The Green Parrots

Prologue

January 2, 1980

The green parrots saw the killers first. They were a small flock of common green parrots, who flew down every morning from their roosts on the slopes of San Salvador Volcano to feed around the grounds of the Sheraton Salvador Hotel.

Squawking and chattering inanely on their favorite perch in the lower branches of the big tree that grew in the middle of the hotel’s luncheon patio, the parrots had a fine view, not only of the patio and the luncheon diners, but of the hotel parking lot, the usual gray-uniformed guards with their sub-machine guns, the homes beyond the parking lot, and dominating the western sky, the green slopes and lofty summit of San Salvador volcano.

The lunch crowd that the parrots surveyed was typical of the Sheraton these days: mostly Salvadorian businessmen, with a sprinkling of gringos. Among the gringos, there were very few, if any, businessmen. The violence of the past year had made them seek greener pastures. The Americans in El Salvador these days tended to travel on official passports.

There were some of those seated below the parrots now, very healthy looking young men with short hair. U.S. Army was written all over them, and indeed, they were U.S. military advisors. They all carried large brown leather purses, which they called fag bags, and which they placed conspicuously on the table next to their plates. As all the other diners knew, the purses contained Browning 9mm automatics. These young gringos lived at the Sheraton, kept to themselves and answered all questions, from locals and other Americans alike, with polite monosyllables.

Some other Americans, who also represented the United States in El Salvador, were having lunch today as well. They were older than the Army men, and unlike them, usually sat with Salvadorians. Directly below the parrots’ branch, for example, was a table occupied by one wiry Salvadorian and two Americans, all of middle age. The three were dressed in guayaberas, the long, multi-pocketed and embroidered shirt typical of Central America. Their conversation, which was in English, dealt with the pressing and controversial subject of land reform.

The parrots saw a black Chevrolet of indeterminate age enter the hotel drive, skirt the parking lot and pull up right in back of the souvenir shop, at the driveway side of the patio.

The man at the wheel remained in the car. The three passengers, Salvadorians in their late twenties, got out and walked down the narrow flagstone path past the souvenir shop, to the walk where the guards were standing. They wore dark business suits, and looked to the parrots like anyone else.

As the three passed the guards, there was an exchange of glances. After a momentary hesitation, the guards shouldered their sub-machine guns and walked slowly away in the direction of the main entrance to the hotel. Only the parrots saw them go.

The newcomers surveyed the crowd. When the one in the center saw the Salvadorian and the two Americans at the table below the parrots, he nudged the men on either side of him with his elbows, and indicated the table with a slight motion of his chin.

The three walked down the two steps to the patio level, in single file, then separated, the man in the lead continuing directly toward the table beneath the parrots, the other two splitting off to the left and right a space of two or three tables, so that they had a clear view of the U.S. Army men as well as the trio below the branch.

When they were about ten feet from the table, the three men glanced quickly at each other, then drew .45 caliber service pistols from beneath their suit coats, pointed them at the three men at the table, and opened fire.

The Salvadorian and the two middle-aged Americans never even saw them. The heavy slugs knocked them backward in their chairs with awful impact, and onto the flagstones of the patio. They lay still, their arms thrown back over their heads, their legs tangled in the legs of their chairs, blood spreading from beneath their bodies in viscous pools.

At the sound of the shots, the parrots squawked and flew up to the roof of the dining room. Screams and shouts rose over the patio with the birds, then stopped as if chopped off by an axe stroke when the lead killer whirled around to menace the other diners with his gun.

"No se muevan! – Don’t move"—he ordered. Those diners who had risen sank back into their chairs. The waiters and waitresses turned to stone.

A couple of the U.S. Army men reached for their purses, but then, seeing that they were covered, sat slowly back in their chairs, leaving their hands in sight on the top of the table.

Slowly, almost leisurely, the three killers backed away from the bodies on the flagstones. There was no sound or movement anywhere. Not on the patio, inside the hotel, nor in the parking lot. The guards were nowhere to be seen.

