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.
“He’s here,” she said.
“Who?”
“Pineapple Face.”
The Nuncio took a step back. Was there a plot against him? First he was rebuked for meddling in Panamanian affairs, and then the leader of the country comes calling, with who knew what agenda.
“Where’s Father Jorge?”
“He’s at the parish.”
“Then I suppose you should send the General in, Sister.”
She turned to go, but the Nuncio called after her. “You should bring us some port from the cellar—the special reserve. And if you have any of those little gâteaux in the kitchen, they would be welcome, I’m sure.”
Sister Sarita sniffed and departed in an obvious huff. A moment later the General appeared at the library door. He looked pale and thinner than he had been at their last meeting. The bags under his eyes gave their own dismal report.
“General! What an honor,” the Nuncio said, once again noting Noriega’s curiously dead handshake. “Since we last talked, I admit, I’ve spent several hours rereading Augustine. I must say, I feel like I’ve been sent back to seminary.”
Tony smiled tensely and looked around the impressive library. It was not grand, but it was very comfortable, the lair of a man who likes to spend time by himself but not too much time (as he could see by the stack of unanswered correspondence on the Nuncio’s desk). Nor was it an especially religious room; aside from the garish color print of the pope on one wall and a portrait of Jesus and a simple crucifix on another, there were no sanctimonious artifacts. On the shelves were some authors Tony had in his own library—le Carré, Márquez, Gloria Vanderbilt on etiquette—in addition to the expected volumes of theology and diplomacy. Beside the Nuncio’s desk was a chessboard with the pieces halted in mid-play. Tony sensed by the environment that he and the Nuncio shared certain fundamental qualities, such as a love of strategy and a need for control. From their first meeting, Tony had felt that they would become either friends or formidable adversaries. Of course, neither of them had much need for friends.
“Actually, there’s another matter I’ve come to discuss with you, Monseñor. It concerns what I am to do with my future.”
“I’m flattered that you would seek my counsel, General, but I can’t imagine what would lead you to believe that I have any advice worth offering on such a serious subject.”
“I need the views of someone with an international perspective,” said Tony, ignoring the Nuncio’s false modesty. “Besides, everyone else in this country comes to you for advice—why not me?”
Sister Sarita entered with a tray of port and sweets. She had on her most aggrieved expression—really, she looked like a galley slave—but Tony thanked her so meekly that she became flustered and avoided his glance.
“I understand the Americans have made you a generous offer,” the Nuncio said as the nun left the room, making a furtive sign of the cross as she closed the door.
“I expect you can tell me every detail of the proposal. You have even better intelligence than I.”
“In the Vatican, one learns to keep one’s ears open.”
“The Vatican—this is a culture I’ve always been curious about. The city where no one has sex. It’s very peculiar.”
The Nuncio laughed. “Yes, even I thought it was strange, although if one chooses celibacy, it’s easier to be in the company of like-minded companions than in the sensual world. I spent many years there and I suppose I got used to its peculiar habits. Most of the time I labored in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”
“Isn’t that what used to be called the Holy Inquisition?”
“These days we mainly investigate candidates for sainthood. I had the job of prosecuting the opposing point of view.”
“So you were the devil’s advocate.”
“As it is popularly known, yes.”
“All those years, you must have developed sympathy for the devil’s perspective.”
“You could say it enlarged my moral compass,” the Nuncio replied blandly.
“And after holding such an important job, you must have done something very bad or very stupid to be sent off to a small tropical republic.”
The Nuncio scowled impressively, his massive brows knitting together in stern reproof. “And now you find yourself in a similar position?”
“Well, I also have enemies,” Tony conceded.
“But they seem very forgiving. I understand that the Americans have agreed to let you name your successor. You can even keep your money—this sounds too good to turn down!”
“All the same, I am conflicted.” Tony tapped his breast pocket. “Here I have my resignation speech already prepared. It’s my farewell address—a beautiful speech, I must say. I cried as I wrote it. Reason tells me resignation is the correct path.”
“I hope you don’t intend to deliver this speech in the nunciature.”
Tony smiled thinly. “Poor Delvalle, he was such a coward. No, if I resign, I will speak to the people directly. I do not fear them.”
“But you say ‘if’—surely there is no alternative when the Americans have turned against you.”
“The Americans do not control the universe, Monseñor.”
“Just the civilized parts of it,” the Nuncio said. “Perhaps there is a suitable compromise, one that can be rewarding for you and face-saving for the Americans. I don’t mean to put a price on it, but can’t you imagine a solution that would be acceptable? One that would satisfy your material desires and perhaps even give you a voice in the country’s future?”
“That’s an illusion,” Tony said. “One holds the reins or one does not. Look at what happened to Somoza. He stepped down, and the bastards tracked him into Paraguay and blew him into microscopic fragments. They did not even find the hairs of his mustache. Torrijos used to say, ‘The first duty of the man in power is to stay in power.’ ”
“Yes, and look what happened to him,” said the Nuncio. “If only he had left when the time was right, perhaps his plane might not have crashed so—shall we say?—mysteriously.”
