading of gravel and a ice dissolving solution. The spray nozzles for the solution were under the truck- deeply embedded in the "operation" but not the main focus for most of those who observed or even operated the truck. So integral yet nearly forgotten. Brilliant Crook thought.

Crook had been active in the military, serving in the Navy for 6 years right out of high school. He'd been a candidate for SEAL training but had to withdraw after severe tendinitis in his right shoulder and allergies developed to the material found in kevlar. Tough to be a swamp swimming, covert assassin when you can't swim or shoot without screaming in pain or sneezing constantly.

Throughout his time in the military, Crook remained steadfastly locked into his Mormon faith and roots. His family had been members of the LDS Church for as long as he knew and his mother's penchant for genealogy proved his belief: six generations ago, Crook's grandfather had been baptized by none other than Brigham Young in the Mississippi River at Nauvoo Illinois before the Mormon's exodus to Utah. He knew in his heart the God had lead him into the military for a reason and one night while driving a snow plow to help pay his way through grad school. Embed with an overt operation in order to accomplish the true, the divine and omnipotent mission that must not fail. Be so overt, you're covert.

"Good morning Brother Crook. How's the train?"

The voice of a security guard seated at the check in desk of the massive office building brought Crook back to his present.

"I'm good. Kept 'er on the rails, so it's a good day. Have a great day Brother Clark."

Crook stepped off the elevator 14 floors later and made his way through a sea of cubicles. Not even Moses could part this sea thought Crook. You wanna see miracles? Check this place out at 4:59pm each day. The dead come back to life!

To the untrained eye, Crook did not stand out. He wore the same dark conservative suit, white shirt, conservative tie with a well-trimmed hair cut as nearly every other person on the floor. Yes, he had an office, but it had glass walls so there wasn't really any way to hide much of anything. His walls were decorated nearly identical to the rest; diploma from BYU, picture of the family, framed print of Jimmer Fredette from the Deseret News during his high scoring days as a BYU basketball player, a copy of the Bible, Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price and the Book of Mormon on the desk. Outside of the iMac computer rather than the corporate issue PC- you could substitute any other Mormon bureaucrat in that office and never miss a beat.

Just as Crook had designed it. The thought brought a smile to his cleanly shaven face and a twinkle to his eye.

He sat down, ran his finger across his Apple TrackPad, waking up his iMac- typed in his password: saturdaywarrior12. The machine glowed to life and a series of icons and folders lit up.

He pulled out his iPhone and checked the text message again. Embedded in the text details was a numerical code. Crook had learned how to pair messages within messages- one being the primary or visible message- in this case, package delivered, and a second buried in the syntax of the delivery code. That string of numbers and symbols was the key to what would potentially change the world. His ice solvent.

Crook typed in the string of numbers and symbols and a secure connection box popped up. He entered in the username and secure password and a parallel world revealed itself. A confirmation of delivery of a very special package a far off location in the world some 5 thousand miles away. A package that would change the course of history and mankind- exactly the intent of the man wearing the dark blue suit, white shirt and blue tie and those who called him to Paraguay.

### Chapter 5

"Mis charlas son mas o menos" said Manning.

"Mas or menAS" replied Flint, with a heavy emphasis on the AS. In Spanish words are either masculine or feminine and they related back to the noun in the sentence. Charlas, or discussions is a feminine noun so the the descriptor, menos should have been menas. This little fact irritated Manning and the additional correction from this anal retentive self righteous prick in the passenger seat was not helping his attitude or his jet-lag.

Let it slide. He's just a cog in the wheel and you have bigger things to do in this place, said Manning internally.

The rust orange VW van took the corner nearly on two wheels which gave Slater a near full facial smile of ecstasy. After he corrected the turn and geared down to a reasonable 55mph or 90kph- or so it seemed- they turned again, and pulled into a courtyard of sorts.

The office headquarters for the Asuncion Paraguay Mission of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was located in a mostly residential neighborhood. The half-block compound consisted of a chapel where local members of the faith would gather for worship services on Sunday and various other meetings throughout the week. Two other buildings flanked the chapel. A split level building with offices on the main floor and a set of dormitory style bedrooms on the upper level. A third building across the field was a make-shift staging area for new arrivals such as Manning; a brick paved driveway where new missionaries, often referred to as "greenies" would unload their luggage, go inside to receive orientation and meet their assigned companion- a trainer.

Mormon missionaries are always to be with another fellow elder. They are never to be completely alone. They work in pairs, travel in pairs, pray and study in pairs- always in pairs. The rationale was that in a pair- they would keep each other faithful- with an eye towards their work of spreading the teachings of Joseph Smith, Brigham Young and others. Elders were not allowed under any circumstances to be alone with young women or women of any age. An absolute ban on any kind of fraternizing, dating and certainly all the other Mormon tenants applied; no drinking, no smoking, no cursing, no premarital sex of course. Additional restrictions for missionaries included no swimming, no sunbathing and only one day off per week and as with everything else; whatever you were to do on that single day off- you were to do with your companion.

"Elder Manning- vamos aqui," said Slater. Let's go here.

Manning slung his constant companion, at least to this point, his black backpack over his left shoulder and headed with Slater. They walked into a large conference style room where there were a number of missionaries already waiting. Most all white/caucasian - they hailed nearly exclusively from the United States. Manning immediately surveyed the room and deduced the various lengths of service time each had by the darkness of their pronounced farmer tans, the dirt on their shoes and degree of soiled ties hanging around their necks. Some spoke in spanish to each other, others a mix of spanish and english and others purely in their native tongue.

Heyjewahpaye! belted out Slater.

Huh?

Heyjewahpaye! Veni aqui! Come here. said Slater, explaining that the first was the native Paraguayan language of Guarani, the second- of course- Spanish.

This is el Elder Rawson. Elder Rawson is your new companero.

Definitely a mix of Spanish and English for which Manning was grateful.

Mbyechepa?! said Rawson, who followed by thrusting his deeply tanned right arm and hand forward in the traditional handshake greeting. Mormon missionaries are renowned for their vigorous handshakes, each seemingly attempting to prove to the other that they are ready for some sort of wrist wrestling world championship with each shake.

Uh, muy bien, uttered Manning hesitantly.

Al Pelo peytey! Rawson replied with as much vigor as one of the many handshakes Manning observed going on around him.

Again, more Guarani.

It seemed as though Manning arrived about 30 minutes after another group of greenies fresh from the United States. The reason given was that he had been given a special calling and bypassed the traditional 8 weeks in a Mormon Missionary Training Center, a MTC, to learn language skills and the teaching lessons- charlas. Obviously Flint had his doubts as to Manning's language skills, but as someone who had welcomed a number of groups of greenies to this land, he knew that between the long flight, jet lag, the weather and a totally different culture for nearly every greenie upon arrival- language skills were often rough right out of the gate.

Rawson finally released his vise-like grip on Manning and they looked at each other. Steve Rawson was a typical looking North American Mormon elder; six foot one, around 180 pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic build and with the exception of some sparse pockets of Mennonites and fewer still- left over Nazi's from Argentina- Rawson was completely out of place in this deep South American country. His language skills were actually pretty fluent, although his accent was definitely Intermountain West/North American.

OK Elder, I'll take it easy on you and we'll go in English for a bit- let you get your feet underneath you.

Thank God thought Manning.

Are you thirsty? How was your flight? Tired I'll bet. That flight down is rough huh?.

The questions were coming at Manning at an automatic firearm rate-- bam, bam, bam bamm bamm. His mind was still mired in a fog thanks to the travel.

The heat, the rapid language that seemed to be swirling around him like a swarm of pests, hunger, thirst and what he wouldn't give for a bed, an industrial sized air conditioner and some ear plugs.

Aqui Elder- Rawson motioned to Manning. Aqui. Here- motioning.

Manning moved with Rawson and some ten other pairs of missionaries into a larger room and took a seat near the back.

Flint and Slater walked to the front of the room and began to lead the group in singing- in Spanish of course- a Mormon hymn, followed by a prayer. Manning understood little to practically nothing that was said or sung, except for "Amen".

Flint then began to offer what was an orientation to the group. The schedule for each day, what to expect from your companion, how often you should write home to your mother, dispelling the notion that P-day was an entire day. P-day was Preparation Day- the one day missionaries had off each week. But according to Flint, during that one day- you were to do your laundry, clean your apartment, do whatever errands were necessary such as going to the city to change your money from Dollars to Guaranis or engaging in some sort of pre-approved cultural activity; a field trip. Flint then stressed the next point to the brink of nausea; p-day is to END by 5:30pm. You are to work on that evening. Right now, Manning didn't care. He just wanted a shower and a bed.

The next hour was spent getting a round of inoculations and signing various forms.

Finally, Manning was cleared and he and Rawson headed out. They carried Manning's two large bags which both pushed the airline limit of 50lbs each. Together, they lumbered to the corner of the next block where they awaited a city bus. Rawson flagged down the bus. They boarded and headed towards downtown.

Earlier during the orientation- each companionship or pair of elders- were announced together and told their city or area they'd been assigned. Manning heard the word Caaguazu and it meant absolutely nothing. Caaguazu was a town of approximately 20,000 people some four hours east of Asuncion by bus. Pronounced Kah-ah-gwuah-sue, it meant Big Bush in Guarani. Two bus transfers later, Manning was stuffed into a bus and headed east towards the Interior of the country and Caaguazu.

Four stops and some neck snapping bumps that awoke Manning from his exhaustion- the 1956 Mercedes Benz bus rolled into a station near downtown Caauguazu.

Bienvendios a Caaguazu said Rawson. Once they boarded the bus, it was nothing but Spanish from Rawson. He'd later tell Manning once behind the closed doors of their living quarters that he'd prayed about it and felt God wanted them to only speak Spanish in public. "It will help the people here feel like we're one of them"

Only if we both shrink by a foot, gain some weight and ditch the accents thought Manning.

The next day came way too early. Manning felt like he had a hangover that would rank close to anything those guys in that movie "Hangover" could muster. His body ached, his head was throbbing and he had a thirst that could not be quenched.

Mormon missionaries are to start their day no later than 630am each and every day. They are to rise, get themselves ready, eat breakfast, complete an hour of personal study, 30 minutes of companionship or joint study then hit the streets to spread the gospel or at least their version of the gospel. Thankfully Rawson was not as militant as he first appeared at the mission office. He still was a missionary, no doubt, but a bit more relaxed which suit Manning just fine. They woke up somewhere each day between 630 and 700am and would spend some time getting ready and doing some reading of scriptures on their own, but then they'd leave the apartment or what they called their apartment and headed out. They'd stop at a street cafe for cocido, an herbal tea and an empanada and a Rawson favorite; a local newspaper. He said that reading a Spanish newspaper was good for their language skills and it helped to provide topics of conversations with locals.

"Trunquillo" said Rawson.

I'm sorry, what? said Manning.

Trunquillo. Trun-kilo. It means calm, take it easy, back off the stress switch. Life here in the interior is trunquillo, especially compared to the City, said Rawson. It's why I hope I get to serve my entire mission in the interior. The people and the life style is the best.

Rawson's english was a bit broken. Manning could tell that Rawson had reached and passed that point all Mormon missionaries talk about when they started to dream in their new language and it became more natural to talk in the new tongue rather than their native English.

Manning was anxious to get started in his first days in country. His jet lag combined with the oppressive humidity seemed to fight his very existence like a wicked tag team twosome. Rawson was helpful, at least with some things; Don't do up the top button on your shirt. Just snug your tie close but not tight.

Thanks.

They headed out, talked with people on the street, buses, at the market and made visits to members of the local congregation. By the time Monday rolled around, Manning felt like it had been 6 months not just six days since his last day off. He was desperate for some sort of communication but not a single letter was found in the mail bag nor email in his inbox. Living in the interior had its' advantages. A local member did their laundry for a reasonable rate and cooking was not a problem either. Rawson had arranged to eat at two local eateries- one for lunch the other for dinner each day for a flat fee per month. He said it was a great way to meet people and strike up conversations. Mormon missionaries in many parts of the world practiced something called "tracting". Tracting involved literally ringing door bells or knocking on doors and cold calling. A tough and highly inefficient method of spreading a message, especially one of life-altering religious beliefs. However, in Paraguay, tracting was not part of the game plan. In Paraguayan culture it was considered extremely rude to knock on someone's door without a prior invitation. Besides, in rural Paraguay, people didn't knock on doors, they clapped. They stood outside the yard, usually there was a fence or a gate and they clapped a few times and then said, Hola! or Buenas! If someone was home and they acknowledged the clapper- they'd be invited in; greeted with besos and abrasos- a traditional cheek kiss exchange and hug. But to show up, unannounced, and unknown to the resident of the home was considered very rude. Only a government official who presumed himself to be superior to the resident or a police officer would ever do such a thing in Paraguay.

This cultural practice made invites or referrals paramount to a missionary. Meeting people at the market and coming away with a, "Hey, why don't you come by the house sometime and we'll share some Tetere'" or "Stop by sometime and I'll practice my English!" In Rawson's explanation- whatever the reason someone gave you, short of hey- come by and date my daughter- he'd take nearly any invitation that came his way as the vehicle to get through the gate.

For Manning- he wanted to get started but more than anything, wanted to get his real mission underway.

### Chapter 6

Alejandro Garcia didn't bother to signal. His 4x4 had a 12" lift kit plus 20" tires and rims- it needed little help in drawing other travelers attention. Garcia pulled over about a half block shy of the main entrance to the Mercado or market. The Mercado was the central hub of the town. Fresh fruits, vegetables, meats, herbs, durable goods- nearly anything legal or otherwise- could be found for those who sought it at the mercado. Garcia was a fixture at the mercado even though he didn't have a stand or selling platform. His features suggested something other than native Paraguayan; he was taller than most, standing nearly 5'10", his skin not quite as dark red as those with more indigenous Guarani blood lines and he had a slight hint of Asian decent in his eyes. It was true. Garcia's family roots were traced back through neighboring Brazil and his mother's family went back to Japan. They were fishermen and traders and their quests for new markets led them to Brazil after World War 2 and eventually they settled and like thousands of Brazilians, they migrated westward, over the border to Paraguay in the 1980's. As a result, Alejandro spoke fluent Portuguese, Spanish of course- the official language of Paraguay- and enough indigenous Guarani to keep the old timers from talking about him in his presence. He followed the traditional paths through primary and secondary education, did his mandatory one year military service at age 18 and now at 24, after several years at the national University studying political science and international business seemingly had found steady employment, perhaps even a career. He was a driver. He was a concierge of sorts; part butler, part go-fer, part whatever the situation and mood of his employer demanded. He was Alejandro. And when his employer needed or wanted something, Alejandro found it and delivered.

On this bright and quickly warming summer morning in December, Alejandro's employer wanted ribs for an evening asado or barbeque. It was Alejandro's task to go to the mercado, buy enough live pigs at auction, have them slaughtered, dressed and the meat delivered by the time they needed to go in the ground. Yes, Alejandro's employer was "that guy". That guy who demanded his asado be slow roasted in a covered pit, dressed with all the necessary herbs, rubs, sauces and spices that could send rib aficionados into some sort of sensory overload with the mere mention of his closely held family recipe. Alejandro had himself enjoyed the strangely complex concoction many times and each time seemed more satisfying than the last. A point of pride from his employer. He relished in having those around him satisfied, but even more, he relished and depended on them feeling as if they were in his debt.

Alejandro's official title was "Gerente de Negocios, Empressas de Rory Ava", or Business Manager, Happy Man Enterprises. The logo was a depiction of a traditional native, Guarani farmer with an overloaded hardwood cart of sugar cane, pulled by the traditional oxen, headed to market. A happy farmer man indeed. Alejandro's employer had a number of businesses; some made him happy, like the man on the logo, others made him rich, and powerful, feared and sought-after- and all of those combined made him who he was; Diego Maciel.

Diego Maciel, born on the outskirts of neighboring Uruguay, was a whiz with numbers and money. As a young man, he made money to help feed his family by running betting rackets on futbol or soccer on the streets of Montevideo's business district. He learned early how to move the betting line to protect his cash flow; ensuring enough money on both sides came in to cover any large payouts he might incur. He became of financier by the age of 16- working the streets of the city and rolling in large amounts of cash; Uruguayan pesos, Argentine pesos, Brazillian reals, Paraguayan guarani's and of course- US dollars. Maciel was the kind of man who always had money for sale, and he always collected. Over the years, the kind of return he could get for simple currency exchange on the streets of South America's major cities, while modest and ample for most, was not enough for Maciel. His thirst for more control, more power, more dominance- enough to erase the memory of where he came from and how he had to scratch and literally steal from others just to survive led him to lucrative banking in the markets of the underground. At first it was guns, small weapons, mortars, grenades, maybe a small surplus tank to a drug lord looking to show strength to his rivals- all just a means to make more money for Maciel. Soon he had graduated to what CIA analysts would describe as a legitimate arms dealer, including the occasional dalliance with rising government dictators such as Kim Jong Il of North Korea or even mid to high level operatives and leaders within Al Qaeda. Now, he was simply about banking. No more exchange of weapons. Inventory was messy, too easily discovered by the new drone surveillance that was blanketing the globe, even Google Earth had become a pain in his ass. He often ranted how some red-headed teenager looking for porn on his mother's computer in Torrence California could stumble across his weapon caches through Google Earth and that frustrated him. Let others take the risk, I'll simply facilitate the transaction, charge my fees, take my cash keep my hands clean, thought Maciel. And that he did. While he certainly didn't file tax returns on his "real" business, CIA analysts estimated he financed well over a billion dollars a year in illegal transactions. This was in addition to his legitimate empire of soybeans, sugar cane, yerba for tetere' and trucking companies which were estimated to gross more than 250 million US dollars annually. For all of this wealth and large business holdings, Maciel was not a man of the community. He rarely was seen in public. That was Alejandro's job. He opted to stay in, shuttling between compounds, villas, private secluded residences, using a vast array of names, identities, staffs and disguises. Most of the people with whom he came in contact knew him by one of his aliases and had no idea who he actually was. Even Alejandro, while he knew him as Senor Maciel, had no real comprehension of his actual source of wealth and subsequent manic desire to be constantly protected, and on the move.

When Maciel wanted something, like the ribs- the message would come in over text to Alejandro's phone. It would be from the corporate office and read something like; It's ribs, or need a tractor or generator- whatever it might be. He'd call the office if he needed clarification but rarely did he talk to Maciel directly- yet he was one of the few who did have access.

### Chapter 7

An old Chaco man pumped away at an the antique spinning wheel. The wheel, like many at-home inventions, was crude, but effective. It had been converted to peel oranges or other fruit with the consistent pace of a metronome. While he peeled away, a bolt broke- and the large spinning wheel broke free- spinning down the hard packed dirt path- eventually lumbering to a stand still and stop next to the man who sold stitched cowhide table and wall coverings from Argentina. Alejandro bent over to pick up the wayward wheel when another hand reached along the opposite side to do the same.

Con permiso. Pardon me. said Elder Rawson.

Adelante' replied Alejandro. Go ahead.

Mbyechepa'? said Rawson in his best attempt at Guarani.

Ah, sos Paraguayo? You are Paraguayan? replied Alejandro.

Un poco. A little. followed by a chuckle. a small chuckle.

Ah- muy bien, y vos? Great. and you? Alejandro looked towards Manning.

crickets.

Manning was lost. His spanish, more specifically, his Castellano- a dialect that was born of Castillian spanish in Europe but in modern times, was primarily spoken in South America. Manning had extensive language training, but not the typical 8 weeks at a Mormon missionary training center. But when Manning heard Alejandro speak what really was a simple sentence, he had no idea what he was asking.

crickets.

Rawson jumped in-- Uh, ese...uh...un poco pero es un joven. Uh, this one, a little but he's young.

The conversation took off. Alejandro asked where the pair were from. It was obvious they weren't from Paraguay. Rawsom said he was from the States and more specifically, Nebraska, rural Nebraska. Alejandro then turned and asked Rawson about Manning. Manning understood enough to mutter an elementary response, "Soy de Montana" I'm from Montana.

Ah, muy bien. El puede hablar! Yes, very good. He can speak! joked Alejandro.

As Rawson and Garcia chatted on, there was something that struck Manning about Alejandro. Something that he knew would come into play in his life in a very significant way at some point. He tried to follow the conversation, pick up something that he could use to involve himself in the back and forth. He wanted to participate, he wanted to contribute.

Mi jefe es un hombre de negocios internacional. My boss is an international businessman.

Hmm. This peaked Manning's interest. What in the world is an international businessman doing in the middle of one of South America's poorest countries?

As Rawson and Alejandro went back and forth, Alejandro offered a small yet very significant nugget; He worked for the man who owned and operated Rory Ava. Rory Ava was a major employer in the area. Many people talked about the work done there, the extensive holdings and how much money the company, and its owner had. Manning knew that people always talked. It didn't matter if they were Americans, French, Russian or Paraguayos. He didn't pay the talk a lot of attention but there was something about this young man that he wanted to stay engaged.

Rawson asked the question that would set a chain of events in motion; events that Manning would later realize would change not only his life, but many of those around him and far far away as well.

"Crees vos in Dios?" Do you believe in God? asked Rawson.

Por supesto. Of course. Soy Catolico. I'm Catholic. Said Alejandro.

That was the opening Rawson wanted and the one Manning needed.

As was the standard practice of Mormon missionaries, the next steps were to declare who they were, if it wasn't already obvious with the white shirts, name badges, Then it was Manning who stepped in and asked the question, Quiere saber mas? Would you like to know more?

an uncomfortable silence hung in the air like that the ill-timed comment from that uncle or cousin at the holiday dinner table that everybody wants to just go away.

Uh.. si. porque no? Uh yes, why not? Alejandro shrugged his shoulders and then smiled.

Manning smiled back. Yeah! Vamos!

Ok, perhaps a bit too eager.

Alejandro chuckled and told them he was at the market for a very specific errand for his boss. He explained that his boss wanted pork ribs for an asado tonight and it was up to him to choose the pig and get it back in time to be slaughtered, dressed, then prepped and put in the ground in time for it be a savory delight by 8pm tonight. Rawson and Manning had both grown up on farms and asked Alejandro if they could join him in choosing the hog as they knew a good farm animal when they saw it- be it from the grassy hardwood hill country of Paraguay or the intermountain west or midwest of the United States.

The old man continued to pump away on his spinning wheel, adding to his mounting pile of orange peels and sucking his tetere, the traditional Paraguayan cold herb tea served in a hollowed out bull horn and sipped through a metal straw with a mesh screen on the end to keep the herb in place. The first time Manning saw a tetere set up he thought it was a marajuana bong. Hmm,. No wonder everyone here is so relaxed he mused.

