God's Favorite (11 page)

“You? But you said you are opposed to everything we are doing!”

“I am opposed to the way that you are doing it—meeting in secret, whispering against the government. Such actions are
bound to draw attention and brutal reprisals. If you are plotting revolution, it has to be done openly and in such a way that it appears to be harmless. And the best way to do that is to let an old man be your leader. It is youth that power fears.”

“What about the Church?”

The Nuncio shrugged. “For some time the Vatican has paid no attention to me. I think they expect me to die or retire momentarily. They are not likely to notice the idle talk of an old renegade. We can meet in the nunciature, as if it is perfectly normal. But please, promise me that there will be no more of these underground conspiracies.”

When the waiter brought their dinners, the Nuncio stared at his garnished sea bass without appetite. He watched as Father Jorge dumped chili sauce into his soup—a puzzling Latin habit that turned all food into an overheated sameness. There was a new game to be played, and despite what he had said, the Nuncio knew how dangerous it could be. His career—and his life—had nearly run their course; Father Jorge's were just leaving the gate. He must do what he could do to save him.

O
LLIE, YOUR GLASS
is empty,” Tony observed. He signaled to one of the several topless stewardesses aboard his yacht,
Macho III.
“Chiquita, another carrot juice for Colonel North.”

Chiquita curtseyed and disappeared into the cabin.

“These ribs are terrific,” said North, wiping his fingers on his bathing suit. “Aren't you having any?”

“Actually, I don't eat meat.”

“I'm surprised,” said North.

“I think it's a sin to eat the flesh of other animals. Of course, you should enjoy your meal, don't worry about the moral consequences.”

North studied the pork rib in his hand and then took another bite. “You know, this really interests me. I mean, all through history, man has eaten meat. In First Timothy, the apostle Paul warns us against vegetarians.”

“Yes,” said Tony, “and because of such foolishness I have turned to the Buddhist faith.”

“Gosh, I don't know much about that,” said North, wiping the sauce off his chin.

“I used to tell Bill Casey, ‘Buddhism is the only spiritual discipline for a rational man.' But the Jesuits had him hypnotized.”

Both men were quiet, thinking of the recently deceased CIA director. For Tony, the loss had been particularly worrisome. Casey had been his sponsor for decades.

“But you have other fish to fry, as you Christians say,” Tony continued. “So, how can I help you? This thought is always in the front of my mind—how can I help my American friends?”

“First of all,” North said, smiling brilliantly as he accepted the carrot juice from Chiquita, “thanks for all you've done. No, I mean that sincerely. Our two countries have had some misunderstandings. I won't hide the fact that there was some upset over the Barletta ouster. The thing is, that's all in the past. There are more important things to consider. We want to continue our special relationship with you. You've always been on our side when it counts. Especially with the Contras. The president wants you to know that he appreciates it. From the bottom of his heart. You've been at our side in the battle for freedom in Nicaragua.”

“I tell you, Ollie, we're going to win that war.”

“You don't need to tell me!”

“I've had enough trouble, believe me, with the commies in my own government,” said Tony. Occasionally it was wise to wave the red flag in front of the Americans. “They need a firm hand. To be honest, I think they also need to be a little afraid. Otherwise . . . another Cuba.”

“I would hate to see that, General. We all would.”

“Sometimes a leader in this part of the world has to do things that Americans don't understand.”

“Well, there I would agree with you,” North said as he watched Chiquita stretch out on the sundeck. He forced himself to look out on the gentle gray swells of Balboa harbor. “Speaking of things that are hard to understand, there's something else we need to talk about. This is a hard thing to tell a friend. You know about the Senate investigation.”

Tony remembered hearing about it in the CIA briefing in New York.

“Now it turns out that Helms has proposed an amendment to the Intelligence Authorization Bill.”

“Really? Who would let him do that?” asked Tony.

