God's Favorite (24 page)

“You are talking about destroying the very people in this room—the people who are leading the opposition,” said the head of the Coca-Cola bottling plant. “We'll be the hardest hit—and Tony will just laugh at us. Meanwhile, our employees will suffer. God knows how long we'll be able to pay them.”

“Even General Noriega has to make a payroll,” Ambassador Tarpley pointed out. “We think the best way of causing dissension in the ranks of the PDF is to make it clear that nobody gets paid until the boss steps aside.”

“You're encouraging a military coup, in other words,” Endara said.

“We'd certainly welcome a change in leadership, however it comes about.”

“So we have a coup; what keeps us from getting another Noriega?” Arias Calderón asked. “As long as the military runs the country, does it really matter who runs the military? It's the system that needs to be changed, and the way to change the system is to eliminate the PDF altogether.”

“Of course it matters who runs the military,” said Marta Ungo, the wizened society columnist for Radio Impacto. She was eighty years old and had dyed her hair bright red. She was also the only Panamanian in the room who carried a U.S. visa in her passport, a matter of extraordinary prestige and gravity in this country. “We need a strong man to lead us. You know that Panamanians can never govern themselves.”

This statement led to outbursts from all sides of the room. Ungo was not alone in her sentiments. There were still many Torrijistas who longed for the relatively benign paternalism of those days. They remembered that it was Torrijos who had negotiated the canal treaties, but nostalgia had allowed them to forget that it was Torrijos who created Noriega and used him to turn the country into a criminal police state.

“There is a much better solution than this policy of economic
starvation,” said a small man in a pink polo shirt whom the Nuncio didn't know. “It's obvious—the gringos should just open the gates of Fort Clayton and drive their tanks to the Comandancia. Who could really resist them? Seriously, do you think the PDF would engage them? Not at all. It would be over in minutes. And then you could take Pineapple Face to Miami and put him in jail, where he belongs. We would all be happy about this, wouldn't we? So I think the Americans should just do this favor for everyone, and tomorrow we can start building our country again.”

From the way others were nodding assent, the Nuncio realized the man in the pink shirt was voicing the unspoken wishes of the majority of the people in this room. They dreaded seeing their businesses ruined, their employees out of work. The threat of La Modelo weighed constantly on their minds. Also, many of them frankly held the United States responsible for creating Noriega in the first place and supporting him as he helped the narcos extend their filthy empire. Why shouldn't the Americans take care of the problem they helped to create? Perhaps it was as easy as the man suggested.

As the Nuncio thought about it, however, he saw how easily such a plan could go wrong. Suppose the PDF resisted valiantly—how many casualties was the United States prepared to sacrifice? Even though Noriega was not an elected head of state, everyone recognized him as the Panamanian leader, and the precedent of knocking down a barracks to kidnap the commander in chief was a diplomatic taboo. One could only imagine the fuss this nouveau gunboat imperialism would stir up in other Latin countries. The Japanese and the Europeans would seize the opportunity to negotiate preferential trade treaties at the expense of the Americans. Moreover, Noriega was the prince of chaos. If he could hold off the Americans for a few weeks, he would gain the upper hand. He could use the opportunity to incite people against the Yanqui aggressor, making himself into a nationalist hero rather than a dictatorial drug lord. His Dignity Battalion would own the streets and wage class warfare in the
name of national pride. And looming over the entire fiasco was the fate of the strategically critical but so vulnerable and easily sabotaged Panama Canal—the jugular vein of the Americas. It dawned on the Nuncio that the man in the pink shirt was probably an agent provocateur. Of course, Noriega would have his spies here. It would be naive to think otherwise.

And yet, what could be done about it? Without evidence, the Nuncio couldn't throw the man out, and even if he did, there were likely others in the room who were providing information. In the Nuncio's experience, the best way of dealing with a traitor was to feed him information one would want him to have, whether accurate or not.

