“I can help you, Tony, but you have to be careful. Lately, you’ve been up to a lot of tricks. You’re going to have to simplify, my friend. These enemies, they gain power as they multiply. Spiritual geometry. It works against you.”
“I know,” Tony said miserably.
“Look, don’t be so worried. We’ll put you on a special program, an enemy-reduction plan. We’ll keep on casting the usual spells, but in the meantime I want you to try to imagine what you personally can do to make your enemies into your friends.”
“But Escobar and Helms, they are crazy people.”
“I’m not saying you can reason with them. But perhaps there is some thoughtful gift you can give them. Something personal. Something that says, ‘I hear you and I understand.’ ”
“Money,” said Tony. “Money says that.”
“If I were in your place, I would get someone to speak for me. An intermediary who will talk to the fat Colombian. I think this is your main piece of work right now, Tony. Because really, this guy has a lot of juice. And oh, man, he’s very fucking angry.”
Tony grimaced and rubbed his temples.
“The headache again?” Gilbert asked.
“Make me a potion, Gilbert. It’s killing me.”
“Tony, you overdo the potions.”
“Why does everyone want me to suffer? I’m hurting and I need treatment.”
“You should listen to me. It’s not a gin and tonic, you know.”
“Gilbert . . .” Tony said, the pleading now apparent.
Gilbert reached over victoriously and patted Tony’s hand. “I’ll make you a special. You’ll feel like a king.”
Tony sighed and closed his eyes. Total defeat. But he also felt relieved. Gilbert was powerful. Gilbert was wise. His advice was sound: offer a gift. Tomorrow morning, Tony decided, he would release the twenty-six Colombians who had been captured in the DEA raid in Darién. That should appease Escobar. Okay, the Americans would be upset, but some jurisdictional excuse could be offered. They were Colombians, after all. Tony could release them and tell Colombia to extradite them, which would never happen. In the meantime, the men would disappear. In a few weeks, they’d be forgotten about entirely.
“Where do you keep the powdered rooster toenails?” Gilbert asked as he thumbed through the glass vials in Tony’s cabinet.
“In the left-hand drawer. All the ingredients are alphabetized.”
“You are so organized,” Gilbert said admiringly. “That’s how you got where you are, I guess.”
IT WAS A RARE occasion when the Nuncio was invited to dine at the Union Club. For generations the Union Club was where the white elite conspired to run their country over cocktails and caviar. When Torrijos seized power, one of his first actions was to appropriate the original facility and turn it into an officers club. The power that the old members once exercised was considerably reduced, but eventually they built themselves another Union Club, which was even more elegant, with wide verandas and lovely dining rooms with porthole windows overlooking the bay. In this manner they reminded themselves that although they no longer ran the country, they still owned it. And that was something.
The mood among the members, however, had soured even in the several months since the Nuncio had last dined among them. Torrijos had hurt their pride, perhaps, but Noriega was ruining their business. He and his PDF mafia were creating one new enterprise after another. Money was flooding into Panama, but it was dirty money; and even worse—it was filling the pockets of Noriega and his henchmen and no one else. Legitimate businesses had little chance to compete against the smugglers and black marketeers and money launderers whose skyscrapers were rising along the waterfront. Everyone in the club had learned that they had to pay protection money if they hoped to continue to operate. Most ominously, the Americans were turning over the prize properties in the zone to the Panamanians, bit by precious bit, and Tony’s gang was getting all of it—not even scraps were left for the deserving members of the Union Club.
The Nuncio was also surprised by the identity of his host for this luncheon—Roberto Díaz Herrera. They hated Roberto here. In the minds of the members, Roberto was a traitor to his class. True, he was a first cousin of Torrijos and therefore he might be forgiven for making a career in the military, where his family connection would do him the most good. But Roberto was also white. He was one of them. They had expected that after Torrijos was buried under his monument to himself in Fort Amador, Roberto would return to the fold and accept his proper place in Panamanian society. Instead, he continued his military career, serving the odious Noriega, the thief of their birthright. So Roberto’s uniformed appearance at the club was bound to cause a stir, especially because he was now in disgrace and he brought his troubles with him like a disease. Indeed, the Nuncio wondered if Roberto had invited him to act as a social bodyguard. Who would attack a man who was dining with a priest? He could already anticipate the gossip columns in La Prensa.
