God's Favorite (15 page)

“Your husband should bring you to Cuba more often,” Fidel said. “Next time, I will take you to the Sierra Maestra. I will show you where the revolution began.”

“I love the mountains,” Felicidad said breathlessly.

Fidel cast a triumphant look at Tony, who sank further into obscurity. An amazingly beautiful showgirl with her breasts resting on a nest of flamingo feathers passed by their table and put a familiar arm on Fidel's shoulder. Without even looking at her, he brushed it away. Felicidad pressed against him a tiny bit more.

“I'm worried about you, Manuel Antonio,” Fidel said in his now familiar, gratingly avuncular tone. “Politically speaking,
you're on an anthill. You need some protection for yourself, you know what I mean?”

“The Colombians may have powerful resources, but I have an entire army to protect me.”

“I'm not speaking of the Colombians. If they want you to disappear, your army will mean nothing to them. I'm talking about the Americans. Soon they are supposed to turn over the canal to the first Panamanian administrator.”

“Of course, the first day of nineteen-ninety.”

“And you believe they will do this?”

“Why not? They have already given us authority over most of the zone. Everything is proceeding according to the treaties. To the letter.”

“I am telling you as a fact, as long as you are in power, the Americans will never let the canal out of their hands. If I were you, I'd be watching my backside.”

Tony knew that Fidel was insane, but he did have a paranoiac's genius for seeing patterns that others might miss. For instance, the little complication with Senator Helms might turn out to be serious. That prosecutor in Florida with the drug indictment—could that be a part of a larger conspiracy against him? And yet Reagan had treated him with respect, consulting with him on appointments and even inviting him to White House dinners. And now Bush was campaigning to succeed Reagan in the Oval Office—George Herbert Walker Bush, who had been Tony's paymaster when he was head of the CIA. Bush knew better than anyone what a friend the United States had in Tony Noriega. All in all, Tony thought his relations with the United States were excellent.

But the canal was too valuable for the Americans to simply give away. Tony realized that he had always secretly believed that the treaties were a ruse, a stalling tactic, and that when the time came the Americans would invent some excuse to dishonor them. Certainly that is what he would do in their place.

“I'm telling you this as a friend, but also as an interested
party,” Fidel continued. “If the Americans block the transfer of the canal, they can use it against us. Without the canal, Cuba is lost. Our trade with Asia—it's over. The sugar industry dies, then we die as well. For this reason, I'm going to give you some free advice. Who will the Americans turn to if they decide Noriega must go?”

For the sake of argument, Tony considered this. No doubt Roberto had his own contacts with the CIA, and if the agency chose to execute a quick 1950s-style coup, that could be easily done, especially while Tony was out of the country (like now). Nor was assassination out of the question. The kill order had already been given once, early in his career, when Nixon demanded that Tony be “totally and completely immobilized”—a phrase that still resounded in Tony's recurring nightmares. And how many times had they tried to kill Fidel? By poisoning his cigars! Tony knew enough about the “new” CIA to realize that there were plenty of dirty tricks still in their bag. They just covered themselves a lot better these days.

“I suppose they would groom some young colonel,” Tony said, trying to think realistically, “some power-hungry egotist they can control.”

Fidel shook his head gravely. “You're out of date, my friend. Look at what they did in Nicaragua: they used the middle class to subvert the people's revolution. No, the gringos are not interested in the military anymore. In fact, they are trying to wipe Latin America clean of its armies. They want to turn us all into Puerto Rico—little American subdivisions and unarmed tourist resorts.” Fidel snorted. “The first item on their agenda will be to eliminate the Panama Defense Forces. Then, even if they actually turn over the canal, you will be completely unable to defend it. You will have the Americans always. They will still control the canal, but they won't have to pay for it. To achieve this, they will turn the middle class against you. They will prop up the newspapers and the business interests. They will finance candidates to run against your men. All this will be done in the sacred name of
democracy. But the real goal is to eliminate the Panamanian army and control the canal forever. And to do that,” Fidel said, stabbing Tony in the chest with his brutal forefinger, “they must first get rid of General Manuel Antonio Noriega.”