“Your point is accurate, Monseñor. One rides the tiger. Tell me, do you read the Tao?”
“Eastern philosophy doesn’t call to me.”
“That’s too bad. There is great wisdom there. Lao-tzu says that the master acts best by doing nothing.” Tony leaned back an
d recalled the verse: “He leads by emptying people’s minds and filling their cores, by weakening their ambition and toughening their resolve. He helps people lose everything they know, everything they desire, and creates confusion in those who think they know. Practice not-doing, and everything will fall into place.”
“Are you saying, then, that you plan to do nothing?”
“It’s a paradox, isn’t it?” said Tony. “As long as this indictment hangs over me, there is nothing I can do. Money and power mean very little if I am sitting in prison. And frankly, Monseñor, there are people who will not want me to testify in an American courtroom. Some very dangerous people.”
The Nuncio now understood the cause of General Noriega’s sleeplessness. It was one thing to be named as a criminal defendant in a racketeering and narcotics smuggling case. It was another to be identified as a potential witness against the CIA and the Colombian mob.
“Have you spoken to the Americans about this?”
Tony scowled. “On this point, they refuse to negotiate. I think we need a go-between, someone who can speak to both sides. Someone like you.”
The Nuncio leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. How should he respond? He wondered if his very words were being recorded and sent to the Vatican. It was a chilling thought.
“Of course, I will do what I can, General,” the Nuncio said after a moment. “I only request that you keep my involvement a matter of strictest secrecy.”
CHAPTER 15
THE AVIARY WAS Tony’s special retreat. He spent many hours here feeding his birds and confiding secrets of state he could share with no one else. Recently, he had been able to offer several happy reports. His new policy of doing nothing had neutralized the Americans and kept the opposition completely off guard. His enemies were no longer talking about “post-Noriega Panama.” They were talking about condo prices in Miami.
Romeo preened and clacked as Tony spritzed him. “Darling darling love you darling,” Romeo said as he nuzzled Tony’s ear. Pepe, a neurotic sulfur-crested cockatoo, turned his back on the scene and began plucking feathers from his wings in a jealous fit.
Tony was so caught up in his birds that he failed to notice Felicidad storming across the lawn with a rolled-up copy of La Prensa in her hands, which she was waving like a machete.
“Monster!” she cried as she burst into the cage.
“Sweetness! Love!” Tony said as he retreated. “What have I done?”
Felicidad silenced him with a deafening whap across his left ear. But the newspaper was not enough. She tossed it aside and emptied a silver feeding bowl, then renewed her assault with single-minded fury. The terrified parrots banged into the mesh fence of their cage, crying and screaming curses.
“You think I don’t know?” Felicidad shouted over the din. “You think all Panama does not know?”
The bowl made a resonant bong as it collided with Tony’s head. “Please, please, Fela,” Tony pleaded, “for the sake of our children . . .”
“How dare you invoke our precious daughters!” Felicidad redoubled her blows. “When it is you who has disgraced your children! Even in the newspaper they write about your ‘Señorita Carmen.’ ”
“Forgive me, I’ll have the newspaper closed at once.”
“No more talk,” Felicidad said ominously. “I’m going to discuss my options with my attorney. But in the meantime, if I ever see her in public, I’ll scratch her eyes out! And yours, too!”
DR. DEMOS SEWED a final stitch in the cut over Tony’s eye. “It’s going to be pretty ugly for a couple of weeks, Tony. You should get yourself some very dark sunglasses to wear to the Carter reception.”
Tony groaned. Having Jimmy Carter in town to supervise the presidential elections was another annoying development. Tony should have smothered the plan when it first arose, but who ever believed that the election would be genuinely contested? Now Endara, the human walrus, was making a race of it—as if it were a real election and not a ceremonial one, meant to confirm Solís Palma in his appointment to that office.
“Giroldi, what’s the latest report?” Tony asked irritably.
“They say the vote is running three to one against our president,” Major Giroldi said gravely.
“You are wrong, Major,” Tony said. “The vote is actually in favor of the president.”
“Sir?”
“In Panama, the civilians have a responsibility and the military has a responsibility,” Tony explained. “The civilians must choose the right man to lead them. Apparently, they have failed. Now it is up to the military to correct this mistake.”
“But Jimmy Carter is here . . .” Giroldi said anxiously.
“Carter! Carter! Fuck Jimmy Carter!” Tony exploded in fury. “If he knew how to run his own country, he would still be in office! Now we must act quickly in the Panamanian way to save the country from this terrible mistake. Get out there, Major, and bring me the election!”
STILL HOBBLING, Father Jorge marched with the crowd toward the Plaza de Santa Ana, where Endara and his vice presidential candidates, Billy Ford and Ricardo Arias Calderón, were scheduled to speak out against the stolen election. Polling places had been ransacked, ballot boxes confiscated and burned—and much of this outrage had been broadcast on CNN. Noriega’s savagery was now obvious to the entire world. Conscious that they were in the spotlight of history and emboldened by the presence of television cameras and foreign correspondents, the citizens of Panama marched with a determination that Father Jorge had never seen. There was none of the festivity that had marked other demonstrations—instead, there was a formidable silence. The marchers wore white and waved white handkerchiefs in the air—white, white everywhere. Telephone poles all along the boulevard were studded with pineapples despite the new law that made it a crime to ridicule the physical features of government leaders. For the first time in his tenure in Panama, Father Jorge sensed a widespread resolve that change would have to come, and soon.
