The guard slung his weapon over his shoulder and regarded the limo with wonder. The window lowered.
“Take this to your boss,” said the man inside the cool puddle of gloom. The guard saluted and accepted a package the size of a shoe box wrapped in green foil.
FRANKLY, ROBERTO, you have never struck me as a military man. It is not your special gift, in my opinion.”
Roberto Díaz Herrera shifted uncomfortably in the stiff cane-back chair he had been offered in Tony’s game room. It was Tony’s aerie in the treetops, which could be reached only by way of a spiral staircase from his second-floor library. Through the windows one could see the city and the Gulf of Panama and the verdant hills of the Canal Zone. “Tony, I do not have to defend my military record—it speaks for itself,” Roberto said indignantly, ignoring the chuckle of Ari Nachman, an Israeli intelligence agent and arms merchant, who was sorting through Tony’s record collection. In the background, the Dallas Cowboys were playing the Pittsburgh Steelers on a fuzzy giant-screen TV.
“Haven’t you ever imagined another career for yourself?” Tony asked as he poured a whiskey for himself at the bar beside the faro table. “It would solve a lot of your problems. Something that might take you abroad?”
“Are you telling me to get out of the country?” Roberto said incredulously. “What have I done wrong? Everything you have asked of me I have done! Every day, I am only trying to prove my loyalty to you!”
“My God, Tony, how can you listen to this shit?” Nachman interjected. “Ray Conniff, Vikki Carr—the Osmonds?”
“I only want to help you, Roberto,” Tony said.
“What, exactly, is my problem?”
“The Spadafora business,” said Tony. “Many people suggest that you are responsible.”
“Me! Tony, we agreed that Nicky was responsible! He resigned! Now you say I am also responsible? How can that be?”
“People are saying it was a conspiracy.”
“Tony, we are your friends! Even Nicky, I count him as well. Why do you seek to punish the people who have stood by you, who have worked for you—my God! You would turn your back even on me?”
“You know, Roberto, my balls are my friends, too. But when I run, they bump into each other.”
From the stereo, the voices of Donny and Marie Osmond sang “Make the World Go Away.” Nachman began dancing slowly around the room with a martini in his hand.
“Obviously, I need to take actions that will signal my intention to resolve this terrible matter,” Tony continued. “I am prepared to be merciful, but don’t test me, Roberto.”
The guard stuck his head through the opening where the spiral staircase arose. Tony looked at him sharply.
“A man brought this for you, General,” he said as he set the box on Tony’s desk. “A Colombian.”
Tony nodded, then looked expectantly at Roberto.
“This won’t work, Tony,” said Roberto. “I am not Nicky Barletta. I won’t just go quietly.”
“I understand your needs, Roberto. I am only saying some changes will have to be made—at very high levels. The situation demands it.”
“You can make all the changes you want, you can stab your friends in the back—but it is not my name that people in the streets are chanting.”
“The people in the streets,” said Tony dismissively, “are only having fun. This waving of handkerchiefs—do you think it troubles me? It’s amusing, really. They are only teasing me. But even so, they are saying in all seriousness that actions must be taken. And I hear them, Roberto. I am responding to their plea.”
Roberto’s jaw clenched and bulged. “I want to stay in government service,” he declared defiantly.
“Mmm-hmm. In that case, perhaps a consular post.”
“Ambassador rank,” said Roberto. “If you want to blacken my reputation, I insist on this.”
Tony’s stomach grumbled, an incipient ulcer, no doubt. “You ask for too much, Roberto. Be practical.”
“I am second in command of the Panama Defense Forces! I am your number two! How can you say anything is too grand for me?”
“He has a point, Tony,” the dancing Nachman observed. “You need to consider the precedent.”
Tony stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said, “from the goodness of my heart, I can find a place for you. I was thinking of the Dominican Republic, our Caribbean trading partner and loyal ally . . .”
“Japan,” Roberto said abruptly.
“Japan!”
“Look, Tony, you ask me to be practical. How can an ambassador make any money in the Dominican?”
“He’s right, Tony,” said Nachman. “They can’t even afford decent automatic weapons.”
“But Japan is out of the question,” said Tony. “I’ve promised the post to Carmen’s cousin, an expert on the Japanese.”
