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David Corbett - Blood of Paradise

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El Salvador: Americas great Cold War success story and the model for Iraqs fledgling democracyif one ignores the grinding poverty, the corruption, the spiraling crime, and a murder rate ranked near the top in the hemisphere. This is where Jude McManus works as an executive protection specialist, currently assigned to an American engineer working for a U.S. consortium.
Ten years before, at age seventeen, he saw his father and two Chicago cop colleagues arrested for robbing street dealers. The family fell apart in the scandals wake, his disgraced dad died under suspicious circumstances, and Jude fled Chicago to join the army and forge a new life.
Now the past returns when one of his fathers old pals appears. The man is changedhes scarred, regretful, self-awareand he helps Jude revisit the past with a forgiving eye. Then he asks a favornot for himself, but for the third member of his dads old crew.
Even though its ill-considered, Jude agrees, thinking he can oblige the request and walk away, unlike his father. But he underestimates the players and the stakes and he stumbles into a web of Third World corruption and personal betrayal where everything he valuesand everyone he lovesis threatened. And only the greatest of sacrifices will save them.
This big, brawny novel runs on full throttle from first to last page. Brutal and heartrendering, eloquent and important, this is a fully engrossing read.
Michael Connelly
A Quiet American for the new century. Angry and impassioned, Blood of Paradise is that rare beast: a work of popular fiction that is both serious and thrilling.
John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of Every Dead Thing
David Corbett is a supremely gifted writer and Blood of Paradise reminds me of a Robert Stone novel. Its lyrical prose and exotic setting filled with damaged souls grasping for redemption any way they can combine in a tour de force that will haunt you long after you reach the end.
Denise Hamilton, nationally bestselling author of Prisoner of Memory
If youre looking for the best in contemporary crime fiction, this is it.
The Washington Post, on Done for a Dime
_________________________________________________________________
THE MORTALIS DOSSIER- BONUS FEATURE FROM DAVID CORBETT
FROM TROY TO BAGHDAD (VIA EL SALVADOR)

