TIME: Almanac 1995

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<text id=90TT0052> <title> Jan. 08, 1990: Panama:No Place To Run </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990 Jan. 08, 1990 When Tyrants Fall </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> WORLD, Page 38 PANAMA No Place To Run </hdr> <body> With Noriega cornered but not caught, was the pain of invasion worth the gain? By George J. Church--Reported by Ricardo Chavira/Washington, Robert Moynihan/Rome and John Moody/Panama City Care for a used dictator, courtesy of the Vatican? Not if he is Manuel Antonio Noriega, replied leaders of Spain, the Dominican Republic, Nicaragua and perhaps other nations last week. None wanted any part of the busted Panamanian strongman, accused drug dealer and alleged black-magic practitioner. Only Cuba showed even a grudging interest in enabling Noriega to leave the Vatican embassy in Panama City, where he had taken refuge from invading U.S. troops on Christmas Eve. "We wouldn't do it for Noriega the man," said a Cuban diplomat. "This would be our way of standing up for nonintervention and, frankly, sticking it to the gringos." Officials in Washington, however, swore they would not consent to a transfer of Noriega unless he went much farther away than Cuba, to a country where he would have no chance to continue meddling in Panama. So Noriega remained in the Panama City nunciature (papal embassy), presumably covering his ears against a pop-culture version of psychological warfare. U.S. troops ringing the embassy set up loudspeakers and blasted away with rock music, which to the opera-loving Noriega must have been sheer cacophony. Among the titles: No Place to Run, Voodoo Chile and You're No Good. The G.I.s harassed the nunciature in other ways too: they shot out a garden light and repeatedly stopped the papal legate, Monsignor Jose Sebastian Laboa, as he came and went. Meanwhile, Washington and the Vatican were trying to find a way out of their diplomatic deadlock. A Vatican statement asserted that Laboa was "doing his best to convince General Noriega to abandon the nunciature on his own," though it added that the legate "cannot force Noriega to leave." The White House for its part declared its "appreciation" of Vatican efforts and reassured the papacy that "there are no fixed deadlines to be met." But the softer words did not change the official positions. The U.S. was demanding that the Vatican hand over the dethroned dictator so that he could be flown to Florida for trial on charges of facilitating or arranging the smuggling of drugs into the U.S. Noriega was not a political refugee, Washington insisted, but a common criminal fleeing prosecution. In a letter to Vatican Secretary of State Agostino Cardinal Casaroli, U.S. Secretary of State James Baker argued that Noriega's alleged involvement in drug dealing and murder violated all moral standards of the Roman Catholic Church and of civil society, and deprived Noriega of any right to asylum. The church, though, has a tradition of giving asylum to Latin American politicians on the run. Among them: Guillermo Endara, the U.S.-installed current President of Panama, who took shelter in the nunciature from Noriega thugs after he had won an election last May that the dictator annulled. One high-ranking Vatican official summarized the thinking: "The right to asylum must be defended, even for Lucifer." Moreover, contended a church statement, Noriega's surrender to the papal legate "helped in a very positive way to put an end to the conflict ((with invading American troops)) and to hasten the time of peace." The implication is that the asylum was in fact serving a moral cause rather than shielding a criminal. Nor did Pope John Paul II appreciate Washington's heavy-handed tactics. Said a source close to the Pontiff: "The more pressure the U.S. puts on ((the Pope and his aides)), the more they will dig in their heels." Referring to the siege by rock music, and pointing to the third floor of the papal palace where the Pope has his offices, an American priest in the Vatican said, "They don't like it one bit. And if ((the Americans)) think a stunt like this is going to get them anywhere, they'd better think again." At week's end the loud serenade was halted. Prospects for a quick compromise seem dim. One alternative might be for the Vatican to hand over Noriega to the new Panamanian government. But neither Endara nor his American protectors like that idea. The dictator faces no criminal charges in Panama. Even if some were to be filed against him now, Endara and the U.S. alike fear Noriega could make trouble from a Panamanian jail cell. "Frankly, I wish he were dead," says Luis Martinz, a top aide to Endara. Failing that, Panama's leaders would turn Noriega over to the U.S. if they got their hands on him. Endara at first declared that there was no legal