Six Minutes To Freedom

by John Gilstrap

  Yes, it would. Talk about maintaining your dignity. Talk about keeping the upper hand even after you’d been soundly trumped by the other guy. This could be just the thing.

  But again: How?

  Almost without conscious thought, his hands moved to the pen in his shirt pocket. He’d had it all along; they’d never taken it from him, just as they’d never cuffed his hands, and they continued to bring his suitcase from location to location as they interrogated him. He didn’t understand their thinking, and it certainly wasn’t a question he intendedto ask. Best he could figure out, it still had something to do with the fact that he was an American citizen, as much as they wished otherwise.

  For whatever reason, he still had his pen, and it occurred to him that sitting here in this chair, pressed up against the concrete wall, it wouldn’t be all that difficult to rub the ball point hard enough and aggressivelyenough to give it a pretty good point. With a pointed pen—a pointed piece of metal—he could do all the damage he needed to, to keep them from opening his files and learning everything.

  Hoping to draw as little attention as possible, he slowly but deliberatelyslipped his hand to his shirt pocket and withdrew the pen. There was something else in there, too, a piece of paper. The instant he felt it, his heart sank. It was the damn Holiday Inn receipt from Tyson’s Corner, Virginia, where he’d met with Father Frank the night before his arrest—the night of the party at Richard Dotson’s house. Christ almighty, Tyson’s Corner—the CIA’s backyard, at the intersectionof Chain Bridge Road and International Drive. This was why amateursshouldn’t be allowed to play spy games.

  How the hell was he going to get rid of a hotel receipt? He’d told the interrogators that he’d been in West Palm Beach with Annie, visitingher sick relative. If they found this on him, God only knew what would happen.

  Able to think of nothing else to do with it, he quickly stuffed it into his mouth and started chewing. Let them sift through his bowel movementsif they wanted incriminating evidence.

  While he chewed, he let his hand with the pen dangle naturally at his side. He clicked it open and felt with his thumbnail to make sure that he in fact had the ball point exposed. Still working only by feel, even as he tried not to stare at anything in particular, he found the rough surface of the wall and started rubbing. A few strokes, and then rotate, just a fraction of a turn, then another few strokes and rotate.

  He needed to hurry, but there was no reason to rush. They would be working on that computer for a while, he knew. But success here depended on getting to the floppy disk itself, and who knew how long they’d have it out on the table like that? Who knew how long it would be before they packaged it up for review by somebody else?

  He increased the rhythm of the scraping.

  Kurt tried to play the entire scenario out in his mind. Once he was ready, he would have to go quickly. He’d have to bolt from his chair and dash to the work table. If things went perfectly—and when do things ever go perfectly?—he’d take the eight or ten running steps that were necessary, and he’d jab the pen like a dagger into the surface of the disk. With a dent made, he’d scrape and scribble on the fragile surfacefor as long as it would take them to pull him off and do whatever would be the result of his act of madness.

  And that’s what it would be, too: an act of madness. That’s how they’d play it in the press anyway, but Kurt would know differently, just as his friends and his immediate family would know differently. They would see it as an act of courage, an act of patriotism. All he had to hope for was a certain hesitation from the guards that would keep them from shooting him on the spot. He actually thought he could tolerateall the rest—the beatings and the torture—but there was no escapingdeath.

  The images of Annie and the kids tried to invade his consciousness, but he pushed those thoughts away, choosing instead to concentrate on the next few minutes. This wasn’t a time to think about the dark side of his actions. It wasn’t a time to think about the suffering of family members. Now was the time to think about the present, about the missionat hand. This was bigger than his family. This was about the survivalof God only knew how many people. He needed to keep his thoughts focused. His world had taken on entirely new definitions in the past hours. The future no longer comprised years and decades. Now, the future was defined as whatever was coming next, in ten- and twenty-minute blocks. And this next little portion of the future was goingto be very, very interesting.

  As he saw it, he’d have one shot at this, and one shot only. If he blew it, it was blown forever, because even the PDF, in all of its idiocy, was too smart to make the same mistake more than once. If he was un-derguardednow—he only counted two—then after he made his move, he’d be overguarded for sure.

  After what felt like forever, his thumb told him that he had enough of a sharp point on his pen to make his move.

  He set his mind on his mission. He tensed himself, easing forward on his chair. He said a quick prayer. Then he launched himself.

  He sprang from his chair, as if ejected, and sprinted toward the table. All he saw was the disk. All he thought about was destroying the magnetic surface—until he cleared the threshold between the doors. Then all he thought about were the three extra guards he hadn’t seen from the other room. He thought about their rifles, too.

  16

  The darkness wasn’t absolute after all, not after Kimberly’seyes adjusted, but it was darn close. The world was a jumbled collection of opaque shadows. The runway was a black stripe against the lighter black of the chest-high elephant grass, which itself was offsetfrom the purple night sky. Black silhouettes of her fellow refugees moved about against the purple tableaux as well, their features completelyconcealed in perpetual shadows.

