Six Minutes To Freedom

by John Gilstrap

  Her first offer was a trade. The Agency had expressed an interest in the code book that Kurt and his compatriots had developed to translatePDF radio transmissions into useable information. In return for a copy of the codes, Jocelyn would provide additional information that La Voz had yet to be able to obtain—the specific locations codes for PDF operating stations. At the end of the day, both groups would have a more complete list, and with it, La Voz would be even more empoweredto wreak havoc at its will.

  The meeting was set for a day in the late summer, at Jocelyn’s apartmentin Punta Paitilla, a residential neighborhood in Panama City. It was hardly the stuff of spycraft. Kurt arrived at the appointed time with his code book tucked into one of his socks and knocked on the apartment door. Jocelyn was waiting for him. They chatted for a minuteor two, and then it was time to make the exchange. Just as they’d planned, Kurt handed over his notebook of broken codes, and Jocelyn handed over ... nothing. Not a damn thing. She just took his book and walked away, knowing damn well that Kurt couldn’t start shoutingin so crowded a building. “Where is the information you promised?”he asked.

  Jocelyn smirked and shook her head. “Oh, it turns out that I’m not permitted to share that with you after all. I’d be happy to pay you for your book, though. Name a reasonable price, and it’s yours.”

  Kurt was stunned. “A price? You think I’m in this for the money?”

  She shrugged. Everyone was in it for the money. What else was there?

  He couldn’t believe the betrayal. “I’m not your whore,” he said. “I don’t perform for money.”

  “Suit yourself. I just had to make the offer.”

  A long moment passed. Kurt stared, dumbfounded, and Jocelyn smirked. Clearly, the days of cooperation had ended.

  The first thing Kurt did at the end of that meeting—the very first thing—was to call Suzanne in her office, on an open phone line, to tell her, “Look, I know we’re friends, but professionally, we’re through. Don’t ever call me for information again. As far as I’m concerned, the CIA is just a class of idiots and thieves. Pass it along to whoever wants to hear that I never want to talk to the Agency again. Never.”

  So, when the phone rang a few months later with yet another offer from the CIA, Kurt was genuinely and thoroughly shocked. It came on a Sunday afternoon when Kurt was involved in nothing in particular, sitting at home with his family. The phone rang, and when Kurt answered it, the male voice on the other end carried the attitude of long-standingfriendship.

  “Is this Kurt Muse?” the voice asked.

  “It is.”

  “How nice to finally get a chance to talk to you. We have a commonfriend of many years. Suzanne Alexander sends her regards.”

  Invoking the name of Kurt’s old friend made it obvious in an instant that the caller was from the CIA, and no one from the CIA ever made social calls. “Certainly send her my regards,” Kurt said. “But surely she made it clear that I am not interested in speaking to any of her friends.”

  “She did mention that,” the caller said, “but I don’t run with the same crowd as the one you met. I like to think of myself as being above them, spending most of my time in the palace instead of wallowing in the caves, if you know what I mean.”

  Kurt found himself nodding. He couldn’t know exactly what he meant, of course, but it sounded like this friend of Suzanne’s worked not at the Panama station at Corozal, but at the Puzzle Palace—CIA headquarters at Langley. Kurt knew for a fact that that was where Suzanne had been transferred. “Well, it was nice of her to have you look me up. Do you have a name?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “I’d like to schedule a get-together, if that’s all right. You know, to catch up on old times.”

  Speaking in code like this grew old very quickly and always felt a little silly. Still, in a nation where every phone was tapped, one had to be careful. “I can’t imagine that we’d have much to talk about,” Kurt said. “For sure, I know that I don’t have much to talk to you about.”

  “Still,” the man said, “how about a meeting? A picnic, perhaps, in Suzanne’s favorite spot.”

  Kurt knew exactly what he meant. There was a spot among the bohios—thatched roofed pole tents—at Albrook Air Force Base where the Muses and Suzanne had enjoyed a picnic shortly before she left for the States. She’d mentioned at the time that it was one of her favorite spots. “I suppose I could make time for that,” he said cautiously. “Pick a time.”

