God's Favorite (25 page)

F
ATHER
J
ORGE
set his crutches outside the confessional and eased himself onto the unforgiving bench. A line of schoolgirls in white cotton blouses and green skirts awaited him with the most ingenious sins to confess, some of which seemed to have been invented for the sole purpose of confessing to the now notorious priest. His spell in La Modelo had made him into a hero of the resistance. People were beginning to point to him and look at him with a deference that was altogether unfamiliar. The irony was unbearable.

The last of the schoolgirls confessed to eating an entire chocolate flan by herself, believing she had committed the sin of gluttony. She was a slender thing, and Father Jorge tried to reassure her, but she would not be satisfied until he had dosed her with a Hail Mary and urged moderation in the future. When she had gone, Father Jorge remained in the box, reading
La Prensa.
The paper said that because some of the military officers in the failed coup had been to school in the United States, General Noriega was holding the Americans responsible—this despite the fact that the Americans had so conspicuously failed to aid the rebels.

“May we talk, Father?”

The raspy voice on the other side of the screen belonged to the intelligence officer who had been here before. “Do you want to make a confession?” the priest asked.

“Yes, but I'm not certain of my sin,” the soldier said. “I've done something very disturbing. I thought I was saving lives. Now I don't know what I've done, or why.”

“What is it that you've done?”

“I'm the one who stopped the coup attempt.”

Father Jorge realized that he was talking to Major Giroldi, Noriega's savior.

“I know what you're thinking, Father, but I was not a part of any grand scheme to entrap the plotters, like people say. If there was a trap, I didn't know about it.” The soldier said that he had been awakened by an AK-47 in his ear. He thought he was going to be killed, and he was filled with shame for the life he had led and with fear, knowing that he was going to have to face God. “Major Benitez told me to surrender my men. I insisted on seeing them face-to-face. I swear, until I walked to the parade ground and stood in front of the troops, I wasn't certain what I might do.” His loyal men stood before him, and Benitez held his gun on him, prepared to shoot. The officer was torn between wanting not to disappoint his troops and fearing that he would be killed.

“The odd thing is that if Benitez had only awakened me that morning and asked me to join him, rather than threatening to kill me, I would gladly have gone over to the rebels. They were good men—Quezada especially. But I never thought he would lead a rebellion. We've known each other forever. I only wish he had come to me himself and asked for my help. But he put his trust in other men, and some of them betrayed him.”

The garrison had been understaffed that morning, Giroldi remembered—scarcely two hundred men, all under his command. “I've gone over this in my mind a million times now. Tony is popular with the crooks at the top, but among the men he is an embarrassment. Most of the other divisions would have supported a quick, decisive action. I could see in the eyes of my troops that they were only waiting for me to declare myself, and I was sure they would support me, whatever I said.”

Father Jorge sat silently. He had not known how close the coup had come to succeeding. He felt the loss even more.

“The words came out of my mouth, ‘Seize him!' ” Giroldi continued. “I surprised even myself. In a single moment Benitez was overcome and surrendered his weapon. I don't know why he
didn't kill me. He said, ‘You fool!' and I knew he was right, instantly I knew this. And yet the alternative might have been very bloody if General Noriega had been able to rally any of the other divisions. The situation was unpredictable. I thought that, this way, I would be the only one to die.”

“What did you do then?”

“There is a machine gun on the wall of the Comandancia. I ran up and fired a burst into the air. These were the only shots of the coup, and they were mine. I only did it to awaken the remaining troops. They all came running to the parade ground, and we gathered the conspirators and locked them in the barbershop.”

“Where was the General?”

“I don't know where he was during the attempt. He arrived about an hour later, after everything was secure. He took me into his office and embraced me. Then we went out on the balcony and watched the troops assemble. The General asked for the conspirators to be brought out. They had already been stripped and beaten, and now they were naked and wrapped in American flags. It was pathetic, really. They were such good men.