The trio turned and started walking towards the back part of the market where the live animals were brought in. Alejandro seemed to become more and more comfortable as they walked and talked. He talked about the fact he'd grown up on a farm himself outside of town, been educated in the schools in Caaguazu and then majored in international business and political science at the National University in Asuncion. He'd returned to his home town to go to work for Rory Ava and had quickly risen to the senior management ranks. He, like many Paraguayans, was born Catholic but really didn't actively practice. He simply didn't think about faith, religion or his relationship with God. He only thought about keeping Senor Maciel happy. Senor Maciel ES Dios. Mr. Maciel IS God, thought Alejandro.

An hour later, a hog was chosen, shot and gutted. Efficiency is key when dealing with the affairs of Senor Maciel. Alejandro enjoyed getting to know the two American farm boys and appreciated their company. He then thought, Hmm, these two would enjoy a traditional Paraguayan delight.

Quisieran ustedes vener a nuestro asado ese noche? Would you guys like to come to our asado tonight?

Bingo! Game on. Fresh ribs, slow cooked and seasoned? What's not to like about that scenario?

Rawson and Manning readily accepted the invitation. They were thrilled. A new contact and one who already invited them to dinner? Score!

Alejandro told them how to get to the corporate headquarters and that he'd meet them at the gate as his boss required that all visitors be escorted while on the compound. He'd see them later in the evening.

Chau.

Chau.

Manning and Rawson turned and walked down one of the dirt streets that surrounded the city center market. It was close to noon already and time for lunch. They made their way over to the restaurant they'd contracted to serve them the plate of the day each day at noon, both beaming; Rawson for having made such an engaging contact, Manning for the simple fact he was going to have ribs for dinner.

### Chapter 8

The asado was delicious. The rib meat nearly fell off the bone. And while the ribs lacked the traditional American thick sauce, they were every bit as tasty having been dry rubbed with a concoction that Manning said he had to have.

Not so quick, said Alejandro. A good cook doesn't give away his or her secrets so quickly. Trunquillo no mas. Just chill and it'll come.

The after dinner conversation eventually did lead to an opportunity for the pair to bring up the topic of faith and God and of course Mormonism. Alejandro was polite, asked a few questions and said he wanted to continue having discussion on the topic.

Over the next few weeks, Rawson and Manning continued their talks, their charlas, with Alejandro. He seemed to be progressing towards the ultimate goal of all Mormon missionaries- get them baptized. Mormon missionaries are required to report all their activity on a daily, weekly and monthly basis to their lay management. Rawson had been through a number of occasions where the investigator, the term used by missionaries to describe those they taught, had gone through the entire progression of discussions, committed to baptism then simply vanished. He was hopeful that this wouldn't be the case with Alejandro but the thought lingered in the back of his mind- and until he was in the water, that thought probably wouldn't leave.

Baptism meant more than just joining another church in this part of the world. For most Paraguayans it meant a total rejection of part of their culture, their history and their country. Paraguayans are a loyal and independent people who have watched as neighboring countries were rocked with political turmoil and the subsequent economic disaster. Granted, they'd had a coup of their own in the late 80's when the long time dictator Alfredo Stroessner was overthrown. And yet, even with an overthrow, it was not nearly as bloody, contentious nor widely-known or reported as those in say Argentina, Brazil or Chile. Yet, through it all, the Catholic Church was the constant. In fact, the country had been the South American center for the Jesuits in the late 1500's and early 1600's. Jesuit missionaries traveled by boat up the Parana River from Buenos Aries Argentina, settled as the first non-natives in the area. They set up training centers, churches, reached out and converted native Guarani indigenous populations and set the course for a deep connection with the Catholic faith for centuries to come. During the Stroessner reign of 35 plus years, it was required by law that the president and his governing generals be Catholic. Converting to a "new" religion, be it Baptist, Mennonite, or Mormon was a big step.

### Chapter 9

\- P-day, or prep day was always one of a mixed bag for Manning. He liked having a day off from the forced interaction and obligatory insertion of religion and faith in every conversation. If he could just talk to these people and get to know them for who they were, he'd be far more comfortable. The pday included some computer time; a time to receive and send emails home and to a few selected friends and loved ones. For Manning, this is where the mixed bag came in to play. His parents had both passed. He'd not been close to his only two siblings for quite some time, in fact, his siblings believed he had passed away himself. All part of his story. Manning preferred it this way.

The email sat in his inbox. It was hard to ignore as there were only 4 new emails. _Don.Crook@lds.org_

Manning remembered the first time he got an email from Don Crook. He had just walked out of a nondescript office building in San Diego. It was morning but he wasn't sure just what day it was. His brain was foggy. Had he really had that many margaritas? He thought, yeah, the "macho margarita" was good, but were they THAT good? Naw. The pieces of a scattered memory started to whirl into some semblance of order. Manning had been on the beach, Mission Beach, body surfing and relaxing most of the day. He remembered a Jeep coming down the beach with what appeared to be several authorities in it. A bit much for lifeguards he thought. When the Jeep slammed to a stop directly behind him, Manning pulled down his sunglasses and slightly glanced over the top to observe what was about to happen, but without expending too much energy. After all, he was there to relax. He was a college student. Right? Under a lot of stress with finals, relationships, career choices, girls, all of that. Before he knew it, four large Navy seal types were on him, had him completely incapacitated and were dragging him off to the back of the Jeep where they threw him in like they were union baggage handlers at the airport during the holidays. With extreme disregard. A black bag over his head, hands zip-tied behind his back and ankle shackles in place- Manning's mind was the only thing free to wander. And wander it did not, but rather raced like Secretariat unbridled and without a mount.

What the HELL?!! What is going on?

Screams and yells for his buddies who had gone to a beach side bar for more refreshments were futile as the Seals had jammed some sort of sock or cloth in his mouth and tied it behind his head. He could breathe, but it was labored. His heart raced, stride for stride with his mind.

He had only been this scared once before and it was a long time ago. A very long time ago. He was a young boy and his hands were tied to his feet behind his back. And while his mouth was not gagged, the man standing over him with a pitchfork about to ram it through his neck had a look that said, Don't say a word. And he didn't. Back then it was his father who saved young Bart Manning from his crazed uncle's deranged fit of exorcism. There would be no save from the old man this time as he'd passed away several years back.

Soon, the Jeep lurched and lunged, some quick beeping from some sort of electronics he could hear, a gate opened and it got colder- in a hurry. What the HELL? Am I being drug into some sort of freaky cult cave? Settle down he told himself. Obviously you've been watching too much TV or movies and not studying enough.

But there was no denying that the temperature had dropped an easy 15-20 degrees.

More chatter as they passed what had to be groups of men; soldiers, Manning wondered? But why? Why me? I didn't break any laws. Was it illegal to have a beer and soak up some sun? I mean, Cheryl Crow had been singing about that for years. Manning was a bit amused that his mind would formulate some sort of joke in a moment of crisis and on the other hand, he was worried. Very worried. Humor had always been his most effective weapon. Whether it was to diffuse a tense situation or just keep the party conversation moving along, Manning had been gifted with a keen and sharp sense of humor.

The tail gate dropped and bounced loudly. Manning thought briefly about rolling off the end of the Jeep and trying to make a run for it; But with feet and hands zip tied, and no way to get the bag off his head, that made just about zero sense. Never mind. A man with really obnoxious after shave still lingering on his hands ripped the bag off Manning's head. the lights were thankfully not uber bright. He squinted but quickly got his bearings. Yes, he was in a cave like structure, but it wasn't a cult but rather very military in nature. Soldiers and other official looking staff were busy moving here and there but they all seemed to be very interested in the package that had just been delivered in the form of one Bartholmew Angus Manning.

Two men took Manning by the arm on each side and started to escort him through a series of doors. They moved through a maze of seemingly endless hallways and doors that only the Government could design and think efficient. After six door ways and six corresponding hallways, he entered a room where there was a table, two chairs and a man and woman seated already on the other side of the table. The zip ties were cut off this hands, the shackles unlocked from this feet and the gag removed from his mouth. The man spoke first; I am sorry for the uncomfortable nature of your restraints. Hopefully you were not seriously injured or harmed. May I offer you something to drink? Before he could engage that filter that most people keep constantly on alert between ones' thoughts and their speech, Manning spoke, rather calmly and in a mocking British accent. Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred.

Dumbass. He thought. As soon as the words left his mouth. These people could kill you with nary a second effort and you're being a smart ass. Nice.

The woman chuckled and replied, A logical choice "Mr. Bond". A slight smile crept in on the corners of Bart's worried countenance. The woman continued, "Well I hope that doesn't make me M, because that bitch never has any fun!"

The man released some tension in his face and smiled. No dear. You're far too valuable to be M. Moneypenny perhaps.

I'm sorry, said Manning. I didn't mean to be a smart ass. I mean, smart mouth. I apologize. May I ask a question? Where am I? What do you want with me? What did I do?

Please Bart. All in due time.

Shit. They know my name!

I am David A Danfield, Director of Covert Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. My colleague here is Linda Campanera, head of logistics. Bart, I know you must have a myriad of questions, but let me give you a couple of details and hopefully that will clear up some of the mystery of what is happening here today.

First of all, all of your friends who are looking for you right now back on Mission Beach did not see you being picked up. Coast Guard authorities are now beginning a search for a man who fits your description, believed to be swept out to sea by a rip tide.

Manning remembered hearing about the rip tide warnings from a local surf shop clerk when they rented boards earlier that morning. It was one reason that he had elected to stay closer to shore and just relax. That and an unbelievable hot brunette in a print swimsuit with no back, laying on a beach mat just about 30 feet away from him.

Danfield continued. He motioned as he continued speaking to a video screen that was dropping from the ceiling. Live news reports from the local affiliates were all showing a massive search for a man who'd gone missing was was feared drown in a rip tide. Don't worry, said Danfield. You're not about to be killed, you're already dead, at least to the rest of the world.

No smart ass comment came to mind this time for Manning. He continued to watch his life unfold from afar while Danfield attempted to fill in more blanks.

Since both your parents passed away several years ago and your brother and sister believe you're dead, you came to be of interest to us. Do you know what you scored on the recent aptitude test you took at the U of M?

Manning shook his head. He didn't.

Well, I do. You were given that test under a rouse. Bart. You thought it was part of a sociology project for a graduate student. And for all your classmates, it probably was. But for you and for a few other select persons on campus and around the country, the Company (that's what he called the CIA, the Company) likes to offer a different assessment. This assessment measures adaptability, compatibility, basic skill level for learning of languages, following directives, ability work by ones' self, emotional attachment level among other things. You Bart- scored highest of everyone given our test in the past 4 years.

Great. I finally ace a test and I end up getting kidnapped and faux killed for it, thought Manning. But thankfully, he had engaged this filter and these comments remained in his head rather than floating externally as part of the conversation.

You see, this all started back when you escaped death the first time. You remember when that was Bart?

How the hell do they know about that?

When your Dad came up to the loft in the barn, back on the family farm just before Uncle Willard was about to go all Hey I'm Abraham, I'm going to sacrifice this son, -you- , Do you remember what he said?

Manning had never forgotten that sequence of events. How could you? He was a young boy and his crazy uncle was about to shishkabob him!

Harry Manning had stumbled up the stairs, causing Willard to stop his driving stab attempt. Harry yelled at Willard and raced towards him. Willard then turned and looked as though he was going to stab Harry, and was just about to unleash his crazy furry when young Bart pulled his old single shot .22 to his side, cocked it and without warning fired a single slug into the temple of crazy Uncle Willard. The .22 caliber single shot rifle was an old one, but a sure shot as it had been passed down from Harry's mother who used it to shoot a coyotes back on the old family homestead decades before. Bart kept it in the loft of the barn as he would shoot pigeons in the rafters who would always swoop down at the wrong time during his basketball shooting time in the loft and left their droppings all over the hay piled in the corner and on the well worn wood floor. Bart had set the rifle down on a hay bale earlier in the day, and in the scuffle with Willard, it had been knocked around, now lying just within reach for young Bart.

Willard dropped solidly face first to the floor and never moved.

Bart stood there calmly while Harry turned and looked at him. Several minutes it seemed passed, before Harry asked if he was ok.

He nodded yes. There was a long embrace, Bart's emotions swept over him, sobbing in his father's arms. Harry's work worn hands did their best to console the young boy, but it was a simple sentence, an utterance that he never forgot that gave him comfort; Your faith saved you Bart. Never underestimate the power of faith.

Harry and Bart then headed to the house where they told the whole story to Jewel. A call was placed to the county sheriff whose deputy showed up to survey the situation.

Not long after the whole news broke and was settling down, it had been officially ruled and described as an accident, where Willard was in the barn, shooting at pigeons, slipped, and the gun fell out of his hand, discharging and somehow lodged a slug in his temple, killing him instantly, another vehicle found its' way to the Manning family farm. This one had US Government plates but wasn't Forest Service or Job Corps, which were the two most common government vehicles locals saw in the area. Two men dressed in suits and dark ties got out and came to the door.

Maam, are you Jewel L. Manning?

We need to talk to you about your recently deceased uncle.

My husband's uncle, Jewel responded immediately. She loved Harry and his family, with the distinct exception of Willard.

Come in.

As the men talked in quiet tones, there was certainly evidence that it was a very important conversation. After a bit, the men got up, and they went to the bunkhouse where Willard had been staying. A trunk was taken out and put in the car and the men drove off.

When young Bart asked his mother what the men wanted, she replied that Uncle Willard had taken some things that belonged to some important people and they just wanted them back. As always, his good Christian mother was using any possible example to help teach that one should always do what the Bible taught. What did he take? Oh just some papers and some pictures. Nothing you need to concern yourself or anyone with. Now, get out and do your chores.

Bart knew when he was bested and his mother was brilliant at keeping information in lockdown. The joke around the family table was always that Jewel knew who killed JFK and secretly worked for the CIA.

Manning's attention snapped back to the present when Danfield seemingly knew the conclusion Manning was finally drawing in his mind came to full focus; Yes. Your mother did work for us. She worked for the CIA, the company. She was an impeccable researcher and as you well know, held the highest of clearances because of her ability to protect secrets and in turn her country.

And now that brings us to you, Bart. You are a lot like your mother. You're bright, you process information quickly, you keep secrets and you have an additional ability to stay emotionally detached during even the most stressful of situations. Even today, your humor was your first response to a life threatening scenario where most men your age would come out swinging and spewing profanity.

"I can do that too," said Manning. Again- the filter failed to engage and the inside voice betrayed the outside one.

Danfield and Campanera both laughed. Yes, I imagine you can.

So Bart, you are here because we feel it's your time. Your mother had her time, I had mine and Ms.Campanera hers. We believe you have the potential to serve your country in a way that few others have but in a way that is seriously needed.

How's that? said Manning.

Working for the company of course, said Campanera.

Doing what exactly? Research like my mom? If you guys really know me you know I not exactly a familiar face with the staff at the Library.

No, you don't and yet somehow you pull a 3.73 gpa. You could be 4.0 with just a few hours a week spent there said Campanera.

You sound just like my mom during high school.

I should. She recruited me.

What the HELL?!!!! Manning's mind was out of control. Not only did these people just tell him that his mother was not the sweet go-to-church every Sunday, play bridge with the local ladies each Wednesday person that he believed her to be, but rather she was a research agent for the damned CIA and now evidently a recruiter!

Yes, your mom helped to recruit me. Campanera then gave incredible details about an experience she'd had somewhat similar to Manning's; swept out of library, taken to a room and told of her options and it was Jewel Manning who helped convince her that she could make a difference for her country by going to work for the Company.

So, what we have in mind for you is field work. You're not so much a researcher but you're great with processing vital information, making decisions on the fly and then moving on. With some training, we think you could be one of the Company's brightest stars.Face it Bart- you're alone. Where are you heading? Oh sure, you'll graduate with your degree. Get a job somewhere. Move to some unknown city. Make some surface level friends through work, go to Applebee's every Wednesday for 2 for 1 Margarita night, maybe do some camping here and there with some work mates, but really-- who do you have in this world? You can disappear today and with the exception of some college drinking buddies, who'll move on, will anyone notice?

The emptiness that swept over Bart was all consuming. He was alone. He had no one. And now, even some of his most foundational memories were just fiction. What did he have to hold on to? Nothing. Besides his buddies, he had no family to speak of, no real connection to anyone. All grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins -- all the relationships were long since shriveled and expired. Manning was dead to the outside world. Yet- he knew that he had something inside him, buried deep perhaps, that told him he could be something, mean something to someone. Perhaps that something, or someone was his country.

He had always been a fervent believer in that one needs to serve. it was something instilled in him when he was a young boy by this family; parents, grandparents, other relatives who'd served in the military in all the major wars and conflicts. Bart, while a lover of country, had decided that military life was probably not the best route for him to take. It wasn't t the structure or the discipline. He had no issue there. But rather what he called the lowest common denominator mindset. Standards, expectations, everything was set for the lowest possible standard so that as many as possible could pass and in the case of the military- serve. There were higher standards for those who would be officers or serve in other professional capacities but it all started with basic training and infantry. And for Bart- he felt that he could find a way to give back to his country without learning how to hike in formation for 10 miles while lugging a backpack full of gear and a firearm.

Maybe this was it. Serving with the "Company" had been a way for his mother to help the country she loved, maybe it could work for him. Despite feeling as alone as he had in years, once the words, "Yeah. I'm good. Let's do this", came out of his mouth, he felt like he belonged to something again.

The rest really was a blur. Manning for intents and purposes vanished, essentially dead like the story the outside world believed; drowned and lost at sea, his remains now feeding sharks and other feeders deep near the ocean shore, never to be recovered. He actually went to his own memorial service. With no body, it was a modest affair. A graveside marker, a few friends, a non-denominational officiator who said nice yet completely impersonal things about "the deceased", as if he'd never had a name. Bart Manning was dead. His friends came, they mourned and then they headed back to their individual lives and just like Danfield and Campanera predicted-- they moved on.

He spent the next 12 months in the most intensive physical, mental, emotional and psycological training and testing anyone could imagine. The rigors were beyond description. There were times, more often than not, when Manning felt total exhaustion; physical, mental, emotional. But the memory of his mother, his father and wanting to serve- kept him going. Towards the end of the training, Manning mused to himself one night while enjoying a cold Miller High Life, his favorite, at a local bar, when he saw the movie G.I.Jane on the bar tv. Pussies he thought. SEAL training. I've done that and ten-fold here.

He was hardened. Physically, he had a mere 6% body fat. Mentally he was steeled and cured. Emotionally engaged and suddenly detached. Whatever the Company asked of him, he could and did do. He was ready for field work.

When he got his assignment profile, he nearly fell off his chair. What the hell is this? Some kind of joke? You want me to what?

"You are to be a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints."

What in the HELL did they think they could have him do to serve his country when he was wandering around in a white shirt and tie?

Jesus Christ, Manning thought. A Mormon missionary? Are these people mental? There's no way I can pull that off.

Manning knew a couple of Mormon kids growing up. Nice kids but they always had such strict rules growing up. Not that his upbringing was a walk down the aisle of decadence and depravity. Far from it. The next three weeks were spent in intensive religious learning, Mormon 101. Manning learned how Mormons believe that a young boy by the name of Joseph Smith in the early 1800's in upstate New York had a vision from God the Father and Jesus Christ while praying about which church he should join. Mormons believe that the Trinity working through Smith, restored an authorized ancient priesthood on earth, claiming that the real authority had been lost shortly after the death of Jesus' apostles. Smith established the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in April of 1830. Followers, members are dubbed Mormons as a nickname, having to do with a reference to a new book of scripture called the Book of Mormon, which LDS faithful believe was translated by Smith through help from God as a parallel testament to his church, its' principles, values and beliefs in modern times.

That was just over two years ago. Two years. The length of prescribed service for Mormon missionaries. Two years ago, Manning's own mission had been called and established. And now, here he was reading email in an Internet cafe half-way around the world. And yes, he was a Mormon missionary, white shirt, tie and all.

### Chapter 10

Don Crook's email was delivered via an encrypted server. His message detailed his next assignment. Diego Maciel. His financing of terrorist organizations around the world caught the eye of "researchers" at the Company. And now, he was solidly in Manning's mind. His reply to Crook told of how he'd met Alejandro and how Alejandro worked for one of Maciel's dummy companies, probably established to launder the mounds of cash that flowed through the various holdings. His instructions were simple: Eliminate Maciel and leave no loose ends. Of course, it was never stated as such, but that was the explicit intent. The message always read something like, Help the Happy Farmer realize the joys that come with conversion or something mildly cryptic like that.

For only having one "real" email and a few other fake ones, Manning always took his full time allotted on the computer. Research. Knowledge always led to more quests, you never stop learning nor should you, thought Manning. He remembered a lecture he'd heard from one of his favorite professors year before who said when asked how he knew so much about so many and varied topics, "You read!"

Meanwhile, Rawson had downloaded his emails to his tablet. He always saved them and read them later, usually at night. Especially the ones from his family and a girl that he hoped would be there waiting for him when he walked off the plane in just six short months.

Vamanos! Let's go.

Trunquillo no mas, quipped Manning back.

Manning was already placing plans in his mind as to how he would need things to unfold in order to make this "conversion" a success. And make no mistake, there would be no other option that total success. The Company simply didn't tolerate anything less.

How's the family? Rawson always asked about Manning's family, not knowing that he really didn't have one but just a dummy gmail account that sent him emails each week detailing events of a fictitious family back in Montana, in case anyone should read over his shoulder or hack his account. As for the emails that came from Crook, they were always disguised as LDS missionary inspirational, motivational tools and messages- deeply embedded with codes that would only lead one trained such as Manning to follow the bread crumbs to the actual content.

They're good. Aunt Carole is coming over for Sunday dinner. Calves are on the ground and the market is coming up, so all good on that front. Manning tried enough to be very well versed in familial conversation that it always was a strength to his cover. And you?

Rawson then told in excruciating detail how his parents were getting excited already for his return, they had questions about what he was going to do about school, about his girlfriend Jill, plans etc. Manning nodded at the appropriate times, and Rawson seemed to enjoy talking about his life that was ahead of him back in Nebraska, but his mind was already trying to devise the cleanest way to take care of Senor Maciel. Intel from within the company believed that if Maciel were to be eliminated that his entire finance empire would crumble under its' own weight, thus drying up at least one source of funding terrorists who were hell bent on wreaking their own brand of havoc on Americans and their allies throughout the free world.

The pair walked the dirt streets of the sleepy Paraguayan town, both lost in their own separate worlds far far away.

