The entire press conference, such as it was, lasted all of ten minutes. It was a diatribe about the evil influence of the Yankee imperialists on the beneficent and peaceful leadership of Manuel Noriega. When Madriñán was done speaking, he turned to leave the podium, and the guards closed in around Kurt to urge him to follow.
Kurt had nearly reached the exit door when an American reporter rushed forward and shoved a microphone under his chin. “Mr. Muse, do you work for the U.S. State Department?”
Kurt didn’t drop a beat. “No.”
“Have you ever worked for them?”
“No, I have never worked for them.”
It was all they could get on the record before the reporter was pushed out of the way.
Across town, in the comfort of an apartment he hadn’t left for five days and surrounded by enough firepower to repulse a small army, Pablo Martinez watched the press conference on television. The man he saw on television was a mere ghost of the man he had known for so many years as Kurt Muse. Unshaven and clearly unshowered, he appearedto have lost ten pounds. There was an ashen quality about him, and a deer-in-the-headlights stare that spoke of some form of abuse while in captivity.
But through the gaunt exhaustion, Pablo also saw a measure of defiantstrength. Whatever he had done, and whatever he had signed, he hadn’t crossed the line of betrayal.
His suspicions were confirmed as Pablo listened carefully as Colonel Madriñán read Kurt’s confession. The words themselves were irrelevant;he assumed them all to be lies. What he listened for were key phrases. He heard, Kurt Muse did this and Mr. Muse did that. He heard about the involvement of the State Department (imagine how surprised the diplomatic corps will be!) and he heard about the attemptof one man—a hated American—to bring down the Noriega government. He heard it all, but never once heard the word “conspiracy.”He never heard a mention of a “them” at all; it was all about what Kurt had done.
As inconceivable as it was, Kurt had withstood the misery and depravitythat the PDF had thrown at him and never once mentioned the names of the people with whom he had worked so closely.
If he hadn’t broken yet, Pablo figured, he never would. He realized that it was safe to come out of hiding.
23
It seemed important to Madriñán that Perry and his entourage—alittle larger on this return trip—see the cache of equipment they had on display in the room that was now devoid of reporters. The guards deliberately took a long way around to the commander’s office, presumably for the express purpose of making sure the equipment was seen and noted. Of particular interest, Perry thought, was the prominentlydisplayed label on one of the boxes showing the shipping destinationto be the Program Development Group at Fort Clayton. He also noted that the shipping address was an APO box, which meant that it had been shipped on military aircraft, presumably without Woerner’s knowledge or permission. The general was going to shit a brick when he found out.
As they walked, Perry fell back in the line to tell one of the junior officers in their party to take a close look at the radio equipment and write down any serial numbers he could find. There was no telling what kind of justice Kurt Muse was likely to see in this armpit of a place, and it seemed like the least they could do to make sure that the evidence itself was not tainted.
In the sixty minutes that had passed since their last meeting, Perry had thought through their strategy one more time. According to the ground rules established by Jimmy Carter during the negotiations that would hand over one of the world’s most valuable assets to one of its craziest citizens, the entire deal could be queered by even minor treaty violations during the interim period. Being robbed of billions of dollarshad to be one of Noriega’s greatest fears, and Perry figured that the Pineapple’s orders to his underlings had to make that point abundantlyclear.
And that was the pressure point on which Perry and his entourage would focus. The treaty was very precise in its language governing the treatment of Defense Department employees in the custody of local law enforcement officials, and Perry was going to see to it that the i’s were dotted and the t’s crossed.
With the one officer left behind, Perry and Jim Ruffer eventually arrivedat Madriñán’s door, which the guard opened without knocking, and ushered them inside. Madriñán sat behind his huge wooden desk, which itself was dwarfed by the cavernous size of the room. He rose grudgingly to greet his visitors and scowled when he counted their numbers.
“Where are the others?” he asked the guard.
Perry answered for him. “They’re back in the other room, looking at the radio equipment.”
Madriñán looked horrified. He shot a glance to the guard for confirmation.
“We’re just noting the serial numbers,” Perry said, as if it meant nothing. “I don’t think you have to worry.”
“Stop them!” Madriñán commanded to the guard, who seemed suddenly frightened. “Right now. Go out there and stop them.” The guard damn near turned himself inside out leaving the office.
“I’ll remind you that this is my office, not yours,” Madriñán said.
Perry tossed off a shrug. “Are you prepared to produce your prisoner?”
You could almost hear the wheels spinning in Madriñán’s head as he considered his options, which were essentially zero. He’d seen the treaty, and by now, after all these days of nonstop interrogation, he surely knew that its provisions were relevant to Muse’s case. Finally, Madriñán nodded to a henchman, who in turn opened a side door and ushered his prisoner into the room.
Jim Ruffer was appalled. The man he saw entering the room clearly had been worked over. He was taller than Jim had been expecting, and he walked with the shuffling gate of someone who had been shackled. He kept his hands to his sides, and his eyes cast downward, until he saw the American uniforms and then his face brightened.
One of the DENI guards pointed to a chair at a small table, and the prisoner sat down, his hands folded in front of him.