“They think I’m spying on them, you know,” Roberto said as he unfolded his linen napkin—the size of a bath towel—and laid it across his lap. “And you know what? They’re right. If you could see the reports I get—hah! It makes me wonder why I would want to be a member of such a club.”
“Yes, I was wondering that as well,” the Nuncio replied.
“Do you see the man over my right shoulder?” asked Roberto. “Serafín Mitrotti? You know him? He has become the leader of the opposition. They call themselves the Committee for the Redemption of Moral Values. Now they all go around dressed in white, as if they are so pure. But I think it’s because they are all so proud of being white.”
So—Noriega’s men knew all about it, just as the Nuncio feared. He discreetly glanced at Mitrotti, whom he knew casually at the Rotary Club. Mitrotti gave him a quizzical look and went back to his lamb chop. If Roberto knows about Mitrotti, the Nuncio realized, he must know about Father Jorge as well. All of us.
The waiter appeared, and the Nuncio ordered a roulade of veal, dressed with an anchovy mayonnaise, an arugula salad, and a glass of Orvieto.
“I’ll have the fruit bowl and a bottle of still water,” said Roberto.
“That’s all?” the Nuncio exclaimed. “I should reorder. I didn’t realize you were just snacking.”
“No, no—this is all I eat now, fruit, fruit, more fruit. Occasionally, some tofu.” Certainly Roberto appeared very thin, almost haggard.
“Is this some special diet, Roberto? Because frankly you look like you should be gaining weight, not losing it. Are you in good health?”
“Never better. I’m in top shape—not only physically, but spiritually.”
“Are you saying that eating fruit has spiritual consequences?”
“Absolutely! Fruit is full of positive energy.” Roberto fixed the Nuncio with a discomfitingly intense stare. “I’m sharing this information with you because I know you interest yourself in all sorts of religious matters.”
“I like fruit well enough, but I have never thought of it as having this extra dimension,” the Nuncio said. “Besides, at my age, it loosens the bowels.”
Roberto continued his intense and quizzical gaze. “Surely you notice something different about me?” he finally demanded.
“Besides the fact that you are so gaunt? I can’t say that anything jumps out at me. Have you changed your hair?”
Roberto looked crestfallen. “Many people say they notice immediately,” he said. “They say they detect a change in my aura.”
“There might be such a change, Roberto, but I assure you it would be invisible to me. I’ve never really known what people meant when they were using such terms.”
The Nuncio had nothing against religious ecstasy. When he was young, he still had hopes that some transforming mystical experience would happen to him. But that had never occurred. Nor had he ever seen a ghost or had an out-of-body experience. He supposed he was not receptive to supernatural events. When he first joined the Congregation for the Doctrine of the
Faith, he had been given the task of documenting miracles. He personally investigated 112 alleged sightings of the Virgin Mary and found cause to disbelieve every one of them. Few of his colleagues in the Holy See were miracle mongers, and at first they had enjoyed the intellectual gamesmanship. When he exposed the plumbing leak that had caused a statue of Mary to weep in a little chapel in Lodz, near the pope’s home village, he was hailed and pointed at in the corridors. When he diagnosed the schizophrenia of a twelve-year-old girl in Bosnia who was channeling Mary’s prophecies, the Vatican issued a statement in L’Osservatore Romano repudiating her divinations. Monseñor Morette then turned his attention to the shroud of Turin. His lengthy and daring review of the shroud’s history had never been published; although only a few Vatican insiders had actually read the document in its entirety, it was rumored to be so devastating in its conclusions that the pope quietly canceled a planned public exhibition of the venerated icon. Strangely enough, he never stopped ’hoping that one of the miracles would prove to be true so that he could see God’s hand with his own eyes; however, he had long since stopped expecting such events to occur—at least in his presence.