As they neared the gate which lead to their residence, a shack used to store materials during construction of the modest church facility on the property, they noticed they had visitors. APEs said Rawson. APEs was Mormon missionary slang lingo for A-P's or assistants to the President. The same pair that had greeted Manning at the airport were now sitting in the adirondack style chairs that rested outside their quarters. Slater and Flint. Both dressed in white shirts, ties and slacks, despite it being a p-day, a day off, they seemed shocked to find Manning and Rawson in their denims and t-shirts.

Buenas!!! Slater called out as they approached. Con Permiso! replied Rawson, followed by a hearty laugh that could only be described as Nebraska corn-fed.

Flint was the less jovial of the two. He was serious always it seemed in nature, while Slater was more the light-hearted of the two. Conversation ensued between the three primarily while Manning occasionally was included or inserted himself. He'd been around enough of these dynamics before that he knew the terrain. The conflict was always present; Why do I have to placate these self-righteous pricks like Flint? I'll be out of here in a matter of days or weeks, tops. Off to another assignment. But Company protocol was singularly clear; do nothing that draws undue attention to yourself or your true mission. Operate in the shadows while standing in broad daylight; Be so overt, you're covert.

Manning asked what brought them to Caaguazu. Flint then told of a new directive from the President. The President of the Mission was another lay-clergy, called of Salt Lake and assigned to oversee all the missionary efforts within a defined region for a period of generally three years. In this case, the President of the Paraguay Mission was a successful businessman from Orem Utah. He wanted to be more visible throughout the mission, especially in the interior regions such as Caaguazu. So the AP's had come to prepare things ahead of time, get people, places and meetings ready so that when the President Meyer came a few weeks later, all would be perfect.

The next few hours were spent, not playing basketball or checking out some sort of interesting place around town like on most pdays but rather the four pouring through details of President Meyer's visit. The process and level of minutia wore on Manning like someone attempting shave a 3-day beard with a cheese grater. Yes, it's possible but it's painful not only to watch but to participate. "With the amount of prep and fussing over this guy, these people should work for the Company" Manning mused in his own mind. He had improved significantly on his inside/outside voices since his initial training and recruiting encounter.

OK, are we good here? Manning blurted out.

You have somewhere to be Elder, replied Flint.

No, it's just that it seems as though we've been through every detail several times, haven't we?

Flint fired back. Yes, we have and we'll continue to go through them until such time as we know things will be perfect for President.

He's not the friggin Pope thought Manning. Again, inside voice heard loud and clear. Externally, nothing but a nod of acknowledgment of line of authority and reporting and compliance.

Another hour passed and finally this time it was Slater, backed by Rawson who suggested they get something to eat. It was nearly 8pm and prime time for the evening meal.

As the foursome walked into Ybycua, the restaurant where Manning and Rawson ate each night, the hostess welcomed them with typical Paraguayan hospitality.

They sat and ate delicious milanesa, a breaded steak, fresh fruit and mandioca- a root peeled and cooked similar to a potato but with a curious wick in the middle like a giant candle. A round of tetere topped off the meal and the four gringos walked back out and retired to the shack. Manning and Rawson would be hosts tonight as it was too late for Slater and Fanning to drive the 4-5 hours back to the office in Asuncion.

During the evening discussion, talk turned to families, background, experiences etc and Matt Flint was noticeably quiet. When pushed, he resisted, but Rawson wouldn't let it go.

(dialogue)

Finally, he came clean; he was a son of a polygamist.

What the HELL? Polygamist? Really? Thought Manning. Those guys really exist? He had heard tales of a polygamist colony near where he grew up in Montana and joking barbs from his mother that if his father wasn't happy he could always try his luck up there. Manning always thought it was just fun humor back and forth based on folk tale and that polygamy, illegal as it was, simply had gone the way of the horse and buggy. Evidently not. Fanning told his childhood, he was the 27th child of his father- all borne through the collective efforts of five different women. All married to him in the eyes of their faith but certainly illegal by any stretch. And for most of the wives, they came to participate "in the calling" at an early age- pre 18 which by federal law and state law nearly everywhere make it --- rape. Flint told of how he had researched the mainstream Latter-Day Saint faith in an attempt to understand the Fundamental Latter-Day Saints (FLDS) and found it resonated with him. He devised a way to leave the compound.

This is unbelievable, said Manning. I mean, I thought this stuff went away long long ago.

I wish said Flint. I've got brothers and sisters, literal brothers and sisters that are trapped, just like I was but with no real way to get out.

Couldn't they do just what you did, asked Rawson. I mean, it worked once, right?

Not now.

After I made it "out", they are keeping a real close eye on everyone. Flint went on to detail how he had come to formulate his plan. How he had studied detail after detail on how he sneak out, where he'd hide, how he would stay out of the polygamist grid and where and when he would surface. Flint talked about hiding in caves, living off roots, plants, trapping small animals like squirrels for food- and all for months in the San Juan Mountains of southern Colorado. He eventually made his way to Pagosa Springs, then Alamosa then Denver. He avoided bus terminals but rather hitch hiked, bought rides with people he met at coffee shops or feed stores. He got a job as a day laborer. He made enough to buy a car that could get him away in a hurry if he needed. Most who try to escape the Compound, Flint explained, go to Vegas thinking they can hide in the "most sinful city in the World". Problem is Vegas is a city that is probably the most watched in the world. There are more video cameras and surveillance that any one single person can imagine. And certainly more challenging to someone who is coming from an isolated culture. He loved his mothers, all five them and his more than 30 brothers and sisters, but he knew what the men, including his father, were doing was wrong. And he knew that by staying, he'd end up doing the exact same thing; taking advantage of young, naive people and in particular young women- many under the age of 18- and keeping everyone else under immoral and illegal conditions.

Manning's mind wandered a bit, thinking of his directives and the culture that his own "Company" demanded. Here I am, more than half-way around the world, basting in heat and humidity, all to do what I can to eliminate bad and evil and I think we sure as shit ought to be doing something about these bastards in Southern Utah and Colorado, thought Manning.

So, did they come after you? said Rawson, breaking Manning's mental sidetrack.

Oh yeah, they did, Flint replied. I made $1500, bought a car, and headed out. I went east because most everyone goes to Vegas or Salt Lake. I ended up in Kansas City, then made my way to Chicago. Wandered around the midwest for a few months, met the missionaries in Des Moines, took the lessons, got baptized and immediately started working on getting ready to serve. The way he talked so matter-of-fact about his life wondered if Flint wouldn't be a good candidate to work for the Company. He seemed detached, could be a cold hearted prick and seemed to have little to no regrets about anything. He could do the work- no problem- thought Manning.

### Chapter 11

Three of the four American missionaries drifted off to sleep rather quickly, but a fourth had reason to stay awake. Manning's mind raced with scenarios of how he was to carry out this assignment. Killing another human being outside of a direct war setting would cause most anyone to have sleepless nights, but for Manning it wasn't the moral dilemma of taking a life that kept sleep from overcoming him, but rather the lack of closure of a plan and all its' accompanying details. Manning felt strongly that when someone like Maciel got in bed with terrorist, he might as well have signed his own death warrant. War in the traditional sense was ludicrous in Manning's opinion. Too expensive, too messy and inefficient. Great change in the world had often taken place outside the glare of the spotlight of traditional war. Dictators, drug lords, financiers, government leaders who fell out of favor, many had met with unfortunate accidents or other plausible explanations that ended their reigns and in many cases, their lives.

Manning needed to get back to a computer. He needed some serious research time. There was no reasonable way to sneak out without serious repercussions if he were to be caught. Rule number one: Don't draw unnecessary attention to yourself. Under any circumstance. Sneaking out, only to be caught either still out, or coming back in- while the two guys who were essentially in charge of the day to day operations of the mission slept in your apartment- not the best course of action.

He was anxious to get more detail from Crook and from others at Company headquarters. He knew this was a major target and as such, other eyes and minds were working on this back in Quantico and one in particular in Salt Lake City.

Sleep eventually washed over Manning. A solid four hours. He awoke minutes before the rest were rousted from their slumber by an alarm clock set for 630am. The typical Mormon missionary morning routine unfolded. Get ready- shower, shave, get dressed in the white shirt and tie, conservative slacks, shoes polished. Study both individual and with the companion. Prayer, and boom- out the door. Flint and Slater said their goodbyes, promised they'd be back to check on progress for President Meyer's visit. They got in their modest Puegot stationwagon and were on their way back to Ascuncion.

Hungry? Rawson asked.

Oh yeah. Por su puesto. Of course! Manning replied.

They headed for their favorite sidewalk cafe. It was a warm February day. The sun was out and the temperatures were already in the 80's. The air was sticky. They sat down under a large pomelo tree, two cups of freshly squeezed juice from the tree were delivered. A couple of ham and cheese empanadas and the daily paper. The staff knew the "Gringos" well. Knew what they liked and they were ready- each and every day. Rawson and Manning appreciated the services and in turn, not only paid them for each day they ate there, a month in advance, but included a nice gratuity, a practice not common in many parts of the country. Manning took his newspaper, the picture on the back page was always something of a risqué nature. He quickly flipped it over and went to the local sports page. Knowing what the local futbol, soccer teams, were doing, was a great point of conversation. Today, he read about Club Olimpia and their upcoming showdown with rival Cerro Porteno. Both were tied atop the elite division of the professional ranks, both were loaded with members of the National team that would compete in the upcoming World Cup. It was all that anyone was talking about, at least on the sports front. Manning loved sports. He hadn't been much of a soccer fan in his youth, like most Americans of his generation but in Paraguay nearly no one had heard of the football stars of his youth. Brett Farve and Steve Young had just about as much name recognition as Bart Manning and Steve Rawson.

Manning turned the page to local news and something immediately caught his eye. An inserted single page, but not an advertisement. To the untrained purveyor, it was a mass of jumbled letters and characters. Manning recognized that it was far far more than a print sample page or a misprinted flier from the local store. The name in bold across the bottom told the story; La Compania. The Company. There was a message buried in the blocked grid of letters and numbers, Manning knew it. He'd had similar communiques in the past, maybe not exactly the same, but cryptic. He remembered one occasion in Siberia where he found a hollowed out antler that had holes it seemed randomly scattered about it; bored by some sort of insect or other animal. But when held to the light at a certain angle, it revealed a message that gave Manning his instructions for his "mission" to be complete. Manning took the paper and discreetly folded it and slipped it in his back pocket. He'd have to wait until he had some alone time to figure out the key to solving the message.

The day drug on with an excruciating pace. Each block they walked seemed longer than the last. Each click of the second hand on his watch seemed to resist movement like it would be their last on Earth. The afternoon siesta offered no opportunity for Manning, much to his frustration. Evening came and finally, the sun slunk slowly over the western horizon, cloaking the rolling hardwood trees that dotted the landscape with a romantic warmth that drug store novela writers long for with great fondness.

Rawson said goodnight, and crawled into his bed and was out quickly. He always fell asleep within one or two minutes. Good boy, thought Manning. It wasn't uncommon for Manning to stay up later reading with a headlamp and tonight would be no different. He quietly pulled out the paper, nicely disguised inside the pages of a book entitled "A Marvelous Work and a Wonder"; a Mormon modern work that nearly every missionary was expected to read, know, study and commit to practice. Manning smiled about the irony of him reading instructions from the CIA about a planned assassination while appearing to be reading A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. It was marvelous.

Manning poured over the letters and symbols. What did it say? What was it trying to say? Where was the key? They, that is, other workers of the "Company" usually supplied a key through which translation could be achieved. They never delivered the two together for obvious security reasons, but usually it was not far behind. As Manning scoured the far reaches of his mind- searching for some sort of deeply buried thought that might unleash the clues he sought, he actually dropped off to sleep. Sleep had been a fleeting mistress for Manning ever since he went to work for the Company. Something about the rigor of the training or just the situations in which he found himself did not lend itself to deep, restful slumber. As a result, he had chronic deep circles under his eyes, adding to his aged look. But tonight for some reason, he drifted off- dreaming like he hadn't in quite some time. His dreams took him back to his days growing up on the farm. Chores, changing irrigation streams, moving pipe, working the sheep and cattle with vaccinations, long hours on a tractor. He remembered the old tractors with fondness reserved usually more human relations like grandparents or cousins. Manning had spend hundreds if not thousands of hours on the old tractor. He was sure that the steel seat had been worn smooth with the vibration of his backside over hours of spring and fall rituals of plowing, disking, seeding, baling- you name it. His mind raced back to a memory of a cold spring day; windy, even raw- and 60 acres needing to have the unrelenting jaws of a notched wing disk drug over its every inch. Manning's father Harry was known as a good farmer- one who took pride in all aspects of his operation, including very straight rows with the tractor, precise turns that didn't leave too much or too little soil piled at the end of the field so the flood irrigation water would run freely. Bart learned early that crooked rows or passes with the tractor and the equipment were not tolerated and must be corrected and best if they didn't happen at all. It was during one such spring day of disking that he looked back on a long pass of the field and thought, "The Old Man will never let that one pass. Better go back." As he turned the old single wheeled FarmAll Model M tractor, and straightened it back on its correct path- his eyes hyper focused on the model and serial numbers that were cast in the frame on the axle. This was an old tractor, even in Manning's youth; no cab, no protective roll-over structure, just you, the seat, the steering wheel and a loyal yet uncomfortable faded red machine ready to offer it's meek 32 horses of power for whatever the task of the day demanded. Manning's dream focused on the serial number, 13 letters and numbers that somehow meant something to someone somewhere. Probably one of those guys who manned the parts counter at the tractor dealership in Missoula. The guys who had pearl snap shirts, rolled up sleeves, a pack of Kent non-filter Menthol cigarettes in their pocket and one always just hanging off their lip but somehow never fell off when they spoke in a graveled tone, "you need a what? What model?"

The letters and numbers in the dream mixed and focused then would fade to a blur then mix and refocus. After this repeated seemingly at naseum, the letters turned into a symbolic river, pouring over rocks and ravines. As the river wound its' way through the savannah, Manning recognized where he stood; Garganta del Diablo- The Devil's Throat waterfall at Iguazu.

Foz de Igauzu or the Iguazu Waterfalls are some of the most spectacular on Earth. Located on the borders of Brazil and Argentina, just a few minutes from the Paraguayan border- the Falls are one of the true must see places for tourists and locals alike. Manning had heard about the Falls and had been told that all missionaries get to spend a day their prior to their departure back home at the conclusion of their mission. He didn't have that kind of time. His mind was filled with activity and soon the sound of the thundering water pouring over rock and earth at nearly a half-millio gallons a minute prompted Manning to awake, needing to go to the bathroom. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, slipped on a pair of flip flops- which everyone wore to avoid stepping on spiders- and headed to the bathroom.

Damn!

The light was one. Rawson had beat him to the spot. After dancing just slightly- he stepped out the front door and went to the side of the house and let nature take her course. As he came back, Rawson was standing in the doorway.

"Jeez Elder, You had me worried! I woke up, went to the bathroom, came back and you were gone!"

Sorry- said Manning, quietly, as if he would wake the neighbors if he spoke in a normal tone. I had to go. Couldn't wait.

No problem. Trunquillo no mas.

We got a few hours before we need to be up. Let's grab some suenos (dreams).

As the pair headed back into the shed turned apartment, Manning's mind was still as lit as noon-day. He wanted to pour over the newspaper he had picked up yesterday. He had to figure out what it needed to tell him. Was it Iguazu? Or was that just a symbolic dream? His dream was in Spanish. Manning thought that was a good sign as he'd been told that when he started to dream in Spanish, his language skills were improving. Hell, half the places he'd been, he never actually dreamt in the native language but then again, what was native to him anymore anywhere? His training had given him the ability to nearly clear his mind, or better put, his conscience of the "callings" he'd fulfilled on other missions but he never totally forgot. There was wisdom in remembering some of it, Manning knew. Mistakes could be avoided, delays averted, possible links to The Company never made if you simply operated the way in which one was trained.

Sleep again evaded Manning. He laid in the bed, the oscillating fans alternating their brief moments of relief between Manning and Rawson, whose bed was a scant 6 feet away, his eyes closed but fully awake. He wanted to pull out the newspaper but couldn't justify the risk of having Rawson ask questions he wasn't prepared to answer. Cardinal of rule of employment with The Company: Never draw undue attention to yourself. Still, his mind was already working overtime. What was the embedded message? Was it the site of the next step or would he actually perform he deed, "the conversion" as a result of solving the message?

### Chapter 12

Don Crook punched a security code on his iPhone, swiped a couple of screens, a tap here and there- and finally a text message buzzed. Your newspaper was delivered. Good news.

Crook knew that nearly everyone around him on the 14th floor of the LDS Church Office building would never understand why he chose to serve his country and his faith in the way he did, let alone forgive him for infiltrating their fortress the way he had. Infiltrate? Hell, I AM a MORMON! I'm not infiltrating anything! I'm simply fulfilling a very special calling from God and my Country. Leave them to their tasks of balancing numbers of missionaries available to areas in need of replacements, penning "callings" that directed a prospective missionary to his area of assignment and all the logistics that came with managing nearly 80,000 such scenarios each and every day. There had been a significant increase in the overall Mormon missionary force after Church leadership, and in particular, the one man (always a man) called as the Prophet and President of the Church, had decreed that all Mormon young men starting at age 18 should serve a mission, and Mormon young women should be encouraged to do the same at age 19. Crook knew that externally this had been hailed as a much needed move to bring the teachings of Smith, and all the other ensuing Mormon leaders to all areas of the world. Mormons believe that before Jesus is to return to the Earth in a resurrected state, "all corners of the earth, every kindred tongue and people shall have the opportunity to hear the Gospel."

However, internally it had been a nightmare. The Church was dealing with thousands of young men and women who simply were not ready for the rigors that come with 24.7 ecclesiastical service. Depression rates were skyrocketing, homesickness, problems with unresolved relationship issues- all were keeping the dedicated brothers and sisters of the 14th Floor busier than usual. Crook didn't disagree with the strict standards that prospective Mormon youth must pass in order to be considered for a mission call. Not only was it absolute adherence to the Church's code of conduct; no alcohol, no smoking, no physical intercourse or even light petting before marriage, a full 10% tithe, demanding service hours to others, but as a missionary, any and all "sins" must be fully disclosed and repented of before a call was issued. Some missionaries found themselves racked with guilt over unresolved issues while still in the training centers or in the early days of field work. Counseling professionals outside the Mormon faith said it was simply homesickness or depression over a decision made to appease family and friends within a very closed culture. Mormon leaders when asked, said it was the honesty of ones' soul finally coming to grips that there were unresolved issues. Either way, it was keeping many people busy dealing with all of it, including Crook.

The waiting was the most difficult part of these deep covert missions for Crook. He'd never been overly patient, but his training in the military had helped him to understand the role of the individual as it relates to the success of the whole. He knew that Manning would working feverishly to decipher the message embedded in the newspaper page that been inserted in a copy specifically for the intended recipient. A simple $5 gratuity to the cafe owner who was told that it was a special birthday message from his family back home, paid by another team operative who was completely unknown to Manning or Crook. That was the way the Company wanted it. Keep as few people as possible on the payroll, keep them separated yet connected only by the mission. The job of coordinating all the team players fell to Shawn Dunn back in Langley Virginia.

### Chapter 13

\- Don Crook and Shawn Dunn first met during basic training some 15 years earlier. Dunn was a typical plebe while Crook was not. Not just because of this Mormon faith but he was more serious despite being nearly the same immature 18 years of age as Dunn and the other barrack mates. Somehow Dunn and Crook became friends. Could have been because Crook was always willing to be a designated driver for Dunn and his oft-drunken friends or that he was a the kind of bunk mate that you could trust and count on to be there when you needed them; the exact kind of trust the military works to instill in all their personnel. Dunn completed basic along with Crook and the others. The first assignment took them to a naval intelligence research facility near Halifax Nova Scotia. The base was actually a Canadian Naval base but it operated with several US sailors stationed there as part of a NATO program. Crook and Dunn solidified their friendship over the next 2 years, working on code writing, intercepts and other elements of intelligence work. When Dunn was notified of his transfer, the first person he told was Crook. "Shipping out Cookie boy", which is what he called Crook. "What?" "Where to," queried Crook.

"Italy dude! Sigonella Sicily. " Dunn chirped.

Wow- front lines, way to go! said Crook.

Sigonella Naval Base in Sicily was the closest base to Russia and many of the former Soviet Republics and thought to be the best place for intelligence officers to finely hone their respective skills. Plus the proximity to the Middle East was a bonus for some action as well, thought Crook.

Hey- Come over on your next shore leave. We'll tear it up! said Dunn.

Yeah, no doubt. Crook thought. Just what I want to do. Ride military transport for 10 hours to go be the lone sober, rational thinking, celibate American in a group of raging hormone driven, alcohol induced and bravado enhanced US Sailors scouring the Italian country side looking for nothing but female trouble. Hadn't these guys ever seen The Godfather? These Sicilians don't mess around!

It was about a year after Dunn arrived in Italy that he and Crook would connect again. Dunn was approached about a new assignment with a very unique and top secret mission; deep covert operations with non-traditional missions. Dunn jumped at the chance. He loved Italy. Better put, he loved Italian women and wine but even with the wonderful combination of a long legged olive skinned, dark eyed beauty and a merlot- he wanted more from his work. He was considered the top code man on the base and in the entire European command. Deep ops would mean the major leagues; Headquarters back at Langley. During the first few weeks of his briefing and team formation, Dunn saw an opportunity for his old friend. The head of the entire deep covert ops division had an idea to embed agents through religious veins much like the military had done with members of the press during the Iraqi War. Only this time, just the embeds and the absolute minimum number of support actors/agents would know. The various religious organizations would not know. There were serious ethical questions raised. Days of discussion ensued. Dunn loved the discussion because it was so foreign to most military approaches. Normally it was here is the objective, here is how you do it, go do it and don't deviate, whatever you do. This was different. Very different. There was precedent with imbeds but this was a whole different level of imbeds. This was combining deep covert spy operations with the concept of imbedding as a cover, but all with the realization that it was so top secret, so deep that only a handful of people would ever know the full scope of the program they called Faithful Patriots.

Brent Scales, the Director of Covert Operations, or Deep Intelligence liked the idea. He should, it was his. He'd spent years trying to find ways to keep his agents out of the eyes of not only the enemies, but Congress, the American people and the press. It seemed as though his enemies were the least of his worries on most days.