“He’s a judo instructor!” Roberto said. “This hardly qualifies him as an expert.”
“If I try to satisfy everyone, then no one will get what he wants.”
Roberto turned sulky. “I’m not playing games, Tony. Don’t think this will come cheap.”
“What about the Vatican? You are still a Catholic, I believe. And life in Rome cannot be so bad,” Tony added, winking for emphasis.
Roberto’s eyebrows knitted in concentration as he figured the Roman cost of living into the probable financial benefits. “Well, it’s not Japan,” he said slowly, “but it’s not out of the question. You could make up the difference in the form of a bonus.”
“A bonus!” Tony said furiously. “You’ve made millions already! Look at the mansion you live in—finer than Casa Noriega by far! Wouldn’t you say I’ve been generous to you? Do you really need more?”
Roberto sat stonily, not responding.
“All right, all right,” said Tony, “a million dollars. Take it! Take it, take the Vatican, then you disappear.”
“A million dollars?” said Roberto. “You expect me to sell my reputation for a million dollars? A million dollars to take the blame for Hugo’s death? Tony, you insult me. Ten times a million and we will talk. But don’t ask me to bargain with you. You know what it is worth. Think about it carefully.”
When Roberto had gone, Nachman asked, “So what are you going to do with him?”
“I’m going to nail his tongue to the gate of the Comandancia! He should be an example to any whore’s son who tries to blackmail me.”
“Friends can be a problem,” Nachman agreed.
“The son of a bitch made millions selling visas to Cubans, and now he tries to rob me.”
“He should be on his knees to you,” said Nachman. “But still, you’ve got to get this Hugo thing behind you. If you can pin it on Roberto and hustle him out of the country, it’s worth the cost.”
“I suppose I really could let him go to the Vatican.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Tony. It’s an option.”
“But then he would try to take advantage. He would feel strong. If I were in his shoes, I would be the same way. He would think he controlled me. Inevitably, he would ask for more favors.”
“Still, he would be very far away.”
Tony stared moodily at the football game and then abruptly clicked it off. Nachman got the message and found a reason to leave. “Just don’t let it fester,” he advised on his way out. “You gotta act, Tony. Declare yourself, one way or the other. Maybe send a few guys to a firing squad. Get it over with. Let the healing begin.”
Now that he was alone, Tony went to the window and stared at the sea. His whole world lay before him—the city, the Comandancia, the Presidential Palace, the jungle, and the mountains, everything and everyone so familiar to him, every street corner, every nuance of conversation, every turn in the weather. It was his, his world, it belonged to him as it belonged to no one else. He had fought for it. He had the balls to take it. He began with nothing and now he had it all.
He was feeling his age, for once in his life. He was fifty-four years old and h
e had just started dyeing his hair, which was now so black it shone in the dark. A man in his position couldn’t afford to display the slightest sign of weakness. Even gray hair was a signal to his enemies that he wouldn’t be around forever. But he couldn’t fool himself—the pressure was mounting, the fun was gone. He couldn’t hold on indefinitely.
Roberto was obviously bluffing. Well, he had some balls of his own; Tony had to give him credit for that. Maybe he was a little crazy as well, which was useful in this line of work. Tony had been cultivating his own craziness for years. People dealt with you more respectfully if they thought you were a bit psycho.
Tony remembered the foil carton sitting on his desk, which cheered him. There was no card, he noticed, and if he hadn’t known that the box had already been tested for explosives, he might have been more cautious about opening it. Inside was a highly lacquered box—a humidor, he supposed with a jolt of disgust. He thought the Colombians knew him better than that. He detested smoking, especially cigar smoking. One of the hazards of his job was a considerable amount of exposure to secondhand smoke from drug dealers and fellow dictators. The Colombians were particularly bad.
The box was beautiful handiwork. Tony opened it, expecting to find the customary Havanas. Instead, there was a carved wooden skeleton wearing the uniform of a PDF general.
Tony sat down. He felt a little light-headed. The meaning of the gift was obvious. It was war. They were waging voodoo war on him, the fucking Colombians, with the squadron of Santería priests they kept on staff.