The clarity of this fiendish vision struck Tony with overpowering force. It fit with trends he could already see emerging—little stirrings of complaint in the press (which up till now he had graciously tolerated), a bit too much grand talk in the Union Club among the white asses who wanted to run their own candidates, and most of all, the suspiciously obstacle-free progression of the canal treaties toward the ultimate day of Panamanian control. It all came into focus through Fidel's paranoiac lens.

“He's right, Tony,” Felicidad said unhelpfully. “You have placed yourself in a dangerous position. You need to protect yourself—and your family.”

The strobe lights were giving Tony a migraine.

“Even if this were the American design, which I doubt,” Tony said unconvincingly, “how can I oppose it?”

“Have you ever seen a dog try to eat a toad?” asked Fidel. “He cannot do it. He puts his mouth around it, then he spits it out. You know why this is? Because the toad is poison. One taste and the dog knows he cannot swallow this thing or he will die. You must do the same as the toad, my friend. You must make yourself indigestible.”

“Listen to him, Tony,” Felicidad advised.

“So how do I become indigestible?”

Fidel tugged on his beard in an impressive display of cogitation. “Well, one thought does occur. It's the same as I suggested to the comandantes in Nicaragua. Organize the poor to be on your side. This is my suggestion. Make yourself their hero. Train them. Give them arms. Let everybody know, if the Americans invade, the people of the streets will rise!
And they will kill the bourgeoisie!
The people—they will be your poison!”

“Beautiful,” said Felicidad.

The waiter brought a silver platter containing the bill and set it in front of Tony. Tony stared at the sum in disbelief.

“The
advice
is free,” said Fidel.

G
ENERAL
D
ELMAR
H
ONEYCUTT
pinned the last ribbon on his uniform and sized himself up in the full-length mirror. The newly appointed leader of the U.S. Southern Command was an exceedingly large man—at six foot seven, he had had to receive a special waiver to enlist in the military. As a tight end at West Point, he had broken scoring records that had stood for fifty years. He came out of Vietnam with a chestful of ribbons, medals, and oak-leaf clusters that might have seemed outlandish on a man whose chest was not so massive. With his sun-bronzed skin, General Honeycutt sometimes looked more like a larger-than-life, Soviet-style statue of himself than a middle-aged divorced man with a bleeding ulcer and credit-card debt who had been shunted off to Central America to guard a big ditch.

“Give me that line again,” he said to Lieutenant Cheever, his fussy assistant.

“The ‘bridge to two cultures' thing?” Cheever was brushing the lint from the general's expansive shoulders. “You've already been over it four times, General. I'm sure you know it by heart. Anyway, you'll have a TelePrompTer.”

“Makes a better show if you look spontaneous, like you're thinking it up as you go along,” said the general. “Remember that when you're writing my speeches in the future. Nothing too pretty. Rough it up a little.”

“I'll keep it in mind, sir.”

“I want everybody to know that we mean business here. We're tough, but we're on their side. Like the cop on the corner. Friendly, but there for a good reason.”

“I'm sure they'll understand that, sir.”

“What's the president's name again?”

“Delvalle, sir.”

“They change them with the seasons here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Am I ready?”

“You're ready, sir.”

“Then let's do it.”

T
HE PARADE GROUND AT
SOUTHCOM was crammed with Panamanian officials and American military brass watching the U.S. troops march in review before their new commander. The elite of Panamanian society had fought for the tickets in the grandstand, eager to see the panoply of lethal gizmos that rolled out of the hangars and caverns of Fort Clayton. The crowd was at once cheery and ironic, like schoolchildren watching a faculty play. Overhead, a modest squadron of F-16s roared past, trailed by a wing of Tomcat fighters from the USS
Forrestal,
which happened to be in port. In truth, there was only a modest representation of advanced weaponry stationed in Panama, since the real danger to the canal, in the way of a military threat, was thought to be very small. Most of the armament was left over from the Vietnam War. Nonetheless, it impressed the natives, General Honeycutt believed. He sat next to President and Mrs. Delvalle and patiently explained what they were seeing. “That's the Sheridan tank, ma'am, more maneuverable than its high-tech cousins. Still a formidable fighting machine.” “They
are
neat little missiles, aren't they, sir? Nuclear-tipped.” And so on. He always relished the splendor of men and arms on display.