“Are you Kurt Frederick Muse?” Perry asked.
Kurt nodded. “Yes, sir.” His eyes were bloodshot, Jim noticed, and he appeared to be very, very tired.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Robert Perry, and this is Doctor Jim Ruffer.I’m the Treaty Affairs officer here in Panama, and we’re here to make sure that you’re treated properly under the terms of the Panama Canal Treaty.” He went on at some length, explaining Kurt’s right to legal representation and to fair treatment, but Jim had the sense that the speech was more for the benefit of the DENI officers than it was for their prisoner. When he was done with the legal details, Perry said, “We’re working to arrange a Panamanian lawyer for you. I brought Doctor Ruffer along to assess your health and to make sure that you have not been mistreated.”
Ruffer took that as his cue and stepped forward. “I need some privacy,please. I’d like to be alone with my patient.”
Madriñán’s face remained grim. “That is not possible,” he said.
Jim looked to Perry for support.
“He’s legally entitled to medical care,” Perry said.
“Indeed. Examine him. But nowhere in the treaty is he entitled to a private room while the examination takes place.”
Perry’s posture alone told Ruffer that they’d lost this one. He sat down next to Kurt and opened his doctor’s bag. As he did, he noticed that the official party moved away from them. Rhetoric notwithstanding,nobody likes to stand too close to someone else’s medical exam.
“How are you?” Ruffer asked, keeping his voice as low as he could.
“Not bad,” Kurt said.
“Do you mind if I examine you?”
Kurt shrugged. “I suppose not.”
“We just want to make sure that your overall health is good.” Jim slipped a blood pressure cuff onto Kurt’s arm and inflated it. “Your eyes are red,” he said. “Have you been crying?”
“No.” And if he had been, he wouldn’t have admitted it.
“What about your interrogations. What have
they been like?”
“Lots and lots of questions.”
“Have you been beaten?”
“No, sir.”
Jim noted that each answer brought definite eye contact, reassuring him that Kurt was telling the truth. “Any mistreatment at all? Don’t be afraid to tell me if there has.”
The fleeting temptation to report the murder of the Colombian evaporated the instant it appeared. This was not the forum, and nothingwould bring the man back. “Just lack of sleep,” Kurt said. “I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t washed or changed clothes, either. I bet I’m gettingpretty rank.”
Actually, he was. “Your blood pressure’s normal,” Jim said, his voice even softer than before.
“They told me that my family is in danger,” Kurt said.
“They lied.” Ruffer said this with a wink and a smile. Perry had anticipatedthis question and told him to assure Kurt that his family was perfectly safe. “Don’t ask for details because I don’t know any, but your family is perfectly fine.”
“Are they still in Panama?” Kurt whispered.
“They’re fine,” Jim repeated. Subtext: We’re not discussing this here.
Kurt understood. “Please make sure they know that I’m okay.”
“We don’t know that yet, do we?”
“Tell them anyway, no matter what.”
Ruffer didn’t commit one way or the other. First of all, he had no idea whether he’d ever be in direct contact with the Muse family, and even if he would, he had no idea what he’d be empowered to say. He put the BP cuff away and removed another tiny medical kit from his bag. This was the lighted scope he used to examine a patient’s ears, nose, and mouth. It came housed in a case, and as he opened the top, he turned it so that Kurt could see the inside of the lid. There, Jim had taped a piece of paper with a snippet of a William Wordsworth poem:
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.—Wordsworth
Jim shined the light into Kurt’s left ear and leaned in close to take a look. “Read the lid, Kurt,” he whispered. To anyone else, it looked like a normal ear exam. “It may feel sometimes as if you are alone, but remember that you never really are. We’re going to work to get you someplace safe, and hopefully get you out of here entirely, but these things can take time.” He pulled away and crossed behind to examine his right ear. “If bad things happen, if they beat you or abuse you in any way, you need to let us know.”
“How?”
It was a good question. “That will become clear in a while.” That was a total bluff. Jim had no idea how they were going to communicateafter this meeting. “Do you need anything now?”
“Clothes,” Kurt said. “I have my suitcase still, but nothing for the heat.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
Kurt thought for a moment, keeping his sights focused on hittable targets. “Just make sure that Annie knows that I’m safe and that I’m being strong.”
Jim nodded and winked. “Done,” he said. “Now watch this.”
Dr. James Ruffer, Lieutenant Colonel, United States Air Force, snapped his examination kit closed and stuffed it into his medical bag. He snatched the bag into his hand and strode over to the official party. His demeanor and gait drew their attention immediately.
“I see you’ve worked him over pretty good, Colonel,” he said to Madriñán. “How dare you treat an American citizen with such utter disregard.” Turning to Perry, he gave his official report. “He looks terrible,Colonel. His blood pressure is high, he’s clearly suffering from exhaustion, brought on by the unrelenting interrogation pressure and denial of rest. This clearly is a violation of the Treaty.”
Those were the magic words—the ones that Noriega most feared. Madriñán seemed confused, but the fact that he didn’t argue told Rufferthat through a little fabrication, he’d landed very close to the truth.