Congress was only a nuisance when CSPAN was involved. Honestly, the Agency Director gave each of the division directors enough latitude to do what they needed to do without a lot of hassle except when those efforts landed the Agency on the front page of the Washington Post or as the lead story on the evening news. Members of the press were another breed all-together. And the American people- well, Scales knew that he could influence the underground discussion on much of what it was believed the Agency did through their own counter efforts via the internet chat rooms and other unregulated arenas that made most bureaucrats shiver with fear and intimidation. If they only knew, thought Scales. Blogging had become the biggest boon for Scales since, well, since EVER! He could influence the flow of information, the course of discussion both public and underground with just a few well placed operatives pecking away at keyboards around the world. Brilliant. God Bless the Internet thought Scales.

But this idea of his that would put agents deep in the Vatican and in mega churches in the Bible Belt of the US, within the walls of some of Europe's most sacred and storied organizations had Scales worried. Could he pull it off? Could he find the right people? The kind of people who not only could be trusted but could also be believable as members of these churches? Could he get someone in some of the most secretive and exclusive organizations on Earth? Forget the intelligence ramifications, just think about pulling that off-- Scales had mulled this around and around for years before he dared to even mention it within trusted circles. It was during one of those discussions when Shawn Dunn said something that would change all their lives irrevocably; "What about the Mormons?" "Think about that one." "You've got thousands of those cats roaming around the globe in white shirts and ties and no one suspects a thing other than they are out there to get more people into their church."

The idea was so huge, such a massive potential for total global intelligence change, that it just hung there in the silence.

After what seemed like forever, it was Dunn who broke the silence, "Can you imagine? "

There was an uncomfortable chuckle from Scales and the agency head, John Schilling. Then Dunn said, "I have the perfect guy to get in on the inside." "He's Navy intelligence and he's devote Mormon."

Go on, said Schilling.

Dunn went on to describe his old friend Don Crook. He talked about how Crook had talked to him about his Mormon faith but also about his deep sense of duty to Country and to the Navy.

"Let's talk to him", said Schilling. "This might be just so damned crazy that it might just work".

A call was placed to Crook and he was on a transport flight to Italy. The cover was that a specialist with his grade and area of expertise was needed for a temporary assignment and his number was drawn. Crook didn't question. That wasn't in his nature. Both the Navy and the Mormons had taught him that questioning was not part of the protocol. It was total obedience to the mission and the faith. He knew he'd see his old friend Dunn and that would be great. They'd stayed in touch, exchanged emails and photos over the past year or so. Little did he know, he and Dunn would be connected at a level neither had any idea could exist by the time the wheels went up on his return flight.

The reunion between the two was just like you'd think it would be between a couple of Navy buddies but yet cut quite short by Director Schilling and Scales. The four men retired to a secure room, secure even by the most stringent of military and intelligence standards. No listening devices, no audio or video surveillance- nothing but four thick walls, a table, a table. Symbolic it seemed as a clean slate from which something incredible would be created by those who would sit around the table.

Hours later, Crook having agreed to participate, the discussion and brainstorming was not slowing down. How would they get someone on the inside? How would they communicate? How deep would they go? Would they go to the same depths in all major religions; Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Lutherans, Jehovah Witnesses?

As the hours passed, they decided to go with Mormons as the primary vehicle. The reasoning was the missionary effort. While Jehovah Witnesses also employed proselytizing, they were seen as fringe, too aggressive and would draw undue attention- something frowned upon by the Agency who would coordinate all the work, the Central Intelligence Agency- CIA, The Company.

Over the years it took to put all the pieces in place, there were times the program nearly didn't survive. Budget cuts during the GW Bush years to military, then a total commitment to reduce numbers under Obama all gave the team significant heartburn. But now in The President's 2nd term, things had fallen into place. Crook was finally working on the 14th floor of the Mormon Church headquarters- missionary central. Dunn was entrenched at Langley, deployed as an analyst and coordinator. Yes, there were operations within the Company's own operations. Manning had been recruited, trained and deployed successfully on several "missions" already and now was "serving" his most important "calling" yet- taking down the largest known black market financier of terrorism.

Dunn shot a quick reply back to Crook via the secure network they used to communicate. "Glad you enjoyed your subscription to the newspaper. Hope you read the article on flu shots."

Patience, Crook mused when he read the message. Patience. Let our boy catch up.

### Chapter 14

Manning always suspected there were a number of teammates around him at any one time on any mission but he had no idea if they did exist, who they were, where they actually were, how much they knew about him or what he was actually doing. Never give any one person all the pieces of the puzzle- that way you can't divulge enough to entirely compromise the operation if captured. But he knew Crook and he knew of Dunn, although not him personally, he knew there had to be a point person somewhere. But his mind kept grinding on a detail such as how did the coded paper get in his daily newspaper?

It took two days, but Manning finally cracked the coded message masked in the newspaper. It indeed would take him to Foz de Iguazu, specifically the bathroom on the Brazilian side. His next directive would be there.

Manning was anxious to get to Foz right now. He knew the buses took somewhere between 3-4 hours to get to the Brazilian border. Rawson had talked about how sometimes they went to the Brazilian border down of Foz do Iguazu once a month rather than a 4-5 hour trip to Asuncion for P-day. It was two weeks to the P-Day where they would either go to Asuncion or possible east to Foz and that simply was far too long to wait.

Manning was deep in thought on how he could possibly get Rawson to get on a bus two full weeks ahead of time and travel nearly four hours to Brazil and then do some sight-seeing at the Falls, which they would need special permission to do, and how to find the clue at the mens bathroom, all without raising suspicion. Hell, can't I just drug him? Manning knew how he'd do it. He'd inject Rawson in his sleep with Haldol which given in the right dose would drop him into a shallow coma like sleep. He'd change into street clothes, grab a ride to Foz, get his clue and get back before Rawson would be any the wiser. He wouldn't come out of the coma until Manning injected him with the antidote. The only real risk was being seen by the locals in Caaguazu that could recognize him and possibly tell Rawson later on.

"Permiso" "Quieres ese pomelos o no?"

Huh? What? Que? Manning stammered, trying to get his mind and attention back to the present.

Con permiso.

A tall European looking woman with a bronze tan, half-worn out flip flops, cargo shorts and a tank top smiled and looked at Manning, glancing at the pomelos sitting in a crate he was blocking accidently.

Oh, perdoname. I'm sorry. Manning said.

Me Llamo Bart, uh Elder Manning. Elder Manning, he said, stammering, flustered and slightly embarrassed.

I can read, said the woman in perfect English.

Ah, of course.

Hi, I'm Lisel de Haan. I'm a Peace Corp volunteer.

Elder Manning and this is Elder Rawson, replied Manning.

Nice to meet you guys. I see you here but haven't had the chance to have you guys ace me out on pomelos..

The three chuckled. Rawson was nice but nervous. It was strictly prohibited for Mormon missionaries to be alone with women, especially good looking, English speaking, eligible women from the Netherlands. Manning, on the other hand, wanted more.

So, where are you from? Manning asked.

Well, I was going to school at Penn but I grew up in Friesland, northern part of the Netherlands. My folks still live there.

Manning knew all about Friesland, but he couldn't say how. His first "mission call" had been to Holland and his first "convert" had actually been a member of the Dutch Royal Family with secret ties to a radical Islam cell in Pakistan.

"Nice country I hear. People are tall there right?" said Manning, trying not show too much excitement, despite the fact his heart was pumping like it hadn't in years.

Yes! How'd you know that? chirped de Haan.

There was a moment, although very brief, of silence- that classic awkward pause- then Manning re-engaged, "Airplane magazine". "Long flight down here."

Manning's mind wandered, better put- it raced- like a young teen boys' imagination upon seeing his first true infatuation.

Leave it to Rawson to bring the buzz kill, as the uber faithful other half of the white-shirted duo broke up the conversation with his favorite conversational phrase; "So, what do you know about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?"

de Hann was polite but firm, "Enough. I know enough to say I'm not interested, but I do like chatting with you," looking directly at Manning and seemingly not paying Rawson an ounce of attention, despite the fact he posed the question.

I'd like that too, thought Manning. I'd like that a lot!

"Well, better run," said de Haan, "If you boys ever need anything, I'm on the second floor of the Banco Nacional building just around the corner from the big futbol complex. Look for the dark green Jeep! You'll know if I'm home or not."

Rawson thanked her and assured her that if they were to meet, it would be in a public place as mission rules strictly prohibited meeting with women behind closed doors, among other restrictions.

The pair turned and headed towards the street, Rawson yammering on about how they should try to work with a local member family to develop an evening of song and scripture with their friends as a way to develop more contacts and possibly people to teach. Manning was deep in thought himself, but a million miles away from scriptures and hymns. He couldn't shake de-Haan. Shit! he thought. I have to push this broad out of my mind. No room for distractions, no room for recreation and certainly no room for romance. Not only was dating strictly forbidden by Mormon mission rules. That was a zero tolerance offense. You try to go on a date with a woman, regardless of whether you did anything like kiss her or more- you're on the next plane home. But more importantly for Manning was what such a dalliance meant for the success of his mission, his real mission- taking care of Maciel and drying up the illegal cash he supplied to keep some of the world's most heinous terrorist in business.

If there was one thing he could learn from Rawson, it was how to keep singular focus. And with great resistance and internal upheaval, Manning forced his attention back to the more righteous and spiritual task at hand.

### Chapter 15

\- Alejandro Garcia had welcomed the American missionaries and their message. He was listening to the lessons, the charlas, and answering all the questions and challenges correctly. A perfect investigator. While Garcia was welcoming the new world being introduced by Rawson and Manning, doing everything he was supposed to do, he was struggling to keep up with the workload placed upon him by his demanding employer, Maciel. He found himself lost in thought often, not daydreaming, but rather deep reflection and introspection. He found a harmonious accord between his own thoughts and feelings and that which was being taught by the young American men who by now were frequent guests at his office and his home. Garcia had already run through the conversation in his head where he would tell Maciel about his conversion, his baptism and what that might mean for his employment. Afterall, that's all really Maciel would care about. Both men were born and raised Catholic, as were 90% of nearly everyone who lived in Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina and most of their South American neighboring countries. But to formally leave the Catholic Church was a major step. The entire fabric of one's family, their social structure, schools, everything in the community was woven in and around the Church.

Siesta set in and in a rare occasion, Rawson laid down to take a nap. Usually the hyper-obedient elder would read, study or pursue some other noble endeavor, but the heat wave that was bearing down on eastern Paraguay had left both Manning and Rawson more tired than normal. The fan oscillated back and forth, struggling to provide measurable relief to either of young Americans. Manning raised his arm above his head and let his sweaty body sink into the single sheet that separated him from the not so luxurious foam pad which served as his mattress. Sleep befell him quickly, in fact, Rawson chuckled at Manning's light snoring which he hardly ever heard.

Hmm, didn't know he was a snorer, mused Rawson.

Fact was, it was Manning who nearly always was awake thinking of his next moves and how to keep his real mission and motives concealed while placating his "companion" and the rest of the mission hierarchy, so he hardly ever fell asleep before Rawson, who could peel paint off the walls of the old shed himself with his snoring.

Before he felt rested, the alarm on his iPhone buzzed, awaking Manning and subsequently Rawson as well.

"Rise and shine Elder," Rawson muttered from his face down position; one that was not normal for the midwestern farm boy.

"Right behind you che'," replied Manning who was coming to his own state of semi-alertness.

Man, I feel--- I feel ....... Rawson paused and appeared to choke down something, then touched his chest.

You feel what?

I feel--- Oh!!! Oh!!!!

Rawson jumped to his feet, scurried across the cement floor forgetting to put on his flip flops, a mission rule; one must always wear flip flops while in the apartment- Two reasons: one, to keep from contracting small microscopic bugs which often burrowed their way into unsuspecting feet, laying their eggs and causing all sorts of podiatric havoc and two, an Elder must always have an air of dignity and decorum and running around barefoot simply didn't cut it. Rawson lunged for the bathroom and a raucous series of retching ensued.

Bad juju. Manning thought. Juju was the Guarani word for medicinal plant, root or herb depending on the context. They had drank some teterre earlier in the day while in conversation with some folks. Many native Paraguayans put natural roots or leaves in the traditional cold tea, teterre, to help ward off certain aliments or cure others. Manning had thought the pitcher of water used in the earlier teterre circle had more resembled a window planter than a liquid container but he went along with the group, again- not wanting to draw attention to himself unduly.

After a solid ten minutes of worshiping the porcelain throne, inspiration struck and so then did Manning.

"Elder, are you ok?" said Manning.

Damn, he thought. He's going to know something is up. I never call him Elder, always dude or bud or Rawson. Slipping out of character is not what you need right now Bart. Calm yourself. Breathe. It was his training kicking in.

"Uh, No seguro." Rawson muttered.

Manning knew something was up because even he knew that wasn't the proper sentence structure and Rawson prided himself on speaking correctly. Always.

Let me come help. I've got the first aid kit here. Manning moved toward the bathroom. A short conversation ensued and within 30 seconds a syringe was going into the thigh of Steve Rawson. Manning helped him to bed and 15 seconds later Rawson was breathing deeply, completely slipping into what would be the deepest sleep of his life.

Manning in his lightning flash of inspiration had reached under his own bed, grabbing a syringe of Haldol, which he kept for emergencies, gone to the bathroom, injected Rawson under the guise that he was quickly dehydrating and needed the shot to keep his metabolism in balance while his digestive system self-corrected.

Quickly he changed clothes, threw on a cap with the logo Club Olimpia, one of the dominant soccer teams of Paraguay, a set of glasses and a pre-prepped three-day goatee and he was off. Slipping out the back side of the property, he walked quickly but not yet at run, again as to not draw attention to himself, and weaved his way through the back alleys and streets of Caaguazu, eventually finding himself a local car lot. Some quick cash, a fake ID, and Manning was off in a rental Nissan SUV.

Manning steered the 10 year old vehicle out on to Ruta 2 or Route 2- named because it was the second major road in Paraguay. Ruta 1 or Route 1 was the main highway that ran north to south from Asuncion.

Time was of the upmost consideration here. Everything Manning knew about Haldol, a drug used to induce comas, should put Rawson out for a good 12 hours, but his training and his gut told him to not count on anything more than 8. The good thing would be his entire return would be under the cover of moonlight. He pushed the Nissan to a healthy 130 kph or just over 80mph. Most drivers in Paraguay really didn't adhere to a speed limit but again, don't draw attention. Manning zipped through the slight rolling hills and ensuing savannas and within 2 hours found himself coming into Cuidad del Este or City of the East. For decades, it had been known as Cuidad del Presidente Stroessner or City of President Stroessner, named for the long time dictator and president of Paraguay, Don Alfredo Stroessner. But after Stroessner's 35 year reign came to an end in 1989, at the hands of General Andres' Rodriguez, the city was quickly renamed.

Sister city, Foz do Iguasu sat across the river in Brazil and just south, the actual Falls- and that was all Manning cared about.

A couple of taps on the iPhone and instant GPS instructions help to guide Manning through Ciudad del Este and Foz with the efficiency of a veteran cabdriver. Twenty minutes later he parked in the large lot that thousands each day would populate to come and partake of one of the world's truly amazing vistas. Manning had zero interest in the Falls themselves, all he wanted was to find the bathroom.

Singular in focus, singular in mission, singular in success.

He could hear the mantra which had been drilled into his psyche throughout his training. Never lose focus. Never compromise the mission. Never fail. Singular in focus, singular in mission, singular in success.

Manning quickly scanned the premises, found a medium sized building with the universal signs depicting men and women bathrooms. He jogged ahead, stepped inside and took inventory; 12 stalls, 4 sinks, 3 hand dryers, 2 garbage cans and one old wino slumped in the corner on a sitting bench. But there was no note, no sign, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing caught his eye. He ran the room again, taking a numerical inventory.

12, 4, 3, 2-- 12,432, 12+4+3+2=21, 12-4-3-2=4.. what, what!?

Why did numbers have to be so damned hard?

Breathe.

Let's see. 12 apostles of Christ, 12 apostles in the Mormon church, 4 horsemen of the apocalypse, 3 members of the Godhead according to Mormon doctrine, 2-- 2, what was the two? Manning's mind raced with combinations of numbers, letters, where was the clue? He could just start opening every stall and looking around, but again, that would draw attention and suspicion. He ran the combinations one more time. 12+4+3+2=21-- 21, black jack, winner winner chicken dinner... Black Jack. What was -- wait, Black Jack, a Jack, 10 and a King, 11. J being the 10th letter of the alphabet and K, the 11th. Manning walked down the row of stalls counting in his mind and pausing between the 10th and 11th stalls. Looking around, he rolled his head around his shoulders and something caught his eye, a sticker on the ceiling; Rory Ava- the Happy Farmer. Diego Maciel. Bingo! Manning looked around, the drunk on the bench had vacated. Manning quickly pulled himself up through a chin up and balanced on the top of the door to stall 11 and pulled the sticker off. Sure enough- an encrypted note was attached. He jumped down, reached inside the stall, pulled the flush lever for good measure and left. 3 minutes later the Nissan roared back to life and was westward bound for Caaguazu.

Once back on Ruta 2, Manning opened the note and read while driving with his knees- a skill he'd perfected as a young man driving tractor and large hay trucks which allowed him to eat a sandwich for lunch or put his arm around a girl- whichever the situation dictated.

The message was short and clear: Convert quickly. Heaven cannot wait much longer. The text at the bottom of the note was encoded but would reveal that intelligence reports had picked up chatter between two known Al Qaeda training cells in the far reaches of Pakistan that they were expecting some large cash infusions within the next week which would set them on a course to buy a cache of nuclear warheads, which the chatter said, would be used soon after.

Manning was rolling back into Caaguazu just before 10pm. A quick stop at a fueling station a few kilometers before his turnoff for gas and he'd be back in the shed and fake sleeping by 10:30p, no problem. He was hanging up the gas hose when he noticed a Jeep taking fuel on the next island over. Lisel de-Haan. She looked better than when he'd first met her earlier in the week. She looked his way and smiled, He instinctively looked away, but then thought- Wait, the disguise. I'm not me! He turned back and watched her move about her Jeep, checking the oil, washing the windshield. She looked delicious in her cargo shorts and tank top. Manning had seen plenty of gorgeous women before and de Haan was certainly right up there in his mind, but there was something more to her. Something more he desperately wanted to discover but knew now was not the time nor the place. Singular in focus, Singular in mission, Singular in success.

The hose clicked full, Manning replaced it, shot a glance and a rare smile at de Haan who reciprocated and he was off. While jogging back to his apartment slash shed, he ditched the fake goatee and glasses in separate dumpsters at two different restaurants. He walked the last block and a half, bringing his heart rate down and settling his thoughts- although his mind and heart was full of the vision of the Dutch woman in the flip flops. A few minutes later, he was back on his bed, listening to the same laboring fan grinding back and forth alternating moans of effort seemingly synchronized with Rawson's deep breathing. By all indications, he hadn't moved in more than 6.5 hours. Nor would he until 10:30am the next morning. Plenty of time for Manning to make moves in the future he thought, now given the data he had on Haldol usage.

### Chapter 16

Rawson looked like he'd been on a three-day bender, although Manning was sure he'd never had a sip of hooch in his life.

Moaning slightly, the Nebraska farm boy slowly showed signs of life.

"Ugggh." "Que hora es?" Rawson spoke with all the quiet motion of someone who was hung over.

Diez y media. 10:30, Manning said, concealing as much joy as he could with the fact one of the mission's most obedient elders had overslept by 4 hours. Course, it had nothing to do with the drug that had been flowing through his pure veins, no not at all.

10:30?! What? How?! That must have been some seriously bad juju. That's it, I'm never toking teterre again! Rawson muttered, with all the conviction of a binge drinker who was facing his worst ever hangover.

"You needed the rest," Manning said. "You've been driving pretty hard. That and the heat- your body just said enough."

Let me grab a shower and let's get to work.

30 minutes later the pair left the shed and headed out into the baking February sun. Rawson seemed to be dragging, no doubt residual effects from the Haldol, but he thought differently, still blaming the juju.

A few blocks later they were nearing the market when Alejandro's tricked out 4X4 rumbled by.

Oye Che Quera! Hey you guys!

Alejandro threw the lumbering beast in park and jumped out.

"You look bad Elder, Que paso?" he said to Rawson.

"Juju malo. Bad weed."Rawson said with as much energy as he could summon.

"Ah, tenes que tomar cuidado quando tomando el teterre." You need to be careful when drinking teterre.

Conversation then picked up between the three. Alejandro told them he was enjoying the charlas, the lessons and wanted to keep going. He said he had prayed for the first time alone and felt God's spirit talk to him. Tears welled and misted his eyes as related the experience to the American missionaries.

This was the moment that Mormon missionaries prayed for. That moment when their investigator told them that they had experienced a spiritual connection and because of what the missionaries had taught them. Once this connection was established, there was high probability of baptism. As bad as Rawson felt and looked physically, he was beaming. This was literally what he lived for.

Manning was smiling as well. He'd come to grips with this part of his job during his first "mission" to Holland. He rationalized that if a person found joy and peace in something and believed in it, why should he question it? Even though he knew the tenants of Mormonism better than most actual members of the LDS Church, he wasn't converted. He'd never been baptized or had any of the other ordinances performed; confirmation, bestowal of the Holy Ghost, priesthood, endowments in the temple, none of them.Yes, technically, his name was on the roles as a member- had to be- in order for Crook to get him processed as a missionary.

The Mormons simply don't allow non-members to don the white shirt, tie and name tag, no matter how well they can recite the Articles of Faith or the story of Joseph Smith's First Vision. As far as he knew, he was the only non-mormon missionary baptizing others into Mormonism. Weird, he thought. What's the celestial protocol? What happens if all this actually turns out to be true? Am I going to Hell because I baptized people under a rouse? Probably. But that'll be the least of my transgressions. Hell, I kill people for a living. Yes, a handsome living, but it won't matter if all this turns out to be the real deal. Personally Manning found himself in more of a "relaxed" category when it came to organized religion. He believed in a higher being, call him God or whatever you'd like, but he recognized there was something greater than all of us that had to have a hand in this wonderful creation called life. Jesus being the literal son of God, well- the jury was still out for Manning on that count. He felt that given what had to be the less than perfectly accurate accounts of Jesus' life, he was a good man, a wonderful teacher and probably a prophet by definition but the story about Mary being a virgin, yet conceived a baby somehow through a spiritual visitation- science simply wouldn't let his mind embrace that concept.

