Six Minutes To Freedom

by John Gilstrap

  The words hadn’t finished echoing in the room before the two men looked at each other. Who exactly did have the authority to cancel visas to the United States?

  Well, certainly the ambassador, but he himself answered to the very highest levels of the government, where political concerns often trumped practical ones. Short of him, neither Marcos nor his midlevel friend knew for sure.

  The good news was, if they didn’t know, then Noriega probably wouldn’t know either. A plan was hatched. On his own authority—presumed, but never granted—the staffer picked up the phone and made a call. Just like that, all Panamanian visas to the United States were canceled. From president to peasant, every Panamanian was stranded in their own country until Noriega coughed up Kurt FrederickMuse.

  It actually only took a few hours.

  The following morning at 10:00 the PDF organized a press conferencein which Kurt Muse was presented to the world as a spy for the U.S. government.

  PART 2

  “No One Walks Out Alive”

  21

  At forty-six, U.S. Air Force Colonel Jim Ruffer had lived enough lives for two people. Born in 1943 to an Army cryptographer, he had spent his early years in Hawaii, and finally followed his brother into the Marine Corps, where he joined the famed Black Sheep Squadronand flew ninety-two combat missions over Vietnam. When he was done with that war, he spent five months in Japan before finally decidingthat what he really wanted to do with his life was to become a doctor.

  While attending med school in Mexico, he met Margarita, with whom he quite literally fell in love at first sight. They married, and afterhe became a physician, Ruffer longed for the action again and rejoinedthe military, this time as a Navy flight surgeon. He found the job fascinating, but after five years at sea aboard aircraft carriers, he decidedthat his real love was waiting for him at home, enduring the long separations that made Navy life so difficult for everyone who chose that line of work.

  Discharged honorably, he and Margarita moved to Idaho and Jim hung out his shingle as a private practitioner. It was everything he expectedfrom life as a small-town doctor where practitioners of the medical arts were few and far between. In fact, it was much, much more. Day after day, night after night, the phone rang constantly with citizens of his community in need of help and hand-holding. The psychologicalrewards were tremendous, even if the financial ones were not, but when it finally occurred to him that after months of private practice he had never once completed an entire bath without being interruptedby a phone call, he realized that it was time to move on yet again.

  The U.S. military had been good to Jim in the past, and when the time came for him to seek greener pastures, he didn’t search for green at all, but rather for Air Force blue. After eight months of private practice,he once again found himself in the role of a flight surgeon, this time for NASA’s Voyager program.

  For Margarita, however—the patient one who had endured so much time as a loving wife without a husband—it had been too long since she’d lived in a Spanish-speaking country, so when an opportunityarose for Jim to take a position at Howard Air Force base in the Canal Zone, he jumped at it.

  The duty in Panama was unique, to say the least. Besides routine medical chores, he also found himself serving as understudy to CommandSurgeon Mike McConnell, and in that role, Jim Ruffer found himself often in the company of senior command officers attending meetings and strategy sessions that were much more complex and highly classified than anything he’d attended previously.

  He also found himself investigating illnesses of a nature he’d not encounteredin the past. For example, in an effort to protect Howard Air Force Base from intrusions and security penetrations, the commanders had planted boonie rats on motor bikes in the jungles to keep an eye on the various trails and clandestine routes of entry. Over the course of just a few weeks, fourteen of these soldiers were attacked by vampirebats. Not deadly in the Bram Stoker sense of the word, the bats were nonetheless a huge morale problem and not an insignificant threat for the transmission of rabies and other diseases.

  Thus, working with the epidemiological section, Jim Ruffer, MD, soon became an expert on the elimination of vampire bats.

  The solution was not one to garner the support of the animal rights movement, but it was very effective: They staked out a goat that had been smeared with the blood thinner coumadin (which is also a componentof rat poison). When the bats attacked, they took the coumadin back to their caves with them. As the critters would preen each other, the drug would get into their system and they’d bleed to death through their gastronitestinal system.

