The Spy's Little Zonbi (13 page)

C
hase folded the newspaper with the headline announcing Bush's million dollar reward for the capture of Panamanian President Manuel Noriega. The taxi driver had stopped again, confused by the lack of street signs in the posh neighborhood. He seemed ready to give up before pointing to a number partially obscured by tall shrubs.

“
Aqui
.” The driver pulled to the curb in front of one of the many compounds purportedly owned by Noriega.

“
Gracias
.” Chase paid him and jumped out.

With indictments for cocaine trafficking, racketeering, and money laundering secured, twenty-seven thousand U.S. troops walked, boated, and flew into Panama and quickly beat down Noriega's Panama Defense Force. When Noriega wasn't in any of the obvious places, the invasion became a manhunt around the mostly middle-class capital city.

The envelope left on Chase's kitchen counter had given this upscale address, with instructions to keep an eye on the place and alert a CIA contact if Noriega or anything suspicious turned up. It also said the CIA wanted Noriega before the Army Rangers got hold of him.

Noriega's house was the only one surrounded by a low cement wall, topped by strands of dangerous concertina wire. Chase imagined that the neighbors were happy to have a de facto military dictator on the block, but pissed off at the walls and wire, which were ugly and a drag on property values.

Chase looked both ways then draped his jacket over the wire and hopped easily inside the compound. He circled to the back of the two-story Mediterranean-style villa, with its white walls and red-tiled roof. Its small backyard was packed with dozens of water fountains, crammed tightly around a meandering cement pathway. Tall shrubs grew well above the wall and wire, making the space private except for a narrow metal service gate. Chase shook it to make sure it was locked.

The power was on. A little cherub stood peeing in one stone bowl while Atlas struggled to hold four tiers of cascading pools. There were flying angels and diving dolphins, as well as Neptune rising from the sea. Chase walked the path, read the placards. The largest fountain was a replica of the Naiad Fountain in the Piazza della Repubblica in Rome. Its four naked bronze nymphs had caused a scandal at their unveiling in 1901, read the small sign.

Chase headed for the back door of the villa and knocked. What could it hurt? He had press credentials and his camera bag. Noriega's top officers were cooperating with the U.S. military and his bodyguards would probably be lying low until things settled down. A maid with a frying pan might be the worst Chase would have to deal with.

A tangle of red, green, and black wires erupting from a small security pad indicated that the alarm system had been disabled, probably during a Ranger sweep. It was a good bit of luck, since Chase had to use his elbow to break out a pane of glass.

If it had been the Rangers, they left a big mess. Every drawer was opened and tossed. Chairs kicked over, trash dumped. And from the look of the pile of empties in the kitchen, Noriega wasn't hiding at the bottom of a beer can either.

In the great room, VHS tapes were spilled from glass cases around a big screen television, and every book in the adjoining library had been taken from the shelves and piled haphazardly. Lids on toilet tanks had been removed and shampoo bottles pulled from under sinks.

Just off the kitchen and through swinging doors was a walk-in pantry. Two large freestanding freezers had bags of vegetables and white paper wrapped meats collecting layers of frost. Their lids had been left gaping, like an open coffin viewing at a funeral home. Bags of ice were strewn across the floor, melting.

There was nobody upstairs. Just more mess in the study, two smaller bedrooms, and a huge master suite. Chase stashed his camera bag in the bathroom off the master and took a sip of water from the gold plated tap. He decided the best vantage point to wait for Noriega was the top of the dual staircase, which rose from both ends of the black and white checkered marble first floor, meeting at a large hardwood second floor landing. Before him was a view of the driveway entrance gate through a grand window beyond a chandelier; behind him was a smaller window overlooking the backyard fountain collection and service entrance gate. There was a small powder room at the top of the nearest set of stairs; no toilet, but a sink and a spot to hide should he need to take cover.

The first outdoor floodlights came on—either by timer or solar sensor—about an hour later. Then, one by one, small colored lights illuminated each fountain, producing a cheerful scene below as Chase leaned against the wall next to the back window. The air was cool in the still house and he was certain he'd catch any sounds of entry should anyone jump the wall out of view and come in through an unseen door.

The hours passed and adrenaline rushes kicked in and out as car lights occasionally swept across the large iron front gate. But the cars didn't stop. Only a tiny sliver of moon rose over the palm trees as his watch ticked toward midnight.

Chase yawned, stretched his back and neck, and then watched the back service gate slowly swing open. A huddled dark figure made its way along the winding pathway amid all the colorful water and fancy sculptures. Chase realized he hadn't planned for getting to a phone. At some point he'd decided that if Noriega appeared, he was going to take him down alone. Even though he hadn't personally botched Nicaragua, the mission had been a failure. He'd been on enough lousy teams to know how much he hated losing. Noriega was a shot at redemption.

Keys jingled and a door on the main floor opened. The echoing footsteps puzzled Chase because the sound they made wasn't the clomp of combat boots or the squeak of sneakers on the marble. Some sort of healed shoe—a woman's shoe—made its slow, tapping way into the main foyer, then unsteadily up the stairway to his right.

Chase had long since adjusted to the finite lighting, but the approaching figure, taking one step at a time while grasping the railing for support, was silhouetted by the glow coming in the large front window.

Chase melted back into the dark powder room, assuming the figure would make a left toward the main bedroom. He could easily take her down from behind. As the figure crested the final step, Chase caught a glimpse of a flash of metal and what looked like the snub nose of a nickel-plated .38 Special right out of a TV cop show. Now on his level, the woman was revealed to have a stocky build, with narrow shoulders and short legs. Her hair was black and piled in an uneven mess. She wore a light blue house dress, something you'd imagine a maid wearing in a fancy neighborhood like this. The heels were low, and she bent forward and held the railing and her gun with one hand, pulling off her shoes with the other.