“The General saluted me in front of everyone and called me a hero. I heard the men cheering, but I saw Quezada looking at me as I stood next to the General. It was as if he was saying that General Noriega is my responsibility now. I had stolen the opportunity for change. Now anything that happens is on my head. I cannot escape this thought.

“And then the troops began to beat the conspirators with their rifle butts until the blood ran in the gutters. You could see nothing but blood everywhere. I thought I was going to vomit in disgust. And I knew it was my responsibility. Panama will be destroyed because I surrendered to the vanity of heroism. When the General put his arm around me and kissed me, it was like being anointed by the devil. And he said, ‘I want you always at my side.' ”

Father Jorge was silent for a moment, trying to digest the officer's
story. Finally he asked, “What do you want of me? Are you asking for forgiveness?”

“I honestly don't know, Father. What I did was a terrible mistake, but is it a sin?”

“No, I cannot find sinfulness in your actions. Whatever you did was done from good motives, no matter what the outcome. For whatever reason, God has chosen to spare you. Perhaps he has a higher use for you.”

O
F COURSE
, this is purely speculative at this point, General, but I believe we can find you sanctuary in Madrid, with a satisfactory stipend that should take care of your material needs.” Mark Ortega, the Panamanian lobbyist from Nocera, Lemann & Fallows, produced a handsome brochure that detailed the payout plan, along with real-estate prices and the menus of some of the finest restaurants in the Spanish capital city. He held it upside down so Tony could read it. Tony was hanging from a bar by his Gravity Boots, a pair of shoes with hooks attached. With his arms crossed, he looked like a roosting bat.

“Madrid?” The disappointment in Tony's voice was evident.

“Madrid!” said Mark. “Latin country! Very chic! Famous nightlife! Just look—” He began flipping through the brochure, searching for evidence of Spanish good times.

“Madrid nightlife,” Tony said dismally.

Mark tossed the brochure into the trash. “Okay, you don't like Madrid. Where do you want to go? You gotta give me some guidance. Nightlife—how about Monte Carlo?”

Tony shook his head. “The Shah, he tried to get into Monte Carlo. He had to come here.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I did the U.S. a big favor by taking him, believe me. The whole world turned its back on this man, but we welcomed him. We gave him first-class medical treatment. We put him up in a
mansion on Contadora Island. All this we did for our American friends.”

“And the boys at State appreciate it. They realize it's payback time. But you gotta help us, General,” Mark said, cocking his head as he tried to get a fix on the General's inverted features. “Give us some guidelines. We can work with State. But you have to let us know where in the world you want to go.”

Tony stared at the office furniture above his head. It was good, occasionally, to view the world from a fresh perspective. “I sure wanted to fuck his wife,” he said after a moment.

“Excuse me?”

“The Shah. His wife. I've never been to Scotland.”

“You want asylum in Scotland?”

“She used to water-ski topless. Really, for a woman of her age, she was magnificent. I've still got some pictures.”

“Scotland,” said Mark. “You'll have to remind me what the attraction is.”

“People go fishing in suits there.”

“And that sounds like fun to you?” Mark asked helplessly.

“Then tea and crumpets in the drawing room.”

“I'll certainly check into it, General, although I gotta say, Scottish nightlife . . .”

Tony smiled, then burst into song.
“I love Paris in the springtime. I love Paris in the fall.”
He had a surprisingly melodious tenor singing voice.

“Okay. Scotland and Paris.” Mark assembled his remaining documents and stuffed them in his briefcase. “It's a start, at least.”

T
HE
N
UNCIO RECEIVED
his weekly diplomatic pouch from the courier and immediately retired to the library. He took the precaution of locking the door, although it was wholly unnecessary. Not one of the dozen refugees who were chattering in the hallway expressed any interest in Vatican politics, and he could tell
by the heft of the pouch that there was no great bundle of cash inside to cover expenses. But prudence was built into his nature; prudence was the mirrored half of the scheming side of his personality. He instinctively protected himself against people like himself.