  It was amazing, sometimes, where military medicine took a guy.

  On April 13, 1989, Jim Ruffer was on the second floor of Gorgas Hospital, the former French hospital on the hills above Chorrillo, the worst conceivable section of Panama City, when he received a phone call from Lieutenant Colonel Robert Perry of the Treaty Affairs office. An Army guy and a fellow Mormon, Rob Perry had always given him the feeling that he was an intel guy at heart. After brief pleasantries, Perry said, “So, Jim, do you have a little black bag with medical stuff in it?”

  Is the Pope Catholic? “Sure.”

  “Okay, I want you to do me a favor and grab it and meet a car out front in ten minutes.”

  This didn’t sound right. “What’s up?”

  “We can talk in the car,” Perry said. “Ten minutes, right?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Nine minutes and sixty seconds later, an Army staff car pulled to the curb in front of Gorgas, and Jim Ruffer climbed inside. Next to Perry sat a young State Department staffer who was all business and impressed Jim as an up-and-comer on the diplomatic front.

  “Here it is,” Perry said, getting right down to it. “Kurt Muse, an American citizen and DoD dependent, was arrested six days ago and has been kept under wraps. Since his arrest, the PDF has maintained that they know nothing about him or his whereabouts, and now, suddenly,after we canceled the bastards’ visas, they’re coughing him up for some bogus press conference. We want you to take a look at him and tell us if he’s been treated all right.”

  “He’s been there for six days?” Jim asked, making sure he’d heard correctly.

  Perry nodded.

  “Then he’s not all right.”

  Kurt knew something was coming, but he didn’t know what. The DENI headquarters was buzzing with a new excitement, and he could see out the window on the far end of the room that people were gatheringin large numbers. He had an idea that it was about time for his perp walk, the parade in front of the television cameras for the world to see—

  What, exactly? A local businessman who helped to bring shame and dishonor to a dictator who considered himself the owner of an entirecountry. His fears were confirmed when a new player entered his tiny room. Kurt recognized him right away as Lieutenant Colonel NivaldoMadriñán, the chief of the DENI, and a neighbor who lived not a hundred yards from Kurt’s house in El Avance.

  “So, Mr. Muse, you are the spy I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  “I’m not a spy.” This exact exchange had happened so many times now, with so many different players that it was beginning to feel programmed.

  “You are in a lot of trouble.”

  “I can see that. Are you planning to file charges against me any time soon?”

  Madriñán’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was here to ask questions, not answer them. “We have arranged a press conference. We will make a statement, and we will present you to the cameras, but we have instructedthe reporters not to ask questions, and I am now instructing you not to answer any questions. Have I made myself clear?”

  “What are you afraid I’ll say?”

  Madriñán’s eyes grew hotter. “Do you suffer from high blood pressure,Mr. Muse?”

  The sudden change in subject was a little unnerving. “No.”

  “How about insomnia?”

  “No.”

  A hint of a smile appeared on Madriñán’s face. �
�Well, you’re soon going to suffer from both.”

  Robert Perry girded himself for battle as they drove toward DENI headquarters. It felt like he’d done nothing but gird himself for battle over the past two years, and in his case, it was a 360-degree battle front. On the one hand, as the Treaty Affairs officer and the cochair of the Binational Joint Committee provided for in the Panama Canal Treaty, he was charged with protecting the interests of U.S. forces and their families in Panama; on the other hand, he had to deal with GeneralWoerner, the commander in chief of the U.S. Southern Command, whose overarching mission in life seemed to be focused on turning the other cheek. The fact that the State Department was continually puttingpressure on Congress and the president to stomp on Noriega and his abuses didn’t help a bit. The more dogmatic State became, the more entrenched and resistant the push back from DoD.