At the front of the parade, Guillermo Endara and his two vice presidential candidates rode in a flatbed truck, waving to their supporters as they led them toward the Presidencia. As usual, Endara’s heavy black glasses looked as if they were about to slide completely off his nose. Obese, myopic, chronically short of breath, completely uncharismatic, Endara was an unlikely hero, but he had found the courage that the moment demanded. Few people knew the man’s political views. Endara was for change, and change was ready to jump into his arms.
These thoughts came to Father Jorge through a sea of sadness and guilt. Although he walked among the leaders of the resistance, he knew that he was no longer one of them. He had informed on them. He had shared secrets with the enemy, and the shame of this fact was difficult to bear. He had not even been to confession since he left La Modelo. He knew that the Nuncio had desperately campaigned for his freedom, and he was grateful for that, but since his release he had allowed a silence to fall between them. This also weighed on him, since he could not bring himself to admit to the Nuncio that he was a traitor.
As the procession turned the corner into the plaza, the band suddenly stopped playing and the march stumbled to a ragged halt. The marchers in the back could not see what was happening in the front, so they continued to press forward until finally they had pushed themselves into the plaza. There they found the streets blocked by several dozen PDF troops in riot gear, carrying batons and shields.
Endara motioned to quiet the crowd, but the people were already silent, or only murmuring, and so the gesture seemed superfluous and strangely silly. He dismounted laboriously from the bed of the truck and approached the officer in charge, a pinch-faced colonel whom Father Jorge recognized as a member of the white middle class—the same people, by and large, that the officer was standing against. Perhaps for that reason the officer was unable to look into Endara’s smiling, reasonable face. Once Father Jorge would have doubted that such a man could order his troops to attack his own social class, but he had learned how easily a man’s allegiances c
ould be perverted. He supposed the officer was the victim of some kind of sadistic loyalty test. Once this man had declared himself in this fashion, he would always belong to Noriega. No one else would have him.
A stirring in the crowd caused Father Jorge to look into one of the side streets. He saw the Digbats massed there, wearing their colorful T-shirts and carrying chains and pipes. Some of them held boards with long nails protruding from them. They were just unemployed teenagers with handmade weapons, but their faces were hard and eager. Others in the crowd noticed them as well, and they began shouting like animals that have suddenly discovered that they’ve been trapped in the slaughterhouse. With no avenue of escape, the people pressed even more into the center, into a compact, frightened horde. Father Jorge tried to push his way to the front, thinking that he might be able to persuade the officer to let the women leave, but he could scarcely move his arms in the crush.
And then the Digbats charged.
The plaza echoed with the shrieks of the mob and the wild cries of the Digbats. A woman next to Father Jorge dropped to the ground in a heap. He thought she might have been shot, but then he realized that she had fainted from fright. People around her were stepping on her in their panic. He lifted the woman’s limp body and held her upright, but then he didn’t know what to do with her. He simply stood there, stupidly hugging her to him and waiting for the Digbats to beat their way to them.
The Digbats advanced in a disorganized mob, swinging their bludgeons like crazed reapers moving through a field of wheat. Blood flew into the air as if it were raining upward. Father Jorge caught sight of Guillermo Endara just as a fist brushed past the candidate’s face, knocking his glasses off. He looked confused and oddly denuded, the way people do who are never seen without their glasses. He dropped to his hands and knees, patting the ground and looking for his glasses, but then a pipe crashed across his skull and his face slammed into the pavement.
The woman Father Jorge was holding came back into consciousness. Her eyes were vague, but then they filled with terror. For a moment she clung to him, but then she pushed away and began wobbling through the hysterical crowd like a sleepwalker. The entire scene was surreal—the cries, the violence, the movements that took place with hallucinatory slowness. Father Jorge struggled toward a car where he had noticed the vice presidential candidates were hiding. He wasn’t certain what his own intentions were, but he felt the urgent need to act, perhaps to redeem himself. The Digbats had surrounded the car and were knocking out the windows with bats and pipes. There was a gunshot. Then Father Jorge recognized the lanky, white-haired figure of Billy Ford being pulled out of the car. His white shirt was covered with blood. Ford pushed one of the Digbats away, but just as he did another hit him squarely on the back of his head with a heavy steel pipe. Ford staggered. He began to paw the air as if he could claw his way through the mob, but they had him now. One blow after another landed. Ford’s head snapped back and forth, but somehow he kept walking. It was as if he had some destination in mind and a superhuman determination to achieve it. He turned to the window of a video store where a bank of televisions was showing the stern face of Jimmy Carter lecturing the press. Ford waved at the pictures in confusion as a PDF soldier grabbed him and pushed him into a waiting armored van.
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