“Well, of course there's nothing unusual about that, General. You know these senators—always trying to get their way! But this particular amendment requires the CIA to report to the Senate about these . . . I guess you'd call 'em ‘allegations' about the involvement of the Panamanian military in drug trafficking and money laundering. Also, about the death of this fellow Spadodifera.”

“Spadafora.”

“Right.”

“What does the president think about this proposal?”

“You can count on him to stand firmly against it.”

Tony leaned back and exhaled in relief.

“You seem to be taking this pretty well,” North observed.

“Part of the training we receive as Buddhists is to detach from worldly events,” said Tony. “You give me this information, I ask myself: What can Tony Noriega do about it? The answer is, nothing. Tony Noriega cannot change the course of destiny. He can only observe and realize that all things pass by in the great river of life.”

“Wow,” said North. “I'd like to get to that place, General. That's the right way of looking at things, that's for sure. But the thing is, the son of a bitch Helms has the votes.”

“Tell me what you mean exactly,” said Tony. He had never quite understood the nuances of democracy.

“I mean, the Senate is going to have a full-blown investigation. Helms is dead set on it. And it's going to be a stinker, you can be sure. They'll subpoena every little gunrunner and dope dealer who ever passed through Panama.”

“I know that my friends at the agency will take care of me.”

“Of course, they'll do what they can. But it's a different place over there without the old man. He really loved you. This new guy, the jury's still out on him. Oh, and speaking of juries, there's something else I have to tell you. There's this renegade prosecutor down in Florida.”

“A prosecutor? Have I committed some crime?”

“This jerk is just trying to make a name for himself. They say he's got your name on a drug indictment.”

Tony laughed genially. “And what are my American friends going to do about it?”

“Gosh, General, there's not much we can do. They went to a grand jury. I don't know how much you know about our country, but—”

“After all the favors you ask of me, this is how you repay me?”

“I just feel awful about it.”

“And what about my friend George Herbert Walker Bush?”

“I'm sure he feels awful about it, too.”

Tony stared at North in disbelief. “You and I have an arrangement, Colonel,” he reminded him. “You came to me. ‘General Noriega, we need your help in Nicaragua. We want to stop the spread of communism.' And I said, ‘This is also Tony Noriega's goal. Together we will fight to make our part of the world a haven for freedom.' So I gave you what you wanted.”

“Yes, sir, you did.”

“And when the CIA asks to set up special companies to do espionage in Panama and launder money, I say yes to this as well—even though we know these are illegal activities in Panama. I don't call the prosecutor! I even permit Contras to be trained at SOUTHCOM, which is against the treaties. All these laws I broke—for you! To help my American friends.”

“You are a special friend, all right. And we appreciate it. No kidding.”

“So this is what you offer in return?” Tony thundered. “Your politicians slander me in Congress, they make up charges against
me, they even pursue me in the courts? And they send you to insult me in this fashion—you, a man who has asked me for so many favors? Now you should be doing favors for me instead.”

North nodded and looked guiltily at his pile of ribs. “The truth is, General, I've got some legal problems of my own.”

The two men were quiet. A school of dolphins rolled past the yacht, drawing the excited attention of the stewardesses, who raced to starboard, pointing and throwing canapés after the indifferent creatures.

“I've got a proposition,” Tony finally said in his most reasonable tone of voice, “a goodwill gesture. You take it to my friend George Herbert Walker Bush. We can get rid of these Sandinistas in one—what do you say? One sweep? One swoop?”

“One fell swoop.”

“One fell swoop. I have men there, as you know—good men, in Managua and the countryside—waiting for my command. They will do what I say. You know this is true.”

“I've seen it,” said North, remembering with awe the one-eyed demolition expert that Noriega had provided for a top-secret raid that North had organized out of the White House basement. The little guy was a genius at explosives and a stone-cold killer. He and his gang of mercenaries had managed to blow up a military complex and a hospital in Managua. The hospital, of course, had been a regrettable mistake, and luckily no one had been killed.

