The Bluejay Contrivance
Why You Want It:
The Bluejay Contrivance is historical fiction, a spy story built on actual past events. World War II's legacy of savagery between fascists and communists lived on long after the war ended and continues to this day. This novel explores how fear of Communism, the "Red Menace," caused the US to support Latin American dictators against freedom fighters during the Cold War and beyond, inflaming struggles that shredded countless lives. The motivations of those working to carry out the aims of the organizations involved in the world of espionage are revealed in all their complexity. The CIA, Mossad, Odessa, the KGB, and a Latin American Christian liberation group collude and collide across a panorama spanning the world, but primarily playing out in South America. From the sultry cities of Buenos Aires and Asunción to the rivers and jungles of subtropical Latin America and the green hills of Paraguay's highland coffee farms, the action of The Bluejay Contrivance cascades through the book, carrying the reader on a compelling voyage through the varied landscapes of the continent and the human soul.
How You Get it: Order the paperback at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other major on-line vendors, or get the ebook from Kindle or similar on-line stores.
What's It About: At the deepest level, the novel is about the toughness and the frailty of men and women caught up in global conflicts that may not make headline news, but nonetheless play out quietly and lethally alongside our ordinary lives. The Bluejay Contrivance brings to the fore the intimate stories of a few of these individuals as they struggle for domination or liberation in the cruel arena of the conflict of nations.
What's inside: Check out Amazon.com, Kindle.com, or googlebooks.com for selected content.
Here's a taste.
Porfirio Ramirez was thinking of his prize orchids. In his mind, he wandered through his greenhouse in Asunción, lost among the beautiful petals, inhaling the sour-sweet smell of the loam. It soothed his raw nerves, this day-dreaming; it helped him to blot out the ferocious snarl of jets roaring over his hotel room. Los Angeles was a terrifying place. Anywhere was a terrifying place when one carried information from Enrique Guerrero.
Professor Ramirez had tried to say no. He had struggled wildly against his conscience, insisting that he wanted no part of Guerrero’s idealism. He was not an activist: as much as he deplored his country’s political situation, he wanted no role in trying to change it. He was a mild and modest being who wanted to be left alone to dream with his flowers. But Guerrero had kept after him until he was persuaded. His conscience had become inflamed and had overwhelmed his common sense.
Now he sat in a cold, modern hotel room, on the very edge of a too-firm bed, waiting. His contact would come, he would impart his information, and then he would go home. It was simple. But his neck felt as if it had been wrung out like a wet rag, and the blood pounded in his head.
No—that was not his brain pounding; it was a knock on the door. He opened and stood back, trembling. The man he had been told to expect strode into the room, closed the door quickly, and turned on the bedside radio, loud.
“I’m Frank Tully, your contact,” he said softly, beneath the din. “Whatever you say will get to the right people.”
“It must be Roebling,” Porfirio replied tensely, “or I can tell you nothing. Enrique Guerrero demands this.”
“No problem. I’ll make sure whatever you say gets to Roebling first. Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so. It is hard to tell. There were many on the airplane, and I am not expert in these matters.”
“We’d better hurry,” Tully said in his most authoritative voice. “I’ll start the tape; keep your voice low and speak into the microphone.”
“This is what Enrique Guerrero wanted me to say. In August there was a meeting at the Lundorff Estate. The Dictator attended, with top men from Argentina, Chile, and Brazil. Advisers from the Euro-South American Consortium were also there… These are truly bad men who must be stopped. Take immediate action—Enrique insists.”
“I’ll do that, Ramirez, don’t worry. But give me the details. Don’t waste time on your personal opinions.”
“Yes, I am sorry. I am very nervous, surely you can understand. I should not have come, but somebody had to. It is—”
The two men heard the door smash open behind them. As they turned, the first bullets caught them and pinned them to the bed. The long barrels of the guns made no sound, yet the bullets arrived in their flesh.
Porfirio tried to cry out, but his voice was not there. He saw Frank Tully fall backward on the bed, on top of the tape recorder. Then he felt his body slide to the floor, a lazy sensation not unlike drowsing in a swaying hammock. A beautiful black orchid opened within him, its velvet softness unfolding on the axis of his body. He marveled at the texture and richness of the bloom, and thought wistfully that he would like to compliment its creator. As the petals unfurled in his brain, he realized, with a small sadness, that he would never meet that extraordinary man.