He gingerly lifted the skeleton doll aside and set it on his desk. He wasn’t certain how to deal with the ghoulish object. Perhaps he should burn it immediately to keep it from working its malignant influence. On the other hand, it was him, after all, or a version of him, a spiritual representation. Some other voice in his head warned him not to be so hasty.
Under the skeleton there was a videotape. Inscribed on the side of the tape was a single handwritten word: Hello.
Tony went to the bathroom. He was sweating profusely and he felt like passing out. He knelt on the floor facing the toilet bowl, but nothing happened. Downstairs he could hear Felicidad bossing the maid around and the girls fighting over their wardrobes. Life was blithely going on without him.
He didn’t want to know what was on the tape, but he also had to know. He mentally rehearsed putting the tape in his VCR and watching whatever dreadful information was on it. Curiosity was also tugging at him. That Hello had not sounded threatening. It could be a joke or a simple greeting from friends.
Fortified by these thoughts, Tony returned to the room, placed the tape in his machine, and stepped away from the television set. Snow and static. He backed into his BarcaLounger and took a long swallow of Old Parr. An image swam onto the screen—it was Tony, standing in his aviary, stroking one of his parrots, then turning to wave to someone in the house. The camera was dead still—a fixed surveillance post, Tony realized with his professional eye, probably attached to the telephone pole across the street. It was a little galling to think that, with all his security, they could get so close to him.
The next clip on the video showed Felicidad in her bra in a department-store changing room—an overhead shot, the camera buried in the light fixture. She was trying on clothes. Now she took a small pair of scissors out of her purse and began very deliberately to cut the buttons off a blouse. Tony regarded her shoplifting as an amusing twist of character—Fela was, after all, the most powerful woman in Panama—but it was upsetting to see it documented. This was the sort of thing that could be easily reproduced and spread around the country like video samizdat. There were more pictures of Tony in the Comandancia, Fela at a garden party, the children in school, his oldest daughter, Sandra, walking on the seawall with her boyfriend—apparently they had surveillance everywhere. Now there was a picture of a man watching television. Tony realized with appalled fascination that he was watching himself—here! In this very room! A clip of Tony masturbating to a Czechoslovakian porno flick!
That was yesterday.
Tony turned and looked at his bookshelf. The camera must be there. In his sanctuary. Spying on every private thing.
He now heard the tiniest sound, like a long exhalation, but it was not his breath he was hearing. He moved a step closer to the sound and stood on tiptoe. The Panama Lions Club 1981 Man of the Year Award, a bronze lion on a wooden plaque, was humming. Tony looked directly into the lion’s open mouth and listened to the microscopic roar.
“You think you can fuck with Tony Noriega?” he screamed into the lion’s mouth. “You think you got the balls?” He ripped the award off the wall. Wires and circuitry spilled out of the back as Tony smashed it across his desk. “Fucking mob! So tough—but I got a fucking army! I got my own voodoo! We’ll see who has the balls around here!”
But then he collapsed into his recliner and began to tremble. He put his head between his knees to keep from fainting. César was right, he realized when he got his wits back. These people were crazy. They would kill him without even thinking about the repercussions. He had counted on them being rational, but they were psychopaths! Moreover, they knew his every move.
There were only two alternatives with the Colombians, war or peace, and in either case it was going to cost a fortune. He knew in his heart that it wouldn’t be over until blood was on the ground. His—or whose?
IN THE NUNCIO’S experience, priests were divided into three personality types: ecstatics, penitents, and bureaucrats. He knew himself to be firmly in the third camp. His calling, if one could dignify it by such a term, was to be a modest part of the grand, ancient hierarchy of the oldest bureaucracy in the world. He was a worker bee in the Roman hive, and by nature he nursed a certain distrust of holy men. In his opinion, too much praying, too much love of the hidden mysteries, too much longing for transcendence, were evidence of an unhealthy personality. There had never been a single moment in the Nuncio’s life when he had been blinded by the light of faith. There was nothing ecstatic in his nature. Nor had he a strong inclination toward service. He was undistracted by the tricks of belief or by the need to apologize for his life by serving the poor. He was aware that his motives for choosing the priesthood were unusual, but his devotion to office administration, combined with his interest in intelligence, perfectly suited him for the clerical life. Still, when he thought about his peers, he often wondered if he was inadequately guilty for his calling. A little more guilt would make the frustrations of the job easier to swallow.
