2
The ceiling fan churned the air, stirring the humidity withoutcooling a thing. As music from the Arosemena’s party down the street filled the night, Kimberly Muse desperately wanted to go to bed, but biology beckoned. The midterm was coming, and if something didn’t click soon, she’d be in big trouble. Her notes lay strewn across her desk, the corners curled by the tropical moisture.
She scooted forward in her chair, hoping to find a cool spot on the seat, but they’d all been turned hot a long time ago. Here it was going on midnight, and she was still sweating, wearing nothing more than cutoffs and a T-shirt. It was the pink Esprit T-shirt that always ticked off her dad. He was so out of touch. What was wrong with showing off a little midriff, for crying out loud?
Daddy had become a real grouch recently. Everybody noticed it, even her cousin, Joanna. Aunt Carol and Uncle David were pissed at him, and so were Nana and Papi, and between that and the politics that made him such a madman, she wondered when he might just explode.
He should have been home hours ago. Navigating customs was always an adventure at Torrijos Airport, and she should know better than to worry just because he was running late. But honestly, it shouldn’t ever take
this
long. Kimberly tried to tell herself that there were a thousand things that might have gone wrong to delay him and that he was probably just stuck on the plane on some tarmac where he couldn’t get to a phone.
The fact was—and she’d never admit this out loud—Kimberly wasn’t keen on being home alone at this hour. Okay, so she wasn’t exactlyalone—Lala, their maid, was there, too—but let’s face it, if Jason Voorhees or Freddie Kruger decided to pay a visit, Lala would be of precious little help. Of course, there was always Gretel, but the very thought of siccing the pet boxer on an intruder made her laugh. She’d be better off throwing a teddy bear at the guy.
There was something creepy in the air tonight. She’d been jumpy all day.
Of course, it could just be that she hated biology. A party raged within earshot, and Erik was having fun at the Prietos’ house, and Mom and Dad were jetting off to the States, yet she was stuck here in the house studying frog guts. Where was the justice?
Finally, she heard a car in the driveway, and she stepped outside for a peek. Even as the oldest child, she still didn’t rate an air conditioner, but at least she had the terrace. With the doors open, it was the rare night that didn’t offer a pleasant breeze. What a shame that this was one of them. Walking carefully on bare feet, she slid the door open and stepped out into the night. At least the heat hadn’t done anything to spoil the view.
The car she’d heard was nobody, just a nondescript Toyota using their driveway as a turnaround. As the last house on a dead-end street, they got a lot of that. People got lost in Panama City all the time; it was a way of life. There were no addresses, at least not in the sense that they had them in the States. All the mail came to the post office, and if you wanted a pizza delivered, you gave directions via landmarks—gopast the old rendering plant, turn right at the pink house ...
In fact, when Dominos Pizza first started giving away pizzas for free if they weren’t delivered within thirty minutes, Erik had used the confusionto cash in big time. He’d order a pizza when he got home from school, knowing full well that the driver would get hopelessly lost on the way. He thought he could eat for free. Kimberly thought the plan was brilliant, but when their dad caught wind of it he went ballistic, claiming that they were stealing from the pizza guy. Kimberly liked to think of it more as exploiting a loophole than stealing, but the gambit stopped immediately.
She stayed on the terrace long enough to watch the Toyota find the party, and then headed back inside, even more pissed off than before. It was official: Everybody in the world was having a better time than she.
She decided to study on the bed for a while. As she gathered her book and notes for the transfer, she couldn’t help but smile at the picturesthat adorned her walls: the world’s most complete collection of anti-Noriega political cartoons, plus a few drawings of her own. It was her nod toward civil disobedience, and her dad loved it. Call it their bonding moment.
So long as Noriega’s
sapos
never saw them.
Or Papi. Papi didn’t believe in meddling in local politics. He seemed not to believe in a lot of things that were important in Kimberly’s house.
Things were not good between Dad and Papi, and from what she could tell by eavesdropping, political leanings weren’t the only issue. Things at the business weren’t going well, and even though Daddy outrankedhim, Uncle David was somehow being treated better. It all had something to do with Mom’s job with the U.S. Department of Defense (DoD). Kimberly didn’t pretend to understand the details, and she knew better than to mention anything, but she and her family really did enjoy advantages that were denied the rest of her extended family. The DoD connection gave her and her family access to the shopping facilities on the military bases, where there was always ample food at an affordable price. For Carol and David and Nana and Papi, life was just more complicated. These were tough times in Panama, what with the closing of the banks and all. Kimberly even got to go to the Americanschool for free, while her cousins, Joanna and Samantha, had to pay tuition to go to an Episcopal school. And now that Samantha had gone on to college in the States, they were facing an even bigger burden.
Even without the details, Kimberly was sure that this, like everythingelse with her dad, was ultimately about principle. His whole life revolved around principle, always first in line to fall on his sword. Kimberly couldn’t swear to it, but she suspected that Dad had either quit or been fired over this stuff. You’d have to be blind not to see that Dad wasn’t going into the office anymore.
Sometimes, she wondered if things wouldn’t be easier if they actuallylived in the United States—not that she’d ever done that—but the tensions here both inside the house and out in the street made life tougher than it needed to be.
The telephone startled her. She hurried to pick up the receiver beforeLala could get it. “Hello?”
“Hello, Kimberly? This is Jorge Quintero. I’m a friend of your father’s.”
Kimberly recognized the name and the voice. He and her dad knew each other from Rotary. “He’s not here right now,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. It was a single syllable, but it carried a dreadful tone.
“Is everything okay?” Kimberly asked.
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Jorge said quickly. Again, his dark tone belied his words. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
She’d never thought otherwise. “Mr. Quintero, is there something wrong with my father?”
