The Invisible

“He held presidential elections in Panama that October, the first in sixteen years. Of course, once he found out he wasn’t going to win, he started manufacturing votes. You know what happened then, I’m sure . . . It was all downhill from there. The U.S. government actually backed him on paper until ’88, but we—‘we’ being the Agency, of course—were making preparations to remove him well in advance.”

Kealey nodded. Although he never actually claimed the title of president, Manuel Noriega had effectively ruled the Republic of Panama from 1983 to January 3, 1990, the date of his surrender to U.S. forces outside the embassy of the Holy See in Panama City. Although his reign over the country was relatively brief, many historians cited Noriega as one of the more remarkable leaders of the past half century. He’d gained favor and numerous promotions during the seventies by brutally crushing a number of peasant uprisings in western Panama. Having won his superiors’ trust and respect, including that of his mentor, General Omar Torrijos, Noriega slowly began to engineer his rise to the top.

Throughout the late seventies and early eighties, Noriega worked to undermine his political opponents by any means necessary, and as the de facto leader of Panama, Omar Torrijos was a natural target. Although Noriega was never officially linked to the 1981 plane crash that killed Torrijos, few who knew the history of Panama’s politics were in doubt of the general’s culpability. A darker hint of Noriega’s true nature was to come a few years later. In 1985, Dr. Hugo Spadafora—

a resident of Costa Rica and one of Noriega’s chief opponents outside the country—announced his intention to return to Panama. His goal was to actively oppose Noriega’s regime by recruiting former brigadistas to his cause, the men and women he’d fought with in his earlier efforts to rid Nicaragua of the tyrannical dictator Anastasio Somoza. Spadafora held true to his word; he did, in fact, return to Panama, though he never had the chance to act on his ideals. He went missing on the day he returned, and later that evening, his decapitated body was found stuffed inside a U.S. post office bag. This gruesome discovery effectively silenced public outcries against Noriega from that point forward.

“Were you there when he was captured?” Kealey asked Machado.

“Yes. In fact, I flew back with him when he was extradited. I was there for all of it, even when two men from the State Department, Walker and Kozak, I think they were called, offered him two million dollars to go into exile. They had a luxury villa set up for him right here in Spain.” Machado laughed quietly. “They showed him the pictures and everything. He refused the bribe, of course, because he knew he still had plenty of leverage. Remember, Noriega was an Agency asset from the early seventies right up until the time of his surrender. If he had wanted to, he could have made things very embarrassing for us. Later on, he did just that.”

“Which only makes it more ironic that we turned against him,”

Kealey pointed out, “given our initial support for his regime, I mean.”

“Yes,” Machado said mildly. “The Agency does have a bad habit of backing the wrong horse. The same could be said of the U.S. government as a whole, I think. Saddam is the perfect example. He and Reagan were true companeros during the Iraq-Iran war, the very best of friends, and look how that ended.”

“Bin Laden could also be included in that group,” Kealey murmured. “It’s like we’re doomed to repeat our mistakes.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean we should give up entirely. Back then, I believed that the Agency does its best to protect the interests of the American people. I still believe that.”

“But you were born in Spain,” Kealey protested, unable to suppress his curiosity. “You spent the first half of your life in this country. Why would you go to such lengths to protect U.S. interests? Why did you join the Agency in the first place?”

Machado shrugged. “Who knows? I was looking for adventure, I suppose. I was young at the time, much younger than you are now, in fact. It seemed like the thing to do, and besides, I was bored silly at Princeton. As to why I stayed on . . . Well, I can’t honestly say. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, though. A great deal of time to wonder what I could have done differently.” A look of intense sadness crossed his face. “Believe me, young man, old age offers one plenty of time for regret.”

Machado fell silent. Kealey felt like asking him what he meant by that, but then thought better of it. He handed back the framed photograph, and Machado replaced it carefully on the mantel. Then he walked over and retook his seat, Kealey following suit.

“And what about you, my friend?” the Spaniard asked quietly. He crossed his legs at the ankles, carefully swirling the contents of his glass. “I had a long talk with Marissa while you were sleeping. It seems that you’ve amassed quite a record at Langley yourself. And in a relatively short period of time, no less.”

Kealey shrugged uneasily, unsure of how to respond to the gentle push for information. He had done his best to avoid the accolades his work had earned him. There were obvious reasons for his silence—he wasn’t cleared to discuss 90 percent of what he did for the Agency—but there was more to it than that. Simply put, he was a private person by nature, and he preferred to remain in the shadows.

“You’re reticent to speak of it,” Machado said suddenly. He looked past Kealey, his gaze falling on the women outside. “Which makes sense, of course, but where Marissa is concerned, I have a personal interest. She is my only living child, and I love her dearly. I would do anything to ensure her safety. Anything,” he repeated, his eyes flaring briefly. “Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” Kealey said quietly, thinking about Naomi and how much she meant to him. “I understand that completely.”

“Then you know how I would feel if anything happened to her. Much the same as you would feel if anything happened to the young woman upstairs, I imagine.”

Kealey couldn’t conceal his surprise and instantly went on edge.

“What makes you say that?”

A small, knowing smile appeared on Machado’s face, his black eyes glittering with the kind of insight that comes only with age and experience. “Forgive me, young man. Please excuse my direct manner, but it couldn’t be more obvious. It’s clear to anyone with half a brain that you love this woman.” A small frown crossed his face, and he seemed to hesitate. “I wonder, though, if you are fully aware of just how badly she is damaged. That scar she bears is the least of it.”

Kealey remained silent for a long time, unsure of how to respond. Part of him deeply resented this unexpected intrusion. He wanted to lash out, but that was an instinctive reaction, and he forced himself to set it aside. Thinking objectively, he slowly realized that no one was more qualified to dispense advice than the man sitting before him. No one had earned it more. He had read as much in Jonathan Harper’s voice when they’d spoken earlier; the deputy director seemed to admire Machado enormously.

“I have a fair idea of what she’s going through,” he finally admitted,

“but she won’t open up. I don’t know what to do. It’s like you said earlier . . . If I push her, I’ll probably just end up making things worse.”

“That’s a fair point,” Machado said, nodding slowly, “but on the other hand, you need to know if she can go on, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And I assume you achieved what you set out to do in Madrid.”

“Yes.”

“Then naturally, the Agency will want to put that information to some good use. If they call on you, and I assume they will, you’ll need her help. But only if she can help. If she is focused on other things, she’ll only slow you down, making it harder for you to accomplish your task.”

“That makes sense, but—”

“You’re going after the secretary of state, aren’t you? You’re going after Fitzgerald.”

Kealey fell silent. He stared hard at the older man, trying to see past the wizened facade. “Did Marissa tell you that?”

“Yes, but she didn’t have to.” Machado drained his glass, stood, and moved to the open doors, gazing absently out at the women in the garden. His hands were clasped behind his back. “The Agency wouldn’t have authorized your actions in Madrid unless the stakes were extremely high. In the present climate, the only thing that would warrant such drastic action is Secretary Fitzgerald’s abduction. Do you have something to go on?”

“We have a name. Our people are running it now . . . We’re waiting to hear back.”

Machado sighed heavily; it was as if he was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. When he