Six Minutes To Freedom

by John Gilstrap

  Annie scowled. “What kind of personal appeal?”

  “One directly from you to General Noriega.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Father Frank raised his palm in rhetorical defense. “Don’t be so fast. Think this through, and keep your eye on the ultimate goal here, which is to get Kurt out of prison. Politically, things haven’t been goingso well for Noriega. The whole world is beginning to see him as a bully, and even he knows how difficult it is to counter that kind of press while you’re still trying to run a dictatorship. If you made a personalappeal for Kurt’s release, it would give him the opportunity to do something genuinely good during the Christmas season. It’s great PR for him, and you get your husband back. It could be a win for everyone.”

  Annie was stunned. “What does Marcos think about this?”

  “He agrees that it could work.”

  “Does he agree with it as a plan?”

  “He agrees that it could work.” She recognized spook-speak for, “You’ll have to ask him yourself.” If there was anyone on the planet who hated the Pineapple more than she, it was Marcos Ostrander; for him to even obliquely oblige a public relations coup for Noriega must mean that the options were dwindling to nothing. “How would it work?” Annie asked. “What would I do?”

  Father Frank explained the strategy in a way that made it sound like nothing at all. “You’d write a letter to Noriega. You’d describe your life as a single mother, and how important Kurt is in not only your life but in the lives of Kimberly and Erik. You’d say that you know that he is a father as well, and that surely he must understand the difficulty of this kind of separation during the holidays, and you’d appeal for his mercy.”

  Annie stared, her mouth dry. “He would make that letter public.”

  Father Frank nodded. “Undoubtedly.”

  The very thought of groveling at the feet of the Pineapple made her stomach churn. But wasn’t that a better alternative to letting Kurt continueto rot in prison? Didn’t she owe him and her children—heck, didn’t she owe herself—at least that much of an opportunity?

  “And you think it will work.”

  “We all think so. Fact is, Noriega desperately needs some good press right now, and we think this is a unique opportunity.”

  Annie still couldn’t quite wrap her arms around the concept. “What does Kurt think about the idea?”

  “No one has mentioned it to him yet. Marcos wanted to get your reaction before mentioning it to him.” They’d already established that Marcos’s plans to attend this particular meeting had been superseded by conflicting events.

  She called Marcos on the telephone. “What do you think?”

  Marcos took a moment to answer, clearing his throat first. “He’s not my husband, and I’m not in jail. I don’t get a vote.”

  Images flooded Annie’s mind of a reunion with Kurt. She saw him walking through the door, saw him at the Christmas tree, watching the kids open presents. She felt his warmth pressed against her, smelled his aftershave, heard his laugh. It was everything she’d dreamed of, everythingshe’d been fighting for all these months. And she could make it all happen by writing one letter?

  So what if she had to grovel? So what if she gave the Pineapple the bragging rights that he’d prevailed in the battle? Kurt’s battle.

  Sure, they were all in it together, but it was Kurt who led the team to cobble the Voice of Liberty out of the ether, and it was he alone who was paying the price. He needed a say in what the price of freedom would be.

  “I’ll do it,” Annie said, “but only if Kurt says it’s all right.”

  “No.” Kurt’s answer came quickly and emphatically. And, frankly, a little too loudly.

  Marcos shot a quick look over his shoulder, but saw that Jim Rufferstill had the guard distracted by some mind-numbing discussion of anatomy or politics. He leaned in closer. “Keep your voice down,” he admonished, “and think for a second before you reject it out of hand. This has a real chance of working.”

  “I don’t care,” Kurt hissed. “I am not sucking up to that asshole just to get out of here. I’ll stay here for fifty more years before I give him that kind of satisfaction.”

  Marcos squirmed a little in his seat. “Well, technically, you wouldn’t be the one sucking up.”

  Kurt shook his head. “I’m the one in prison, I’m the one who would be released.”

  “Annie won’t write anything without your permission.”

  “Okay, then. She doesn’t have it.”

  Marcos sighed, trying to find another angle. “I just wish—”

  “We’re not discussing this anymore, Marcos.”

  Ostrander stared at Kurt for a long moment, and Kurt stared right back. All the arguments were on the table, and all of them had been killed as quickly as they’d been posed. With nothing more to be said, it was time for this meeting to end. Marcos rose from his seat, and Kurt stood with him. As they shook hands, a tiny smile blossomed on Marcos’s face and he winked.

  He could see that the expression confused Kurt, but that was all right. Marcos knew what Kurt never could: that the Muse family had just taken a test and they’d passed with flying colors.

  An hour from now, Marcos would sit with Colonel Green in the Tunnel and report the results verbatim. Clearly, Kurt Muse had the emotional stability and the willful commitment to carry out his end of what was coming his way.

  45

  Dec. 13, 89

  Kurt,

  The children haven’t had school for the 2nd day now—Snow!

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table (the glass and sawhorse one) with a cup of coffee peering through the windows. The pine trees are weighted down with snow. The bare trees have snow balancingon their spindly branches—a red cardinal is playing with the clumps of snow that lose their balance and plunge to the ground.