The Storys Genesis

I conceived Blood of Paradise after reading Philoctetes, a spare and
relatively obscure drama by Sophocles. In the original, an oracle advises
the Greeks that victory over the Trojans is impossible without
the bow of Herakles. Unfortunately, its in the hands of Philoctetes,
whom the Greeks abandoned on a barren island ten years earlier,
when he was bitten by a venomous snake while the Achaean fleet
harbored briefly on its way to Troy.
Odysseus, architect of the desertion scheme, must now return,
reclaim the bow, and bring both the weapon and its owner to Troy.
For a companion, he chooses Neoptolemus, the son of his slain
archrival, Achilles.
Neoptolemus, being young, still holds fast to the heroic virtues
embodied by his dead father, and believes they can appeal to
Philoctetes as a warrior. But Odysseusknowing Philoctetes will
want revenge against all the Greeks, himself in particular
convinces Neoptolemus that trickery and deceit will serve their
purposes far better. In essence, he corrupts Neoptolemus, who subsequently
deceives Philoctetes into relinquishing his bitterness to
reenlist in the cause against Troy.
The tale has an intriguing postscript: It turns out to be the corrupted
Neoptolemus who, by killing King Priam at his altar during
the sack of Troy, brings down a curse upon the Greeks even as they
are perfecting their victory.
This story suggested several themes, which I then molded to my
own purposes: the role of corruption in our concept of expedience,
the need of young men to prove themselves worthy in the eyes of
even morally suspect elders (or especially them), and the curse of a
hard-won ambition.
Why El Salvador?
I saw in the Greek situation a presentiment of Americas dilemma at
the close of the Cold War: finally achieving unrivaled leadership of
the globe, but at the same time being cursed with the hatred of millions.
Though we have showered the world with aid, too often we
have done so through conspicuously corrupt, repressive, even murderous
regimes, where the elites in charge predictably siphoned off
much of that aid into their own pockets. Why did we look the other
way during the violence and thievery? The regimes in question were
reliably anticommunist, crucial to our need for cheap oil, or otherwise
amenable to American strategic or commercial interests.
We live in a dangerous world, we are told. Hard, often unpleasant
choices have to be made.
Its a difficult argument for those who have suffered under such
regimes to swallow. They would consider it madness to suggest that it
is envy of our preeminence, or contempt for our freedom, that causes
them to view America so resentfully. Rather, they would try to get us
to remember that while their hopes for self-determination, freedom,
and prosperity were being crushed, America looked on with a
strangely principled indifference, often accompanied by a fiercely patriotic
self-congratulation, not to mention blatant hypocrisy.
Not only have we failed to admit this to ourselves, but the New
Right has embraced a resurgent American exceptionalism as the antidote
to such moral visitations, which such conservatives consider
weak and defeatist. Instead, they see a revanchist America marching
boldly into the new century with unapologetic military power, uninhibited
free-market capitalism, and evangelical fervormost immediately
to bring freedom to the Middle East.
The New Rights historical template for this proposed transformation
is Central Americaspecifically El Salvador, trumpeted as
the final battleground of the Cold War, and championed as one of
our greatest foreign policy successes: the crucible in which American
greatness was re-forged, banishing the ghosts of Vietnam forever.
Theres a serious problem with the New Rights formulation,
however: It requires an almost hallucinatory misreading of history.
Misremembering the Past
In their ongoing public campaign to justify the Iraq war, many
supporters and members of the Bush Administrationincluding
both Vice President Dick Cheney and former defense secretary Donald
Rumsfeldhave singled out El Salvador as a shining example of
where the forward-leaning policy they champion has succeeded.
Mr. Cheney did so during the vice presidential debates, contending
that Iraq could expect the same bright future enjoyed by El Salvador,
which, he claimed, is a whale of a lot better because we held
free elections.
What Mr. Cheney neglected to mention:
At the time the elections were held (1982), death squads
linked to the Salvadoran security forces were murdering
on average three to five hundred civilians a month.
The death squads targeted not just guerrilla supporters
but priests, social workers, teachers, journalists, even
members of the centrist Christian Democratsthe party
that Congress forced the Reagan Administration to back,
since it was the only party capable of solidifying the
Salvadoran middle.
The CIA funneled money to the Christian Democrats to
ensure they gained control of the constituent assembly.
Roberto DAubuisson, a known death squad leader,
opposed the Christian Democrats as Communists, and
launched his own bid to lead the constituent assembly,
forming ARENA as the political wing of his death squad
network. His bid was funded and supported by exiled
oligarchs and reactionary military leaders, and managed
by a prominent American public relations firm.
Anti-fraud measures proved intimidating. For example:
ballots were cast in glass jars. Many voters, who had to
provide identification, and who suspected the government
was monitoring their choices, feared violent reprisal if
they were observed voting improperly.
ARENA won thirty-six of sixty seats in the assembly, and
DAubuisson was elected its leader.
This was perceived by all concerned as a disastrous
failure for American policy. When DAubuisson tried
to appoint one of his colleagues as assembly president,
U.S. officials went to the military and threatened to cut
off aid. DAubuisson relented, but it was the only
concession he made to American demands.
In short, there was American influence, money, and manipulation
throughout the process, putting the lie to the whole notion the
elections were freethough Mr. Cheney was arguably correct
when he stated that we held them. Unfortunately, all that effort
came to naught, as what America wanted from the elections lay in
shambles. Even when, in the following years election, a great deal
more money and arm-twisting resulted in Washingtons candidate
being elected president, he remained powerless to reform the military,
curtail the death squads, or revive the economy, measures
Washington knew to be crucial to its counter-insurgency strategy.
By 1987, the Reaganites decided to abandon the decimated Christian
Democrats for ARENAthe party it had spent five years and
millions of dollars trying to keep from power.
As for Mr. Rumsfelds remarks, he made them in the course ...

David Corbett: author's other books


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Blood of Paradise

A Novel

David Corbett

CONTENTS this book is dedicated to the memory of Jos Gilberto Soto an - photo 1

CONTENTS

this book is dedicated to the memory of

Jos Gilberto Soto,

an American citizen

and union organizer

murdered in El Salvador

on November 5, 2004.

The crime remains unsolved.

The template for Iraq today is not Vietnam, with which it has often been compared, but El Salvador.

Peter Maass, The Way of the Commandos,

The New York Times Magazine, May 1, 2005

GLOSSARY OF TERMS ARENA Alianza Republicana Nacionalista the major - photo 2

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

ARENA Alianza Republicana Nacionalista, the major right-wing political party in El Salvador

areneros supporters of ARENA

CAFTA Central American Free Trade Agreement

catorce familias the fourteen families, an extended group of related Salvadoran families of particular wealth, power, and social prominence

caudillo a large property holder, military leader, or other strongman

Chvez, Hugo Leftist president of Venezuela; the current bte noir of American foreign policy in Latin America

efemelenistas supporters of the FMLN

FMLN Frente Farabundo Mart para la Liberacin Nacional, the major left-wing political party in El Salvador, formerly the unified guerrilla opposition

Fuerza Area the Salvadoran air force

LEGAT legal attach, the head of an overseas FBI office

Los Patriticos a war-era death squad consisting of middle- and upper-class professionals operating out of the First Brigades civil defense training program

Los Soldados de San Miguel a (fictional) death squad operating in eastern El Salvador

maquila a factory that assembles imported components for export

mara a Central American gang

Mara Dieciocho the smaller of the two main Salvadoran gangs, an outgrowth of the Eighteenth Street gang (Calle 18) in Los Angeles