He broke the seal and pulled out the manila envelope inside. There were the usual receipts for the supplies he had ordered, a compendium of policy statements and bulletins, and the cherished
Rapporto di Informazione Riservata presso la Santa Sede,
a gossipy monthly newsletter that kept the diplomatic corps up-to-date on the fortunes of the Church hierarchy. It was by far the most secret document normally transmitted via diplomatic mail. This month featured a report handicapping the prospects for the successor to Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger—the Nuncio's nemesis—in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. He placed the report in his drawer for a quiet moment later in the afternoon, feeling a naughty anticipatory thrill.

The final item was a response from Cardinal Falthauser. It was under a separate seal. The Nuncio opened the letter and held it near the reading lamp, where he could read the narrowly spaced text.

Secretariat of State

Vatican City

March 28, 1988

My Dear Monsignor Morette:

As you know very well, one of your principal duties as Saint Paul's ambassador is to keep the Church officially uninvolved with local disputes. The Holy See is dismayed by the evident use of the nunciature as a plotting ground for rebellion. The laws of sanctuary are clear. We do not dispute the obligation to provide for the safety of citizens seeking political refuge. But we are amply persuaded that your role has leapt beyond what we can, in good conscience, endorse. We rather believe that you have encouraged the use of the Church's facilities to spread sedition,
and in this you have very nearly approached our official rebuke.

It is not the nuncio's task to meddle in the affairs of the country to which he is posted. We urge that you keep this injunction in mind and conduct your behavior accordingly. This warning extends to your staff as well, whose actions reflect upon the Church as much as your own. We make special reference to Father Jorge Ugarte, your own personal secretary, whose active political involvement cannot have escaped your notice.

As for your ceaseless requests for financial succor, they are emphatically denied. While your situation is keenly appreciated, it is believed that any further assistance from the Holy See would only aggravate the situation that now attends the papal nunciature in Panama. Perhaps the natural limitation of resources will have the beneficial effect of encouraging your guests to seek refuge elsewhere.

In the meantime, we remind you that we are in the Lenten season, a time of penance and prayerful introspection . . .

The Nuncio couldn't read the final lines, his hands were shaking so. He set the letter on the leather tabletop and took a deep breath. His career appeared to be headed for a shocking conclusion. He had seen it happen before—priests who had lost favor got pushed to the margins, humiliated before their peers. At this rate he would end up with some squalid posting in Mauritania or Chad. Not that he was above serving in any capacity—that was his calling as a priest, to serve. But still!

There was another troubling nuance in Cardinal Falthauser's reprimand. Never in any of the Nuncio's official communiqués had he mentioned Father Jorge's political activities; indeed, he had carefully avoided any discussion of his secretary's imprisonment or the injuries he had sustained in the assault on Roberto's mansion. Now it was dismayingly clear to him that the Vatican had another source. He felt sick with surprise and embarrassment. Until now the Nuncio had persuaded himself that he was
so far outside the Roman orbit that he was lost from view. The Vatican had given him little reason to believe otherwise. The larger world was full of startling and pressing developments. Communism was collapsing. Africa was starving. Asia was rising. Islam was advancing. God was forgotten in Europe. The Americans were liberalizing theology at the same time that they were Reaganizing politics. The Church had interests to defend everywhere. Its resources were stretched to the vanishing point. And yet, with all the hubbub of international turmoil, Cardinal Falthauser had found time to cultivate spies inside the Panamanian nunciature.

But who? Who was Falthauser's spy? The Nuncio had personally hired most of the staff, with the exception of the elderly driver, Manuelito, who had been here since Pope John XXIII, and Sister Sarita. She, of course, knew everything. Moreover, he doted on her. The very thought that she might be filing intelligence reports gave the Nuncio a chill.

As he was brooding about this, he became aware of the scurrying sounds of guests rushing up to their rooms. Doors closed, one after another. An instant later there was a knock on his door. Sister Sarita entered with what now seemed like an unusually complicated expression on her face.