  Erik is outside (10:00 a.m.) arranging a football game—he loves it. He wears sneakers (with traction as he says) and can beat the others receiving the pass because the others are in boots.

  He is also cleaning my car and shoveling the walkway—he has done that for me every time I have asked. You’d be very proud of him. He is growing up.

  I’m really working hard to keep our spirits up for Christmas—the Pollyanna factory is doing double-time. I’m thinking of you constantly, wondering what it must be like—praying for your peace of mind and strength for all of us.

  I’m going to try for more pictures today. I’m looking around town for the best pair of red boots. I think it’s about time. It seems to me we’re snowed under, maybe the boots will help.

  I adore you,

  Annie

  Annie sat with the children in the living room of their little rented townhouse, the three of them admiring the job they’d done preparing the place for Christmas. They all played their parts well, manufacturingthe joys of the season as they hung brand new decorations on the tree and hung stockings they’d never seen before from a mantle that wasn’t theirs. The tape deck played carols from a Christmas collection that Annie had picked up from the store, while cookies baked in the oven.

  Peace on Earth, good will toward men.

  The whole scene was like something from a play or movie, touchingon the outside, but with roles played by actors who didn’t fully believe in their character’s motivation. At a time of year defined by traditionsand rituals, the Muse family was entirely divorced from all of that. There were no friends to invite over, no precious ornaments from days gone by, no links to anything that was precious or even normal. Annie imagined that this must be how people feel when they are burned out of their home or when tragedy strikes. As a parent, you go through the motions, because you want to shield the children from the seemingly hopeless reality. As a child, you pretend not to notice the charade because you don’t want to upset your mom.

  This should have been a special Christmas, when you thought about it. It was the first time the children had ever seen snow; it was the first time to witness the distinctly A
merican traditions involved in selecting the Christmas tree from the lot, and tying it on the roof of the car, all the while dancing to keep warm. They were moments that Kurt would have enjoyed. Those tree-related chores were a father’s job, after all, and the fact that Annie was doing them alone with the kids somehow emphasized even more the fact that their family was no longer whole.

  It was a terrible way to think, but at one level, a death of a loved one is better than this hellish kind of perpetual limbo. At least death is final; it allows you to grieve and move on. The Muse family was trapped in the netherworld of waiting and worrying, unsure if the time would ever come either to grieve or celebrate.

  With the decorations done, the three of them sat on the sofa, baskingin the beauty of their handiwork. Even under these circumstances, there was no denying the charm and beauty that holiday decorations brought to a home. Charade or no charade, they’d done a pretty good job of it.

  Kimberly was the first to say it: “I wish Daddy were here. He’d like this.”

  Annie nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “It could happen,” Erik said. “Christmas miracles happen all the time.” He turned to Annie. “Don’t they, Mom?”

  Something about the question took Annie by surprise, the purity of twelve-year-old innocence. She felt her throat thicken as her vision blurred. She spread her arms like giant wings and pulled her children close to her. “How many stockings do you see on that mantle?” she asked.

  “Four.”

  “Well, there’s your answer,” she said. “Christmas miracles happen all the time.”

  46

  December 4, 1989

  Dear Kurt:

  The temperatures have dropped here. The wind is rising, the sky is clear and there is snow in the mountains. Our Christmas tree is up and we’ve had guests for a drink and a bite. We’re trying to make it seem like Christmas, but, at best, it’s a wooden legged one. We can move about but there is no run or jump in it. You and your family were the leg we are just simulating. We hope we can soon find a way to graft it back so we can be a complete family again.

  Love,

  Dad

  December 18, 1989

  Dear Kurt:

  Seems that my last letters to you may have gone astray which makes finding where to begin difficult. So I’ll dispense with all the bullshit and get down to what I’ve wanted to say all along but wouldn’t.

  Whatever were our differences have long since been blocked from my memory by feelings for your suffering and by my pride in your having been able to bear it so long. You can’t “tapar el sol con la mano” nor can a stupid argument between two bullheadedidiots erase from a man’s life the good times we had togetherin Panama for so many years.

  My Christmas wish is that you and I can become the loving and caring team we once were and that Panama will become again the beautiful place to live and raise a family as it was when I chose to live there 35 years ago. You had no choice in that decision.You were just a “novato en mi Escuelita,” but you grew to love the country as I did.

  I trust that God will see what is truly good for you and me and that He will lend His blessing to our achieving it, just as I have faith that He will know what is truly good for Panama and will bless any effort by either side capable of restoring our adopted country to its proper and respected place in the community of nations.

  I told a friend to remind you that I make the world’s best martinisand that I will brew two of the finest when we next meet. Your mother, of course, will protest that two are enough, but I will say to her, as Rhett Butler to Scarlet, “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and we will laugh and it will seem like old times.

  Love,

  Dad

  Dear Daddy

  I really love you. Merry Christmas. Ho ... Ho ... Ho ... I wish you were here for Christmas to celebrate with us. We think we’re going to have a white Christmas. I hope so. Our tree is splendid. I hope you like the shirt we’re sending you. Today we went to the mall. Mom got me a few things. But I couldn’t see them.