Mara Salvatrucha the larger of the two main Salvadoran gangs, originally formed by Salvadoran refugees in Los Angeles as protection against Mexican gangs, specifically the Eighteenth Street Gangmembers are called salvatruchos

marero a Salvadoran gang member

Mercado Nacional de Artesanas artisans market, where native crafts can be purchased

ODIC the Overseas Development Insurance Corporationa (fictional) export credit agency funding and insuring American investment in international development projects

placa a hand signal denoting gang affiliation

PNC Polica Nacional Civil, the national police force formed after the UN Peace Accords to supplant military involvement in routine police work

remesas remittancesi.e., money sent back to El Salvador from migrants abroad

SOUTHCOM Southern Command, the U.S. militarys regional command structure for Latin America

PART I

WHATEVER

BECAME OF THE

LAUGH MASTERS?

Its only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.

Joseph Conrad, An Outcast of the Islands

Cocooned in a hammock at Playa El Zonte, Jude launched the siesta hour with a lusty tug from his beer, swaying beneath the thatched roof of a glorieta. Above, the sun was blistering; even the skirring wind off the ocean felt parched and hot. Below, the beach of black volcanic sand with its scatterings of smooth dark stone curled out to the point. He wondered what it would take to knownot suspect or hope or pretend but knowthat the woman he spotted, out there on the rocks, was or wasnt the love of his life.

He knew her: Eileen Browning, fellow American. Theyd bumped into each other here and there the past month at Santa Mara Mizata, Playa El Sunzal, most recently on the pier at La Libertad, browsing the fishmonger stalls. There, with the briny tang of ice-tubbed shrimp, mackerel, and boca colorada brewing all around them in the rippling heat, hed almost convinced himself that Dr. Browning, as she hated to be called, had been coming on to him.

At this particular moment she walked the beach alone, sandals in hand, wearing a polka-dot halter and cutoffs and a wide-brimmed hat, eyes toward the water as she watched a stray dog take a crap in the shallows.

Mark that in your tourist guide, Jude thought, memorizing the spot where the dog crouched and guessing at the current so as to avoid an unpleasant step later. Meanwhile Eileen turned back and resumed her lazy march toward the glorieta, holding her hat atop her head against the scorching wind.

From their previous encounters, Jude had learned she was a marines daughter turned scholar, down here for postdoctoral work in cultural anthropology. She was cataloging folk craftspottery, weaving, embroiderybefore they disappeared forever. He liked that about her, the devotion to vanishing things. He liked a lot of things about her, actually. Shed grown up around strong menraised by wolves, she put itand was pretty in a smart-girl way, lanky and leggy with strawberry blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses. There were those, he supposed, who might find fault with her large teeth and big boyish hands, her long skinny feet, but he was at that stage when these things seemed the true test of her lovelinessthe endearing flaws that made her unique. Her perfection.

As she came closer it became clear she intended to stop and visit, and his heart kicked a little. He roused himself from his torpor, thinking: Comport yourself, soldier.

It was the heart of the dry season, the beginning of Lent. The surf camp was otherwise empty of foreigners, just the two of them. The restaurant and bar remained open, though, for day-trippers like Jude, drop-ins like Eileen.

Entering the thatch shade of the glorieta, she dropped her sandals, removed her hat, and shook out her hair. Her halter was knotted at the neck, revealing bikini tan lines striping over her shoulders to her back. Jude pictured the triangles of white skin around her nipples, then nudged the thought away, not wanting to be unchivalrous.

We meet again. She perched herself on the nearest table, took out a kerchief and mopped her face and neck, then dusted sand off her shins. If I didnt know better, Id think you were following me.

Her voice was a raspy alto, one more thing to like. Jude said, If I was following you, Id be behind you.

She cocked an eyebrow. Point taken. Nodding at his beer, she said, Mind if I ?

No. No. He handed it to her and she knocked back a swig. He tried to picture her on campus, earthy babe of the brainy set. The bohemian broad.

Im going to want one of these. She handed back his beer and glanced over her shoulder. Have you eaten yet?

Behind her, two indgena women worked the kitchen attached to the bar. It was a rustic business: wood roasting pit, propane grill, a sand floor with a hen and several chicks dithering underfootplus the briny dog from the shallows earlier, watching as her two pups tumbled together, chasing each other around. The fried corn fragrance of pupusas wafted toward them, mingling with the smoky aroma of a roasting chicken.

Just. Jude patted his midriff.

Oh well. She made a lonesome-me face. I saw the truck when I drove upits yours, right?but there was nobody around. When did you get here?

Dawn. The best surfing came at daybreak and late afternoon, when the doldrums smoothed the chop from the ocean, the waves glassy. Hed stayed out longer than usual this morning, though, enjoying the solitude. Gypsies would show up the next few weeks, jamming the lineups. Come the rains, the ocean swelled. So did the crowds. I was out beyond the break.

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