The Nuncio looked guiltily out the window as the waiter set the sumptuous plate of veal in front of him and then placed a halved cantaloupe filled with berries before Roberto.
“Shall I tell you why I invited you today, Monseñor?” Roberto asked.
“Yes, by all means,” said the Nuncio, “but if what I hear is true, I should begin by congratulating you on your appointment to the Holy See. I suppose you will want to know all about Rome. I am sure you will adore it. Do you know the city at all?”
“Not at all, and unfortunately, I believe I never will,” said Roberto. “Yes, Tony made me the offer, but—without going into details—we did not reach a final agreement.”
“You are still negotiating?”
“We are negotiating, but one gets the feeling it is a game of charades. The truth is, Tony wants to get rid of me.”
“Sending you to Rome would not accomplish that?”
“Not in the ultimate sense that the General intends.”
The Nuncio arched his brows. “The nunciature is always open to you,” he said. “We’ve housed many of the General’s political opponents, but you’d be the first PDF officer.”
“Thank you for your offer, Monseñor, but I have an entirely different course of action in mind.”
“And what is that?”
Roberto forked a strawberry and examined it with interest before popping it into his mouth. “It’s a radical idea, I confess. I am hoping to enlist your assistance in carrying it out.”
“You know I have an official policy of neutrality. I can’t afford to take sides in the internal politics of the country. At least,” the Nuncio paused, “not obviously so.”
“I’m not talking about political action,” said Roberto. “I’m talking about good and evil. In that case, I believe you have already declared yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I’m at a complete loss as to what you mean.”
“Spiritual warfare, Monseñor. That’s what I’m saying.”
The Nuncio supposed that excessive fruit eating had worked its unsettling effects on Roberto’s brain. “Perhaps you should be more explicit, Roberto. How can I help you?”
Roberto’s eyes discreetly surveyed the room before returning to the Nuncio. “This is ultraconfidential,” he said in a low voice. “I am trusting you with this information with the understanding that it is to remain only between the two of us.”
“Should I consider this a privileged conversation?”
Roberto looked miffed. “Certainly not. This is a plot, not a confession.” He leaned forward and continued in a theatrical whisper. “What transpires must be limited to those who have been initiated at the highest levels of spiritual authority. Really, there’s no one else in Panama who can help us.”
The Nuncio nodded in bewilderment.
“Some weeks ago Maigualida and I made a trip to Brazil,” said Roberto. “We had arranged a secret meeting with Indra Devi, the famous Indian yogini. You know her?”
“I confess I know nothing at all about yoga.”
“You would be astonished. She is eighty-eight years old, but she appears to be a woman of no more than fifty. She’s the most transcendent being I’ve ever encountered. She was the one who introduced me to the works of Sai Baba. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, at least.”
“I fear not.”
“Really, Monseñor, I understand that you are Catholic, but I suspected that you had an interest in the larger spiritual world,” Roberto said impatiently, the disappointment evident in his voice.
“He’s some kind of swami?” the Nuncio asked hopelessly.
“Many believe he is a reincarnation of God himself.”
“Ah.” The Nuncio caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for another glass of wine.
“I myself have not met him, but he is reputed to have extraordinary powers,” Roberto continued. “He is a healer and a psychic. They say he can even stop rainbows and transform himself into nonhuman forms. Occasionally he brings the dead back to life.”
“Indeed?” said the Nuncio wearily. He had investigated so many similar claims that he had stopped being surprised.
“Through Indra Devi, I have learned of this man’s holy power. I can even say that I have come to share in these powers—in a far more modest fashion, of course,” Roberto added with a self-deprecating laugh.
“So you can float in the air now?” the Nuncio teased.