The gunmen fell back into line up the steps, walked quickly along the walkway past the souvenir shop, and reached the drive. They got into the Chevrolet, quietly closed the doors and the car pulled decorously away, as if nothing at all had happened.

When the car was out of sight, the tension on the patio exploded in a rush of noise and movement. A few diners ran to see if the men who had been shot could be helped. Others ran into the hotel to call the police. The U.S. Army men pulled out their Brownings and ran after the car, but it was out of sight by the time they reached the driveway.

Most of the diners ran too, but for their own cars. No one wanted to be identified as a material witness to what was clearly a political murder, since anyone able and willing to identify the killers was certain to be their next victim.

In seconds, the patio was practically deserted. After a while, the parrots flew back to their perches in the tree above the bodies, and, oblivious to the horror sprawled bloodily below them, resumed their screeching.

Chapter One

The CIA Chief of Station in El Salvador folded his hands together on top of his desk and looked across at Peter Ivorson through his bottle-bottom thick glasses. You took your time getting here, he stated in his inflectionless voice. Didn’t you get my message?

Ivorson could feel his ears getting hot. COS knew damn good and well that Ivorson had been out of town all day.

I got the message 45 minutes ago, when I landed at Ilopango, he said, trying to keep his own voice level. I came straight here.

With his thick glasses and pale eyes, COS made Ivorson think of a big-mouth bass. There were some personality traits in common, as well. Words like cold-blooded, predatory and belligerent came to mind.

Then I take it you don’t know what’s happened here today? COS’ tone conveyed pained awareness, but hardly forgiveness, of Ivorson’s incompetence as an intelligence officer. Ivorson shook his head negatively, and put his hands in his pants pockets. He heard himself jingling the coins there, and pulled them out again.

A death squad killed the head of the Agrarian Transformation Institute and two USAID advisors on the patio of the Sheraton at high noon. COS’ voice was as cold and flat as an ice floe.

Shock throbbed through Ivorson, and then sad anger. The death squads were as mindless as they were vicious. Bastards, he muttered.

COS’ magnified eyes stared accusingly. Is that all you have to say?

What did he want, wondered Ivorson. A funeral oration? He shrugged. I’m sorry. Sorry for the poor guys who got killed, and sorry for what the death squads are doing to their own country. I can’t really say I’m surprised, though.

You’re not surprised? COS’ tone was suddenly silky. Do you have some information on the subject which you haven’t bothered to share with me? I can assure you that the Ambassador was very surprised. And displeased.

Ivorson could well believe the last part. Ambassador Raymond O. Williams laid one hundred percent of the blame for the problems of El Salvador at the door of the right-wing, land-owning, oligarchy, and loathed their hired killers, the so-called death squads. His reaction to the assassination of members of his own Mission by them must have been an unforgettable event for his subordinates in the Embassy.

If the Ambassador was surprised, however, it wasn’t Ivorson’s fault. COS’ crack about not sharing information was bullshit. You may recall my memorandum to you last week, Ivorson said stiffly, suggesting that you urge the Ambassador to have Mission personnel increase security measures. Since he is treating the Salvadorian right-wing like America’s enemies, it shouldn’t surprise him if they treat us the same way. The difference is, he says nasty things about them, they shoot us.

COS chose to ignore the reminder about the memo. My, he said, his voice now as mild as a wood rasp, I wish that you had been with me to explain that to the Ambassador when I spoke with him this afternoon. He examined Ivorson for long seconds with an expression that placed his mood somewhere between strong irritation and terminally pissed off. Ivorson wasn’t aware of having committed any sins that warranted a look like that. He mentally braced himself for trouble.

I am altering your job description, Ivorson, COS finally said. Effective as of now, you are to drop your liaison contacts with the National Police and Army here in San Salvador. I want you to concentrate your efforts up-country.