“Unacceptable,” Perry said. “Utterly unacceptable.”
“I fear for Mr. Muse’s continued safety,” Ruffer said. Without any preparation or rehearsal, he and Perry seemed to be building to the same point.
To Madriñán, Perry said, “The Treaty clearly states that we have a right to see any American citizen in your custody, and we have a right to monitor his medical condition.”
Madriñán thought about that. “We have no objection to a reasonablenumber of visits.”
“Every other day,” Ruffer said, out of nowhere. “I must see him every other day to properly monitor his condition.”
Madriñán’s jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s our demand,” Perry said. “Unless you want to turn this into an issue of Treaty violation.”
Madriñán’s face reddened, but clearly he understood that he had no cards left to play. “All right, then. You can see him in Modelo Prison beginning the day after tomorrow. I will provide you with a schedule and from there—”
“No, Colonel,” Perry interrupted. “I will provide you with a schedule,and you will make every effort to honor it. Now, when do you plan to file formal charges against Mr. Muse?”
Madriñán glared. He was not used to being bossed around, and he didn’t like it one bit. “In due time,” he said. He nodded to the guards to take Kurt away. To the remaining guards he said, “Please help our visitors find their way out.”
24
Carcel Modelo—Modelo Prison—was as famous in Panama as Sing-Sing is in the United States as a place of misery and perpetual torment. Located in the Chorrillo section of the city, it loomed as the worst of the worst circle of hell. It was a place where people entered but never left. For the residents of Chorrillo, the dirty-beige walls and orange roof stood as grim reminders of the fate that awaited them if they stepped out of line.
High walls surrounded the sprawling compound, which itself was bordered by graveyards on two sides, and the Comandancia on a third—the headquarters for the PDF, and the site of Manuel Noriega’sexecutive offices. In the months to follow, Kurt Muse would come to see the proximity of the graves to the Comandancia as a fittingmetaphor to Noriega’s entire regime.
They drove Kurt in the back of a white pickup truck that had been fitted with a kind of paddy wagon. It was unspeakably hot, and as he drew closer to his final home, he felt a sense of defeat settling on him like a blanket. Two DENI guards accompanied him—one of them a woman, a sergeant—but they said nothing to him. He was not even shackled, and as they approached the roll-up metal door that served as the prison’s gate, he was vaguely aware that the next seconds would be his last for a decent shot at getting away. What were the chances, he wondered, of hitting these guys and bolting out of the truck? Even if he got away, what were the chances that he could run farther than a block before he was shot down with all the compassion of a picnicker smashing an ant?
The question would remain forever rhetorical. Just a few seconds after they stopped, the door rumbled up and they entered the compound.From the gate, it was a short drive to the front door of the prison itself. As they closed those last yards, Kurt looked up through the window of the paddy wagon and saw hundreds of desperate faces staring down at him. His stomach knotted as he observed the number of faces per window: six, seven, eight in some cases. How many peoplecould possibly be housed in a single cell? A physical giant by Panamanianstandards, and certainly no weakling, he still wondered if it was possible for one man to keep at bay the violence posed by so many against him?
Dignity, he told himself again. Dignity would be the last casualty, no matter what. That was his promise to himself. And to preserve it here in the opening moments of his incarceration meant sucking up the fear and being a man.
He could to this. He had to do this.
No more than ten seconds passed after the truck came to a stop when the back doors opened and his captors escorted him out of the daylight and into the darkness. If he’d known how long it would be before he would see the sun again, he’d have turned his face upward to absorb its rays.
Inside, the hallway was a
monument to black-and-white tile. It was everywhere, a checkerboard pattern that started on the first step inside, and traveled from there into forever.
His guards led him up a short flight of stairs to an office on the left. The sign on the door identified it as the warden’s office, and the wardenas one Major Correa.
The office wasn’t much, certainly nothing close to the opulence of Madriñán’s digs in Ancon. There was a small metal desk, two chairs, a threadbare sofa, and on the wall the glowering image of General Manual Noriega.
I’m screwed, Kurt thought. But that didn’t hurt half as much as the thought that that bastard had won.
But the victory was not complete; at least it didn’t feel that way. As he met with Correa and went through the details of in-processing, he had the sense that he was not the only person in the room who was nervous. It seemed as if they’d been expecting him, and they were not happy about it. There were several references during that brief initial meeting to his status as an American citizen and to the provisions of the Panama Canal Treaty, and for one brief moment, Kurt almost had the sense that they were trying to be nice to him, to set his mind at ease.
“Mr. Muse, if you obey the rules and do not cause trouble, we will cause no trouble for you.”
Kurt nodded but remained expressionless. If he tried to smile, it might seem as if he were mocking them. If he tried to speak, he was certain that his voice would betray his fear. He was nothing now. Nobody.His future was entirely in the hands of other people, and there was no one in the world to blame for his predicament but himself.
Good God, what had he done?
25
David Skinner had been genuinely touched by the reunionof Kimberly and Erik with their mother. Even days later, the memory of that long embrace in the airport lingered on as a fine, fond memory.
Six Minutes To Freedom Page 17