“Give me a little money for these men, and they will kill the comandantes,” Tony said cheerfully. “A dozen heads will roll. Tomás Borge, the Ortegas—the whole bunch! One fell swoop.”

North grinned in admiration. “I gotta hand it to you, General. I mean, it's such a neat idea. But I just—”

“You take care of my problems, I take care of yours.”

“Can't. I just can't do it. It's against the law.”

“Are you being . . .” Tony groped for the term.
“Amusing?”
He spat the word out of his mouth. “Your whole fucking war is ‘against the law.' So why is it the only one who gets indicted is your good friend Tony Noriega?”

“I wish I had a good answer for you.”

“You will wish it very much before all this comes to an end,” Tony promised darkly.

T
HE POLICE
substation on Avenida Central was a noisy and confusing place. A rowdy procession of small-time criminals passed through the informal booking procedure and then disappeared into the basement holding cells, where they would await trial or else simply await . . . nothing. People spent months and even years here with no resolution or even an official hearing. Without pressure from important families or influential personages, a prisoner in the substation was likely to remain there indefinitely, until the system finally noticed him and either brought him to trial or arbitrarily expelled him.

Finally the steel door in the back of the substation opened and Teo Sánchez appeared, looking rumpled and disdainful and wearing cheap imitations of brand-name American clothes.

“So what are you going to do with me, Father?” he asked, but his tone reflected little interest in the answer.

“What if I take you to lunch?”

Teo looked surprised and a little suspicious. They walked down to the Kentucky Fried Chicken around the corner. It was midafternoon, and the place was nearly empty except for the flies. A radio behind the counter played a salsa tune by Rubén Blades.

In jail, Teo had grown out the wispy hairs of his mustache, which was so thin that Father Jorge had not noticed it until he was seated directly opposite him. He was a good-looking child, like his mother, except for the hardness in his features. He ate the chicken greedily, without looking up; and when Father Jorge didn't object, he helped himself to both rolls.

“You want some dessert?”

Teo didn't argue. He ordered a large cone of chocolate ice cream. “They don't feed you much in jail,” he said.

“Your mother doesn't know about this. She's been very worried.”

“She worries,” Teo said. “She doesn't know what else to do, so she worries. Look where it gets her. She's working in a whorehouse.”

“That must be very upsetting.”

Teo shrugged.

“Do you ever give any thought to what you want for your own life?” Father Jorge asked.

“Yeah. Every day.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

“Just, I'm not going to be poor, that much I know. You got to take what you want in this life.” He said this with absolute conviction.

“The police said you were selling stolen shoes.”

A cross-eyed beggar stood in the window watching Teo eat his ice cream. Teo looked at him indifferently. “It's a good business. I can make some real money.”

Father Jorge stopped himself from trying to counsel Teo, although the boy's future was dismally clear to him. His view of the world was already formed, and there was little that anyone could do to change it. Nor was Teo inviting Father Jorge's advice, at least not now. The most he could hope for was to establish a tiny ledge of trust. And yet the priest deeply believed in the flexibility of human nature. He always assumed that God offered life-changing moments of decision, even to the most jaded person. Teo would make a choice between a life on the streets or something better. Father Jorge believed it was the choice between damnation and salvation. He could see how circumstances forced young men to make appalling choices about their lives, and he wanted to be there if Teo needed someone to show him a way out. He felt a sense of urgency that was difficult to explain. He had dealt with other boys as hard and hopeless as Teo, but with indifferent success. Perhaps he had kept a couple of them alive when circumstances might have led them down a more dangerous path.
More often than not, however, his ministrations had had no effect. Chorrillo was a mistress to despair. There were thousands of Chorrillos and thousands of Teos inside them—and so little hope for change. Even one priest with one boy was overmatched. In any case, Father Jorge was conscious that he had nothing to offer now, and Teo was in no mood to receive it if he had.