  Caught in the middle of the clashing political titans was Robert Perry, who just wanted the abuses to stop. A year before, in the summerof 1987, he’d sent a letter to Woerner detailing Perry’s deepening concern over the treatment of military personnel in Panama. Woerner didn’t buy it; he wanted hard data that he had to know was unavailable.Statistics notwithstanding, Perry had been stationed in Panama before, and he knew what he knew; he saw the changes. The fact that Woerner didn’t want to hear it didn’t change a thing.

  Noriega constantly fanned the flames of anti-American sentiments among his troops, boasting publicly and privately that he had PresidentBush’s “balls in my pocket.” As the conditions deteriorated, the PDF became steadily bolder. In one recent incident, an American citizenhad been arrested for smoking pot, and rather than following through with the normal flow of the judicial process, the PDF goons had beaten the guy to a pulp and thrown him into the trunk of his car. Because that hadn’t been enough fun, they’d taken turns sexually abusinghis wife while he listened helplessly to her screams. Perry couldn’t stand it.

  It had been several days since Perry had gotten the call that an American citizen had been picked up for running the illegal radio station,Voice of Liberty. When word got to Woerner, the general was pissed and ill-inclined to get involved. As far as he was concerned, it was just another case of the CIA conducting ops on his facilities withouthim being aware of it. If the Agency got itself into a bind, then it could by God get itself out of it without involving Army resources.

  But it wasn’t anywhere near that simple. First of all, Major Alan Mansfield of the Provost Marshal’s office had moved heaven and earth to accomplish some amazing feats to spirit Muse’s family to safety, and through that activity, an Agency operative from Langley had taken up residence on Fort Clayton and was stirring as many pots as he could find to get a grasp on exactly what was happening.

  Trouble was, if the reports were true that this Muse fellow had in fact violated Panamanian law on Panamanian soil, then there wasn’t a hell of a lot that Treaty Affairs could do for him. Then came the bombshellthat nearly blew Woerner out of his chair: Muse was a DoD dependent. His wife was a teacher in the DoD school system, and that relationshipbrought Muse directly under the jurisdiction of the Panama Canal Treaty, thus invoking many of the rights afforded to American citizens on American soil. Habeus corpus was among the most basic of these.

  Woerner was angry; he wanted nothing to do with a man and his toy radio. The last thing he wanted, he said to Perry, was to get involvedin yet one more tussle that was going to justify more harassmentof U.S. forces by the PDF. Nonetheless, he was in a corner legally, and he grudgingly stopped blocking Perry’s efforts to take care of the CIA spy.

  The first step, of course, was getting the bastards to admit that they had custody in the first place, and the PDF was in no hurry to produce him. In fact, Perry’s cochair on the Panamanian side of the Treaty AffairsCommission had made it abundantly clear that the powers that be were none too pleased to hear of the Treaty jurisdiction. It was safe to assume that they had had some interesting and awful experiences lyingin wait for Mr. Muse and that a good deal of the fun would be derailedbecause of Perry’s involvement.

  Perry was grateful for the opportunity. He knew what Muse was going through, what hellholes Noriega’s interrogation pits could be. Nivaldo Madriñán was one very, very bad man, who was more than capable of unspeakable tortures. The sooner they could get in contact with Muse, the more likely it was that they could intervene in some meaningful way.

  Which, of course, was the last thing the PDF was inclined to see happen, thus all the denials and delays. The cancellation of the visas had been a masterstroke, he thought, and he couldn’t wait for the opportunityto shake the hand of the man who had come up with it.

  So now they were holding a press conference to show off the man of whom they continued to deny that they had custody. Who the hell did these people think they were? It was time to play hardball.

  The U.S. government car arrived at DENI headquarters. “Okay,” Perry said to his entourage. “We go in there like we own the place, understand?They’re not going to be happy that we’re here, and I could not care less.”

  The three men moved as one, out of their vehicle and through the front doors of the station. They waded through the crowd toward the office marked COMMANDING OFFICER. They were still twenty feet from the doorway when an armed guard stepped forward to block their path. Perry didn’t slow down until his nose and the guard’s were separatedonly by inches. Perry said in flawless Spanish, “We’re here to see Kurt Frederick Muse, an American citizen in your custody.”