“The United States has no interest in intervening militarily,” the ambassador said quickly. “We have to work as best we can within the structure of legitimate authority. And so we must start by acknowledging that the United States continues to recognize Eric Arturo Delvalle as the legally constituted president of Panama—even though your parliament has nominally removed him.”

The ambassador's voice was overridden by loud objections from the fifty-odd Panamanians present. “With all due respect, Jack, we can never support that clown,” said Arias Calderón. “He doesn't even have the nerve to appear in public. He's still hiding in his vacation house at the racetrack.”

“And how can you call him the legal president anyway?” Barría shouted passionately. “This man conspired to overthrow Nicky Barletta. This is a crime—even though Barletta was fraudulently elected in the first place.”

“We need a clean slate,” Naomi Amaya said as the others noisily agreed.

Ambassador Tarpley waved his hands to quell the uproar. “I know that Delvalle is tarnished goods, but whatever action is taken, it must have the appearance of advancing democracy. Believe me, we are looking for a Panamanian solution to this crisis, but until then we have to have someone—anyone—that we can deal with on a legitimate basis. And it must be someone that everyone
in this room agrees upon. Otherwise, the opposition will be divided, and then—forget it. The revolution is over. Noriega will stay in control. So unless you have a sudden change in the power structure—call it a coup or whatever you will—our position is that Delvalle is the lesser evil.”

“He may be less evil, but Delvalle is still worse than Noriega,” said Ungo, pricking the air with her silver cigarette holder. “Delvalle is weak and stupid. We cannot have such a man in control. Who knows how he might be used? Besides, he's unforgivably boring.”

The Nuncio looked around the room. On this point Ungo was victorious.

“Perhaps there is another alternative,” the Nuncio said. “I advance this suggestion merely as an observation, since it is not my place to appear partisan. But were the Civic Crusade to create its own political party, with its own slate of candidates, then you would have the opportunity to endorse the restoration of Mr. Delvalle to the office of president while at the same time indicating your opposition by campaigning against him.”

The ambassador looked at the Nuncio with undisguised admiration. “I think it's a stroke of genius,” he said.

As the meeting was ending, the Nuncio put a hand on the shoulder of the man in the pink shirt. He felt him startle. “I appreciate your comment,” the Nuncio said casually. “But the truth is the gringos will never overthrow Tony. They will buy him out—it's the best solution for everyone. He can't stay in power forever. This way, he gets paid for his trouble, and life goes on. What do you think?”

“Why—I suppose you're right, Monseñor,” the little man said nervously.

“Yes, if we all behave sensibly, no one needs to be harmed,” the Nuncio said, “on either side. Because one day Tony Noriega will be gone, and those who supported him will face the consequences. Better for everyone to find a peaceful solution.”

The Nuncio could tell by the expression in the man's eyes
that the point had been made. He could only hope that the message would be delivered.

O
F COURSE, NOTHING
remains secret in Panama for more than a day,” the Nuncio wrote in his weekly intelligence report to Cardinal Falthauser. These dispatches were collected just before lunch in order to make the afternoon Alitalia flight to Rome. “GENERAL NORIEGA has a source in the U.S. State Department who told him about the freezing of Panamanian assets the very afternoon the decision was made. He managed to get $10 million out of American banks before the door slammed shut. Meanwhile, the Americans have evacuated every liquid asset they can find. Overnight, money has disappeared from Panama. Most of the ready deposits were smuggled out of American-controlled banks disguised as trash. A garbage truck passed through the alleyways and picked up more than $100 million and transported it to Fort Clayton, where it was flown out of the country on cargo planes. Milk and bread have disappeared from the shelves. One sees fires burning in the streets, and gunshots break out with no explanation. Since no one pays taxes now, the government has been reduced to living off the revenue of parking meters and lottery tickets. We are living on canned meat and reading by candlelight.