basis for extraditing Noriega to the U.S., but later found a clause in an obscure 1904 treaty that might permit it. The flip-flop will neither enhance Endara's reputation for independence from his American patrons nor ease the Vatican's opposition to surrendering the general. Letting Noriega go into exile somewhere outside Panama stirs no enthusiasm in the Bush Administration. It would raise an embarrassing question of why the U.S. and Panama had to suffer the death and destruction of the invasion for a result that could possibly have been accomplished peacefully. Several times in the past few years Noriega and the U.S. came close to a deal under which the dictator would have left Panama in return for having the American indictments against him quashed, but the arrangements always fell through. In the aftermath of invasion, said White House spokesman Marlin Fitzwater, the stakes have been raised. To justify the 23 G.I.s killed and 300-odd wounded, the 600 Panamanians dead and $2 billion in economic damages, the U.S. wants more from Noriega than simple exile. Nonetheless, at length and after much screaming, the U.S. may decide to live with a negotiated deal. "All things considered, having him go to a third country where he won't be able to stir up trouble is not such a bad way for this thing to end," said a State Department official. But Washington would insist on some stern and hard-to-enforce conditions: that Noriega have no access to his fortune, estimated at $200 million to $300 million, and that he be kept isolated from press and TV. Those conditions would scarcely help overcome the reluctance of third countries to harbor the dictator. For all the frustration at not being able to bring Noriega to justice, however, Bush hailed the dictator's surrender to the papal nuncio as "a marvelous Christmas present." It promptly put a stop to the fighting that had threatened to drag out into a guerrilla campaign; Noriega loyalists saw no point in battling on after their chief was gone. Last week American troops turned their attention to restoring law-and-order and suppressing looting in Panama City, sometimes in joint patrols with members of the Panama Defense Forces (now renamed Public Forces) with whom they had exchanged gunfire days earlier. Plans to resist the U.S. invasion had called for the P.D.F. to break up into small groups and conduct a guerrilla war. But Noriega from the first was too intent on saving his own skin to give his followers any direction. Shortly before the invasion, U.S. intelligence claims to have sighted Noriega at an officers' club at the international airport. Noriega, however, had an advance intimation of the attack. As an old intelligence operative, he could hardly have missed the cargo planes ferrying troops and equipment into American military bases. He took off for five days of scuttling around Panama City, trailing an entourage of bodyguards and their girlfriends. He stayed briefly with supporters at homes ranging from multibedroom houses to bug-ridden shacks, and supposedly spent part of one night on the 17th floor of the Holiday Inn. On Sunday, the fifth day of the invasion, U.S. troops reportedly burst into the luxurious home of the mother of Noriega's mistress, Vicky Amado, but missed the dictator possibly by only half an hour. The Wall Street Journal stated that the Americans had been told of Noriega's whereabouts by a telephone call from Amado's teenage daughter. Amado's mother denied that U.S. troops raided her house. By Christmas Eve, most of Noriega's entourage had melted away. The dictator was exhausted by the chase and depressed by the defection of one of his top lieutenants, Luis del Cid, who surrendered to U.S. forces in the western province of Chiriqui rather than organize a resistance. Noriega, accompanied by two bodyguards, drove to a Dairy Queen ice-cream store in Paitilla, a commercial neighborhood of Panama City. He dialed the nunciature's number and spoke to Monsignor Laboa. As a non-American diplomat who has been in touch with Laboa paraphrased the conversation, Noriega requested sanctuary. On what grounds? asked Laboa. Look, Noriega replied, at this moment the Pope is beginning to celebrate Christmas in Rome. He will be preaching about the inn where Joseph and Mary were turned away. Can you refuse me? Laboa decided he could not. Shortly after, a nunciature vehicle picked up Noriega at the Dairy Queen. And why had American troops not surrounded the papal embassy as they had the Cuban and Nicaraguan embassies, where it was suspected Noriega might seek asylum? The State Department answered, in effect, that they had simply never thought of doing so. Unable to get at Noriega, the U.S. went after some of his money. The Justice Department asked Britain, France, Luxembourg and Switzerland to freeze accounts in which Noriega was thought to have stashed $10 million or