  The guard was joined by others. “I cannot let you pass.”

  “Then I demand to see the commanding officer.”

  A second guard, the latest to join the little clutch of uniforms, said, “Colonel Madriñán is not here.”

  “You’re lying. He’s conducting a press conference, for God’s sake.”

  “He is not here. I need to ask you to leave.”

  Perry recoiled at the thought. “You can ask whatever you want, but we’re not going away until we speak to Colonel Madriñán.”

  “He is not here.” This time the guard’s tone was heavy and threatening.

  Perry eyed the guards for a long moment and then pushed past them. There wasn’t a scenario he could think of that would allow a PDF nobodyto shoot a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army. He went to the heavy wooden door to Madriñán’s office with the intention of marchingright in, but he found it locked, and he pounded with his fist.

  The guards moved in close, to threaten him, but they kept their hands to themselves. “Stop!” they commanded.

  But Perry kept pounding.

  Finally, the door opened, and there was Nivaldo Madriñán, his face red with rage.

  Perry gave his most officious smile. “Good afternoon, Colonel. I’m glad to see you’ve returned. We’re here to see Kurt Muse.”

  Madriñán snorted, “You have no right.”

  “I have every right. He is an American citizen and a dependent of a U.S. military employee. Do I need to show you the Treaty?”

  Madriñán’s eyes burned with rage. He knew that Perry was right.

  “This needn’t be ugly, Colonel,” Perry said. “But I won’t hesitate to make it so.”

  Madriñán stewed for a moment and then nodded. “Come back in one hour. You can see him then.”

  “After the press conference?” Perry said.

  “In one hour.”

  Madriñán closed the door, and that was the end of it.

  22

  Kurt did not expect the press conference to be as intimidatingas it was. The room was packed wall to wall with people. He figured they must be the representatives of the press, but truthfully, he didn’t realize that there were this many reporters in Panama. In a sense, he was right; of the dozens of reporters crammed into the room, none were from any Panamanian newspaper. This was the foreign press. The Panamanians got their news directly from Noriega’s propagandamachine. After so many sleepless hours, the flashes of the camerastrobes and the commotion of the shouted que
stions made him feel disoriented and dizzy, and the resulting images showed it. Only, in the pictures he didn’t look tired and disoriented; he looked frightened and guilty as hell.

  They brought him in from the side, after reminding him of the ground rules: no questions and no answers. He was to stand there and be a puppet for their outrageous accusations. Along the front of the room, they’d lined a table and the floor with what appeared to be everythingthat he owned. There were the various transmitters, three of them in all, plus the boxes they’d been sent in. They had his computer, two-wayradio, scanner, and various notebooks. The guns they’d taken from the house were also prominently displayed. Honestly, if it had been differentcircumstances on a different day, he himself would have been impressedwith the size of the cache. He’d never seen it all gathered in one spot like this. He and his gang had done one hell of a job.

  Madriñán made the presentation. Kurt Frederick Muse, it turned out, citizen of the United States of America, was an employee of the U.S. Department of State and had confessed his direct participation in a destabilization plan involving clandestine television and radio stations.The American government had provided him with this $300,000 worth of clandestine electronic equipment, the purpose of which was to bring harm to the free and independent peoples of Panama.

  It went on from there, and Kurt found himself stunned. First of all, last time he’d heard, he’d been a Yankee dog working for the CIA, and now he’d learned that he was a Yankee dog working for the State Department.Who knew? And if he’d known that he could get anything close to $300,000 for the $5,000 or $6,000 worth of gear, he might have cashed out a long time ago.

  This whole show was a sham, and deep in his heart he knew that the people who mattered to him would know that every word they heard from the podium here was a lie. Of course, a press corps that agreed to ask no questions of the accused would clearly ask no questionsof his accusers, so the Latin American press would believe everything—evenif they knew better. This was how this part of the world operated. The truth was important, but staying alive was better.