  Miss you.

  XXX

  OXX

  OO

  Merry Christmas

  Love

  Erik Muse

  December 18, 1989

  Hello my Dearest Daddy,

  Christmas is only a few days away and you’re not here, but guess what I’m holding up very well and I hope you are too. Daddy I think you’d be proud of us, we are all supporting each other and in return we haven’t only gotten closer but we’re like friends. Especially between mommy and I. We have chats almost every day.

  I’ve decided not to send you a present physically just yet becauseyou know that if I could I’d give you the world and get you out of there. But I am trying to send a mental present, that is for God to walk where you walk and keep you going the way you have been.

  Daddy, I hope our letters and prayers are enough because I don’t know what else to do. I’m trying to do everything just right so you’d be proud and I’m always thinking of you.

  You know Dad, I think that things will be getting better soon. I have a feeling that they just might. Daddy it’s dumb to say have a merry Christmas under the circumstances, but when you come back to us that moment will make you forget the hard times. Daddy, I do want you to have a very spiritually filled Christmas though. Think a lot about God, talk to him, and think of all our good times past and the ones ahead of us. Daddy I’m warning you now when I see you I’m going to squish you tightly and never let go. I love you even more than before, which was a ton I garantee it, and I think you are the best and greatest, most caring,loving, generous and of course the funniest Daddy a girl could have. I do thank God for you!

  Bless you my Daddy,

  Kimberly

  P.S. Our Christmas tree is perfect.

  47

  On December 15, 1989, the Panamanian Assembly named Manuel Noriega “Maximum Leader” and declared that a state of war existed between Panama and the United States of America.

  The next day, Marine Corps Lieutenant Robert Paz was shot to death by PDF soldiers at a road block in the streets of Chorrillo; this on the heels of another traffic stop in which a U.S. Navy lieutenant and his wife were savagely beaten after similarly being stopped at a PDF road block.

  In Washington, D.C., President Bush had had enough. If Noriega wanted war, he would get it.

  48

  The rhythms of Modelo Prison had changed dramaticallysince the news of Lieutenant Paz’s murder had broken. Gone was the quiet routine of prisoners and guards going about their chores as part of a daily routine. Now, every order had an edge to it, every commentbore an unstated threat of violence. To Kurt, it felt reminiscent of the days that immediately followed the October coup attempt, but perhaps without a touch of the urgency.

  People here seemed to be anticipating something, and the more nervousthey got, the more he found himself watching the corporal out in the hallway with his M-16. Despite the guard’s willingness to follow any orders he received, Kurt wondered if he’d actually be able to pull the trigger to kill in cold blood. Had it been Cáceres himself, there would be no doubt, but to date, the corporal had shown no overt animosityfor Kurt.

  Three days ago, Kurt had decided to be bold and ask the question. “Corporal,” he called, attracting the guard’s attention. “Would you really shoot me?”

  The corporal’s expression never changed from its constant, practicedindifference. “Sí señor.” Then he turned and walked away.

  It was almost amusing now. Ever since the morning of his encounter with the machine gunner, Kurt had become almost philosophical about his impending death. He mourned all that he would never see—his kids’ graduations, their weddings and his grandchildren; and most of all the warmth and comfort of Annie as an old lady pressed against him as an old man—but that loss was just a small price compared to what the world would see because of him. Namely, future grandchildrenin the likeness of his perfect children. Annie would miss him, but she would s
urvive, knowing full well that he was in Heaven waiting for her, a special seat reserved in Paradise.

  What he found himself wishing for more than anything was the courage to accept with dignity and resolve whatever fate awaited him.

  The war games had had their impact. Across the street, activity had been increasing exponentially in the Comandancia, as well. Most recently,they’d installed what appeared to be an antique World War II–era antiaircraft gun emplacement, similar to the quad-fifties he’d seen in so many vintage war movies, but with that distinctly Russian touch that transformed a sleek piece of lethal hardware into something that looked like the mechanical equivalent of a gangly teenager. The wheels seemed too big, and the gun barrels too long. But that probablymeant very little to the poor flyboy who found himself in the crosshairs of such a weapon.

  On the morning of December 19, 1989, Kurt was thinking about these things while lying on his cot, half-in and half-out of an early morning doze. Since the tensions began to rise, he’d found sleep to be an elusive commodity, and as such, he found himself to be groggy and listless more hours of the day. At one point, he’d revisited the notion that maybe they were trying to poison him, but then rejected the notion as paranoia. He wasn’t exactly a difficult target, after all, and they had a damn guard posted mere feet away to blast him into the next dimensionif the whim had struck them.

  He was thinking of all these things when he became vaguely aware of a new breed of commotion surrounding him. He must truly have been asleep, because he was having genuine difficulty putting the sound cues together in his head. There were the shouts and the quick staccato of running feet, and beneath it all what sounded like the steady thrum of helicopter rotors beating at the midmorning air.