But Manning had developed skills. Skills through his training that made him an effective and convincing purveyor of the message. He'd been told in other missions by converts that it was his testimony, his words, his conviction that helped them find "the truth". After his first mission to Holland, Manning spent a few weeks in post-event counseling and refresher training. Part of the program was to help him deal mentally and emotionally with taking life, and nearly as important- reaching a point where he could justify selling a message that one, he didn't live or believe in himself and two, a message that was only used as a vehicle to get him in situations where he could complete his real mission: preserve through whatever means necessary the safety and sovereignty of the United States of America.

Since that first "conversion", Manning had been part of no fewer than 13 Mormon baptisms. He hadn't killed any of those thirteen and as far as he knew, all 13 were still blissfully happy with their decision and their new lives. Good for them, he would say internally. They're happy, I completed my mission and all is well. Would Alejandro be number 14? It certainly appeared as though they were headed down that road.

Manning's ears piqued with extreme interest when Alejandro told them he wanted them to come to back to his workplace and meet his boss. Alejandro had already talked to his boss about his interest in the LDS faith and Senor Maciel had some questions and concerns about Alejandro's ability to balance his work responsibilities if this were to move forward.

"When can we come out?" asked Manning.

Uh-- este noche. Esta bien? Tonight. Is that ok? Alejandro replied.

Oh hell yeah Manning thought. I gotta get eyes on this cat and get moving.

Si. Esta bien. Al pelo pay tay! Rawson replied, rallying significantly from his frat boy-esq, drug-induced hangover.

Veni por asado, no? Come for asado barbeque, ok? Alejandro jumped back in his jacked up 4X4 and headed back down the street.

The midday sun was beating down and lunch beckoned. It'd been a highly productive morning despite the pair just walking down the road was all they had done. Manning couldn't wait for the siesta to pass and to get to see Diego Maciel face to face. Finally my true mission is getting somewhere, thought Manning.

### Chapter 17

\- Things were not going as well back in the United States. Congress, more specifically the far right tea party of the Republican Party was making life for the CIA difficult at best, hellish was more like it. David Danfield was spending a considerable amount of time sitting at a committee room table, shuffling information to his boss, Director of the CIA Cyrus Hammond. Hammond was an icon in the intelligence community. He'd been with "the company" for more than 35 years, long enough to know that he didn't need nor want to know everything about every aspect of its' operation, just enough to provide an answer that would keep questioning lawmakers at bay and yet- keep him off the front page of the Washington Post and the Sunday morning talk shows. Danfield on the other hand knew things that would keep Fox News and the Post working in an paralled state of hysteria.

"Director Hammond, Do you or do you not have black covert agents operating without congressional approval in various places around the earth?" bellowed one Representative Wayne Stansmeyer, a three-term tea party darling from Missouri's 8th district, hometown of Rolla Missouri.

Danfield leaned slowly forward and whispered in Hammond's ear, then rocked back in his seat without changing expression.

Hammond, "Black covert agents?"

Stansmeyer, "Yes. You know, Deep under cover. Black ops stuff."

Hammond, "Congressman, I wanted to clarify what you asked as I didn't want to misspeak."

Hammond stopped, letting the silence hang uncomfortably in the room. He relished these moments. More often than not, a camera happy hound like Stansmeyer would jump onto another line of questioning, never realizing that Hammond had failed to even answer the first.

Stansmeyer, "Yes, black agents." ... a murmur swept through the chamber and Stansmeyer immediately knew he'd screwed up. "I mean black ops, not black the color. Hell sakes people!"

Hammond pounced. "Yes, we have agents from many racial backgrounds; African-American, Asian-American, American Indian, Euro-American (he made that one up on the fly for fun and effect), But all American by citizenry. We don't distinguish by color Congressman."

Stansmeyer was fuming. He knew he'd stepped on his own junk in an attempt to trap Hammond. "You know what I mean!"

"I know what you said," replied Hammond, hanging emphasis on the word -said- "and I believe I answered the question. Are there any other questions of the Committee?" Masterful, he thought. Back off you bastards. You think you want to know what goes on in our world, but trust me, you don't.

4 seconds of silence later, two taps of a gavel by the chair and this round was over.

Reporters swarmed the brash Republican from Rolla rather than the silver haired gentleman from Virginia. The Sunday morning talk shows would thrash Stansmeyer thoroughly for his veiled racism. Meet the Press, Face the Nation, even Fox News took Stansmeyer to task. Only NPR asked a follow up question of the Agency about what agents were doing and where they were doing it. A few statements carefully crafted by polished public relations folks stymied that line of questioning thanks to things like "level of security clearance" and "in the best interest of national security".

What transpired in the coming days was far more problematic to the folks who ran "The Company".

Government Shutdown. Stansmeyer and his Tea Party Caucus had hijacked the debate over raising the debt ceiling or the amount of money the US Federal Government can legally borrow to keep operating. Constituents back home, especially in the Heartland were echoing the Far Right's claims to reign in spending.

"What happens to our folks in the field?" asked Linda Campanera as she met behind closed, secure doors with Danfield and Hammond. No executive assistants to take notes, no surveillance equipment- a clean room, one of the few places on Earth one could expect their conversation to stay confidential. "All of our NOCs will be flying blind," replied Hammond. "No money to keep staff here, let alone all of the little shit storms you guys have hidden around the globe I don't even know about. Christ- how many are on the payroll now?!" "Don't answer that!!" he quickly shot back. "I don't want to know!"

Danfield and Campanera both knew that they simply couldn't pull the plug on Manning right now. He was close. He knew that time was a factor, not the Government Shutdown but Maciel getting ready to deliver more than 300 million in infused cash to Al Qaeda. Lord only knew what that would mean for the U.S. and her allies. "If these shitbirds only knew," Danfield mused out-loud. "If they only knew the damage this shutdown will cause and what it will cost this country.." his words hung like a weight with no where to escape or fall. 'They'd hang each and every one of those crazy ideologues by their nuts on the Washington Mall!"

'Does Stansmeyer really think he can win? I mean, what's he want? Does he want to be President? Speaker? Hell, a Senator? What? What does this guy want?"

"He wants what everyone other elected wants in Washington. To be in power. To be quoted, to be in control and most of all, to be re-elected," said Hammond in a very matter of fact way, never looking up from his coffee mug. "We have to make him go away and quickly. There's too much at stake to risk this actually shutting us down. Make it happen." again, Hammond never looked up from his mug, which had pictures of his grandkids doing various activities, proclaiming proudly, World's Greatest Grandpa- ""But it doesn't leave this room. Ever."

The handsome gentleman pushed back his chair and took a sip of his coffee, turned his glance to a far corner of the ceiling and exhaled, then looked at his mug and said, Kids. "They do some of the dumbest shit, don't they?" And he walked off. The meeting that would change U.S. history was over. Campanera looked bewildered, but Danfield had an idea. He shrugged his shoulders at Campanera and they walked out, each turning and heading in a different direction.

### Chapter 18

The asado was actually better than it was the first time Rawson and Manning visited the Rory Ava compound. The meal was spectacular. Slow roasted, dry rubbed ribs, flank steaks, brisket and wings. Fresh fruit and more, it was a delight. If there was one thing Diego Maciel prided himself on, one legitimate to the outside wold thing, it was being a lavish and wonderful host. The few people who had been invited to his home to dine recounted tails that would made most modest Paraguayos dreams dance with visions of endless tables of food and beverage.

Manning relished the evening as well, not so much for the food, which he enjoyed no doubt, but for the opportunity to study first hand the object of his real mission.

Diego Maciel was a typical looking Uruguayan man, slight build- weighing maybe 160 pounds, standing an average 5'8" tall, with jet black hair, so black that it was nearly raven in color, sunken dark eyes and a medium latin complexion. His mannerisms spoke to an upbringing that had some exposure to culture and wealth but he had an edge to him. Manning knew from his research, what little he could find on Maciel, that he'd been a product of environment; weaned from the tit of the streets of Montevideo through a gift of numbers. Maciel was a wealthy man now and if he so chose, he could simply stop bank rolling terrorists around the world and live off the profits that his legitimate businesses supplied. But like most wealthy, driven people, it wasn't so much about the money as it was about the chase to always get more, to be the biggest, the best, the undisputed king of whatever their field of endeavor was. And for Maciel, that meant dealing with the most unsavory, unscrupulous types in the entire world and yet there was structure and organization to all of it. Manning admired that part of it, the organization and unwritten code, but he certainly had no problem with snapping this guys neck. He knew that countless lives would be saved both in the US and throughout the world if Maciel's money simply dried up. Manning was a patriot through and through and Maciel directly threatened the very existence of the United States. There was no choice to be made in Manning's mind. This man was the clear cut enemy of my country and as such, he will be eliminated.

In near perfect english, save for a slight latin accent, Maciel asked both Rawson and Manning if they were enjoying their eveing.

"Oh si, Senor Maciel. Y, muchas gracias a Usted por la invitacion," said Rawson. Yes and thank you so much for the invitation.

"Please, Elder Rawson," Maciel said with a labored effort to pronounce Rawson. "In English tonight, as what we need to discuss is very important."

Maciel had dismissed Alejandro on a meaningless errand, leaving the Elders alone with the Uruguayan. "Now, tell me about this Joseph Smith and why you worship him as a God," said Maciel.

The conversation started out, with Rawson explaining that Mormons revere Joseph Smith, that they consider him a prophet along the same lines as Moses, Abraham, and others in the Bible and yes, he is now a god having reached exultation, but is not the same as God the Father. Maciel seemed genuinely interested in the doctrine and pressed on all the hot button issues; plural marriage, baptism by proxy for the dead, a full 10% tithing, advanced standards of behavior and adherence for temple admittance, gays, blacks and the Mormon priesthood, why women can't hold the priesthood and as such, can't be congregational heads like a bishop, stake president or other church authority. One by one Rawson and Manning sorted through the questions. Each time an issue was raised, Rawson tried to bring it back to a point where he'd ask Maciel to commit to take the discussions, the charlas, as a way to fully understand the background and as such the doctrine. Each time Maciel resisted and pressed another issue. Before they realized it, the hour had reached midnight. Rawson was shocked and scared. 2 mission rules shattered in the same 24 hours! First he severely overslept and now, he'd missed the appointed time to be home- 9:30pm, without exception.

Maciel said calmly, sensing Rawson's worry and stress- "Elders, it's late for you I know. I know you retire each night long before this hour. My man will give you a ride home. Let's continue this tomorrow as I enjoy your company and conversation. Good night."

The small man then stood up and walked out of the room and disappeared into the massive house he called home without another word or waiting for an agreement from the pair that they'd be back tomorrow. Another man appeared and motioned to the Americans to follow him. They climbed in a dark Suburban with tinted bullet proof windows and were swept off back to Caaguazu. They didn't speak during the drive and neither did the driver. He simply came to stop outside of the wrought iron gate that surrounded the property that contained the Mormon chapel where services were held each Sunday and the garage like shed in the back of the property where the Elders lived.

"Buenos Noches y Gracias," said Rawson, but before he got the final syllable out, the Suburban was roaring off, on its' way back to the Rory Ava compound.

"Wow, that was freaky," said Manning.

"Freaky as hell!" said Rawson.

### Chapter 19

The next morning dawned with more questions than answers for the Elders. Both awoke and went through the prescribed missionary routine of showering, study and prayer before they walked out the door towards their favorite sidewalk cafe. Neither had said more than Buenos Dias until they were out in the street and walking. Manning broke the silence,

"OK, just what was THAT last night?"

silence.

crickets.

Finally Manning stopped in the middle of the street and said, "What, you mean you don't always get international businessmen to engage in conversations about the Church, in English no less, until friggin MIDNIGHT, and then one of their henchmen give you a ride home!?! Yeah, thought so-- every week and twice on leap year, right?"

his sarcasm was only masked by his frustration that Rawson wasn't talking.

Rawson spoke, slowly and quietly.

"Elder, I don't know WHAT that was last night. I wrestled with it all night long in my thoughts and dreams and again in prayer this morning."

Good, Manning thought- He liked it when his companions were stumped. Keep 'em on their toes.

Rawson continued as the pair started walking again-, "It's like he has read every anti-LDS brochure or website ever published. He has all the talking points, everything. It's like he just wants to test us to see if we're real or not. If we're actually See-Ah.." Rawson's sentence trailed off with a meaningless chuckle for him but sent chills spiking up and down Manning's spine. See-Ah or C-I-A. Many Paraguayos used to think that Mormon missionaries were actually spies sent from the US Government in the late 70's and early 80's, assigned to spy on their beloved dictator Don Alfredo Stroessner. It didn't help that in fall of 1980, Anatasio "Tachito" Somoza, the former Nicaraguan president, living in exile in Paraguay was assasinated just 2 blocks from the Mormon mission headquarters in Ascuncion. Locals who liked the gregarious latin disposed leader, immediately blamed American spies and thought all the well dressed young men with shirts and ties roaming their streets were responsible. While nothing was ever proven- urban myth persisted that the CIA was responsible for Somoza's death and hard believing natives didn't trust the young men in white shirts with the black name tags.

The LDS church worked for decades, not only in Paraguay but in other developing countries to enhance their image. Missionaries who were not specifically assigned to proseltyze became more common; retired couples, young women- sister missionaries, with assignments to work on welfare related projects; clean water, sewage disposal, farming methods and more. Eventually the whispers of See-Ah waned as the white-shirted pairs would walk down the streets but for some, there was always a question.

"Are you kidding me?" replied Manning. "No one believes that crap about us being CIA spooks," with all the convincing acting ability he could muster.

"I know. It's silly". I mean, where would we find the time!, Rawson quipped. Hungry?

The pair pealed off to their favorite street side haunt. A hot pair of ham and cheese empanadas, two cups of Cocido- an herbal tea and two copies of the Diario Hoy newspaper awaited them.

While Rawson perused the local soccer results, a headline in the international section caught Manning's eye:

"US Government faces shutdown as Debt Ceiling talks stall"

A review of the Reuters article detailed how a young but very ambitious ultra conservative Congressman from Missouri was quoted as saying he was committed to shutting down the entire government over a vote to raise the debt ceiling unless his demands for answers to questions were satisfied. It wasn't just Stansmeyer's queries into the CIA, in fact, the article failed to mention the exchange between Manning's bosses and the hard-charging Congressman, but rather ideological jihad he was attempting to wage against what he described as "the unyielding beast that is the Federal bureaucracy". Stansmeyer simply felt that the US Federal government was too large and needed to be slashed- unilaterally and without prejudice. In Stansmeyer's world he saw the federal government nearly in a romantic light; providing only the bare essentials that private industry could or would not. Lost in his rationale was the countless billions if not trillions spent on infrastructure and defense, education and the general support of health and populations over generations that could not be recouped. Debates raged on just how much the Government could be cut, how much it should be cut. Americans in the heartland tended to favor Stansmeyer's logic that cuts were needed but only the fringe of the Republican Party stood with him in how those cuts should be made. Those on the left, mainly coastal cities and those in the large metropolitan areas differed on both platforms and felt government wasn't doing enough for its' citizens. Caught in the middle were millions employed by the Government in some way; employed either directly or indirectly. They relied upon income derived from government activity but knew the Federal beast couldn't keep consuming cash at its' current pace and survive. While policy wonks wrangled with various approaches to solve the impasse, Manning could draw one single conclusion; a shut down would literally leave him on the outside with no cover, no direction, no support, nothing. His entire professional life had been newly crafted by a handful of intelligence experts buried deep within the CIA, buried so deep only five people knew of his real existence and purpose. It was a precarious existence at best- one for which he was handsomely compensated- all off-shore and in confidential accounts. No retirement plans, no pensions, no health care. He was simply an expenditure line for contract services buried deep on an Excel spreadsheet in the labyrinth that is a Federal agency budget. Manning was paid over a million dollars US per successful mission. All his travel, clothing, materials needed for his "missionary work"- everything was covered by "the Company". Once he "converted"Maciel, he'd have more than 4 million US in a Swiss bank, earning a hefty return. He figured he had another two to three years at a couple of "conversions" a year and he'd be ready to disappear, retire- somewhere quiet, maybe in a cabin overlooking a lake with a nice pontoon boat. Manning had no desires to show off with a fancy speed boat, no- he'd like to just blend in and be totally forgettable. Maybe a small RV. He'd travel the country checking out National Parks, do some backpacking, photography.

Rawson spoke up- breeching Manning's peaceful daydream. "So, Elder, I do think we need to head towards the market, see if we can find Alejandro and in turn, find his boss." Listo? Ready?"

Vamos. Let's go.

The pair got up and headed toward the city market. Manning kept thinking about how he could wrap up this "mission" before the deadline of the government shutdown and the other looming deadline; that being that Maciel was about to bankroll a major Al Qaeda initiative which if successful, could shut down the US government in a much different manner.

Alejandro's jacked up 4x4 was right where they thought it would be. The young businessman was all smiles as he saw the elders approach.

Oye! Que Tal!!? Hey How's it going?

Rawson greeted him with a big handshake, while Garcia in turn, gave Manning an equally sized hug- un abrazo. Latin men were notorious for their hugging of each other. It was something that took all the American missionaries a bit of adjustment. But it was telling in that he hugged Manning- there was a bond, a trust, a connection.

How'd you guys like it last night? Garcia asked?

Oh, it was awesome. Loved the food. Rawson replied.

And the conversation? his question tailed off as if he knew the pair had been grilled by his boss until the early hours of the morning.

Interesting. Interesting Manning said. Just how much does he know about the LDS Church?

"Oh he reads. A ton. He's always reading." Alejandro then went on to give the pair a rare glimpse into the very private world of Diego Maciel. His insecurities which could border on paranoia, his quirks, his attention to details and his penchant for flying off to the far corners of the world at a moment's notice- always keeping his staff on high alert to be ready as Maciel was not a man who handled disappointment with even the slightest bit of grace or understanding.

But he wants to keep talking to you two. He told me so this morning. Told me to come find you after I picked up some things here in town.

Listos! Vamos! barked Rawson, almost a bit too eager.

And so the next week passed. Each day spent taking in breakfast then headed to the market where they'd find Alejandro and he's make the invitation and away the trio would go- out to Maciel's compound. There, they'd spend hours teaching, talking, going back and forth-each time with Rawson pushing to commit Maciel to set another appointment to return and equally- Maciel resisting, yet bringing the pair back the next day.

The only day the comings and goings didn't unfold in this manner was the lone day off, P-day, for the Elders. But even then, the evening was spent at Casa de Maciel. During their computer time, Manning quickly detailed his report to Crook back in SLC, told him of his anxiety about the government shutdown and the impending deadline to "convert" Maciel before he could send millions to Al Qaeda. Crook replied almost immediately back to Manning to not worry to proceed according to protocol and that the shutdown was not a problem.

"Wish I believed that," thought Crook as he hit send on the email through the encrypted network. What were they going to do?

The iMac pinged with a notification that Crook had a new message on the private network. It was from Manning, acknowledging that he'd received the email, but it was his final line in a very short communication that sparked Crook's mind to fire; Thanks for the quick notes and thanks for keeping secrets where they ought to be.

Crook's fingers raced to keep up with his mind which was screaming along at warp speed with an amazing idea, a solution perhaps. Crook detailed the overview then pounded out several details, enough that Dunn and his superiors could take the project and run. Boom- send. Then a quick note back to Manning, just in case he was still online- "Work hard, Prayers are answered and always ask The Lord to guide you and those who heed his word."

### Chapter 20

It was the ninth consecutive night of intense conversation and teaching when Diego Maciel set everyone on their respective backsides;

"I think I'd like to be baptized. I think I want to be a member of your church and I want to do it with you, my friend Alejandro."

Stunned silence would have been an understatement. Rawson began to tear up. Manning had never even seen the corn-fed farm boy even close to emotion, even when he'd received a letter from home detailing how his dog, his boyhood companion contracted canine cancer and died a horrible death.

Rawson collected himself, looked at Manning who was a bit misty himself. Prayers are answered, he thought. He knew if he could get Maciel into the Church, he'd have an opportunity to get him alone and then complete his real mission. Part of Manning's mind, if not his heart, gave in, albeit temporarily, to a thought that maybe, just maybe, Maciel might straighten his life out by involvement in the Mormon Church. After all, he'd given up drinking alcohol now for almost a week, the steady steam of scantily clad Brazilian lingerie models had dried up. Probably because Rawson said he "wasn't comfortable" having them around. Speak for yourself dude, thougth Manning. But then again, Maciel was even offering prayer on meals when the elders came to eat, so maybe he was in it for real?

Let's set a date, said Rawson. How does a week from Saturday sound? 10 days.

Rawson was thinking Mormon logistics. Manning was thinking Company logistics. 10 days? Too long. I gotta get this cat close now! Rawson was thinking about everything that would have to happen in order for both Maciel and Garcia to be baptized. An interview with the branch president, a lay-person who was the local leader of the congregation. Caaguazu was a branch, which was smaller in size than the standard for Mormon congregations- a ward. then it would be an interview with someone above the branch president, in this case, probably one of the Mission assistants to the President- either Slater or Flint. They'd put both men though a series of questions designed to test not only their freshly acquired knowledge of the faith but their commitment and understanding of what was going to be required of them, should they go through with their baptism. The quickest Manning had ever seen all of those interviews go was a week.

Again, it was Maciel who spoke up. "It has to be sooner, Elder. "I am leaving the country in four days and I want to be baptized before I go."

Oh, where are you going Senor? asked Manning.

Muy lejos. Far away. You know where they ride camels and live in caves? I am going beyond those places.

Manning knew instantly where Maciel was headed. A meeting and delivery of cash to Al Qaeda. While his motives for joining the Church were still to be determined, Maciel had to be dealt with before he got on his plane and headed to Pakistan, or Afghanistan or wherever the rendezous point was going to be.

Four days it was. The date was set for Saturday. Today was Tuesday. Manning and Rawson said they needed to get back to town to get things moving in order to meet Maciel's deadline. Lost in all of this was Alejandro's conversion. He truly believed in the Mormon teachings now. He was a new man. Manning hoped that after all of this was over, Alejandro would have the strength to continue in the Church. He knew he'd need it.

The accelerated deadline necessitated a call to the mission office to get someone to come interview the two potential converts. It gave Manning a chance to use the computer mid-week which was really an answer to prayer. It saved Rawson from another long drug-induced sleep, which Manning was sure he'd appreciate. A quick mail to Don Crook at LDS mission headquarters, informing him that Maciel was going to leave the country on Sunday, just five days from now- and Manning had him committed to baptism on Saturday but would need "baptismal supplies".

An earlier email on p-day detailed Manning's progress and and an update. He was always careful to only divulge as much as absolutely was the bare minimum needed as far as information. Even thought it was a secure network, encrypted and 128-bit secure, less was always best approach. Plus, the less others knew about the methods used in these "conversions" the better.

