The Woman Who Lost Her Soul
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When humanitarian lawyer Tom Harrington travels to Haiti to investigate the murder of a beautiful and seductive photojournalist, he is confronted with a dangerous landscape riddled with poverty, corruption, and voodoo. It’s the late 1990s, a time of brutal guerrilla warfare and civilian kidnappings, and everyone has secrets. The journalist, whom he knew years before as Jackie Scott, had a bigger investment in Haiti than it seemed, and to make sense of her death, Tom must plunge back into a thorny past and his complicated ties to both Jackie and Eville Burnette, a member of Special Forces who has been assigned to protect her.
From the violent, bandit-dominated terrain of World War II Dubrovnik to the exquisitely rendered Istanbul in the 1980s, Shacochis brandishes Jackie’s shadowy family history with daring agility. Caught between her first love and the unsavory attentions of her father—an elite spy and quintessential Cold War warrior pressuring his daughter to follow in his footsteps—seventeen-year-old Jackie hatches a desperate escape plan that puts her on course to becoming the soulless woman Tom equally feared and desired.
Set over fifty years and in four countries backdropped by different wars, The Woman Who Lost Her Soul is a magnum opus that brings to life, through the mystique and allure of history, an intricate portrait of catastrophic events that led up to the war on terror and the America we are today.
prove she had indeed been listening said, Well? Aren’t you going to tell me? Your mother’s not coming back, he said. This isn’t another vacation, is it? No, he said, it isn’t. So, is this like a divorce or an annulment or something? No, he said. Not at all. She wants to be in Virginia, now that your brother’s in college. She can’t handle it anymore. She wants to be there for Christopher. I’m not surprised. I didn’t think you would be. What did you think? I thought, Dottie is seventeen.
educated, and worldly. She was no peasant, I can tell you that. When I look at you ... well. I’m like her, aren’t I? Yes. And your father? All-American war hero, right? Anglo-Irish-Welsh-Franco-Germanic stock, a full house, as they say, fourth generation. A hardworking man with a ferocious sense of right and wrong. Unfortunately, he was an Episcopalian. Your grandmother fell in love with him anyway, proving once again that love, as they say, is subversive and one might even say willfully
an afterthought, he asked their names. Margarete, she said, and Henri. And yours, monsieur? Burnette. We have to find you someplace to stay, he said. He didn’t bother with the Christophe, which had for many months now been rewarded by the international crisis with a hotelier’s windfall of no vacancies. Behind the Christophe, up the slope of a wooded hill, was the only other respectable hotel in Cap-Haïtien, the Mont Joli, but when he rolled into the Joli’s car park Margarete seemed to shrink
clotted with confusion, then glittering with unspent tears. At the arcaded entryway into Mirogoj, Burnette had summoned whatever courage or stupidity it took to remind Chambers of what the undersecretary had mentioned earlier in the day, something he wanted Ev to see, but the reminder mystified Chambers. I’m not sure what you’re talking about, he said, and Burnette didn’t press the matter because he could hardly believe himself Tom Harrington’s claim, wondering if he would find Dottie here or
resolved with a double cross and bloodshed. She had filed for a divorce. That might explain it. Does Connie Dolan know that? asked Harrington. I don’t know what Dolan knows, Tom, said Albert Neff. That’s why we’re talking. But I can tell you this. Dolan’s days of protecting this dirtbag are over. That’s why you’re here. In this room. Well, that’s only partially true, added the DCM. Keeping you out of trouble strikes me as a worthy goal. Anything else you can tell us? asked Neff. I knew her,