By Murray McDonald
While ex-CIA analyst Tom Butler stumbles throughout facts of a conspiracy that would wreck the United States as a loose country, he needs to do no matter what he can ahead of it's too late.
Not understanding who he can belief, Butler has to lodge to severe measures to bare the genuine nature of America's belief. As he nears his aim, the USA is plunged into concern. A conflict each person idea might occur fifty years previous, without warning and inexplicably, increases its head.
With the world's armies bracing themselves for a conflict no one may possibly see coming and the US near to annihilation, Butler realizes the size of the conspiracy was once a ways past even his worst nightmare...
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Extra resources for America's Trust
Behind me, he dropped his hands. I felt slightly adrift. The only thing keeping me from running or fainting was the warmth emanating from his body, that’s how close we stood. And I didn’t move. From the distance came the opera. Mengmei and Liniang continued to meet. Always he asked her name; always she refused to give it. ” And always Liniang admitted that it was true she left no footprints in the dust. Finally, one night, the poor ghost girl arrived, fearful and trembling, because at last she was going to tell him who and what she was.
Willow put me into my clothes, combed my hair, washed my face, and applied powder and rouge to my cheeks. I was hopelessly lost in thoughts of love, but I still had to make offerings to my ancestors on Double Seven. I was not the first in my family to go to the ancestral hall this morning. We all wish for wealth, good harvests, and offspring, and already offerings of food had been made to encourage reciprocal gifts of fecundity from our ancestors. I saw whole taro (41) roots—a symbol of fertility—and knew that my aunts and the concubines had been here to ask my ancestors to bring sons to our line.
Quite by accident—except that it had to be fate interfering—he found the box with Liniang’s rolled-up self-portrait scroll. He believed he’d found a painting of the goddess Guanyin. He took the scroll back to his room and burned incense before it. He delighted in Guanyin’s soft mist of hair, her tiny mouth shaped like a rosebud, and the way love’s longing seemed to be locked between her brows, but the closer he looked, the more convinced he became that the woman on the silk couldn’t be the goddess.