The response email came within two minutes, still while Rawson was on the phone with mission office, "it's always good practice to pick up a local newspaper each morning. Keeps you up to date on the news and gives you valuable tools in your pursuit of your goals."

Love the morning paper, Manning mused.

### Chapter 21

Thursday dawned with a spectacular sunrise, the kind you only see when you're on an airplane and get that unfiltered view of the heavens in that soft morning light.

The vista of the swelling orange orb in the eastern sky gave Manning a comfort he hadn't felt in quite some time. Normally at this stage of his "missions" he was pouring over logistics, fussing over potential areas of trouble, gaps, contingency plans, exit strategy, covering tracks and eliminating loose ends. Yes, he'd done all that in the Maciel case, several times over, except for one.

That damned Dutch woman. Lisel deHaan.

Manning couldn't shake her. Not that she was pursuing him, but their paths had crossed several times during the days and weeks that had passed since they met in the fruit market. Each time the discussion went a bit longer than the previous conversation, the smiles on both sides lingered longer and the handshakes-- my God!, thought Manning. How I LOVE her hands!. What he really wanted to do was take her in his embrace and kiss the hell out of her! But since that wasn't even a remote possibility given his cover as a celibate Mormon missionary, he would just have to continue his mental fantasies and hope somehow, regardless of logic and good sense- hope she felt something too. Where it would go, who knew? Could it go anywhere?

The realistic answer was no. And not just no but a chilling and sobering NO.

Deep in his heart, Manning knew. He knew that when he accepted employment with "The Company", he left any chance at a normal life behind. Sure, someday he held hope for perhaps a relationship, maybe even marriage and children. He wanted those things.

"I've only got maybe five years to realistically pull off this Mormon missionary cover without too many questions," he thought to himself. "I'll simply look too old after that to be a plausible cover and not raise too many questions."

Manning already employed one of the Company's best disguise techniques: Masks, prosthetics, anything to change physical appearance was at his disposal within no more than 24 hours- regardless of where he was on the planet. Knowing how well the alternative appearances worked and given the pace of technology, maybe he'd go another 10 years, but at some point, this cover would run its course and move on.

Rawson sipped on his cocido and chowed down another empanada. He was beaming. He was so happy having 2 baptisms scheduled. There had been tremendous pressure coming from the mission office to increase the number of baptisms in recent months. The work in Caaguazu had been slow to say the least and that had not gone unnoticed in Asuncion and Salt Lake. Numbers. Reports, Charts, trends- all of it. Yes, this was about conversion and saving souls and "bringing the gift of eternal life to all kindred tongues and peoples of the earth" but it was also about production. Missionaries who produced were noted. Promotions didn't exist per se in the LDS mission structure, but new and more advance, responsibilities - callings seemed to come to those who showed results. Rawson had been a district leader in Caaguazu for nearly 7 months. Typically elders only stayed in one area for 3-5 months, maybe 6 at the longest before they were transferred. Keep it fresh, keep the relationships on the surface- don't let anyone get too attached. That was the mantra. Ironically, it's also what kept the Mormons from making any significant gains in the communities like Caaguazu, according to Manning. Latins and especially Paraguayans were people who deeply valued friendship, family and relationships. YOu simply didn't build much of a foundation in 90 days and then shipped out- handing off your investigator list to the next short-haired, white shirt and tie clad American from Orem Utah.

Rawson was thrilled that after almost 7 months, his hard work was paying off. He was the epitome of a faithful, loyal, hardworking Elder. Obedience and faithful service always payed off. And now, maybe just now, those guys in the office will take notice, thought the Nebraska farm boy. He would never express those thoughts aloud. It would seem selfish and misguided. But he desperately wanted to be a Zone Leader. Mormon missions are highly structured organizations. Each mission contains somewhere between 120-160 individual missionaries, each paired with a companion- with whom they serve 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. No exceptions. Always together, never alone. Companionships are assigned to work a specific locale, their "area". Several companionships and areas make up a "district"; sometimes as few as three or as many as 7or 8 companionships, depending on the density of population, geography etc. Each district had a leader- the district leader was one of the elders, always a man, never a woman. Women were never allowed to hold such leadership positions as they were not given the Priesthood. The district leader held weekly meetings to gain progress reports, give training on teaching techniques, inspirational messages and motivation. Several districts made up a zone.

In Paraguay, there were six zones within the mission. At the zone level, there were 2 zone leaders- a companionship called to the positions. They were to do regular missionary proselytizing but additionally were required to supervise the district leaders under their pervue. Zone leaders reported to the Assistants to the President. The AP's as they were called, was the top of the chart. An elder simply couldn't go any higher. Outwardly, Mormons never were to aspire to a calling, especially missionaries. The work was too pure. But inwardly, there was no doubt most elders knew of the talk back home among parents and friends....

Steve Rawson had played the scenario in his head, he'd overheard it in church in person back home, many many times.

Sister Jones, at Church on Sunday, "oh, how long has Johnny been out now?"

Sister Smith, "Just over a year and a half. he will be home in 6 months."

Jones,"what's he doing now?"

Smith, "Oh he's the district leader in Smallville."

then silently Sister Jones would think, Yeah, he's not making AP, maybe Zone Leader if he really busts his tail. He must not be that good of a missionary. Certainly The Lord would inspire those in positions of leadership to make the call to those who were deserving and capable. Those kinds of intra-judgements existed whether they were acknowledged or not within the Mormon culture. Rawson knew his parents were proud of him, knew he was working hard and doing the Lord's work, and certainly obeying the rules- doing all the things he needed to do in order to be blessed and help the Church flourish. But still, he wanted his parents, his mother especially, to be able to say to her fellow Mormon ward members, "Oh yes, Steve is doing great! He's a zone leader you know..." And dunking a couple of strong candidates after months of struggle might just get him there.

Manning and Rawson walked back to the Mormon chapel and grounds where the baptismal interviews would take place. They waited for the Mission car, a gray Peugeot station-wagon to pull up. Chatting with folks as they walked by, the pair made small talk like a couple awaiting an adoption interview with people in a waiting room; awkwardly and with minds a-adrift. For Rawson- his mind was focused on Maciel and Alejandro; are they ready? will they give the right answers? will Slater and Flint be nice or will they grill them? For Manning, his mind was dialing in on details of the baptism as well, but for different reasons. He continued to be distracted with the vision of a tanned Dutch woman in flip flops and cargo shorts, who spoke English with the most adorable but very slight accent, who seemingly could brighten his world at the very thought of her name. And yet, even though she was probably in the fruit market just minutes away, the reality of her being in his life was a world away.

Finally, a vehicle rumbled to the gate. The car doors opened, Flint and Slater got out, and greeted Rawson and Manning. The four retired to the elders' shed where they lived for a pre-interview discussion. After the normal gentle ribbing back and fort between Slater and Rawson about corn fed this and potato loving that, Flint lowered the levity barometer in the room with a driving question; "Alright, what's the deal with these two? What are you guys trying to pull?"

Rawson jumped right on the opportunity with nary a single hint of defensiveness, "Absolutely nothing Elder. We've taught, we've labored, we've prayed and fasted, we've nurtured and the Spirit has delivered not one but two wonderful men to join the Kingdom of God here on Earth."

Holy Shit, thought Manning. That was like it was verbatim right out of the church books. It had all the key words and elements, principles- the motherlode: prayer, fasting, laboring, nurturing, and then relying on the Spirit, then the line about the Kingdom of God on Earth was brilliant. Gotta remember that one. That's gold!, as he concluded, smiling externally to add effect and support to Rawson's statements.

OK, we'll see, said Flint. I just get nervous with these quickie deals. THere's always a reason they want to get baptized right away and usually it's not good. I'm sure these guy's motives are righteous and I'm just being paranoid.

"It's just that he's leaving on an international trip," said Manning. "Maciel. Maciel's leaving and he wants to do it before he goes. "

Rawson looked at Slater and Flint, trying to show only his best poker face, but that was not a talent The Lord had blessed him with. He blushed to a bright shade of flush at the slightest compliment or stretch of truth. Manning thought his head might explode if a woman ever came on to him and heaven forbid- talked dirty to him.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," interjected Slater. "Let's get ready." The four knelt in prayer, a common precursor to any mission activity.

Within a few minutes, Alejandro's 4x4 rumbled through the gates, onto the grounds. Maciel got out of the back passenger door. Neither Manning nor Rawson had ever seen him off his private compound, and indeed- this was a rare occasion. Alejandro greeted the foursome and introduced his boss.

Flint suggested that he start with Maciel and in turn, Slater took the task of interviewing Alejandro.

"Damn. Wish it'd been the other way around," Manning said out loud, but quietly as the foursome headed towards the Mormon chapel where they'd conduct the interviews.

"Me too, Elder, me too", Rawson said as he turned almost as a father or older brother would, putting his arm around Manning's shoulder and walking back towards the lawn chairs sitting near the doorway of their shed.

"Wanna toke?"

"You bet!"

Some Mormon elders in Paraguay joked, embracing the bad-boy side as much as they could, referring often to drinking the national cultural standard cold hebal tea, terrere' as toking weed. It worked as the guampa and bombilla used to drink the herbal tea resembled a crude bong set up- if the bong were carved out of a cattle horn.

Inside the church house, Elder Flint was engaged fully in his interview of Diego Maciel. Flint had no idea that across the table from him sat the biggest financier of terrorism in the world, a man highly sought after by not only the American government but Interpol, most of the Asian block and the governments of Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan. Those governments especially were anxious to bring in Maciel as he weakened their power in their native countries by financing those who would not only destroy Americans but also those within their own borders who favored a more open, democratic, transparency form of governance. Flint was asking all the usual questions and looking for something within the answers that might tip him off, might give him a reason to post-pone the baptism. As much as he wanted the numbers, the baptisms, he felt he had an obligation to play devil's advocate in these situations.

Maciel was giving him nothing in that vein. He was answering each and every question as though he'd been born and raised in Orem Utah. Joseph Smith was not only a Prophet of God but he had been cruelly persecuted through history with revisionists accounts of his questionable youth. The LDS Church, he never called it the Mormon Church, always LDS, was God's one and only true church on the face of the earth in modern times. He believed and committed to paying a full 10% tithe, he committed to working with members of the branch, to go home teaching- where he'd visit 3-4 families a month- checking on their welfare and bringing a message of inspiration from the brethren in Salt Lake. Everything. He nailed it. No sweating brow, no disinclination to look directly in the eyes during the conversation. He appeared composed, assured but humble and yet, contemplative of his own mortality and existence. Flint was excited. This guy was truly a blessing, a chosen Son of God- brought forth in the latter days to help lead the full restoration of the Lord's message. He will do so much good for the Saints here in Caaguazu and in Paraguay, thought Flint as he stood up from his knees after hearing Maciel pray to close to the interview.

If the baptismal interview was a final exam, a test- Maciel would have not only aced it, he'd been advanced a grade, given an additional diploma, or more. Meanwhile, Alejandro probably would have needed extra credit questions just to pass.

Slater could tell Alejandro's interest was genuine. His spirit seemed pure. He was a likable young man with a great job and a very bright future. But some of his answers gave Slater pause.

Alejandro, are you a homosexual?

Huh?

Are you a homosexual?

The elders didn't say you'd be asking that, why does it matter? I mean, I'm not but if I know homosexuals will that keep me out?

He was nervous...

Oh no. If you just know them, that's not a big deal. But you're not, right? You're not a homosexual...Slater wouldn't let it go until he got his confirmation. His own feelings on the issue were strong; "God did not create nor tolerate homosexuals." The LDS church had been quite outspoken over the years on the issue of equal rights for homosexual couples, whether or not same-sex marriages should be allowed, and of course the infamous Proposition 8 in California in 2008. For Slater, it was clear; his church leadership which he believed to be called, inspired and directed by God did not want homosexuals in the Church. It was his job to make sure he didn't allow any into the sacred waters of baptism.

"No. No Elder Slater I am not homosexual," said Alejandro more than slightly offended and puzzled by this line of questioning. "But I really don't see what the big deal is."

Big deal? replied Slater? Oh, it's a very big deal Alejandro, because it's a sin and grievous sin in God's eyes and we must keep the church clean.

Alejandro shifted uncomfortably in his chair but sensed that Slater was just getting started.

You see Alejandro, God's word in the Bible is very clear about the abomination that is homosexuality. Do you know the story about Soddom and Gommora? God destroyed that city, which was most beautiful among all others at one point, because of heinous practice of sodomy. Alejandro- you must tell me if you have now or have had any homosexual thoughts.

Alejandro was growing uneasy. He knew he wasn't homosexual but he personally knew a number of his friends were and he didn't think there was anything wrong with them. They were just like him, they just had different sexual preferences- that was all. He felt offended and a bit like giving Slater a real verbal smack down. But he knew that would kill his chances of being baptized and that was something he wanted more than anything. He could live with his soon-to-be church's strict stance issue and others.

No, Elder, I told you. I am not homosexual.

What else? Garcia pressed Slater slightly as he wanted the interview to end. More so, he wanted to be cleared and approved for baptism but he didn't want to continue any conversation with Elder Slater. How is it that he can be such a dick?, thought Alejandro. How can he be that way when the other guys, Manning and Rawson are so nice, so engaging and sincere?

No, Alejandro, I think we are done. I believe that you believe Joseph Smith was a called Prophet of God, that God talks to his prophet today, who guides this Church from Salt Lake City and that is all I need. You will be baptized this Saturday!

They both stood up, shook hands, which was weird to Alejandro because he always greeted Rawson and Manning with the traditional Latin hug, and headed down the hall and outside.

Rawson and Maning downed two pitchers of weed and were about to tee up a third when they saw Maciel emerge from the chapel building. Within fifteen seconds, Alejandro followed. Both with smiles on their faces.

Felicidades! Congratulations! You're going to have a couple of baptisms this Saturday said Elder Flint, smiling slightly and slightly disturbed that the pair were seated in lawn chairs drinking terrere.

Al Pelo!! Al Pelo paite!! Chirped Rawson.

Manning smiled and gave Alejandro a big abrazzo, a big bear hug. He was truly happy for him. He knew. He saw it in Alejandro's eyes. He really believed in the message, the faith and the lifestyle. Manning had come to reconcile his own personal feelings and beliefs with those who wanted to embrace and follow the LDS path. He struggled initially with the thought that might just be using these people along the way to get to others; others who were targeted by his real calling. But in the end, if those people, like Alejandro found something they could believe in, something they could use as a foundation in this life, then what was the harm? Just because he didn't personally buy into the doctrine didn't mean that it was all bad, right?

As the embrace broke apart, Alejandro leaned in and whispered something in English into Manning's ear, "That was weird dude."

Manning pulled back and looked back, confirming he'd received the message with a tilted and furrowed brow and a look of inquiry.

"I'll tell you about sometime,' Trunquillo no mas. " It's all good.

Maciel was chatting with Flint like they were long lost roommates from college catching up over lunch.

That guy is one slick operator, thought Manning.

The thought must have been fairly easy to decipher as Rawson, who had moved in next to Manning, said quietly, "Doesn't that just blow you away?" "One month ago he had no idea about the Church and now, in just two days, he'll be a baptized member and on his way to earning the Priesthood and receiving all the blessings that come with a life grounded in the Gospel."

Two different schools of thought, mused Manning, internally of course.

"It sure does Elder, it sure does."

### Chapter 22

Friday morning got off to a slow start for the missionaries. Manning had woken himself in the night, given Rawson a quarter dose of Haldol as he needed to get some urgent correspondence off to Crook and Dunn about Maciel.

He'd slipped out of the shed in street clothes, criss crossed through the back streets of Caaguazu, rented another SUV under yet another identity, gotten to a secure location where he could connect his satellite phone he kept locked away in his safe box. Manning quickly typed in the secure access code. Thousands of miles away in Quantico Virginia, computer monitors and banks of data servers sprang to life- lights blinking- signaling that the message had been received and the request honored.

One hour later a six foot un-manned aircraft, a drone almost silently descended out of the partly cloudy sky. Manning had been watching for it with night vision goggles but even he didn't see it until it was a hundred feet away. Stealth technology in drones had come light years since it was first introduced, he thought.

A small package dropped from the payload bay, floating quickly and discreetly to the ground, landing in a small grove of bushes along a rise next to a spring. Manning jogged over, checking over his shoulders for anyone who might be watching.

Who the hell could be watching? I'm miles from the nearest house, barn, hut- camp- nothing. But, his training- always check, double check then check again. This was crucial. Without the contents of the package, all his work and time spent in getting close to Maciel would be wasted and honestly, he might not get this close to the world's biggest financier of terrorism again.

He came up on the bush quickly, it was only 100 feet away. The box wasn't visible to the naked eye but he'd tagged with an infrared tracking spot that would allow him to see an image in his night vision goggles. The image? The angel Moroni.

Ironic he thought. Moroni was a prophet in Mormonism, an ancient spiritual leader in the America's after his forefathers, according to Mormon belief, fled the old country of the Middle East- Israel- because of wickedness and a calling of God, delivered by vision. Moroni was the image used on all Mormon temples throughout the world, sitting atop the tallest steeple of each temple- hundreds across the planet, including one in Paraguay.

As Manning reached into the bush to grab the package, he heard something moving in the bush. Suddenly, whatever it was, wrapped around his legs and in an instant, tightened like a vise- dropping Manning as if he were a pine tree in a forest. His head hit the ground with a vicious strike- dazing him momentarily. His eyes closed all so briefly but when he opened them he saw a sickening greenish yellow pair of eyes staring back at him. Just then a massive hinged jaw opened, a hiss shot out at him as if to warn him that he was about to meet his maker by the most bizarre and painful of paths.

An anaconda.

The willow bush where the package landed was on a slight rise but within 50 feet of a fresh water spring. Water was vital to the anaconda's survival and while rare in this part of the country, they ruled the Chaco; the land to the west of the Paraguay River which essentially separated Paraguay into two countries; the inhabited part to the east of Asuncion and the wild Chaco or jungle which lay to west- creating a formidable border between Paraguay and Bolivia. To say the Chaco wasn't inhabited is incorrect. There were thousands who lived there. Indigenous tribes; the Guarani, Chulupi and others. Settled and civilized was another matter. Tribes lived and roamed the lands of the Chaco and had done for as long as man had been on the continent. Rivers deep with piranahas, snakes like the anaconda and others patrolled their banks, wild boar, jaguars, wild monkeys and all sorts of untamed creatures were feared and respected in the Chaco. The lush savannah of eastern Paraguay was not the first place one would look for anaconda but there were a few and Manning had found one- up close and about to get very personal. A bite from an anaconda was crippling but the constrictor used a daily double approach to kill its prey; squeeze and bite, then swallow. Manning's training kicked in. he rolled one way then as quick as he could back the other way, then with a reverse summersault , he got to his knees- grabbed a stick and when the giant snake lunged he jammed the stick as far as he could down its throat.

That'll buy me maybe 5 seconds- his mind raced. he had his agency gun- a Glock in the rental. As he went to get to his feet, something caught on his cargo pants.

Manning grabbed it and fired again directly down the throat of the beast. His taser.

It stunned the 20 foot reptile just enough that Manning was able to get to his feet. He ran to the vehicle, grabbed his Glock and turned, ready to fire.

The snake, now beyond irritated, made one move towards Manning then quickly retreated, almost like a bear bluffing a charge when a hiker crosses their path- getting between them and a cub or worse, the cub and a food cache. Growing up in the Bitterroot Mountains in Montana, Manning had gone through this experience more than once.. He always held his ground, dropped his head and slowly, very slowly retreated until the bear went on its way. The snake retreated, this time opting to slide into the spring, still smarting from the voltage shot. Manning grabbed "Moroni", jumped in the rental and sped off, relieved he didn't have to leave a 20 foot carcass there for someone to find and wonder why a massive anaconda had met its death from a gunshot to the head and no one took the meat or the skin.

His heart still racing, Manning slid the lid to the box open. He chuckled when he read the lettering on the outside of the box, "Religious materials".

Yup, someone is about to have the spiritual experience of their lifetime. And yes, they will be meeting their maker soon. Very soon. Just not me and not at the jaws of giant assed snake, he thought.

An hour later, the contents of the box secure in a backpack, the box destroyed, Manning pulled in the same roadside stop for fuel before he dropped off the rental.And again, he saw the same beautiful shillouette on the row of pumps next to his, Lisel deHaan.

Damn, does that girl only come out at night? He smiled as the cheesy lyrics of the 80's Hall & Oates tune with that phrase ran through his mind.

"You're happy tonight," said deHaan, breaking the silence. She was walking right past Manning as he was lost in his 80's flashback when she saw him smile.

"I am, yes I am," he replied, almost robotically. "Uh, I mean, yeah, it's a good night. What about you?"

"Doing great. I mean, it's warm, some stars are out, or they were, nice breeze- can't beat it." What has you out at this late hour?" she asked playfully and with just enough innocence to be truly seductive.

Manning had to remember that he was wearing AADs, Appearance Altering Devices, a mask, jaw implants to give him a different facial structure, colored contacts, lifts in his shoes to give him two inches of height and enough body padding to easily make him appear 40 pounds heavier. His cover was he was a petroleum engineer out picking up some core samples that needed to be taken under moonlight so as to preserve the right level of moisture in the soil.

Lisel smiled and said, "well, you must love your work to be out at this hour."

Manning was busting inside.

Here was this woman who'd been haunting him in his night dreams and day dreams for that matter and she wouldn't ever know it was him, HIM, not this chubby, doofus fake engineer who was so "into his job" he took core samples at night.

She looked at him,smiled then looked at him again like she was looking right through him.

Oh shit! thought Manning. My mask is peeling or something is giving me away.

"You ok?", he asked. "You're looking at me like I'm from another planet!"

No, I'm fine, LIsel said. It's just., aw, it's nothing.

No, what?

It's just that, well, there's something more to you. I can see something more in there but I can't figure out what it is.

Manning's heart leapt.

And his mind raced.

Never before had his identity been a question, but if a Peace Corps volunteer could see something, who else could see through it all?

But in a rare moment in his life, Manning's heart over-rode his mind.

You know, he hesitated, You know, maybe somewhere, maybe here, maybe somewhere else, if you think you see something in someone- do me a favor would ya,? Just give that guy a chance, ok?

Lisel smiled, cocked her head with a wonderful lilt and said, You bet! I'll do it and I promise I will.

He knew she would. He could tell her sincerity and for a brief moment, all was well in his strange world.

And with that, Manning he hung up the fuel hose, jumped in the vehicle and headed out. Time was ticking and he simply couldn't be late.

