Hunter's Moon (34 page)

At 1 p.m., I was sitting high in a tree, far from where Lourdes had died but close enough to hear the master of ceremonies announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome former president of the United States, Mr. Kal Wilson. He will speak in the absence of Ambassador Donna Riggs Johnson, who is unable to attend.”

The military band played the first bars of “Hail to the Chief” as Wilson strode across the stage toward the podium. Through the sniperscope, his face filled the lens. He paused only to salute another unexpected guest, General Juan Rivera. Rivera was wearing a white formal uniform, medals and ribbons clustered on his chest.

Wilson pointedly did not stop to shake hands with the four men seated to the right of the podium. Among them was Thomas Farrish, who controlled the canal through his company IS&P, and his mentor, Altif Halibi, the Islamicist cleric who had issued the
fatwa
against Wilson and offered the million-dollar reward.

The two men wore similar expressions on their faces as Wilson stepped to the microphone—uneasiness and contempt.

In the months that followed, I would listen to the former president's speech many times, as did people around the world. Shana Waters, broadcasting live, got it all—so did New York. Via satellite. Digitally.

Wilson attached the microphone to his lapel, then spoke for less than five minutes. I expected him to talk about U.S. sanctions against Panama or instigators of the Apocalypse. Instead, he surprised everyone on stage, beginning: “I am not here in an official capacity. When I contacted the White House this morning, I was asked not to speak. Ambassador Johnson has also asked me not to speak. I am going to speak, anyway. But the words and the opinions are mine alone.”

As Wilson waited for his interpreter to translate, I used the telescopic sights to scan the stage, then the audience. Some listened, but gangs of protesters continued to chant slogans in the distance. From my post, forty feet above the ground, high on Ancon Hill, I could see other groups carrying signs, marching, near Balboa High School, and then Albrook Air Base just beyond, where Wilson had once been stationed.

The man really was revisiting places that had been important to him and his wife.

As Wilson resumed speaking, I returned my focus to the stage. I was using a tree branch to support the sniper rifle and I fixed the crosshairs on Wilson's chest. It was a strange and sickening sensation. Unreal. Like swimming from the light of a coral reef over a drop-off where the ocean plummets into the darkness of abyss.

On the card I had burned Wilson had written:

Those were my orders. They came from a man who, I was aware, dreaded the humiliation of the disease consuming him but who also understood the power of symbols. If he allowed himself to be humiliated, the presidency would be debased.

Days ago. Vue had told me there must be wind and light when a great man dies, so the sky can take him. On this tropical afternoon in Panama, there were both.

I would carry out my orders.

 

 

 

AS WILSON SPOKE, THEN WAITED FOR HIS INTERPRETER, a rhythm emerged that was subtle, inviting. During each pause, I used the sniperscope to observe the reactions of the audience, the Panamanian security police scattered through the crowd, and a half dozen men stationed behind Thomas Farrish and the cleric Altif Halibi.

Bodyguards.

If there was trouble, it would begin with them.

The interest in Wilson's words radiated gradually outward through several thousand people. One politician's truth is another politician's lie, but people recognize sincerity and they are attracted to it even when they don't agree.

What Wilson said was dangerous. They recognized that, too.

“A few months ago, an invitation was delivered to me in the form of a fire that killed seven people, including my wife. I am here to respond, and also point out that you, too, received an invitation. It was delivered on a Tuesday in September, in New York. Since then, it has been delivered many times around the world.

“There could be no better place to address this issue than Panama. Panama is at the crossroads of the world and your people represent every religion and race. The same is true of all the Americas, from Canada to Brazil.

“That is precisely why they hate us. We are joined by geography
and
our differences. It does not matter that some of us pray to a God they claim as their own. They say we lack courage, resolve, and morality. They say we are mongrel nations and unclean. They will not tolerate our tolerance.

“So they send these invitations—but from the shadows. The shadows are where intolerance and hatred and cowardice always hide.”

For the first time, Wilson looked at Thomas Farrish and Altif Halibi sitting to his left. Farrish was dressed in a suit of white silk, the cleric was bearded and wore a turban and robes. Both sat stoically, refusing eye contact.

Wilson continued to look at them as he said, “Perhaps it would be good to explain who we really are and thereby remind ourselves exactly what our heritage demands of us.

“We are the sons and daughters of every race, all religions, joined between two oceans and by a passion for self-determination and freedom. We are not a perfect people. The inequities we suffer as neighbors, and inflict as neighbors, are many. But we do not hide in shadows.

“In us runs the blood of revolutionaries and explorers, of farmers, immigrants, and Aztec statesmen. In us runs the blood of train barons—and train robbers—and of individuals who, though chained in slave ships, refused to bow down as slaves.

“We are people who risked the gallows to create sanctuaries on earth that, for the first time, guaranteed religious freedom. In the years it took to build Panama's Canal, Muslims, Christians, Hindus, and Jews lived and worked and prayed here, side by side, and continue to do so.

“Our numbers include women brave enough to demand equality, and who continue to fight against the sickening control some attempt to impose on them. Are we a collection of mongrels?
Yes.

“The same was said of us in another invitation. It was issued from Berlin in 1939.

“If you believe we lack courage and resolve, it may be because you have banned so many history books. Allow me to enlighten you.

“We are the fifty thousand who took our convictions to earth at Gettysburg. We are the thousands of white crosses that rest where poppies grow at Flanders Field—South Americans, Central Americans, and North Americans, all died in that war.

“We are Simón Bolívar's fearless charge against the Spanish, and a thousand Inca warriors, marching against the guns of Conquistadors. We are the Seventh Cavalry who perished at Little Bighorn. We are Apache warriors who refused to run and so stood awaiting death while chanting: ‘Your bullets stand no chance against our prayers.'

