“Buenos dias,” Kurt said politely, even as his mind put the awful pieces together. President DelValle had set Rod up. The son of a bitch had already arranged for asylum for himself and his family before he made his speech firing Noriega. The weasely bastard finally had made his first and only decision to stand up against the man who so plainly and publicly manipulated his strings, but only after seeking safety for his own family, and without so much as a nod of warning to the rest of his administration.
Disgusted, Kurt turned away from the DelValle family and was even more startled to see Jean Esquivel huddled with her two children in the far corner of the room, frightened and clearly ostracized from the DelValle clan. “Wait a second, Susan,” he said to his escort. Before she could respond, he peeled off the prescribed path and walked over to Jean.
“Rod is safe,” he said, approaching Jean. He wrapped her hand in both of his and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.
Jean nodded. “I know,” she said. “He called me from the office beforehe left. I was wondering who would endanger themselves so by coming to whisk him away. I’m sorry it had to be you, Kurt.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I won’t ask how you knew to come get him,” Jean said, opening the opportunity for an explanation.
Kurt smiled and nodded. “I appreciate that.”
“Have you endangered your family?”
His smile turned wry. “I suppose we’ll all know that in the next couple of days, won’t we?” He saw that he was making things worse for a worried wife and mother. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Rod gave me a message to funnel through Ambassador Davis to you. I guess I can give it to you myself. He—”
“He wants us to leave the country,” Jean said, finishing the thought for him. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re all here, I believe.” A mask of disgust invaded her countenance as she cast a sneering glare toward the DelValle family. “What about Rod? Did he tell you his plans?”
Kurt grew visibly uncomfortable as she asked the question. He did, in fact, know, but it was not part of the message he’d been told to deliverto Jean. Given the way they clearly loved each other, he supposed there was no harm in sharing the details with her, but still—
“That’s all right,” Jean said, letting him off the hook. “These are secretivetimes.”
Kurt felt a warm sense of relief wash over him. “Thank you, Jean. And good luck to you.” With that, there was nothing more to be said. He kissed her again on the cheek, and then it was time to go.
“Will they be safe?” Kurt asked Susan, as she resumed leading the way through the house.
The look she gave him could only come from a diplomat’s daughter,a practiced indifferent optimism.
Kurt changed the subject. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“To see my father, just as you asked.” As she spoke, she led him through the kitchen to a door that could only lead to the basement.
“You keep your father in the cellar?”
Susan laughed. “Sometimes I wish. But no, we need to get you to the embassy, and I’m sure you’d prefer not to be seen while we do it.”
She led the way to an underground garage. Nothing fancy; in fact just the opposite. Built of indigenous clay bricks, the garage had the feel and dampness of a cave. And there, waiting for him, was a black Cadillac with tinted windows and an armed driver. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Joseph,” Susan said.
As if on cue, the driver seemed to come to life. He had the posture and demeanor of a soldier, with the haircut of an American college student.“This way, sir,” Joseph said, opening the back door.
Kurt climbed in and took a seat.
“I think it would be best for you to lie on the floor,” Joseph instructed.“I know the windows are tinted, but this is a tense day, and you can’t be too careful sometimes.”
Never had Kurt heard the order “Shut up and stay low” delivered with greater diplomacy.
The short ride to the embassy couldn’t have lasted ten minutes. Every second of it, however, was extended to its maximum extreme as Joseph obeyed every traffic ordinance. Kurt thought it was interesting that a professional such as this driver would have the very same concerns that he’d had as he was spiriting Rod away from his office.
The reception at the front gate of the embassy was one of ambivalentfree passage. Joseph didn’t even roll the window down as they passed through onto the compound itself.
“We’re on the grounds,” Joseph announced, “but I’m going to ask you to stay down for just a moment more, sir.”
Kurt understood fully. It was a point of simultaneous strength and weakness that Panamanian citizens worked side by side, shoulder to shoulder with American workers wherever the U.S. government or its prime possession—the Canal—did business. The strength was derived from the loyalty that was naturally spawned from such close working conditions, and one could only pray that that ultimately trumped the weakness born of the fact that every third worker was possibly a paid informant to Noriega.
There were no Panamanians, however, at the rear of the embassy when the Cadillac discharged its passenger. No one would report seeingKurt Muse climb out of the backseat and get hustled up to the second-floor reception area.
Joseph handed him off to a diplomatic liaison of some sort, who was overly officious in his offers of seating, food, and drink.
An hour passed.
Ambassador Davis was allegedly behind closed doors, dealing with a very important matter, and Kurt could only imagine that it had somethingto do with that coward DelValle begging for his asylum. It was only there, in the grand reception area of the embassy, that Kurt understoodthe final piece of the DelValle puzzle: that the president had fired his thuggish military commander from the safety of U.S. soil. Not only had he sought to protect his family before he took a stance but he’d also run to hide behind the American house dress before he opened his mouth.
The more Kurt thought about it, the angrier he became. He thought back to the picture of the two families in the residence: the DelValles all abuzz about their new adventure in an all-expenses-paid exile juxtaposedagainst the Esquivels, who knew that their patriarch would stay behind and stand tall against the best of what Noriega had to throw at him.