Just like before, Manning was able to return the rental, weave his way back to the shed he called home, and slide into bed, sans disguise, long before Rawson started to stir at a very late 8:00am.

When Rawson did finally roust himself from his rest, Manning was dressed, sitting-reading as if nothing had ever happened. With the exception of a bruise on the back of his right calf from that damned snake attack, there was absolutely no evidence of his overnight adventure.

Elder!, Rawson said in a groggy voice, You let me oversleep again!. You gotta wake me up when I get like this.

Sorry dude, I'll make sure it won't happen again. And he knew it wouldn't, if all went according to plan in the next 48 hours.

Thirty minutes later, the pair headed out the door and down the street their favorite breakfast spot, Ybucua. As they dove into a basket of ham and cheese empanadas and a pot of cocido, Manning picked up a copy of Diario Hoy, the daily paper. Deep inside on page 7, in the international briefs, was a story that caught his eye.

-Missouri Congressman resigns amid allegations of past rape convictions-

"(Washington DC) Missouri 8th District Congressman Wayne Stansmeyer, Republican is scrambling today, answering allegations that he purposely did not disclose not one but two rape convictions in his past. Stansmeyer, considered the leader of the Tea Party caucus and a much talked about potential presidential candidate, rose to national prominence during his most recent efforts to shut down the United State Federal Government over raising the debt ceiling."

Manning read on, knowing only that Stansmeyer was nearly singlehandedly trying to dismantle the deep intelligence operations within the CIA as he pounded his far right ultraconservative ideology.

"Stansmeyer was convicted in the 3rd District Court of Florida in 1978 on one count of statutory rape for his relationship with a 15 year teen girl while he was serving as a high school mentor at the age of 23. He failed to report the conviction and a subsequent conviction to which he entered an Alford Plea in 1983 on his application for a concealed weapons carry permit. The original application was granted but the renewal application was pulled, randomly, as part of a state compliance audit. When questioned about the omission on the application, the conservative Congressman seemed perplexed as to why it would be an issue,"I was never found guilty, especially on the second charge." Court officials in Florida confirmed that Stansmeyer was indeed recorded as entering a guilty verdict in 1978 and an Alford Plea in 1983. "I don't care what their records say, I was found innocent!," said Stansmeyer, who went on to proclaim that his now questionable past and record was a result of government conspiracy to derail his presidential aspirations. "The people of America will see through this!"

Manning smiled and exhaled. He knew or at least believed that his co-workers at "the company" may indeed have had a hand in this. But he'd never know for sure. Keep information in a silo, divulging only to those who absolutely needed to know. And in Manning's case- how Congressman Stansmeyer's opposition to deep intelligence operations was tempered was something he simply didn't need to know. His job was to "keep the faith", just keep on doing his job and to never "lose faith". He knew exactly what that meant.

Most of Friday was spent with Rawson and Manning going to various Mormon members homes around Caaguazu, inviting them to the baptism, asking them to be there to extend a hand of fellowship to the two new men who would be joining their congregation on Saturday. A couple of phone calls to missionaries in the neighboring cities of Villarrica, Col. Oviedo to bolster support along with finalizing the program. Some one had to conduct the meeting, lead the singing of hymns, who would say the prayers and finally, who would conduct the actual baptisms and who would do the confirmations. Manning had a little angst over this part of the program as it was key to his real mission.

Elder, would you rather do the baptizing or the confirmations?, asked Rawson, the senior companion.

"Well, replied Manning, if you're ok with it, I wouldn't mind doing the baptism part. It would be my first - a grand lie- as he'd performed baptisms on other missions- and I'd love to have it be here in Caaguazu."

I think that'd be great, said Rawson. Manning tried to conceal his noticeable exhale of relief. After all, neither Alejandro or Senor Maciel made a request for either of us, I suppose we could ask them, just to be sure.

Damn, don't go backwards on me now, thought Manning.

You know Elder, they are probably nervous enough, let's not pile another thing on them at this point. If they say something tomorrow, we can always switch it up- hoping like hell it wouldn't come to that-.

Good point. Rawson continued to ask questions and solicit input for songs, even though he'd been through this a few times and had it pretty well in hand, but he always tried to be a good trainer, teaching and including his junior companion.

I'll actually miss that dude, thought Manning. He's good people. Too bad we won't ever be able to have a reunion 20 years from now; talk about our kids, show off our wives, embellish stories about tales of adventure we lived through in the mission field. Not in my world of faith and works. Won't.ever.happen.

The thought lingered. These Mormon boys aren't bad people. They're good, kind hearted for the most part, here because they believe in what they're doing, again for the most part. Some were on missions simply because it was expected by their families, or girlfriends who said they wouldn't marry anyone other than an "RM", a returned missionary. Others went because they didn't have anywhere else to go; the military wasn't an option for them, and college seemed either too expensive or too pointless. Plus, in the Mormon culture, a young man was expected to serve a mission, despite everyone and everything that said it was optional. But once you served, you came home to almost a military like hero's welcome, you were revered and placed on a pedestal. The life AFTER the mission was a nice payoff for all the pain and hard work of going through the mission.

Manning concentrated on his own faith, his own mission. He'd made a commitment to his faith and his country long ago, 2 years to be exact. But in reality, he'd always had a deep sense of service to country as not only the right thing but an obligation of anyone who enjoyed the freedoms provided by living in the United States and the representative republic form of government. Yes, he realized the irony of using the cloak of faith as a way infiltrate a seemingly benign organization like the Mormon church and their world-wide missionary efforts, only to take the mortal lives of those he was assigned to kill. Manning always thought- Yes, you say I'm an imposter but in reality he was a patriot; doing what any patriot should do, if they had the training and talent, to protect the integrity and sovereignty of the country he loved.

### Chapter 23

Finally, it dawned Saturday morning. Birds chirping outside the shed greeted Manning as he awoke just before 6:15am. It was warm and muggy already. A series of rain showers overnight left substantial moisture in the atmosphere and the humidity levels high.

He showered, and managed to sweat while in the shower. Only in the tropics, he thought. Rawson was soon awake, showered and readied for the day. The pair followed their normal routine, leaving the grounds, walking a few blocks to Ybucua, ordering empanads, getting a paper and sitting like an old married couple at a diner; each reading and scouring the paper, but not carrying on any real sort of conversation with each other.

The baptism was scheduled for 6pm. Nothing of any real consequence was ever scheduled for the morning. Don't get in a hurry, trunquillo no mas. After the siesta, do it then.

After breakfast, Rawson and Manning headed to the fruit market to catch up with some of the merchants, make some invitations to have them come see the baptism tonight. Manning was hoping to get at least a glimpse of Lisel who continued to occupy his dreams both day and night.

He would not be disappointed.

After lobbing verbal jabs back and forth in very good jest with the man who peeled the oranges on the old spinning wheel, a virtual goddess of femininity came into view. If it had been a shampoo commercial, her hair would have been blowing ever so slightly in the breeze, she'd be slowly tossing her mane back and forth with her chest puffed out ever so slightly, the birds would be flitting around her like Snow White and music would reign from the heavens like an angelic orchestra.

Good God man, hand over your man card! thought Manning. This broad is way too deep in your skull. Remember your mission. Nothing, no one, no one moment or thing can deter you; Singular in focus, Singular in Mission, Singular in Success. Never.Fail.

But she did look hot. Lisel rounded the end of the row of fruits in her standard cargo shorts, flip flops and a button shirt, untucked and unbuttoned down to just the point where a devilish spot of cleavage peaked out as if to torment Manning by saying, "Damn! Don't you wish you could see where THIS leads?"

Lisel caught sight of the elders, turned and headed their way. She strolled up, and in the most friendly way, said, "Hey Mormon boys, What's happening?", adorned with a smile that would melt glaciers.

Manning smiled as if he were a shy 8th grade boy who had just been greeted by his first real crush and had no possible response but to just smile and nod, repeatedly.

Rawson said, Hey to you!, How's it going?

Great, actually. I'm about ready to start a well digging project at one of the schools in the Bush country. Could use a hand.....her voice trailed off, lilting slightly as to deliver a subtle yet intended flirtatious invitation.

Rawson seized the moment, Tell you what, You come to a baptism tonight at the Church and we'll come help you dig your well. Whaddya say?

Lisel thought- Well, Do I have to get baptized in order for you to grab a shovel? she chuckled with the sweetest little snicker, Manning internally proclaimed.

Wouldn't hurt! chuckled Rawson. But no, you don't, Don't have to get baptized that is, But we'd love to have you. 6pm, after the siesta.

What do I wear? I mean, I really don't have a lot of..... her voice trailed off again, although this time with more sincerity and realness. It's just that I don't have...

Don't have what? Manning finally found himself able to speak.

A, a, uh, you know, like a Mormon dress. Lisel said hesitantly. I mean, you know, like the Mormon girls wear back in the States.

Do you have a dress here? Manning shot back. He was finding his confidence and burying that shy little shit who held his tongue and manhood captive whenever he saw Lisel.

Well yes, Mr. Manning, I do- she said, firing back with a smile and a spark in her eye and voice in that flirty kind of way that drives men crazy.

Well, I'd love to see you in that dress! Manning returned his hormonal fire bomb. I mean, he stammered, catching himself and his libido, We'd love to have you at the baptism tonight. 6pm, at the Church. Do you know where it is?

Oh yes, I know where you live. deHaan said with a smile almost like she'd been there a number of times but never come through the gates.

OK, listo! Nos vemos. We'll see you.

Chau, interjected Rawson, who was now attempting to wrestle control of the mushrooming infatuation between the two, like a parent who stumbles upon a conversation between two young teens completely consumed by each other's sheer presence.

Chau!

Lisel turned and headed back down the market. Manning watched as the heads of nearly male merchant followed her moves with amazement and adoration.

Rawson punched Manning in the shoulder. Easy there big boy! No time for girls here. You're a missionary! He said in a nice, teasing kind of way, but it was his reminder to keep the missionary pure of thought and heart although it was lost on Manning who had spent many a wonderful if not passionate moment with deHaan in his dreams.

Surprisingly enough, Manning grabbed a much needed nap during siesta, about an hour or so. He felt calm. He remembered the ending moments during his first mission when he had to actually take the life of another human. He had to work to overcome the anxiety and nervousness and after the remorse and guilt. It was truly soul wrenching work.

4pm. Manning showered, again, as the heat and humidity was drenching his clothes at an alarming rate. 5pm, the pair headed across the yard to the chapel where they began to set up chairs, put out hymn books, fill the baptismal font and all the other preparations necessary. Manning and Rawson were joined by the elders from the two neighboring cities; Colonel Oviedo, about 45 minutes away by bus and Villarrica, about an hour and a half away. The 6 elders, all Americans, quickly set the chairs, filled the font and even put out treats or refreshments for after the event.

Baptism is a major point in the life of a Mormon. The act of being baptized was patterned after John the Baptists performance of the ordinance on Jesus in the New Testament and in accordance to that account, it was done by full immersion in the waters just as Jesus had done in the River Jordan. After baptism, Mormon priesthood holders place their hands upon the head of the newly cleansed individual and confirm them a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and give unto them "the gift of the Holy Ghost". The Holy Ghost, according to Mormon doctrine, is the third member of the Godhead or Trinity and while Jesus the Christ and God the Father both are actual whole beings, possessing perfect resurrected bodies, the Holy Ghost is not. Often called "The Spirit', the Holy Ghost is thought of as a comforter, a constant guiding companion, as long as the person is pure and living the Gospel. If one will but humble themselves to be in tune with this connection, the promise is they will never walk alone while on the Earth.

5:40pm. Everything was in place. No one other than the six American gringo elders were present.

5:55pm. No change. No worries, said Rawson. Trunquillo no mas Elderes! Take it easy, they'll be here. Although deep inside both Manning and Rawson were a bit worried.

6:00pm. Alejandro Garcia's tricked out 4x4 rumbled up to the gates of the compound. And to everyone's relief, two latin men got out; Alejandro AND Diego Maciel.

He showed. He actually showed.

Manning had thought that perhaps Maciel was just going through the motions of conversion into the faith as a ruse- a way to show more legitimacy in his operations and bury his real deeds even deeper from prying eyes. Be that as it might be, if all went according to plan, the real reason for Maciel's conversion may never be known.

6:05pm, by now about 10 local Caaguazu members had arrived and right behind them, a tall Dutch Peace Corp volunteer in a stunning halter top sun dress that had Bartholmew Angus Manning scrambling oh so carefully to hide an erection and something much more dangerous in his pants.

By 6:10pm everyone was seated in the room where the six foot deep baptismal font was filled about 3/4's full. Both Maciel and Alejandro were dressed in all white jumpsuits, the standard attire for a Mormon baptism, as was Manning.

One of the elders from Oviedo led the singing, a local member offered the opening prayer. Rawson gave a brief talk about the importance of baptism as one of the key steps we must take as children of God here on this Earth in order to return to Heaven and live in his presence for eternity.

Then the time arrived; baptism time. Manning entered the font on one end, slowly descending down the 3 steps into the warm water which came to his mid-navel, while Alejandro came in from the opposite side, standing behind him was Maciel.

Manning took Alejandro with his left hand, grasped around his wrist, Alejandro using his free hand to pinch his nose, Manning's right hand raised to the square and he said outloud, with devotion and purpose the Mormon baptismal prayer, which must be said perfectly word for word:

Habiendo sido commissionado por Jesus Cristo, Te Bautizo en el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espiritu Santo, Amen.

Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.

A slight bend of Alejandro's knees, Manning's right hand drops to support his lower back, his left hand then pushing him down and backwards in a dipping motion to full submersion, without the feet rising- a quick check of the two elders who kneel in the front, acting as witnesses to make sure no part of the body came out of the water, a pull back up in reverse and just like that, Alejandro Garcia had been baptized.

Alejandro looked at Bart, tears in his eyes, a smile wider than the Pilcomayo River. He grabbed Manning and pulled him into an embrace and said in his ear, Thank you my brother. Thank you for finding me.

A quite response and a smile. You're welcome Alejandro. It's my honor and pleasure.

As Alejandro exited the font, Bart caught a view of Maciel waiting in the wings, on his phone, talking excitedly to someone. All he could make out through lip reading was , "Don't worry, I have your money and I will deliver it in two days- YES, to your goddamned DOOR! I have to go."

Maciel flipped his phone over on a chair where his clothes were piled, and like an amazing chameleon, put a smile and a look of humility and joy on his face like you could never question.

Manning's inner doubts as to the real reasons for Maciel's conversion were instantly answered.

This son-of-a-bitch is about to get his. Karma.

Maciel descended into the font, Manning had turned and pretended to walk out of the font on the opposite side after Alejandro exited, and then like a good actor threw his hands in the air, as if to say, Oh Boy, I ALMOST forgot! We have ANOTHER one!. While everyone was laughing at Manning's apparent gaffe, he turned to re-enter the font, he reached down and grabbed at his inner thigh, he felt the syringe strapped to his leg and rotated it to the top side of his thigh and turned it just a quarter turn and pushed the leg of his white jump suit down with his fingers spread out. The needle poked ever so slightly out of the polyester jump suit, nearly invisible to everyone unless you were wearing the garment. Maciel turned to Manning, and offered up his hand.

Bart took a deep breath, took Maciel's right hand in his, with Diego's fingers pinching his own nose, his other hand on his wrist for stability, his right hand raised to the square--

Manning's thoughts raced to memories of his mom and his dad, Hope you're looking down on this mom and hope you're proud of me and dad, I hope you understand that I am defending this country at great danger and that I am every bit the patriot that any man you spoke of who served in the Armed Forces.

Diego Juan Maciel, Habiendo sido por Jesus Cristo, Te Bautizo en el nomber del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo, Amen.

Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.

As Manning dropped his right hand to guide Maciel down into the cleansing waters of baptism, he shifted his weight to his right leg, kicked his left leg out oh so slightly, sweeping Maciel's feet out from under him, dropping him quickly and with his full weight right on to Manning's awaiting thighs The needle tightly strapped to Manning's thigh penetrated Maciel's skin, going deep into his back tissue. The force of the drop pushed the plunger on the syringe to its base- swiftly ejaculating it's contents into Maciel's blood stream. Ricin, a drug, when injected into the bloodstream, kills a person between 2 and 36 hours later- mimicking severe heart attack symptoms thus covering an assassin's trail quite nicely, was now was coursing through Maciel's veins and all he felt was just the slightest of pin pricks, if that. Manning wanted to hold him under the water and force him to take his last desperate and undeserved breath right there and then. But training and reason was too deeply engrained in his own DNA, and he brought him to the triumphant surface after getting the head nod from the witnesses that he had been completely submerged.

Maciel turned to Manning and uttered a quiet word, Gracias.

Oh the pleasure was all mine, replied Bart.

They turned and exited to their individual locker rooms. Fifteen minutes later, the confirmation portion of the ceremony was underway. Rawson handled both confirmations with the efficiency and grace of a veteran Mormon Bishop of 20+ years. Blessings and bestowal of the Holy Ghost to both men were given and all that was left was soda and cookies and crackers.

Local members welcomed both Maciel and Garcia to the flock, asking all the fellowship questions about family, what they did, where they lived and more. Alejandro immediately felt like he had a new extended family while Maciel was distracted with the constant buzzing of his phone, checking text messages and appeared decidedly distracted.

Thirty minutes later, it was nearly over. Most of the locals had gone, headed home for the night, Maciel and Alejandro had already headed back to Maciel's compound. Manning was stacking chairs when a warm, soft hand touched his shoulder.

Lisel deHaan.

Hey you! I'm taking off.

Oh, OK. Uh, Thanks for coming. What did you think?

You did great. Looked cute in your little jump suit there.

Yeah, they make us wear these.

They make you do a lot of things, don't they?...

\--If you only knew-- thought Manning.

Yes, Yes they do, but it's all for the right reasons.

I suppose. Well, I better go.

OK, well, thanks for coming.

Manning didn't want her to go. he wanted to take her out for margaritas and some great music, maybe some dancing and then who knows what.

Lisel hesitated.

What? said Manning, What is it?

I don't know. It's just, ah it's nothing.

No, what is it?

It's just, -- something in your eyes. It's like I've seen it before. Your eyes have a very familiar and comforting look to me. I'll bet women tell you that all the time.

Actually this is the longest conversation I've had with a women in more than 2 years Manning thought.

No, not really, but I like that you said it and you think it, said Manning out loud.

Well, see you soon? Lisel said with a leading end of her sentence trailing off, hoping for affirmation.

You bet, I hope so. But-- well, no.

No, what? What is it? Lisel moved in closer but not too close as to alert the other elders who were straightening the last of the tables and chairs.

Well, it's just that- Well, in the future, say you run into a guy and he looks familiar, and he seems like a good guy, but you don't think you know him do me a favor- give the guy a chance, ok?

You got it. For you- no problem.

Lisel then moved in and kissed Manning on the cheek in the 3 kiss alternating cheek, other cheek, first cheek pattern that was common in Paraguay and most all other South American countries and Europe- except, of course, for Mormon missionaries.

Manning was shocked and exhilarated at the same time. Of course some of the other missionaries saw deHaan kiss Manning and that sent them scrambling to his apparent rescue although he didn't think he needed rescuing.

deHaan walked away, slung her purse over her shoulder, said in perfect English, G'night boys. Have a good one.

Rawson turned to Manning- ELDER! what in the world?!

I'm fine. No big deal. She just doesn't know the mission rules. Next time we see her at the market, we'll explain.

You bet we will! said Rawson, still shocked and blushing a bright red tone.

### Chapter 24

Seeing as how it was a Saturday night, both sets of missionaries from Oviedo and Villarrica spent the night in Caaguazu with Manning and Rawson.

Manning was nervous. He needed to get to "the company" right away of the news about Maciel.

He had enough Haldol to send Rawson into a deep sleep for a week but didn't want the risk of trying to inject five elders.

Why don't you guys sleep in the Chapel? I mean, there's air conditioning and we could use the cushioned benches. Pull 'em together- sweet bed. Whaddya think? Beats the cement floor in the shed.

After some looks back and forth, it was agreed- the visiting elders would take benches from the chapel, pull them into the overflow area, enjoy the air conditioning and ceiling fans. An hour or so later, the chatter was dying down, the four visiting elders retired to the chapel, Rawson and Manning to their shed. Manning set an alarm on his phone for 1am. When it buzzed, he quickly silenced it, looked over at Rawson to make sure he was still asleep, then reached under his cot, slid out his suitcase, and after punching in the code to spring the lock- had the syringe of Haldol in hand.

Seconds later, a quarter dose injected into the thigh of Steve Rawson- Manning was changing clothes, slipping on yet another combination of appearance altering devices (AAD's) and slipped out the door. He watched over at the chapel with more attention than normal, what with the visitors there. Last thing he needed was one of those guys from Orem Utah getting up to use the bathroom or something and see someone leaving the shed. Too many questions.

After he was sure, all was secure, he slipped into the shadows. Down the streets and through the center of town. He found himself somehow outside the apartment building with a Jeep parked out front. Lisel deHaan's Jeep. He wanted to go upstairs, but his singular desire to complete the mission overrode his libido once again.

10 seconds later, he hotwired the Jeep and was on his way. He drove on the Ruta to the next city, Colonel Ovideo and pulled into a roadside truck stop. Paid for internet access as wireless networks were yet to take over the rural countryside of Paraguay.

He logged onto the secure website and sent a message to Don Crook.

"Another convert to the everlasting truth. God Bless the work in which we engage, Elder Manning"

More than 5600 miles away, Don Crook's iPhone buzzed. He swiped the screen, read the text message and without emotion turned and pecked out another message, this one to Shawn Dunn.

"The Lord's work continues. I pray that he will call those who can deliver his message to the fields ripe, ready to harvest."

The encoded message was a signal; the deed was done and it was time to get our guy out and soon.

Three time zones and 2100 miles to the east, Shawn Dunn was having dinner with his wife, son and future daughter in law in a quiet restaurant in Mannassas Virginia. The phone in his back pocket buzzed. It only buzzed when it was a message that was delivered on an ultra secure network and only from one person; Don Crook.

Dunn excused himself from the table, headed to the restroom. Once inside the stall, he pulled out the phone and read the text. He smiled, knowing that in a span of the next 24-48 hours, one of the world's slimiest human beings would be no more. He dialed a number, spoke in hushed tones, asking for David Danfield. He relayed the news of a baptism thousands of miles away. Danfield thanked him for the news and in turn, sent a text to Linda Campanera. I am so sorry to hear of the death of that poor boy's parents. Do give him my best wishes, DD.