“The Americans are clearly signaling their support for a coup, and yet, only a few days ago, several of Noriega's most trusted officers, including MAJOR FERNANDO QUEZADA, MAJOR JAIME BENITEZ, and the head of the Panamanian police, COLONEL LEONIDAS MACIAS, attempted to overtake the Comandancia. It seems clear that General Noriega knew about the attempt all along. When the plotters arrived at the headquarters, they walked into a fatal trap. They were easily captured by Noriega loyalists. The loyalists were led by MAJOR MOISES GIROLDI, who single-handedly defeated the coup even though
he was held at gunpoint by the insurgents. One can only regret that he spent his courage on behalf of such an unworthy result.

“Thus the General has spun a web that entrapped his best officers, the very ones the Americans and the majority of Panamanians had hoped would put an end to this wicked regime.

“What concerns me is the possibility—one might say the likelihood—of Noriega's using the office of the papal nuncio as a target for political attack. I know very well of the Vatican's extreme reluctance to be drawn into local disputes. I am mindful, too, that part of my mission as an ambassador is to avoid controversy and to advance the standing of the Church as a political body. I am also bound by my obligation as a priest, however, and the daily increase in cruelty and danger that one sees everywhere in Panama tests the restraint of even the most jaded diplomat. As I am reminded again and again by younger charges in our midst, the Church must stand for certain moral principles. I know you find this paradoxical coming from me, Hans, as I have always been the most pragmatic of priests. But should we consider taking a stand? Should the Church issue a statement condemning General Noriega's actions and calling upon him to step down from power before more damage is done to this enchanted jungledom?

“I await your urgent reply . . .”

D
O YOU THINK
men would be different if they were not raised by women?” Tony asked. It was getting dark outside and twilight shadows crept across the bedroom.

“Have you had another fight with Felicidad?” César asked as he returned carrying a tray of cheeses and a bottle of Fonset-Lacour.

“Worse.”

“Carmen? Really? Well, honestly, I'm not surprised.” César set the snack tray on the bedside table.

“They can program us because they are our mothers and they have all the control over our lives. Something they do, you know; it's like hypnosis. We're under their spell. This is despite the fact that they behave irrationally and often have strange odors.”

“Men aren't so perfect, either.”

“She complains that I won't marry her, then she threatens to leave me.”

“I think she has a right to expect commitment on your part, one way or the other. She's been very loyal, and look what you've put her through.”

Tony took a slice of cheese from the tray and chewed it contemplatively. “In an ideal world, of course, I would marry her. She is the only woman I love. But I have made a commitment already—I'm a married man.”

“How do I fit into that?” César asked as he poured them each a glass of wine.

“This is not exactly infidelity,” said Tony. “It's a completely different relationship.”

César laughed. “You have the morals of a rubber ball. Why do you even bother to justify yourself? You do what you want anyway. You used to tell me that we should rid ourselves of all morality.”

“I still believe it is the responsibility of the man in power to act in his self-interest and not out of some idealistic notion of right and wrong. The ruler can never know what is absolutely right. He can only know what he wants. History is filled with examples of the harmfulness of moral actions.”

“I'm not talking about matters of state, Tony. I'm talking about getting a divorce and making an honest woman out of Carmen.”

“The people would not stand for it. I suppose it is a sacrifice on my part, an act of penance, perhaps. The people expect their leader to behave loyally to his wife in public, no matter what. It's unreasonable, but there it is.”

“Shit, Tony, if you're going to do penance, try giving something up for the Colombians. These guys live by a code, you know. You hurt them, they kill you. Maybe you can get rid of Escobar and the Ochoas, but they have cousins waiting in line. You'll never get another peaceful night's sleep. I'm telling you as a friend. You can't double-cross people like that, Tony. You go too far.”

Tony thought about that for a moment. “You know, all my life people have been saying this to me, that I go too far. But I keep going and going. And I never get to this place, ‘too far.' Tell me, where is it? Can we see it from here?” He laughed and gulped down another cheese cracker.

“Okay, do what you want,” said César. “But listen to me, Tony. God might forgive you. But I don't think you can ask that of the Colombians.”