Ivorson’s nascent preparedness for bad news shattered like glass. He felt his mouth hanging open, and shut it again so hard he bit his lip. He stared at COS in disbelief, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. What in hell was going on?

He had arrived in El Salvador last summer, assigned as Chief of Operations. One of his primary duties in that role was to be in liaison with all intelligence gathering agencies of the Salvadorian government, which, in practice, meant the police and the Army.

In November, the repressive government of President Romero had been overthrown by a group of young colonels, who formed a provisional government which included civilians. For the first time since the inception of the insurgency, there had seemed to be the possibility of instituting the land and electoral reforms that would deprive the foreign-backed Communist insurgents of popular support.

This change for the better, however, had been immediately challenged by the appearance of the death squads, sponsored by die-hards of the old regime who were determined to resist encroachment on their land holdings and political influence. Murders of labor leaders, reform-minded politicians and peasants had soared during the past two months, creating a surge of revulsion in the American press and Congress that threatened US aid for the junta.

COS had immediately come under heavy pressure from the Ambassador, which he promptly passed along. Ivorson’s response to the situation had been to shift his own emphasis from liaison with the battalion commanders up-country to a no-holds-barred effort to penetrate the death squads. To that end, he had begun the intense cultivation of his army and police contacts in the capital whom he suspected of knowing something about them. As a result, his up-country trips, such as the one today to assist in a prisoner interrogation, had become increasingly rare.

He finally recovered his voice. Sir, you can’t mean that. How can I find out who these bastards are if I can’t talk to them? I’ve been working my ass off on the problem for the last two months. If I drop contact now, we’ll be back at square one.

I am well aware of the obvious verities you are preaching to me, COS snapped, and this afternoon, when the Ambassador ordered all Embassy personnel to drop contact with their right-wing Salvadorian contacts, I requested that I, DCOS and you be exempted from that order.

The Ambassador was reluctant, COS continued, his eyes bulging behind the lenses. However, he finally agreed, adding that he might as well agree, since he knew I would secretly instruct my people to disobey the order anyway, just as I had flouted his directives on this subject in the past.

When I denied that, COS continued, his voice rising in anger, His Excellency generously conceded that what he had viewed as sabotage on my part might have been merely incompetence. Incompetence! He finished the final sentence spitting like a cobra.

Oh, shit, thought Ivorson. The conflict between the Ambassador and COS had finally burst into open warfare, and Ivorson was caught in the middle.

Ambassador Williams had been the president of a small, northeastern college. His political views were even more liberal than those of the President who’d appointed him. He had been heard to wonder aloud about the dedication of Station officers to the principles of representative government.

COS was a professional intelligence officer, who believed in very little except in his duty to tell Washington what was happening on his turf. He was certain the Ambassador was censoring Station reporting about up-country atrocities committed by the Communists.

Added to the divergence in their political views was the fact that two personalities more perfectly designed to strike fire from each other had rarely been cooped up together in the confines of a besieged Embassy. They had disliked each other from their first meeting.

Incompetent. COS’ tongue came back to the word as if it were an aching tooth. Without the reporting this Station provides him, that ivory tower idiot wouldn’t even know the names of the players, let alone what they’re doing, and I’m going to let him understand that!

He focused his furious, lens-encased glare on Ivorson. He wants us to break contact with the Right Wing, so that’s what he’ll get. Starting tomorrow, there will be no more status reports for him from either army or police sources. We’ll see how he likes being blind and deaf. Drop your contacts.

COS’ face dared him to comment, but Ivorson couldn’t keep himself quiet. Sir, the Ambassador’s remarks were ridiculous, and you’re entitled to be angry, but you can’t cut him off like that. He’s the President’s personal representative. He’s got to have the facts . . .

COS’ voice turned into a sibilant rapier blade, pointed straight at Ivorson. I have just given you an order, Ivorson. You will obey that order, or you will return to Headquarters forthwith. Understood?