more; France and Switzerland promptly complied. On the basis of documents seized during the invasion, the U.S. felt sure it could prove that the accounts were stuffed with drug money. Two other countries are also likely to be asked to freeze Noriega funds, but part of his wealth may escape. The U.S. insists it is after only drug profits, not the take from prostitution, gambling and other rackets that Noriega controlled. Should the dictator be forced into exile, he would have to leave his $600,000 Panama City mansion--"hung with nearly 50 valuable oil paintings," according to the U.S. State Department--his chalet in Rio Hato and his 60-acre retreat in Chiriqui province. But he might be able to enjoy some other holdings: luxury apartments in Paris and the Dominican Republic, a Boeing 727, three Learjets and yachts named Macho I, Macho II and Macho III. Wherever he finally lands, Noriega seems finished politically. Latin dictators, once deposed and forced to seek asylum, rarely if ever come back. After his flight into the nunciature, Panama began returning to normal. Government offices and businesses that had not been looted reopened. Panamanians hailed the American invaders as liberators, even in El Chorrillo, a burned-out section of Panama City where many were left homeless. Residents of the down-at-the-heels area were quick to assert that the fires were not caused by U.S. military action but were deliberately set by Noriega's paramilitary Dignity Battalions. Eulalia Sanchez paused while burning garbage in a vacant lot in front of her damaged El Chorrillo home to declare, "We are very happy with the gringos. They freed us from the tyranny of Noriega." Similar scenes occurred in such towns as David, Chame, Anton and Rio Hato, and should help the U.S. defend the invasion before world public opinion as something better than imperialistic bullying. One indication: Peru, which suspended joint antidrug actions with the U.S. two weeks ago as a sign of outrage at the invasion, quietly resumed them last week. However, the U.N. General Assembly adopted a resolution that called the Panamanian invasion a "flagrant violation of international law." Another diplomatic contretemps flared up when U.S. troops briefly invaded the residence of Nicaragua's Ambassador to Panama Antenor Ferrey, apparently to search for a cache of weapons. They turned up five rifles, which were later returned with an apology. In retaliation, Nicaragua ordered 20 American diplomats to leave Managua. Triumph in the short run by no means guarantees that the U.S. will be able to bequeath Panama a stable, democratic civilian government. Endara has not even finished naming a full Cabinet, and in other ways he is all too obviously dependent on his American protectors. In fact, Endara suffered from telling, if unintentional, slights. His first television address to the nation was preceded onscreen by a U.S. Defense Department logo. When Americans accepted the surrender of Del Cid, they flew him to the U.S. for trial on drug charges without so much as a by-your-leave to the country's new President. Endara's chances of forming a government that does not need to be propped up by U.S. troops and tanks depend heavily on his getting control of the Panamanian military. But it is the U.S. that is picking the leaders of the new Public Forces. And though the Americans are screening former P.D.F. members against "black, gray and white" lists (black representing the deepest degree of involvement with Noriega), they have nonetheless named a former Noriega henchman to command the new militia. He is Roberto Armijo, who helped Noriega squelch a coup last October and participated in the fight against the U.S. invasion. Some of Endara's lieutenants would prefer to have no army at all. Ricardo Arias Calderon, one of Endara's two Vice Presidents, is known to believe Panama should follow the example of Costa Rica, which does not have a substantial military force; yet Calderon has been prevailed on to say the opposite in recent interviews. The U.S. insists that a professional military is needed to protect the Panama Canal and it must, regrettably, be headed in part by Noriega's followers because hardly any uncorrupted and democratic Panamanian officers with military experience are available. "The danger," says Ambler Moss, a former U.S. Ambassador to Panama, "is that the price of stability is to reestablish the P.D.F. under a different name." In fact, such a development might produce stability of a distinctly unwelcome variety. Many times previously, the interaction of a weak civilian leadership and a strong military has plunged Panama--and other U.S. client states in Central America--into dictatorship. A week after the military triumph against Noriega, the U.S. was discovering again that it is much easier to depose a dictator than to establish a democracy. </body> </article> </text>