  “Tomorrow morning works well for me. Say, around eleven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there. Do you mind if I bring a friend?”

  “Not at all. I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  Kurt couldn’t decide if the openness of this man was refreshing or off-putting. “How will I recognize you?”

  “My friends call me Father Frank,” he said. And then he hung up.

  It turned out to be all the identification Kurt would need. He and Tomás showed up ten minutes early and hung back in the parking lot, scoping things out before committing full out to the meeting. The whole thing smelled a lot like a setup. Had the mysterious caller invokedany name but Suzanne’s, Kurt might not have shown up. And of course, there was always the possibility that this Father Frank had merely dropped the name without permission, and it was a setup anyway.Kurt cursed himself for not having thought to call Suzanne to verifythings.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” Tomás asked.

  “Something we have that they don’t, I would imagine. Just like last time.” Kurt had always been slow to shrug off past injustices.

  “Maybe they’ve changed their minds and want to help us again.”

  “I think we’re doing just fine on our own,” Kurt countered. “You start taking help from Uncle Sam, and suddenly you find yourself at the tip of the tail when you used to be on the point of the nose. I’ve learned that nothing comes from Uncle without a price.”

  While Kurt spoke, both of them noted an old man—easily in his sixties—making his way up the sloping grass from the far side of the parking lot toward the bohios. “That’s got to be Father Frank,” Kurt said, pointing. Sure enough, the portly old guy with the bald spot on the crown of his head looked like a cross between Friar Tuck and FatherFlannigan. Put him in a cassock, and he’d be right out of Central Casting as a priest.

  “Okay,” Kurt said with a sigh. “It’s show time.”

  He and Tomás opened their doors together and walked briskly, purposefullyon a path that would intersect that of their new CIA contact.

  As they approached, Father Frank met them with a beaming smile. “Kurt Muse,” he said, extending his hand. He had the grip of a twenty-year-old. “And you must be Tomás Muñoz,” he said, offering a set of crushed metacarpals to Kurt’s accomplice. “I’m glad you could accommodate me.”

  “I think it’s a little early to say that we’re accommodating anybody,”Kurt said. “We’re here to listen.”

  Father Frank considered that and nodded. “Of course you are. I didn’t mean to be too forward. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He rocked his head back and pointed his face to the sky. “I can understand how my colleagues become so attached to this place.”

  “So you are not from here?” Tomás probed.

  Father Frank seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, heavens no. I’ve been here a few times, of course, but not in a very long time. I guess I’ve been about everywhere once or twice.”

  “That means you’re from Langley?” Kurt surmised.

  Father Frank half shrugged. “Close enough to the truth to not be a lie,” he said. “But we’re not here to talk about me.”

  “I am,” Kurt said.

  Father Frank’s eyes hardened; just for an instant, but it was there to see if you were watching. “Well, I’m not. I’m here to patch up some old wounds and to tell you that things are a lot different up north these days. As I’m sure you know, political winds change direction from time to time, and for the foreseeable future, they seem to be blo
wing in your direction.”

  “For the foreseeable future,” Kurt said, tasting the words. “Why does that comfort me so little?”

  Father Frank seemed amused. “Ah, a cynic. Well, I suppose we’ve earned that. And a little well-considered cynicism never hurt anyone. Hell, it’s probably kept a few people alive. But as an old hand at such things, I urge you to weigh the phrase ‘well considered.’ New elections bring new opportunities, and not just in the third world. It would be a mistake to confuse the priorities of the old administration in Washingtonwith those of the new.”

  “That wasn’t an election, that was a rout,” Kurt snorted. “The vice president was promoted to president.”

  “Don’t underestimate the title change,” Father Frank warned. “President Bush is a Texan. His view of this part of the world is a lot different from that of the Californian who preceded him. This is truly a new day. If I were you, I’d be pleased.”