Ivorson’s gut constricted with anger, and apprehension too, because COS did not make idle threats. He had destroyed more than one officer’s career along the way. The anger dominated, because Ivorson didn’t deserve threats for doing his duty.

He struggled to tamp down his emotions. Yes, Sir, he said. Understood.

COS regarded him in silence for a number of seconds, then dismissed him by looking down at the paperwork on the desk.

Chapter Two

Ivorson silently left the office. He closed the door behind himself and stood in the secretary’s office for a moment, trying to get himself under control. He didn’t like being treated like a dimwit, and he liked what was happening even less. It threatened the entire US effort in El Salvador. And the terrible irony of it was that the threat of the death squads to this poor little country was one of the few factors in the Salvadorian equation on which COS and the Ambassador agreed.

Terri McDonald, COS’ secretary, came over from her desk, and put her hands on his arms. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to warn you when you came in, she whispered. I’ve never seen him in such a vicious mood. Was it really awful?

With her heels on, she was three inches shorter than Ivorson’s own five feet ten inches. Her skin was light, but her dark eyes and gleaming black hair proclaimed her Mexican grandmother (Terri was short for Maria Teresa). Ivorson was very much aware of the warmth of her hands on his bare forearms.

He tried to flash a never-mind kind of a smile at her. It didn’t feel very successful. I wish you had been, too. I tried to argue with him, and I thought he was going to send me home in a basket.

Is this going to wipe out dinner? she asked.

Oh, hell! He had forgotten that this was the night he’d invited her and two other Station secretaries out, so they could get away from their apartments and have some semblance of a normal social outing.

He really didn’t want to go through with it now. He was tired, and too preoccupied by what had just happened to be good company. I guess we should cancel, he told her. I’ve got some intel reports to work on, and I ought to see someone or other tonight about the killings. I’m sorry, Terri. Can you tell the other girls?

Visibly disappointed, she nodded agreement. She was standing close enough so that he could smell her perfume. It was jasmine.

I apologize again for not warning you, she said forlornly. See you tomorrow.

He left the office and walked down the hall, thinking about Terri. He found himself thinking about her a lot these days – a lot more than he should be, considering Lisa and their two daughters. Terri was a pretty girl from a small California town, who had joined the Agency fresh out of high school to see the world, have some fun and meet a husband. Fifteen years had gone by since then. She’d seen a lot of the world, but she hadn’t met a husband, and she wasn’t having as much fun as she used to, either.

It was especially rough for the gals in war posts like here in El Salvador, or in the old days in Saigon, Ivorson reflected. Ninety-nine percent of the men in the Mission were either married or confirmed bachelors, and the girls didn’t dare date local men. The danger of being set up for assassination or kidnapping was very, very real. Still, Terri’s loneliness wasn’t Ivorson’s problem, and if he knew what was good for him, that’s how he’d keep things.

He walked along the open corridor on the top floor, looking down into the almost-deserted interior atrium of the building. It was close to six p.m., and the only sections of the building from which he could hear sounds of activity were the Station and the Office of the Defense Attaché.

It took more than the murder of Mission officials, he reflected bitterly, to keep the Foreign Service officers in the Embassy after hours. It was a standing joke in the Agency that all the Soviets had to do to identify the CIA officers in any American embassy was just drive by at night and note all the offices in which the lights were on. It probably wasn’t a joke at all. The Sovs would have to be damn dense not to figure that out.

He punched the combination into the cipher lock on the grill gate that separated the Station from the rest of the floor, and opened the outer door of his own suite of offices. His secretary was still behind her desk, banging away on her IBM typewriter as if it were her worst enemy – which, come to think of it, it probably was. She looked up as he came in. Hi, she said. You look like a man who’s just had his ass chewed.

He laughed, his residual unhappiness with COS ebbing. He was a sucker for Jennifer Morsefield, Jeep to her friends. She was possessed of a wonderful combination of irreverent wit and invincible energy.