“Not yet,” Roberto responded in all seriousness. “Nor have I achieved the ability to be in two places at once. But Indra has helped me understand the nature of my destiny. The fate of our country is on my shoulders. She knew this within minutes of meeting me. I can tell you, it gave me a chill.”
“But is that, perhaps, the reason you visited her in the first place?”
“You are right to be skeptical. It did confirm an inner sense that I had been born for some great calling, and I suppose that does account for my initial interest in seeing her. Still, her insight into my situation was so immediate and profound that it swept away any doubt that this woman was a true prophet. Right away she told me I was going to enter a great battle and that I would appear to lose, but in the end I would be vindicated. I must have faith, she said, and I must not hate General Noriega. ‘Your karma and his are totally independent,’ she told me. So I asked, ‘What, then, should I do with this man?’ And she told me this: that I should send him love and light.”
“That sounds like good Christian advice,” said the Nuncio.
“That’s what I thought as well. Christ is not the only prophet who has told us we must love our enemies. Anyway, Indra Devi put me on the fruit diet and told me that I must refrain from drinking alcohol. This alone, however, would not lead all the way to enlightenment. She then revealed the key to achieving true spiritual mastery.”
“Really? May I ask what it is?”
“Chastity, alas.”
“In my own case, I believe the effect has been comparatively modest,” said the Nuncio.
Roberto looked momentarily confused. “I’m sorry, Monseñor, I’d forgotten that others have had to endure similar disciplines. For me, and of course for poor Maigualida, this has been an enormous sacrifice. But I can tell you, it does bring the mind into focus on the higher things. And if it prepares me for the battle to come, as Indra has prophesied, then it will have been worth it.”
“So you are trying to bring some of this spiritual force to bear on General Noriega? I am told that he puts quite a lot of stock in his own various spiritual pursuits.”
Roberto nodded his head in grave assent. “I always got the feeling that Tony was invoking power from the black side of life. Once he told me we must get rid of all moralisms. Tell me, Monseñor, as a student of theology, what you would call a spirituality that is without morality?”
“Witchcraft.”
“Exactl
y,” said Roberto. “And do you know about Tony’s voodoo practices? Once he gave me Santería beads and told me he was a priest and could hex our enemies. He said the true source of his power was that he worshiped the devil.”
“I have heard rumors about black masses and such things, but I have also heard the General is a Freemason, a Rosicrucian, and a Buddhist, so I don’t know which to believe.”
“It’s all true. Beliefs are like radio stations to him; whenever he gets bored he changes the frequency. I will tell you something that may surprise even you,” Roberto said, adopting his confidential whisper. “There is an actual shrine to Noriega at the foot of Mount Fuji.”
“A shrine to Noriega in Japan?”
“I know it sounds bizarre. Some exotic Buddhist cult Tony has become associated with, called the Value Creation Society—they put up a statue to him and they worship him or something like that. I think Tony must have given them a fortune. In return, they awarded him the title ‘shogun.’ He actually thinks he is a reincarnated spirit of some thirteenth-century warrior monk.”
“Well, I am surprised,” the Nuncio confessed.
“The things some people believe!” Roberto exclaimed, shaking his head.
“Yes, it’s continually amazing,” said the Nuncio, watching Roberto scrape the sides of his cantaloupe for some additional bit of nourishment. “I hope your yoga and fruit prove equal to the task.”
“I’m still going to need your help, Monseñor. Certainly the Church is opposed to satanic practices. I’m only asking that you act in the interest of your own faith.”
“Exactly how do you see my role?” the Nuncio asked reluctantly.
“I think you should perform an exorcism on Tony.”
Whatever appetite the Nuncio had enjoyed now vanished. “I’m afraid that such a ceremony is completely outside my field of expertise. I’ve never even seen it performed. Moreover, these days even in Panama the liability laws are such that you can’t just go off exorcising people without their permission. I imagine one would need legal releases with witnesses and notaries and all that—I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
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