  “Then I’m pleased,” Kurt said. He was feeling petulant, and it showed.

  “What do you want from us?” Tomás asked.

  Father Frank shook his head. “It’s not a matter of wanting from you,” he said. “It’s a matter of providing for you.” He reached into his pants pocket and produced a standard number ten envelope thick with what could only be cash. “Here’s a couple thousand dollars,” he said, handing the envelope not to Kurt but to Tomás. “Consider it a gesture of good faith. If you need something else, I’m the man to get it for you.”

  “We don’t need your money,” Kurt said, noting without comment that the envelope had been handed to the only non-American among them.

  “Of course you do. You’ve got leases to pay, equipment to maintain.”He stated this plainly, as the facts he knew them to be. “Surely you’re not waiting for DelValle to change his mind.” There was that amused look again.

  Kurt still wasn’t ready to buy what he was selling. “What’s the catch?”

  Father Frank scowled and shook his head. “No catch.”

  “There’s always a catch with you guys.”

  “No, there’s sometimes a catch with us guys,” Father Frank corrected,“and this happens not to be one of those times.” He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Look. You need to forget about what happened during those former administrations, okay? There’s a new sheriff in town, and he gets to decide where there’s a catch and where there’s not. It’s not something I can prove to you before the fact. You’re either going to trust me and learn for yourself if it was worth the risk, or you won’t. At this stage, all I can do is talk.”

  “So, what are you telling me?” Kurt pressed. “That Woerner and Chiang have both had a great change of heart just because they’ve got a new commander in chief? Or are you telling me that for all those years of planting their noses up Noriega’s ass they were just reflecting the whim of previous administrations?”

  Father Frank seemed committed to avoiding the fight that Kurt was so actively trolling for. “I’m telling you that Woerner and Chiang are both irrelevant to you. They have their chain of command, and I have mine.”

  “And they all come together at the top.”

  “But not below the top. That’s the point.”

  And it was a point that gave Kurt a moment of pause. “So you expectme to believe that neither the commander of SouthCom nor the CIA chief of station know that you’re here.”

  There was that smile again. “And if they did, they’d both shit the proverbial brick.”

  Kurt exchanged glances with Tomás. It still felt too good to be true. “But why?”

  Father Frank cocked his head. “Come on, Kurt, you’re smarter than that.”

  “Because Noriega’s going down,” Kurt breathed, finally connecting the dots.

  “I’ll say it again,” Father Frank smiled. “There’s a new sheriff in town.” It was an interesting smile, too. Kurt wondered if this new contacttruly cared about the politics he was affecting, or if he merely enjoyedthe thrill of interfering with things. It wasn’t a question he could ask, because it wasn’t an answer he necessarily wanted to hear.

  “We won’t take payment for what we’re doing,” Kurt said. “I will not be an employee of the Agency.”

  “That’s good, because this isn’t a job interview. This is an offer to pay some expenses, and to provide ongoing assistance in the future.” With a snort of laughter, he turned to Tomás. “Is he this hard to give a gift to at Christmas?”

  “We need a battery backup,” Tomás said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you could provide for us. I need you to provide a battery backup.”

  “For what?”

  “Our transmitters. Every time we cycle them on, the Pineapple gets closer and closer to triangulating on them.”

  Kurt picked up on the explanation. “I don’t know how much Suzanne has told you.”

  “I know that the good general has brought in Cuban radio guys to look for you. That’s very high-profile, by the way. Shows you’re gettinghis goat. Congratulations.”

  In spite of his desire to dislike this guy, Kurt was finding him to be quite charming. “Well, their new strategy is to wait till one of the transmissions kicks in, and then they start cutting the power grids in the city, one section at a time. When the signal dies, they know which section to start looking in.”

  Father Frank raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s actually a pretty smart move coming from such a small mind.”

  “Had to be the influence of the Cubans,” Kurt laughed. “Anyway, they’ve already come close enough to one of the transmitters that we can’t risk using it again. On the others, we’re sort of out of business for a while.”