  The silence wasn’t absolute, either. With the noise of the airplane engines gone, the songs of the nighttime insects, frogs, and other creatureswas nearly deafening. Only nearly because there was no drowningout the sound of people crying. One woman in particular seemed convinced that they had been taken someplace to die.

  “Where is this place?” Erik whispered, his grip on Kimberly’s hand so tight that he was causing real pain.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have no idea.” But it was a place she wanted to leave, and quickly. She pulled her brother closer and tried to think it through. They were in the middle of a desolateplace, all by themselves, with no means of transportation, and no means by which to take care of themselves. Kimberly didn’t know about the others, but she didn’t have any money, not even enough to buy a hamburger someplace. It wasn’t exactly the ideal circumstance from which to launch an escape.

  Kimberly wanted desperately not to be scared. She wanted desperately to be one of the very few refugees in the crowd who kept her wits about her and did not sink into the desperate fear in which so many of her new companions were wallowing, but it was hard.

  No, it was impossible. Nothing is more terrifying than the unknown,and never had Kimberly Muse found herself in a circumstance that was less known than this one: No home, no parents, no money, and no idea of what lay ahead. It wasn’t fair.

  Her mind started to take a very dark turn when Tomás Muñoz stepped from the middle of the crowd and tried to get everyone’s attention.Because he was Tomás, and because there was no one else to turn to, people quieted down enough to hear him speak.

  It was silly, but what Kimberly wanted to hear was a monologue on how everything was going to be fine. She wanted to hear someone with an authoritative presence say aloud that no matter what was going on, no matter what lay ahead, that they could all feel comfortable that no harm was going to come to them. No matter how hollow the words, no matter how contrived and empty, it would have meant something, she thought, just to hear them uttered.

  But Tomás did nothing of the sort. Instead, he led them in the Lord’s Prayer. “Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos, Santificado sea tu Nombre. Venga tu reino Hágase tu voluntad En la tierra como en el cielo ...”

  Some
joined enthusiastically, while others mouthed the words and mumbled, their hearts lagging behind their heads. For Kimberly, the sudden arrival of prayer startled her. Frankly, it was the furthest thing from her mind in that particular moment, but then, as she let the words pour over her, she found strength from them that she’d never experienced before.

  When Tomás transitioned into the Hail Mary, the words started to flow more easily, and soon she found her fear balanced by hope. “Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen.”

  It was a moment of beauty ensconced in the madness and confusion of events spinning out of control. It wouldn’t occur to Kimberly until many years later, but that moment in time, awash in all the fear and uncertainty, was one of the most spiritually peaceful moments of her life. Having no choice but to surrender herself to powers beyond her control, she found the peace and clarity of faith for which many peoplespend their entire lives searching.

  Lights on the horizon broke the reverie and once again introduced an element of fear. At first, she couldn’t tell what they were, but after a few seconds, after her ears adjusted to a new generation of sound, she realized that they were vehicles, and that they were approaching very quickly.

  Kimberly’s first instinct was to run, but as she turned, she could see that the vehicles were coming from all directions. She had no idea how many. Five? Seven? They approached from every compass point, and as they drew nearer, the lights that preceded them became blinding. The refugees all huddled together, perhaps out of fear, or perhaps just to escape the piercing glare of the headlights.

  After a few seconds, though, it became clear that these weren’t headlights at all, at least not in the sense of lights mounted in the grill of a vehicle. The lights were too high in the air. As they approached even closer, she could see that they were all mounted on the roll bars of some kind of backcountry four-wheel drive vehicles.

  The vehicles slowed as they closed to within twenty yards and stopped when they’d formed a circle that was maybe thirty feet across.

  Kimberly had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Whoever these people were, they could do anything to them now that they wished. Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she made some effort to get away?

  The refugees stood there like that for the better part of a minute, with no one moving, until finally they could see movement in the shadows.

  A lone man walked in their direction. At first, he was only a silhouetteagainst the headlights, but as he moved closer, it was possible to see some of the details emerge. Kimberly’s first thought was that he was old. He was this little bald old man, and as he approached, she could see that he had a very kind expression.

  “Does anyone speak English?” the man asked in overly pronounced English.

  As a chorus, the refugees said, “I do.” Tomás took a step closer to the man. Able to see facial details now in the glare of the headlights, Kimberly noted a confused expression in Tomás’s face. She didn’t know him well enough to interpret his features, but her thought was that it appeared to be something between relief and recognition.

  The stranger smiled. “Hello, Tomás,” the stranger said. “Welcome to the United States of America. Welcome to all of you.” He paused a moment to let it sink in; to let those who needed translation receive it. He went on, “I’m here to make sure that you’re well taken care of. My friends call me Father Frank.”

  The endless night finally terminated in a block of rooms that had been reserved for the refugees—there were officially twenty-four of them in all—at the Howard Johnson Motor Lodge in, of all places, Panama City, Florida. More than one of the new fugitives had been startled to see the road sign announcing their first stop.