General Honeycutt was so absorbed in the spectacle that he failed to notice the stirring in the crowd that marked the well-past-fashionable entrance of General Noriega. Tony arrived with his usual air of ownership, his gold buttons glinting, his ceremonial medals and his
Légion d'honneur
practically on fire in the tropical sunlight. Around his neck he wore the symbol of the supreme military commander, a heavy silver medallion inscribed with the image of the Panamanian eagle, surrounded by the insignia
of each of the country's military units. His ski-slope hat rose to a peak, with the gold seal of state on the front and gold laurel leaves on the bill. And under the hat: Tony's hooded, viperous eyes and pitted, implacable face.

When the air show had concluded, leaping in an instant from the Atlantic to the Pacific over the inconsiderable spit of land that constituted Panama, General Honeycutt approached the unshaded podium. To his great annoyance, the TelePrompTer screen was blank. He shot a glance to the communications specialist first class who was manning the equipment. The suicidal look on the young man's face amply expressed the situation. The general tapped his breast pocket, realizing that there was no copy of his speech there, either. Goddamn lucky thing that he'd read it before he got into this spot, he reflected, choking down the panic of public speaking that two years of attending Toastmasters Club meetings at Fort Hood had failed to overcome.

The general looked into the grandstand, hoping to recapture the long list of names that he was supposed to officially recognize. President Mountainous? Was that it? The general remembered associating the president's name with a geologic feature. Remember the image and the name would spring to mind: that was the theory. But he'd forgotten which image he was supposed to remember.

The crowd was beginning to look at him curiously. “Welcome,” he finally said, “or perhaps I should say, ‘Thank you,' for it is you who have made me feel welcome.” The general relaxed a bit. He'd done this before. “I particularly want to thank”—he made a stab at it—“President Valley and his lovely wife . . .” General Honeycutt caught a concerned look on Lieutenant Cheever's face and quickly moved on. Next to the president were two vice presidents, one named Manuel Solís Palma and another whose name was completely blank in the general's mind. He couldn't very well acknowledge the first without the second, so he merely thanked “the two sterling gentlemen who stand beside
the president in everything he does, vice presidents not only in name but in deed.” What did that mean? The general began to realize that his steering was gone and the speech was taking on its own wild momentum. “As I gaze upon the faces in the grandstand, I see—what? You know what I see, ladies and gentlemen? I see the faces of Panama's cabinet, men and women who will lead this country into the next century. Their names—too many to mention—will one day be recorded in the textbooks. Their names will be on the streets and avenues of this great city. Schools will be named after them! I see the judges, the judges, yes—sadly enough, they often labor in anonymity, but surely their names will be in the lawbooks, you can count on that! I see the members of the Canal Commission. Boy, there's an important group of guys! Let's give them a round of applause!” He was really sailing now, completely rudderless, trying to avoid the puzzled expressions of the dignitaries in the crowd, who obediently applauded the flustered commissioners. “Priests!” the general cried. “I see the representatives of the Church here today, and I want to say that part of what makes this country great is religion! So, lots of priests. When the roll is called up yonder, you can bet that there will be a lot of priests on it! I say ‘priests,' but I don't mean to exclude representatives of other denominations. Catholicism is still a fine religion. Family values kind of thing. I know President Reagan relates to it, or I mean them, the values that I was referring to. So, summing up: good people, good values, Panama is a bridge between them, and as I think about it, we are all on that bridge of life . . .”