Most priests he had known were physically bland. Group photos tended to be of roundish, lumpy men wearing cheap eyeglasses and sporting rudimentary haircuts. Some of them were distinguished in manner, but rarely were they the sort that caught one’s gaze. That left open, in the Nuncio’s mind, the question of exactly what force had drawn Father Jorge out of the normal sexualized world. Presumably, Jorge was the penitent type. The Nuncio had never heard the young man express thoughts of a mystical nature, and although he served perfectly well as a secretary, he had no flair for minutiae. Nor did he have the brutal gaming instincts of a bureaucratic insider. He was still a little naive and politically uninformed, qualities that the Nuncio believed could be remedied with education. This was to take nothing away from Father Jorge’s admirable abilities as a spy.
No, whatever psychological chemistry was operating in Father Jorge’s brain, it was obvious that guilt was heavily in the mix. The Nuncio did not believe that his secretary had some unconfessed sin in his past that was so great that it had pushed him into the priesthood. Sin, in the Nuncio’s opinion, rarely worked like that. Perhaps Jorge was vulnerable to life’s disparities in a way that most of us are not. His sensitive nature, combined with the legacy of being orphaned and raised by nuns, explained the whole matter so convincingly that the Nuncio only occasionally wondered about it.
And yet he found himself pondering these questions once again as Manuelito drove him toward Amador, where he was meeting Jorge for dinner. They had plan
ned to ride out together, but the young man had to attend to some pressing business at Our Lady of Fatima and promised to arrive by bus. The necessities of that parish were taking up most of Father Jorge’s time, leaving the Nuncio shorthanded and a little jealous, even though he had personally arranged it. The whole scene of the simple parish priest working with the poor made him feel inadequate and nonplussed.
But as soon as he passed through the gates of Fort Clayton and entered the Canal Zone, the Nuncio perceptibly relaxed. Although he hated giving in to the calculated ambience of the place, which reminded him of what he supposed an American theme park must be like, he had to admit that this obsession with order, sanitation, and niceness had a calming effect. Here the door closed on poverty and hopelessness. There was an utter absence of litter, or for that matter, honking. No blaring radios, no smoke-spewing buses. No beggars or prostitutes. Here, with the majestic Panama Canal Administration Building set like a Greek temple on a hilltop, ablaze in the sunset, and a McDonald’s on the perfect little nonchaotic American street below, and American high schoolers walking casually on the spotless sidewalks like actors on a movie set, schoolbooks clasped to their chests, the contrast with the city outside the gates seemed pointed and almost mean.
Past the McDonald’s was a charming train station where passengers could wait for a train that no longer ran. The railroad was the first part of the zone to be turned over to the Panamanians under the Carter-Torrijos treaties. For more than a century trains had traversed the country several times a day, like clockwork, until Panamanians assumed control. Now weeds grew through the tracks, and the locomotives rusted in place. By the year 2000 the canal itself would be theirs, a prospect that filled most Panamanians with dread. The Nuncio had never met a people so cynical about their capacity for self-government (and this included an intimate acquaintance with the Italians).
Most of the military bases in the zone still belonged to the Americans. The Nuncio could never understand why there had to be so many of them—thirteen altogether. Those he could remember were Fort Clayton, Fort Gulick, Howard Air Force Base, Rodman Naval Station, and until the treaty, Fort Amador. Together they formed the U.S. Southern Command—or SOUTHCOM, one of those conglomerated military terms that the Nuncio abominated. SOUTHCOM sprawled across Quarry Heights, the volcanic rise where the officers lived. The highest point of Quarry Heights was Ancón Hill, an abrupt little peak that loomed over Chorrillo and the old city. An immense Panamanian flag flew from the mast on its crest, the surface of the hill having reverted to national control. The Americans, however, still operated a vast cave inside Ancón known as the Tunnel. Here the world’s most sensitive listening devices monitored conversations all over Central America. When the Nuncio first arrived in Panama, he had had no idea of the sophistication of the equipment or the prurient interest the Americans had in hearing what everybody had to say. Now he simply assumed that they heard everything, the way God is supposed to hear prayers.
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