  The rules, as explained by Father Frank, were exquisitely simple. The U.S. government was picking up the entire tab for the next few nights. They all had unlimited access to the Waffle House on the far side of the parking lot; they had only to say that they were “with Frank.”

  That said, they also needed to be keenly aware that they were still in Florida, only a thousand miles from their homeland, and a part of the country where Noriega spies flourished with the abundance of Palmettobugs. “I don’t have to tell you,” Frank said, there on the unnamedtarmac in the middle of nowhere, pausing for the Spanish translation, “that Mr. Noriega is a vindictive sort, and if he finds out where you are hiding, he may well take extraordinary actions to hurt you—either here on the spot, or after a ride back to your homeland. We can give you a start here in America, and we can be there to help you with some of the challenges associated with a relocation such as this, but we cannot provide you with protection. I urge you to understandand be aware that every time you step outside, there is a certain risk of you being seen and recognized. As time passes, the risk diminishes,but some risk will always remain.

  “Please keep this in mind as you make certain lifestyle choices. You can choose, for example, to be loud and boisterous in a crowd, or you can choose to be quiet and refined. One is far more likely to draw inordinateattention, and I will leave it to you to figure out which.”

  Kimberly didn’t know what to make of this man, this Father Frank. On the one hand, he appeared to be kind and grandfatherly, while on the other, he seemed to be all-business in a business that frightened her.

  Kimberly had no idea what time it was when they finally arrived at the motor lodge but she knew that it was late—or early, she supposed; two or three in the morning. The keys were all ready for them. They didn’t have to go to the front office or anything. Nondescript people in nondescript clothing were there on hand to pass out the keys to the preassigned rooms. The Panamanians, Kimberly noted, were kept separatefrom her and her family. As before, at Howard Air Force Base, and again on the flight out to the United States, everyone seemed particularlyofficious in their pampering of Kimberly and Erik.

  The motel itself was the same layout as a thousand others of its ilk, laid out in a giant two-story square with interior rooms that faced a courtyard and the swimming pool, and exterior rooms that faced the parking lot. The Muse children were assigned a room facing the parkinglot. Father Frank opened the door for them and ushered them inside.

  “This is your home away from home for the next couple of days,” he said. “Relax and get some rest. You’ll be perfectly safe. We have people outside whose job it is to make sure that everything is perfectly safe.”

  “Thank you,” Kimberly said. The beds looked impossibly inviting. For the first time since the ordeal began, she felt the weight of exhaustionpressing down on her.

  “Sleep as late as you want,” Father Frank said. “We’ll be sure to get you fed.” His eyes fell to Kimberly’s filthy outfit and her bare feet. “Tomorrowwe’ll get you some new clothes, too. There’s a store right across the street.”

  Kimberly scowled and leaned out the door, past Father Frank to have a look for herself. “Where?” she said.

  “Where what?”

  “Where’s the store?”

  Father Frank seemed confused. Could it be any more obvious? “Right there,” he said, pointing to the brightly lit store on the far side of the parking lot.

  “What, the K-Mart?”

  Father Frank nodded. “They’re open all night, but I thought you’d prefer to get some rest.”

  Kimberly gave him a look that made him wonder if maybe he’d grown an extra nose. “K-Mart,” she said, tasting the very concept.

  “They’ve got pretty good stuff.”

  Kimberly snorted, “I am not shopping at K-Mart.” Before Father Frank could say a word, she closed the door.

  The next day, they went shopping at the mall.

  17

  Back in Panama, nearly forty-eight hours had passed since Kurt Muse had been spirited away from the airport, and no one in the American government had any idea whe
re he was. It was as if he had evaporated. Feelers had been put out through diplomatic channels, but they’d turned up nothing. In Washington, D.C., people in high places were waking up other people in high places trying to find the string to pull that would locate him.

  Primary coordination for all these activities on the Isthmus fell to the provisional lawyer Kurt didn’t yet know he had: Marcos Ostrander.And he was getting pretty pissed about being jerked around.

  18

  Kurt never had a chance, really. The extra guards had arrivedwithout him knowing, and their reaction as he came bolting out of his closet—raising their slung rifles to their shoulders, ready to fire—convinced him to break off his charge early. In the process, he saved his own life.

  Sheepishly, without saying a word, he retreated back to his closet, sat back down in his chair, and returned the pen to his pocket. Outside,in the main room, two guards positioned themselves just outside his door and stayed there. The general consensus, from what Kurt could glean from overheard conversation, was that he was cracking under the pressure of confinement.

  Maybe they were right. He’d been stupid to try something so bold. Vowing to be more careful in the future, he wrote it off to overexuber-ance.From now on, he’d be much more staid.

  Perhaps if they’d allowed him to sleep, even a little, his head would be clearer about these sorts of things. The couple of times he had started to nod off, someone had poked him in the head with a pencil to wake him up. They played blaring music from a boom box wheneverhe was alone. He was discovering how effective an interrogation device sleep deprivation really was.

  But he had other concerns to think about. He’d been chewing on this damn hotel receipt for a half hour now, and it refused to reduce to a size that he could swallow. They must have made the paper out of plastic!