I don’t want to think about it, he told her, opening his attaché case. He pulled out a sheaf of papers, and waved them at her. Here, believe it or not, he said, are four draft intelligence reports based on a prisoner interrogation by the Atonal Battalion G-2. I think they’re ready to go to press.

He caught the look of dismay on her face, and grinned at her maliciously. Got your attention that time, didn’t I? Save ‘em for tomorrow. The Marines can’t wait.

She rewarded his generosity with her best smile. He was tickled to see that his crack about the Marines got a little blush from her. She was dating one of the Marine Security Guard contingent at the Embassy.

Which reminded him. You weren’t planning to go to the Zona Rosa, were you? he asked. The Marine Security Guards had developed the habit of holding forth after watch at their table on the sidewalk of one of the bars on the night club strip on Avenida de las Magnolias called the Pink Zone. He had cautioned Jeep about it a couple of times. Her flustered reaction to the question confirmed his suspicion.

Listen, Jeep, he told her firmly. Two Americans were killed in this town today because someone knew where to find them. If the killers know where to find you guys as well, they can finish off the day with a real bang.

She winced at the final word. Okay, she said. I get your message. Scratch the Zona Rosa.

Lock up out here when you’re finished, okay? he told her, going into the inner office. I’m going to see if I can find someone who’s willing to talk to me about what happened today at the Sheraton. He opened his safe, put the remaining notes from his attaché case inside, and sat down at his desk to brood.

In 1980, the Salvadorian political fabric had virtually disintegrated. Assassinations were being perpetrated on a daily basis in every city and town. The rising level of violence was making it more and more difficult for the non-Communist elements to form a stable government they could all support. And if they couldn’t do that, they weren’t going to be able to handle the externally-supported insurgents. Period. El Salvador would go the way of Cuba and Nicaragua, and the day would be that much closer when the US might have to pull forces out of NATO, and weaken the defense of Europe in order to garrison the U.S.-Mexican border.

Somehow, Ivorson had to get COS to reverse his edict on dropping his urban liaison contacts. He’d begin working on COS to reverse his order tomorrow. That was soon enough to work on the other intelligence reports, too. Tonight, while the killing of the USAIDers was hot news he was going to use it to advance his own efforts to penetrate the death squads.

Chapter Three

He started thumbing through his Rolodex. Whom should he call? Someone who might have access to the target, but wasn’t himself a complete Fascist. He picked up his address book and thumbed through it.

Aha. Here was a good possibility! Major Roberto Maldonado, G-2 of the First Infantry Brigade, at San Carlos Barracks, here in San Salvador. He might well have some knowledge of the death squads, at least second hand. In addition to his family’s large land holdings, he was also related to the commander of the Treasury Police, an outfit notorious for violence against suspected left-wing activists.

On the positive side, he had gone to college in the States, and seemed, at least superficially, to be pro-U.S. Ivorson had met him socially, and even shared some information from prisoner interrogations – which he knew Maldonado would ultimately get through his own channels anyway – but had never invited him out one-on-one before. Maldonado had never been officially briefed, but he certainly knew from his commander, Colonel Arce, that Ivorson was CIA.

He picked up the phone, then hesitated. Was he about to get himself in trouble? Would COS consider this a violation of the ban on liaison contacts? After all, Ivorson had met Maldonado through liaison. Yes, but he was calling him now for unilateral assessment as a possible agent.

He weighed the pros and cons for a moment, then decided to make the call. If COS jumped him for it, the issue was at least arguable. And anyway, Ivorson didn’t intend to just sit around and watch while COS and the Ambassador fought out their ego conflict over the bleeding body of El Salvador. He dialed Maldonado’s office number.

* * * *

At a quarter before nine that same evening, he sat down on a bench next to the marble bust of Beethoven in the grassy center of the large traffic circle on Avenue General Escalon which bore the composer’s name. Across the avenue was the entrance to Pepe’s Bar.

At this hour, the park was usually still crowded: parents strolling with their children, food vendors pushing their carts, and lovers nuzzling on the benches. Tonight, however, due to a wave of cool air that had sagged down from North America two days earlier, there were only a few people out.