The anger settled deeper still as he realized that President DelValle was in all likelihood just yards away, on the other side of the paneled door where Ambassador Davis was allegedly working hard to alter his schedule to give Kurt an audience. Try as he might, though, the ambassadorsomehow couldn’t quite bring himself to follow through on the promise.
Twice, Kurt came this close to just walking out. Here he was, riskinghis life to deliver a message from the only remaining patriot in the official government of Panama, and no one could find the time to come out and hear what he had to say. Who the hell did these people think they were? Forever a loyal patriot to the United States, Kurt nonethelessremained completely baffled and unspeakably angry at the conflictingmessages that the American government gave to the people of Panama. On the one hand, the United States insisted that the nation hold free elections; yet on the other, when the results of the election showed that it was clearly stolen, as they had in 1984 when Barletta and DelValle came to power, there was the United States standing first in line to recognize the new regime.
During the drug wars of the Reagan administration, the CIA had heaped praise on General Noriega because of the information he passed about the Colombians and later the Sandinistas, even as they ignoredthe world’s worst-kept secret that the Pineapple was funneling drug money to fill his own pockets. Now, though, with the murder of Hugo Spadafora and the pressure brought to bear by a few inquisitive congressmen, Noriega was persona non grata in Washington. Caught in the middle of all the political ping-pong were the people of Panama, who by and large wanted nothing more complicated than enough money to feed their families and enough freedom to keep them from being molested by troops at every intersec
tion.
Finally, to make it all as bad as it could be, on the day of the palace coup, Kurt was here, sitting alone and ignored. And he was getting truly pissed about it.
At long last, a middle-aged political advisor wandered into the reception area and offered her hand. “Mr. Muse,” she said, her face alight with a beaming smile. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting this long. As I’m sure you know, it’s been a busy day, and—”
“You’re sure I know?” Kurt said, his tone betraying his contempt. “You’re damned straight I know. I’ve got the vice president of Panama in my living room, for God’s sake. You’d think that might give me an inkling.”
The smile on the diplomat’s face never faded. “Indeed. I guess it’s been a long day for you, as well. Unfortunately, Ambassador Davis will not be able to see you this afternoon as we had hoped. He asked me to meet with you on his behalf and to tell you that we have found several countries that would be more than happy to accept Doctor Esquiveland his family in exile.”
Kurt was stunned. “You think that’s what this is about? You think Rod and Jean Esquivel are here to beg for asylum? Jean’s an American citizen for crying out loud. She doesn’t need asylum from anyone.”
Finally, the political advisor’s calm façade showed the first sign of cracking. “But the vice president is not an American citizen. We only assumed—”
“Well, you were wrong,” Kurt said. “In fact, that is the very substanceof my message from the vice president. He wanted Ambassador Davis to know that he will be joining active elements of the opposition against Noriega. He’ll be going underground and continuing the fight for freedom in his homeland.”
The diplomat scowled and cocked her head. Clearly, this was not what she’d been expecting to hear. “Very well, then,” she said. “I’ll pass that along to the ambassador. Thank you so much for coming.”
Kurt accepted the diplomat’s hand and successfully fought off the urge to break it. “On a personal level, I’d appreciate it if you could make sure that President DelValle finds out what Rod is doing so that he can take a quick glimpse of what honor looks like.”
The diplomat didn’t respond and Kurt hadn’t expected her to.
In the ensuing weeks, Rod Esquivel disappeared from view, joining a band of underground patriots whose mission it was to restore Panama to its citizens. While in his self-imposed exile, the deposed vice presidentrecorded several of the radio messages that Kurt would broadcast through La Voz de la Libertad. Over time, he cautiously reappeared in public view, testing the safety of his presence, and finally reestablishinghis medical practice.
For his part, President DelValle was likewise active in the cause of freedom. When Kurt and his coconspirators found themselves short on funds for the apartment leases they needed to hide their transmitters, DelValle forwarded, through an intermediary, the paltry sum of $2,000. Here he was, living in the most opulent exile the world had ever seen, safe with his millions, and he had the audacity to offer a mere two grand.
The exchange of cash happened at night, in the parking lot of a supermarket.When Kurt opened the envelope and counted the bills, he looked up at the messenger and said. “Okay, listen to me, because I want to make sure you get this exactly right. You need to quote me verbatim for President DelValle. Are you ready?”
The messenger nodded.
“Good. Tell him he should be ashamed of himself. It’s his country too.” He slapped the envelope into the messenger’s chest. “I don’t want his money. Give it back to him and tell him to shove it where the sun never shines. And we will never broadcast anything from him again.”
40
Ever since the coup, Modelo Prison had become a warehousefor political prisoners. Gone were many of the rapists, murderers,and common criminals; they’d been shipped off for internment elsewhere. In their places came the dissidents and coup followers—the organizers were mostly dead—sent to this godforsaken hole to await whatever the Pineapple could dream up for them.
Also gone were the guards who had patrolled the corridors and harassedthe prisoners. Their roles had been absorbed by regular PDF soldiers who carried about them an air of military professionalism that their predecessors could never project.