Within minutes, the phone rang in the offices of the Asuncion Paraguay LDS Mission. A man with a voice full of compassion and just enough emotion to carry the feeling conveyed the message that the parents of Elder Bartholomew Angus Manning had been involved in a tragic car accident, both succumbing to their injuries and the young man needed to come home at once.

Elder Slater took the call and said thank you to the caller who said he'd been in touch with the LDS Missionary offices in Salt Lake City who already had a ticket for Manning waiting at the Delta ticket counter at the Asuncion airport for that afternoon. Slater went down the hall, back to his room- awoke Matt Flint and told him the news. Both dressed quickly, said a prayer to The Lord to guide them in their trip to Caaguazu and help them provide comfort and compassion to Manning in this time of extreme sadness and shock.

Four hours later, they pulled into the gateway outside the compound that made up the LDS Chapel grounds in Caaguazu.

Manning heard the vehicle pull up and knew that his extraction was underway. He'd been prepping himself since he got back to the shed nearly an hour earlier.

Rawson was snoring like a bear.

It was 530am.

Flint knocked on the door. Manning did his best impersonation of a groggy, just awakened, tired elder:

Quien esta? Who's there?

Open up! It's Slater and Flint- from the Office.

Manning opened the door, and motioned to come in to the pair.

Que pasa? What's going on?

Uh, Elder- Flint stammered a bit, then summoned enough strength to keep going.

I don't know how to tell you this so I'm just going to say this; five hours ago, we got a call at the office that both your parents were in a very bad car wreck and --- well, they--- Elder, your parents passed away. They're dead.

Manning let the words hang for just a moment. In fact, yes- both his parents WERE dead, even though it'd been years. This was a new extraction cover. The first time, he took a pill to simulate violent flu symptoms at the height of the Avian flu scare and was of course, immediately shipped out. Another time, he got a call that his visa had been compromised and he was being deported. This time- dead parents.

Whatever.

Manning summoned emotions from deep within. He missed his parents even though he felt as though he really didn't know them like he thought he did when they were alive.

A few tears, some feigned shock, and some quiet sitting time all helped to seal the cover. Rawson was rousted out of his sleep, a bit embarrassed that he had slept through Flint and Slater's arrival but given the time, no harm done.

One hour later, Manning's bags packed- he slid into the back seat of the Peugeot and he was headed towards Asuncion. He pretended to sleep but really his mind was trolling through two memories; one of Maciel on the phone right before his baptism- Who was he talking to and what did it mean? and the second- a much more pleasant vision of Lisel deHaan in that sun dress and her sweet kisses.

What he wouldn't give for another chance to see her, to talk to her, to be with her. Could it work? Could he leave the Company? What would he do? Would there even be a future with deHaan if she knew what he did, regardless if he'd left it?

Eventually sleep overcame Manning's racing thoughts. Slater and Flint let him rest. They imagined he was exhausted because of the baptism and now the news of his parents tragic death. He was exhausted alright, too many nights, scurrying around under the cover of darkness and very little sleep.

It wasn't the blaring of horns or other city sounds that awoke Manning but rather the taught rapping of a gnarled knuckle of an elderly woman trying to sell Chipa- a kind of cheese laced bagel bread, at a stop light that brought Manning from his deep slumber.

You ok Elder? asked Slater.

Yeah, Yeah, You know. Yeah. muttered Manning.

Normally, you'd have an exit interview with the President but he's out of country at some meetings so we're headed right to the airport. Hope you understand, said Flint.

It's fine. Thanks for taking care of this for me. I'm just anxious, you know, to get on the plane.

That was true. He wanted to get clear of Paraguayan air space and to a safe house as soon as possible

As the car rumbled to the curb side, Manning was about to get out, it was Flint who turned and looked Manning in the eye, "Elder, I just want you to know that I know God lives and has great plans for you. Trust in him and he will guide you in the ways of righteousness."

Manning looked deep in the eyes of the young man who had endured unbelievable things in escaping the polygamist compound of his youth.

Thank you Elder. God Bless you. Suerte'. Best of luck.

Manning got out, grabbed his bags and headed towards the Delta ticket counter. He waited in line, eventually getting to the ticket agent, who handed him a ticket and he headed towards the terminal.

Flint and Slater had been waiting to make sure he got his ticket, they came to him, offered their condolences, a hug from each, then after making sure he was fine, or at least as well as he could be, given circumstances- left Bartholmew Angus Manning on his own for the first time in months, at least as far as they knew.

Manning headed down the moving walkway- headed to the gate to catch his flight.

He sat watching CNN on the monitor, glazing over a bit, wondering where his next calling might take him, knowing full well that it would be a few weeks before that were to happen. It was standard company protocol to have a mandatory cooling off period between missions.

A worker at the sandwich counter held up a remote, changed the channel to the ABC TV Paraguay, the local channel of choice. Police in the eastern town of Caaguazu were on the scene of a horrific car crash; an SUV with two men inside had crashed into a farmer and his oxen train hauling sugar cane to market. The SUV had swerved and hit the oxen head on then flipped and rolled down an embankment, bursting into flames. Authorities said they'd received a call from the driver of the SUV that the passenger in the vehicle, a man by the name of Diego Maciel, a prominent businessman in the couuntry, was suffering a massive heart attack and the driver, his business manager was trying to get him to medical help. Both the farmer and Maciel were confirmed dead, as well as two of the oxen pulling the carts full of sugar cane. The driver, Alejandro Garcia had been transported to a nearby hospital in Caagauzu and was in critical condition.

Manning's heart sunk. He knew that the Ricin would do its job, sending a massive cardiac arrest to Maciel's blackened heart- killing him with absolutely no trace other than just that; a heart attack. Given his drinking, occasional drug use and stress level- it was a plausible cover.

But Alejandro. Why? Why did he have to get wrapped up in this? He was a good young man with a bright future and he didn't deserve this ending.

Manning held hope that Alejandro would survive, recover and go on to lead the life he dreamed of.

The gate agent called for all passengers to board. Manning took his bag, slung it over his shoulder, gave the agent his boarding pass and took his seat aboard the jumbo jet.

Destination? His ticket read Santiago, then Manila. When he got to Manilla, he'd pick up a new ticket- and go wherever it directed.

He made is way down the jetway, stepped inside the Boeing 767-300 series jumbo jet. His ticket placed him in first class, seat 3A. He found his row, put his bag in the overhead, pulled out his iPhone and headphones and sat down.

A man was already sitting in 3B. He was wearing a suit, crisply ironed button down shirt, no tie, jacket stowed above- he was sipping on a gin and tonic. Bart nodded as if to say hello, but don't talk to me. He was still dressed in his missionary clothes, complete with name tag. Mormon missionaries are not fully released from their calling until they arrive home, complete a series of interviews with their bishop and stake president. Then and then only are they to take the name badge off and return to civilian life. For Elder Manning, that would happen in Manilla. He planned to change clothes in an airport restroom and thus disappear off the Mormon grid only to reappear in a few weeks or months- whenever and wherever Don Crook and Shawn Dunn determined.

The businessman in 3B nodded back and said in perfect North American English- Hello Elder. Headed home?

Si, I mean, yes. Yes sir I am.

Soon the flight attendant was taking orders for more drinks and the first of the in-flight meals. 3B ordered another gin and tonic, "Double Sapphire "- double gin. And a ham sandwich. Is Tanguary alright?, replied the flight attendant. It'll do if that's all you have dear, countered 3B in a polite and personable manner.

20 minutes or so passed, and the giant jumbo jet was gently pushed back from the gate like an iron manatee floating back into the underwater current. It turned slowly yet deliberately and 15 minutes later had made its way to the runway. Without stopping, the plane turned, the pilot forced the throttle forward and the massive engines roared to a new level of life- crushing stagnant air through its turbines and hurling the 200 plus passengers into a physics defying event- liftoff.

A few minutes later the aircraft leveled out and soon the lush green Paraguayan countryside was nearly non-descript; too high in the sky to make most anything out with any detail.

3B turned to Manning with his fresh gin and tonic in hand, "Bart, I'm sorry about your parents."

Manning stared straight ahead. What in the hell was this? His first reaction was to grab his headphones, quickly wrap them around his wrists, swing and loop them around 3B's neck, squeeze and turn quickly- snapping his neck and then just gently lean him against the window as if he were asleep.

It's almost as if 3B was reading his mind, "You don't need to do that Bart." "I work for the Company, just like you."

Finally Manning turned and looked at 3B in the eyes directly.

Sir, I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm just a Mormon missionary on my way back home. If you'd like to hear an uplifting message about God's love for you and how you can enjoy eternal life- live with him for all time, I'd be honored to share it with you.

3B leaned over and spoke close to Bart's ear, Son, My name is David Danfield.

He then very quietly whispered a code that confirmed his identity. During training, Manning was given what was called an ID code; if he ever needed to verify the true identity of someone- they should be able to give the ID code; probably the most deeply held secret in all of the CIA. And it was customized for each operative, meaning Manning's was different than any other agents.

Sir-, What are you doing here? I mean, I saw the news, my mission was a success.

Yes Bart, you performed perfectly, as always. That's why you are given the most difficult of assignments.

Callings Sir, callings, said Manning respectfully.

You're right, smiled Danfield. Keep reinforcing your strengths.

Bart, I don't have much time but I wanted to make sure you knew some things, information that I think you should known a long time ago, but others felt it was better to wait.

Manning interrupted- Sir, what do you mean you don't have a much time? Are you leaving the Company? What is it?

No Bart- I'm not leaving. Well, I'm leaving this flight and I was never here. We've never had this conversation, in fact, we've never had a conversation since our first encounter in San Diego years ago, Are we clear?

Yes Sir.

Bart, I'm sure you've wondered a lot about parts of your past, especially your Mom's work for the Company.

Manning nodded.

What I'm about to tell you is beyond highly classified, but then again, We're not having this conversation nor have we ever had any conversation, here, in San Diego, at no time, in any place, understand?

Yes sir.

Bart, when you were young, you remember your Uncle Willard came to spend some time with you and your family on the farm in Montana?

Yes. My folks didn't really care for Willard, but he was family. Actually my Dad loved his sister and so by default, he said, he was bound to help Willard because my aunt loved him when she was alive.

Tell me Bart, what you remember about your Uncle Willard and when he came to stay with you on the farm.

Not much really sir. I mean, just the end.

The silence between them hung awkwardly then Danfield turned to Manning - Son, you make it very difficult to have a conversation we never had.

Yes sir.

Go on son.

Bart then retold the events of that strange and nearly deadly exchange in the loft of his barn many years before. He told how Willard had asked him to go to the loft with him and of course, he obliged. He then recounted how Willard had grabbed him from behind, quickly bound him and then tossed him on a bale of hay- then went to the stack where he found the pitch fork. He turned, almost business like, talking very calmly to Bart the entire time about the reasons he was about to take his life; That The Lord demanded sacrifices, sometimes those sacrifices required more of some than others but it demanded loyalty and unwavering dedication from all.

Your parents will understand, Bart. Once they listen to me, they'll understand.

Another couple of minutes of Willard ranting, quoting Old Testament verses, prophecies, and other ideology when in an instant he stopped, stopped mid-sentence, looked off to the distance, turned and grabbed the pitch fork and raised it above his head, then started to recite something in a language that Bart hadn't ever heard and certainly didn't understand. It was at that instant that his father, Harry came up the stairs to the loft, saw Willard and Bart, shouted at Willard- ran towards him- then the struggle that ultimately would end with young Bart firing a shot that would end the life of the crazed figure who would have had it end quite differently.

Bart, do you know why Willard came to your family's farm?

Sir, I always thought it was just that he was off on one of his crazy rants and his family booted him out or he'd been institutionalized again and escaped, ended up at our place.

Actually Bart- we sent him there.

Again, What the HELL? thought Bart.

No offense sir, but why the HELL would you do that? I mean, why? What for? Was my Mom involved?

Bart, you remember when I told you that your Mom served this country through our organization?

Yes sir.

What I am about to tell you must, without fail, never be repeated to anyone under any circumstances. I will of course, deny having ever had this conversation because this meeting never took place. You understand?

Bart nodded his head solemnly and said quietly but deliberately - yes Sir-.

Bart, Willard as you know had significant mental health challenges. You also know that he vigorously pursued several fringe political and social ideologies; John Birch and several others even more fringe and quite honestly more dangerous than the Birchers. As part of his involvement in these groups, Willard became obsessed with certain events in our country's history- events he felt change our course and our devotion and compliance with the Constitution. As he pursued these quests he pieced together just enough truth embedded in falsities that he would become even more determined, more unreasonable and uncontrollable.

One weekend, your Uncle Willard managed to break into the some of the most secure, at the time, government installations and steal certain artifacts that he felt proved his theories. The truth is Bart, what he stole would indeed send our country reeling as it would have been exposed out of context. Given the time that this all happened; Cold War tensions with the Soviets were very high, China was gaining strength, economic terrorists within OPEC - all of them could have quite honestly toppled our government and ended the United States as we knew it then or now.

Manning looked at Danfield. He was stoic, but certainly engaged and genuine.

So, how did you track him or force him to come to our farm?

It was your Mom. Willard called from a pay phone in Missouri to tell your Dad and Mom that he had something so special he couldn't tell them what it was, and that he didn't know where to turn as his own family had told him not to return. It was our Mom who said, Willard, you know you're always welcome here. Come.

But he WASN'T welcome, interjected Bart. My Mom never liked that guy and certainly after he tried to kill me, she had nothing good to say about him.

True Bart. Jewel never cared for him but she loved this country. She knew that Willard had been tracking some very wild theories and had made threats to go and "burn the Constitution" and "smash the vault at Ft. Knox". Jewel, being the dutiful agent, reported the conversation and chatter always to her superiors, so when she told them that she'd directed Willard to come to your family farm, not knowing for sure that he'd stolen anything, we thought it was a pretty good lead.

We set up surveillance all around the farm and monitored from an old potato cellar about a 1/2 mile away. Bart knew the cellar well. It belonged to his parent's best friends, who used the cellar to store machinery after most of the farmers in the valley quit growing potatoes in favor of other more weather favorable crops.

We were on the way to rescue you when you took Willard out with that old single shot .22. Technically, it was your first kill. We knew then that we needed to keep an eye on you. Your Mom had a keen intellect and ability to decipher code, chatter and most of all- how to keep information secure, secrets. She knew what was in that trunk that Willard drug out on a Greyhound bus cross country. She looked in there. But she never told a soul.

So, why are you telling me now? I mean, I could have just kept going, believing that Willard was a crazy son of a bitch and I was just lucky. ... his words trailed off..

And he was, and you are. Danfield said. But it's important now for you to know what's at stake Bart. You have a real future with the Company. You've performed each mission with precision and no mistakes. Our republic is safer because of the work you've done. It's that simple.

But..

There's always a but, Bart thought.

But now the stakes are increasing, And your involvement is going to increase. And in order for us to be fair with you, with what we will require of you, you need to know everything.

Danfield leaned forward, his breath still with a twinge of gin. Bart- the contents of that trunk that your Mom so skillfully helped us recover years ago is one of the most valuable things this Country has.

I hope you're not still keeping them all in that one single trunk, Bart replied almost sheepishly.

No, Danfield smiled. But as safe as we think they are, they are always at risk.

So, ..... Bart said, leading Danfield to reveal the contents.

A piece of JFK's skull that contains forensic evidence proving there were two shooters. That's right, Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone. He had help. A second shooter who was paid by none other than LBJ.

Damn! My Dad was right! He always said "That damned Johnson killed Kennedy."

He was right Bart.

Did he?...Bart started to ask, but Danfield immediately interjected.

No, he had no idea what was in the trunk. He never saw the contents. He never knew your Mom worked for us, what she did. He always thought she was going to bridge club or something along those lines. Your Mom was one of the best Bart.

Was there more?, I mean more in the trunk?

Much more, said Danfield.

The man Bart would from that point forward always think of as, 3B, went on to tell of evidence that told of the origins of Stonehenge, DNA evidence linking former presidents and out-of-wedlock children, alien symbols from Area 51, yes- there was an active Area 51, bribes paid to foreign governments, whether Apollo 11 really landed on the Moon, and of course, a diary from Ben Franklin detailing how the negotiations at the original Constitutional Convention really happened. It wasn't the grand compromise described in the grade school history books.

So what happens now? Bart asked.

Because of technology and pushes to not renew some of the classification limits on some of the documents, more and more of this information is getting out. But it's getting out to the fringe and they're going to screw it all up.

Wikileaks, said Bart.

Exactly. That's just the beginning, said Danfield. Transparency in government is something everyone strives to achieve but the reality is our republic has just as many dirty little secrets as any other country on the planet. Our job is to make sure that as much information that is reasonably possible is released and the stuff that can't get out- doesn't. Now days, it's not just drug lords and terrorist, it's information terrorists. The Internet is a black market of information, open to the highest bidder. The wars now are waged online and through the talking heads of 24-hour news networks.

You need to know that your assignments will change as circumstances warrant Bart. I told you these things so you'll know you have legacy, you have history and you have a commitment to continue to the work of your predecessors, including your own family.

Bart nodded his head. He knew once he signed up for this, life would never be the same. But his sense of patriotism to country, the origin of which he now understood much better, dictated he persist.

What's next? Manning asked.

For you? Mandatory cooling off period. This time in a spot I think you're going to like. Agent Dunn is quite certain you'll enjoy it. He said you can send him cigars and some single malt to thank him.

Both men chuckled.

You'll have more callings Bart. We know that for certain. There is no shortage of people out there that would do our Republic harm. I'm getting off in Santiago. You'll continue along your way.

Bart- Danfield said,

Yes sir, Manning replied.

We're all very proud of you. You're doing good work. Kick back, relax, recharge. Get ready for the next mission. And don't get distracted.

Shit. He knew. He knew somehow about the Dutch woman. Of course they knew. It was like his entire life, while nearly invisible to those around him by choice, was being played out on a giant screen somewhere in a bunker, buried deep in the Virginia hills. I'm probably like the damn guy on the Truman Show. My every move up there on a giant screen.

Yes sir. Singular in focus, Singular in mission, Singular in success- never fail.

Roger that, said Danfield calmly.

Just then, the flight attendant's voice broke through, alerting the passengers that they were descending into Santiago; Please return your seat backs and tray tables in their full and upright positions, .. the noise faded into background as Manning started to more fully process what he'd just heard.

He was looking forward to a few days of decompressing, especially now.

The jet touched down in Santiago, some passengers deplaned, Danfield among them who only said on his way past Manning, "Good luck Elder".

45 minutes later the giant mechanical beast was airborne again and headed towards Manilla.

Sleep came and went en route across the Southern Pacific Ocean. Manning was anxious. He knew the next stop would hold his next clue. Danfield had left his business card on the tray table. It had a number, four digits 2134, a locker combination, followed by a short inscription; Enjoy a Root beer.

Once the jet landed and taxied to the terminal, Manning stood up, stretched after the arduous flight, gathered his things and headed down the jetway. Once in the terminal, he scanned left and right then back left again. In the far end of the terminal was a sign for an American fast food restaurant, A& W. Ah, root beer. He walked the length of the terminal, saw a row of small lockers. Quickly he found the third one in from the left on the top row, #2134. He punched in his birthday and the locker clicked open. Inside was a small box; a new passport, several bundles of cash in various currencies, and a plane ticket.

Shawn Dunn had outdone himself.

The ticket was a one-way, first class voucher to Tonga, then an island hooper and ultimately he'd be on a boat to Vanua Levu- a remote destination island with no air service, few roads, no phones and with just 12 cabanas on the entire island, and two beachside restaurants- it was the closest thing to being off the grid from civilization possible in the modern age.

Hmmm-- the South Pacific.

Bart could almost feel the relaxation washing over him and Lord knows he needed it. Especially after his conversation with the man in 3B.

### Chapter 25

Nearly 24 hours later, Bart Manning awoke to the sound of waves on the beach-- head pounding, body sore-- but alive. He took a deep breath smelled the salty air, the tropical aromas of plant life and not a hint of hurry, stress or the outside world. He was laying on a bed with a mosquito net around him, ceiling fan slowly turning, windows wide open. All alone. Absolutely all alone... the silence and solitude was intoxicating.

He slipped on a pair of shorts, and flip flops and went for a walk along the beach. After about an hour, he came across a lunch hut; ordered a cold beer and a fish taco.

As he walked back towards his villa, his thoughts were consumed with two thoughts; One the revealing encounter he'd had with Danfield and two- Lisel. Would she ever think of him again? Did she feel anything close to what he had? When they talked about the sacrifices made by people who chose country and patriotism over everything else, did they have any idea of the heartache and burden of unrealized love?

He walked into the villa, headed to the frig, took out another beer and sat on the porch, watching the sun flirt with the horizon. He had no idea what day it was, what time it was or anything beyond that moment in that space at that time.

That- he thought- was true freedom. He knew soon enough his phone would buzz with another calling, another assignment to go and demonstrate his commitment to his country and to keep his countrymen safe from harm.

Little did he know, on the other side of the island, a new Peace Corp volunteer with an equally heavy and aching heart had just landed.....a transfer from South America,.....The young woman had been educated in the US but had European roots. She asked about the island. The man at the lunch hut said it was a small island, easily covered in a days' walk. She thanked him, paid her bill and said she planned on taking a nice walk tomorrow to see all of the island. He mentioned that there were few other non-islanders around but he knew of just one other- a man who came in earlier in the day for a beer and a taco. he lived just down the beach a ways.

Maybe I'll run into him tomorrow, Lisel said.

More than likely sissy. The bartender called everyone either sissy or brother. It was a small island.

Lisel turned and headed back to her villa. She couldn't help but notice the dim lights of just one other villa on the far end of the point in the opposite direction. Must be where the other man lives, she thought. Her mind immediately went to a man she'd just met in Paraguay. A man she knew she'd never have, but couldn't get out of her mind. There was something about him. Something in his eyes.

Night lingered into morning. Bart Manning took his time embracing the next day, sipping on coffee and adjusting his sun glasses to make sure they were spotless.

He turned and noticed a figure in the far distance, walking on the beach. He couldn't tell who or what it was but he thought he'd watch it for sure- at least for a while... He still couldn't tell exactly who it was but he could tell it was a woman; a sarong wrapped around her waist, bikini top and a floppy mesh hat and sunglasses- with a slow gait that said she wasn't in any hurry to get anywhere. Manning was definitely interested now. He was rocking forward in his chair, ready to get up and take a little stroll- move his vantage point a little closer.

Then, his iPhone buzzed with a text on a secure network.

"You've been called to serve. Pick up assignment papers immediately at the designated location. May The Lord bless you in your journey and in your service."

#####

Sent from Mark's iProductivity tool