The locals said it was "muy frio -very cold-, but Ivorson loved it. The low last night had been close to 50 degrees. That didn’t seem excessively frigid for January to a boy from Ames, Iowa. He welcomed the relief from heat and humidity.

Maldonado had responded very favorably to his invitation over the phone this afternoon. He had expressed regret for the killings at the Sheraton, seemed genuinely pleased at Ivorson’s invitation to talk, and had suggested Pepe’s Bar.

Which was why Ivorson was sitting here in the park in the traffic circle, well ahead of their meeting time. He had come armed, of course. Prudence required it. In San Salvador, you moved in a vague astronomy of inconcrete pistols, never sure who was really on whose side. For that reason, Ivorson’s own 9mm. Browning was neither vague nor inconcrete.

He watched the entrance to Pepe’s and paid a lot of attention to the people on the street. After about twenty minutes of watching, he saw Maldonado enter the bar. Only five minutes late. Half an hour late was normal Salvadorian punctuality. The prompt arrival was a sign that Maldonado thought their meeting was important – a good sign.

Ivorson kept his vigil until ten minutes after the hour, but no one came into the park, or took up a covering position around the bar on the sidewalk. Maldonado had apparently come alone.

Satisfied on that point, Ivorson got up, crossed to the north side of the broad avenue with the next green light, and went into the bar. His nostrils filled with the aromas of charcoal smoke, garlic, strong tobacco and stale beer – a microcosm of El Salvador in one sniff.

Pepe’s was a long, narrow place with an open front on the sidewalk. About half way back, there was a waist-high wall with a planter on top, filled with greenery, which was both high and thick, and the opening in the half-wall was only about a meter wide, so anyone who came into the back end of the place gunning for you was at a disadvantage. Perhaps for that reason, it was a popular meeting place.

Maldonado was in a booth at the rear of the back room. He stood up and waved. Ivorson took a quick look around. He didn’t see any faces he didn’t want to see, so he walked on back to shake hands.

The Major was a handsome man, tall for a Salvadorian at five feet, seven inches, with light brown skin, black hair and eyes, and a dashing mustache. His ready laugh displayed very white teeth. Ivorson had heard that he was a lady-killer.

Maldonado insisted on Ivorson’s taking the inside seat. It was more than a courteous gesture, since the guy on the outside presented the first target to any would-be assassin.

Pepe, the shriveled-up runt of a mestizo who owned the bar, took their order. After his first visit to the place, Ivorson had asked Headquarters for information on Pepe, and had learned that over half-a-dozen of his predecessors had done likewise. They had all survived their tours of duty, so Pepe must be okay.

When Ivorson and Maldonado received their Bacardi Anejo on the rocks, they ceremoniously toasted each other’s health. I’m glad you called me this afternoon, Peter, Maldonado said. As a matter of fact, I tried to get you earlier in the day, but your secretary said you were out of town.

Ivorson made a mental note to check with Jeep on that statement. Yes, he said. I had to go up to Chalatenango to assist with the interrogation of a prisoner the Atonal Battalion took yesterday. We got some good stuff from it. If you’d like to see it, I’ll send you a copy as soon as it is written up.

Good, said Maldonado. I look forward to reading that. His handsome face became sober. I really meant what I said on the phone this afternoon, Peter, he continued earnestly. The killings today could cause real trouble between our countries.

Maldonado had begun the conversation in the accent-less English he had acquired along with his B.A. from UCLA. That suited Ivorson. He himself had gone to college for two years in Mexico City, and spoke Spanish fluently, but he felt it gave him a psychological edge to be speaking his own language.

These death squad people are so stupid, Maldonado went on. "Most of the actual killers are not really evil men, you know, but peasants – simple soldiers or policemen who have been duped by their superiors into believing that their targets are Communists, their country’s enemies. They don’t understand that American resentment of their acts could actually