Early one morning, just a few days after the coup, one of these new guards came to Kurt’s cell and peered at him through the bars, presumablyto verify that he had neither escaped nor died during the night. He greeted Kurt cordially and introduced himself as the sergeant in charge of Kurt’s section of the prison. He seemed intent on reassuring his prisoner that there was nothing to be concerned about. “I want you to know,” the sergeant said, “that prison operations will remain unchanged.”
“Thank you,” Kurt said. “I appreciate that.”
With a courteous nod, the sergeant started to leave, and then Kurt was overcome with a sense of unique opportunity. He stepped to the bars and caught the guard’s attention just as he was about to disappear into the officers’ quarters across the hall. “Excuse me, Sergeant?”
The guard turned.
“Don’t forget my coffee,” Kurt said.
The sergeant’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“My coffee,” Kurt said, as nonchalantly as he could manage. “I get coffee every morning. I consider it an important part of my day.”
“Coffee.” The sergeant seemed stunned.
“First thing,” Kurt said. “Thanks so much.” He turned and went about his day.
The next morning, Kurt nearly fell over from shock when the sergeantobediently delivered a yellow-and-black-striped paper cup of Café Duran. Containing his disbelief that the ruse had worked, Kurt accepted the coffee with a polite smile and a nod, and then sipped the nectar of the gods.
Every morning, for the remainder of his captivity, Kurt was served hot coffee by the guard staff.
Outside the walls of Modelo Prison, relations between Panama and the United States were coming unhinged. Noriega had become progressivelymore paranoid since the coup and had decided that the whole effort had been instigated by the American government as a ploy to have him removed from power. In retaliation, he redoubled his harassmentof American troops and civilians and greatly increased his anti-Americanrhetoric.
The Pentagon, the State Department, the CIA, and the White House had finally converged on the same conclusion: Noriega had to go. They’d tried to let the electoral process make the change, but the Pineapplehad quelled democracy with violence. The people of Panama had tried rising in rebellion, and that, too, had been crushed, surprisingly peacefully, with the real violence following in its wake.
For many months, Operation Blue Spoon—a plan for the forcible removal of Manuel Noriega from power—had been in the can, waitingfor somebody to pull the trigger. The mission’s time had come.
And the right man was in command.
41
Jim Ruffer was at the meeting in the Tunnel when GeneralWoerner wept during his announcement that he would be retiring in thirty days. He had never been a supporter of Blue Spoon, having always thought that it would bring more harm than good. Woerner seemed to believe that as a sovereign nation, Panama had a right to the government that its people inflicted on themselves. Whatever we did to interfere, he said, would only make the United States look like meddlers.
He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to express these thoughts, but generals are the enforcers of national policy, not the makers of it, so it surprised few when he was ultimately relieved of command.
In Woerner’s place came General Maxwell “Mad Max” Thurman, who told his senior staffers during the change of command ceremony, “Ladies and gentlemen, from now on the uniform of the day will be battlefield utilities. We are at war. Dismissed.”
American military activity increased dramatically following the change of command. Partly to bring troops into battle-readiness, but also to desensitize the Panamanians to the rhythms and noises of invasion,Thurman ordered regular nighttime mobilization exercises in which tanks, truck
s, and aircraft would go through the motions of war, without ever actually firing a shot.
One night, from the window of his cell, Kurt watched in stunned amazement as fighter jets and attack helicopters carried out a full-scale mock bombardment of the PDF Special Forces barracks on Flamenco Island.
The exercises, of course, infuriated Noriega, who saw the saber-rattlingas an act of war. Like so many doomed dictators before him, he made blustering speeches to his people about the blood-letting that would follow any attempt to topple the duly elected government of Panama. Didn’t the world remember what happened to the last American-led coup just months before? Those traitors were still in prison, where they would remain for a long, long time, forever in some cases.
Apparently accustomed to seeing the Americans back down under his rhetorical pressure, Noriega seemed to have difficulty dealing with an American general whose response to his threats was largely one of indifference.
In a move reflective of his growing panic, Noriega officially changed the status of Kurt Muse from that of political prisoner to that of hostage. That was the word he used: Hostage. Furthermore, he announcedto the world that if any attempt was made to topple his government,the first bullet fired in the resistance would be aimed at Kurt’s head.
It was a standing execution order, and to add credence to the threat, Kurt’s patrolling guard was replaced by a stationary one, whose job it was to sit in a chair, all day long, waiting for the order to shoot.
Back at home, in their tiny townhouse in Burke, Virginia, news of the death threat to Kurt felt like a knife in the heart. After hundreds of phone calls and dozens of letters to everyone from the president on down to midlevel staffers who helped put her through to high-level decisionmakers, Annie was beginning to feel helpless.
The extended family had begun to reestablish contact after months of dismal silence, but Kimberly and Erik, while putting up a good front and a good fight, were clearly beginning to sag under the strain of beingso horribly displaced from everything they had come to know as normal. Erik, in particular, was having a hard time, and his difficulties were reflected in his report card.
Six Minutes To Freedom Page 25