  Father Frank stewed on the problem for a moment. “So, you figure that with a battery backup you’ll keep transmitting no matter what happens with the power.” The smile bloomed even larger. “That’ll frustrate the hell out of him.” The smile turned to a laugh as Father Frank clapped him on the shoulder. “I like the way you think, Muse. I like the way you think. I’ll get it to you within a week. Are there any special parameters or technical details I need to know?”

  Tomás recited the name and model number of the transmitter from memory, and then did it again after Father Frank had time to muster up a pen and a pad of paper.

  “As for the cash,” Kurt started.

  The old man waved him off before he had a chance to form the question. “Use it as you wish. I don’t care. Buy more equipment, pay off a lease, do whatever you want.”

  Despite having been down a similar road with the Agency before, Kurt noted how different the road actually felt this time around. In the past, he’d always been the beggar, the runt of the litter struggling for a turn at the teat. This time, they had come to him, and the story Father Frank told seemed not only plausible, but sensible. Besides, how could you not trust a man who looked like a cross between Friar Tuck and Father Flannigan?

  “All right,” Kurt said at length. “We’ll take the money and we’ll put it to good use.”

  Tomás did him one better. “When we meet again, within a week, I’ll be sure to give you a receipt and a full accounting of where the money went.” Kurt nodded his approval as the offer was made.

  Father Frank let go with a laugh that seemed to come from his very core. It was a hearty, throaty thing that you might expect to hear from your grandfather after a really good joke. “Oh, God,” he said, “please don’t do that. This is the CIA, for God’s sake. We’re spies. We don’t do receipts. The last thing we want anywhere in the world is a paper trail.” He laughed again as he waved and headed back down the hill. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

  When the Cheshire Cat departed Alice, he left his smile behind. With Father Frank, it was the hearty laugh that stayed behind. As he watched the old spy walk toward his car, Kurt couldn’t escape the feelingthat somewhere, an office full of people would be howling at the story of the rookie spies who offered to give receipts.

  10


  Time for Kurt had ceased to have any meaning. He knew, certainly, that hours had passed, but for all he knew, it could have been days. The disorientation bothered him, and he cursed himself for not paying better attention, but then he realized that disorientation was probably part of a larger design. What he knew of interrogation techniquescould fill a thimble. His sources were limited to the spy novels he’d read and the movies he’d seen over the years.

  Now, as he lay curled under a desk in a pitch black office in yet anotherpolice substation—following to the letter the very specific orders he’d been given—this lack of training and preparation seemed like the most elementary and yet most foolish kind of mistake. Jesus God, what had he gotten himself into?

  The first glimpse of reality hit in the twenty minutes or so that Kurt sat in that pickup truck watching his parents’ apartment being ransacked.The logic train was as simple as it was disturbing: Nana and Papi would be implicated and indicted on trumped-up charges, or, as time progressed, they would be used as human bait to get Kurt to open up and tell the PDF everything that he knew. Either way, it was a horribleoutcome to consider. Papi was strong—stronger by half than any goon the PDF could throw at him—but Nana was not. She was never meant to be. Her strength lay in morality and nobility. The very thought of what they might do to her as a result of her son’s antics turned Kurt’s stomach.

  Would the fact that his parents knew nothing of his operation—truly nothing of it—keep them from the interrogators, or would it just make their ordeal a thousand times worse as the torturers tried to extractinformation that they’d never possessed? He prayed that they’d gotten away in time. If they hadn’t, then by definition his children hadn’t, and the thought made his head swim faster and faster.

  No, he told himself. Don’t think like that. You’re scared right now, and fear is the breeding ground for all kinds of negative thoughts and feelings. Destructive feelings. He’d only been into this thing for a short while—whether hours or days, it still hadn’t been weeks or months. No one had hurt him. No one had threatened to hurt him, at least not in the physical sense. It was far too early to let hope drip away like that.