“We are not an easy people. We love a winner and despise a coward. Courage is an immigrant's cornerstone, and our reverence for self-reliance has never been equaled nor will it ever be.”

Once again, Wilson stared at Farrish and Halibi. “You can't possibly understand who we are. But our quandary is this: In any conflict, the boundaries of civilized behavior are defined by the party that cares least about morality.

“You have defined the boundaries and there are none. The lives of innocent women and children are meaningless. You hide weapon factories beneath day care centers. You hide collectively behind the caskets of innocents. You have no morality, no character, no conscience, while most people around the world are blessed—and burdened—by all three.

“Fascism has worn many costumes. Yours is religion. That makes it even more difficult, but we will find a way. Appeasement is suicide. The world is beginning to understand that.” He paused, then pointed directly at them. “Your cowardice only strengthens our resolve. Your hatred stands no chance against our prayers.”

He returned his attention to the crowd. “Thank you. God bless you, and God bless Panama.”

Wilson closed the leather folder and stepped back from the podium.

The crowd's applause was loud, much louder than when he'd been introduced, and Wilson paused to acknowledge it. He nodded to Juan Rivera. “Would you agree, General?”

Rivera marched to Wilson, gave him a bear hug, then exhorted the startled audience in Spanish, “You have just heard a
man
speak! Have you forgotten what it's like?”

The applause grew.

Wilson smiled. He looked happy; a man at peace, standing with his old enemy. It may be the happiest I had ever see him.

Then he turned and walked toward Thomas Farrish and Altif Halibi.

With the scope's crosshairs on the president's back, I moved my index finger to the trigger guard.

 

 

 

AS WILSON APPROACHED, FARRISH WAS LOOKING OVER his shoulder. He began gesturing to his bodyguards. The cleric Altif Halibi refused to make eye contact with the former president. It was more than disinterest; he radiated contempt. To acknowledge a
kuffar
—an “infidel cow”—was beneath him.

The crowd, I realized, had suddenly gone silent. The Panamanian police watched with interest. Wilson was still wearing the microphone and they wanted to hear what he would say.

Wilson addressed the two men as if they were one. He said softly, “I accept your invitation. Here it is. Give me the money.”

Farrish was snapping his fingers, trying to get security to intercede. I moved the crosshairs from the president's back to Farrish's head—
tempting
—as Farrish said, “What do you mean, ‘It is here'?
What
is here? I have no idea of what you are saying.” The man had spent his playboy years in the U.K.; the accent was British.

“You wanted my head. Here it is.” Wilson tapped his temple. “You owe me a million dollars. I'm donating the money to Panama's orphanages.”

Farrish laughed, but it was nervous laughter. The cleric stood, his hands folded into his robes, but he stopped when Wilson said, “What are you afraid of? I'll make it easy.”

I watched Wilson reach inside his jacket . . . and I saw the fear in the cleric's eyes as he drew the curved knife—the
badek,
an instrument made for killing infidels.

Someone in the audience screamed; everyone began moving, then—Vue, Farrish's bodyguards, the police. But they stopped when Wilson tossed the knife at the cleric's feet. His voice was loud enough now to echo in the noon silence. “Go ahead. I've brought you my head, cut it off! Sunlight's a great disinfectant—for everyone but cowards.”

Farrish stood. “I have had enough of this insanity!”

Wilson said,
“And so have I.”
Then he slapped Farrish across the face, just as our seventh president, Andrew Jackson, had once done to a man who insulted his wife.

Rivera had placed himself between the bodyguards and the two men. The security police had closed ranks, but now more as admiring spectators.

Farrish was holding his cheek. His skin had the flushed, mottled look of a man who is frightened and in shock.

Wilson moved close enough to brush both Halibi and Farrish with his chest. “You offered a reward for my head. I want the money.
Now.
Or satisfaction. I'm challenging you to a duel. If you have the courage,
face
me.”

Farrish looked at the cleric, the cleric looked at Farrish—then they both slid past Wilson, who remained solid as a statue.

The two walked swiftly toward the exit.

At noon, November 27th, a Thursday, Tomlinson and I boarded Amtrak's Silver Star in Tampa, kicked back in our respective sleeper cars, enjoying beverages and an elegant dinner. Eleven hours later, we disembarked beneath a blazing full moon in the village of Hamlet, North Carolina, population 6,018.

Hamlet's train station, with its Victorian Queen Anne gables, wood painted and polished bright, may be the most beautiful in America. Kal Wilson and blues icon John Coltrane were born nearby.

Tomlinson had stood by the tracks, in a circle of yellow light, watching our train pull out, gathering speed northbound toward Raleigh, Richmond, D.C., and Grand Central Station, New York.

“A time warp,” he said.

The city's main street was deserted an hour before midnight. No one else had gotten off the train, and the upstairs station windows were dark, save for one where the silhouette of a stocky man was hunched over a typewriter—or maybe a telegraph key.

“The moon's bright enough, we should've brought our ball gloves,” I told him. We could have played in the middle of the street, no problem.

My arm felt good. Two weeks after returning from Panama, General Juan Rivera had met us at the Presidential Library in Minnesota. We'd gotten a sandlot ball game going with some local kids and Rivera had pitched three innings of shutout ball. Next day, we received VIP treatment, and a special tour of the Wilson Center.

The president himself had welcomed us into his office, then took us next door to show us the First Lady's office. There was a concert grand piano, and Tomlinson had played “Moonlight Sonata” and “Clair de Lune” until a nurse noticed that Wilson was weakening. We pretended not to see the wheelchair she'd left around the corner.

The three of us said good-bye with the forced but courageous good humor that friends draw upon when they know they may never meet again.