“No,” he said. “Heavens no, not at all. Well, I’m sorry I disturbed you. Good night.”
The line went dead. Just like that. No pleasantries, no “how are you doing” or “how’s school?” None of the social niceties of Panamanian discourse. It was almost as if he’d been verifying something he already knew.
Kimberly shivered. The night seemed to have turned colder.
Fear had begun to alter Kurt’s sense of time.
The PDF guards had quietly loaded him into the backseat of a white pickup truck, and with two other vehicles stationed ahead and behind, they’d taken him to a police substation out in the suburbs near his home. But for the cluster of police vehicles in front of the substation, passersby would have assumed that the squat building was just anotherhouse on the block.
Kurt knew the truth of the place, of course, just as he knew the names of many of the officers and their patrolling schedules. Once he’d broken their codes, the rest had been easy. Over the last eighteen months, he’d dispatched quite a few of them on wild goose chases just for the thrill of messing with their minds. He wondered what they would do to him when they found out—as they eventually would—that he was the personification of the giant burr under their saddles.
It had all seemed very funny at the time. The one about the fictitioussniper high on the hill had been a particularly masterful stroke, Kurt thought. Despite the gnawing fear and blossoming panic of the present, he still drew satisfaction from the memory of the PDF cowardsdashing for cover as he spoke directly to them and threatened to shoot if they didn’t disperse from the street corner where they’d been busily bashing heads.
That had been just a few weeks ago. Their memory of the incident would no doubt be fresh and clear.
Now, as he walked across the parking lot surrounded by goons, he told himself to stay calm, even as he prayed that Tomás would somehow figure out what was happening and get word back to Kurt’s family.
How soon would it be before they, too, were dragged off to some squalid room for interrogation, enduring questions for which they had no answers? Nana and Papi were particularly vulnerable, he knew. Kurt’s heart raced as his mind conjured horrid images of what the PDF were capable of, and he tried to settle himself. There were many things that could happen now, and at least a few of the options had to fall short of disaster. They
had
to.
Kimberly and Erik.
The thought was too much to bear. Erik was only twelve! They wouldn’t torture a twelve-year-old, would they?
Kurt tried to force the thoughts away. He tried to form prayers in his head for their safety, but even those words wouldn’t come. Instead, his mind filled with images of the tortures and depravities of which these animals were capable. Every newspaper in the world had carried the photos of the castrated and beheaded corpse of Noriega rival Hugo Spadafora. Everyone on the streets knew someone who had endured the rapes and sodomies that were a staple of the prisons; everyone had seen the scars that were the prize of merciless beatings. Such were the public relations tools of the regime, designed to instill terror. Why let a prisoner die in a concrete cell when you could send his maimed shell back to his family, where the stories will be told over and over?
Of course they’d torture his children. To extract information or merely to make a point, the PDF would do whatever was necessary. And more likely than not, they’d do it in front of Kurt, where he could see the blood and hear the screams. In the face of that, Kurt knew that he’d beg for the chance to turn on his friends, if only to make his children’sagony stop.
The fear in his gut began to bloom, building exponentially. He prayed that Tomás would get to a radio in time to sound the distress signal.
Shopette.
It all came down to two syllables. Would he think to make the transmission? Would he do it in time?
The police station was as hot as a sauna. Clean enough at first glance, the place had a yellow-brown hue to it, testament to the ever-presenthaze of tobacco smoke. They led him through a squad room toward an office in the back, past a warren of desks and chairs that looked as if they’d been arranged by air drop. Kurt noted with curiositythat his hands were free, that they hadn’t cuffed him, and it occurredto him that he was quickly approaching his last opportunity to run. It would be suicidal, but at least it would be on his terms.
The images of his family returned, and the option evaporated. If there was a chance of seeing them again, he’d do everything in his power to make that happen. After thrusting all of this trouble on them, the very least he could do was struggle to stay alive.
His captors led him to a closed door in the rear of the squad room, where the escort on Kurt’s left opened the door and ushered him inside.One man sat in a metal, army-surplus chair while three others hovered nearby. A desk sat in the middle of the small room, lit only by a dangling bulb that seemed to have the light of the noontime sun. The heat in the room was off the scale, and every face he saw sweated profusely.They were all looking at Kurt’s passport.
One of the armed escorts placed a hand heavily on Kurt’s shoulder and pressed him into the hardbacked wooden visitor’s chair. “Here he is, Major Moreno,” the guard said.
The seated man raised his head to make eye contact. Muscular and wiry, Moreno wore a pastel blue shirt that fit his form tightly. The major’seyes were hotter than the room as they bored through his visitor from behind an ugly, pock-marked face. As he measured Kurt with his glare, his hand fiddled with a riding crop on his desk.
Kurt did his best to return Moreno’s glare, but he didn’t have it in him. By breaking the gaze, Kurt knew he was projecting guilt.
“You are a spy,” Moreno said in Spanish.
Kurt spoke without a trace of a gringo accent. “No, sir, I’m not a spy.”
A spy?
he thought.
Why would
...
“You traveled to Honduras,” Moreno said, indicating the visa stamp on the passport. “Meeting with the Contras, no doubt.”
Kurt smiled in spite of himself. “No, sir, I was there on business, meeting with local officials about printing equipment.” Every word was the absolute truth. Could it be that they didn’t know who he was? How could that happen?
“And the trip to Nicaragua immediately afterward?” Moreno prompted.
Kurt’s smile started to fade as he realized that a lie would actually sound more convincing than the truth. “I am a Rotarian,” he said. “On my return from Honduras, I visited Managua to attend a Rotary conference. There was no spying involved.”