A distinctly masculine voice uttered a sigh of relief.

Chase's heart raced and he clenched his fists, poised in the darkness. Noriega adjusted his wig, wiped his brow, and gripped the .38 in his outstretched right hand.

As Chase had anticipated, the disguised dictator turned left toward the master bedroom, his aching feet now bare on the hardwood floor. Chase let him get two full strides beyond the stairs before stepping out of the powder room darkness, making his move. But Noriega had left his shoes behind, with their various straps and tangled laces, and just as Chase reached out, he tripped on the shoes and fell to his knees.

Noriega screamed, fired three shots blindly over his left shoulder and ran into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

“
Dammit,” Chase hissed, getting to his feet, ears ringing from the shots. He was more angry than frightened. Chase glared at the door. Noriega had no exit, but had at least two or three remaining rounds, depending on the make of the revolver and whether he'd tucked away additional bullets in his bra. Deciding to stay on the offensive, Chase did what he imagined Stoney would have done. He strode up to the bedroom door and kicked it in. The intricately detailed knob and bolt action exploded into brass shards and loose screws, as the wood splintered easily. The door slammed open, exposing Noriega standing on top of the king-size bed across the room, his back against the wall for support as he took aim.

Blam! Blam! Click. Click. Click. Click.

His two remaining bullets nearly parted Chase's hair, harmlessly smacking gaping holes into a door at the far end of the upstairs hall.

Noriega wound up like a baseball pitcher on top of the bed and hurled the small gun, but was low and outside for a ball. His tight-fitting house dress was bunched up high on his chubby thighs, exposing olive drab underwear.

I see London, I see France, I see a crazy dictator's underpants! Chase's thoughts raced.

Noriega stood with legs spread for balance on the soft bed, his wild wig askew and his bright red lipstick smeared into an ugly clown face. He feinted right, then jumped off the left side of the bed, running directly at Chase as he tore off the wig and tried to jam it in his face as he lumbered by. Chase ducked the fistful of hair and tripped the president as he passed. Noriega dove headfirst into the door jam, like a base runner trying to bowl over the catcher during a close play at the plate.

Again Noriega screamed out, this time in pain, as his right shoulder connected with the door frame, but he was immediately back up and scrambling into the hall. Chase was right on his heels.

“
Hola, Señor Presidente
.” Chase kicked Noriega's ankles out from under him before he could get to the stairs. His body took a mid-air spin, thudding to the floor.

“
Por favor, no más
,” Noriega cried, face down on the floor, trying to cover his head with his arms. “
Soy dolido, soy dolido
. I am hurt.”

“
Fight me and you die,
entiende
?” Chase ordered, putting a knee in the small of his back as he imagined Stoney would have done. He reached for one of the discarded shoes, untangled a long strap, and ripped it free. Chase cinched Noriega's wrists behind his back.

“
Soy dolido
,” Noriega whimpered.

“
I'm not going to fuck around with you.” Chase's voice was clear, business-like, and he spoke directly into the man's ear. “I'm taking you downstairs and I'm making a phone call.”

“
Your family is dead.” Noriega's voice was a growl, his cheek pressed into the wood floor.

“
Get up.”

“
There's money in the bed.” Noriega's tone had changed to sleazy businessman and it pissed Chase off. He'd threatened his family and then shifted his tactics so easily to offering a bribe. Chase grabbed Noriega by the collar of the dress and slammed his head into the floor.

“
Ouch! You fucker!”

“
How much you got?” Chase had the man with both hands around his neck. Could he kill someone without getting all crazy? He was starting to think it would be pretty easy.

“
I'll have their heads cut off.”

“
Ten thousand? Twenty? How much money to let you walk out of here and start cutting off people's heads?”

“
Two million dollars.”

“
Bullshit.” Chase began to squeeze.

“
The money is all right there,” Noriega croaked, jerking his chin toward the bedroom despite being choked. Chase turned to his right, loosened his hands.

“
You take half and we both win,” said the dictator.

Chase stood up, spun the little man around on his belly, and dragged him by the dress collar back into the bedroom. Noriega yelped as his body bounced over the slightly raised threshold.

“
Donde
?” Chase demanded, and Noriega motioned with his chin at the heavy wood frame of the right side of the bed. “There's a compartment?”

“
We have a deal,” Noriega said from the floor.

“
I don't need money.” Chase was intent on finding the secret latch to open the hidden compartment in the side of the bed. He fished in the darkness, running his hands all along the dark wood, aware that there might be a booby trap, but Noriega didn't seem to be cowering away, so he figured it was safe.

“
Everyone needs money.”

Chase's fingers found the latch and a three foot section of bed frame came open in his hands. He brought one of the small bedside lamps down and ripped a pillow case off to smother most of the light as he twisted the switch. Inside the compartment were a metal briefcase and an interesting looking antique box. It had a small, inscribed plate on top that read “Adolph Hitler, Walther PPK.”

“
No fucking way.” Chase turned to ask Noriega if it was real, but the floor was deserted. “Shit!” Chase closed the wood hatch and scrambled for the door.

Noriega was mincing barefooted, midway down the stairs, hands still bound behind his back, his dress fully up to his hips. “Stop!” Chase shouted and Noriega took a great misstep, tumbling forward, head over heels down the tall staircase. The president made at least five full forward revolutions, his head finally breaking his momentum against a large terra-cotta pot at the base of the stairs, creating a zigzag lightning bolt crack down one side of the planter.

Just as the unconscious dictator came to a sprawling rest, the front entryway became awash in bright headlights of what might have been a U.S. military Humvee just outside the front gate. A soldier jumped out of the passenger side door carrying long handled bolt cutters. While his silhouette worked the chained gate in front of Chase, his enormous shadow worked behind him on the wall.