God's Favorite (31 page)

“Sir?”

“You're the dictator of this godforsaken mosquito factory. You're getting pressure from all sides to step down. People talking coup, people talking revolution. What do you do?”

“What, sir?”

“You appoint your most trusted man, this Giroldi fellow, to provoke the Americans into making some threatening maneuvers, then he can point to us and say we're playing gunboat diplomacy. It's a setup. You can smell it from here to Timbuktu.”

“But what if it's not? They say Giroldi is a real righteous guy. This could be a golden opportunity if—”

“If! If!” the general shouted. “How do we know Giroldi isn't another Noriega? He's PDF! The whole institution is rotten! And suppose this really is just a show. Don't you think Noriega is smart enough to stage this whole thing? How many people do you think might get killed in this little drama? I say let's let it play out a bit and see what happens. Irene, I don't think I can live without a brace of sausage to go with that omelet.”

T
ONY AWAKENED
feeling woozy but strangely elated. He had never felt exactly this way before. There was something wrong with the mood and also with the circumstances, now that he noticed them. He was not in his own room, or any place he recognized. It was a plain white room with barred windows. The bubble-gum odor of industrial disinfectant made him a little nauseous. That, and a hangover that belonged in an alcoholics' museum.

His eerie serenity was a bit disturbed by the discovery that he was wearing a green hospital gown. Have I been in an accident? he wondered. An assassination attempt? He tried to recall the events that had led him to this unexpected place, but all he could remember was breaking up with Carmen, and that was too painful to think about.

The door was locked.

Tony sat on the bed for a moment and then began to scream.

“Tony?”

It was the voice of Dr. Demos on the other side of the door.

“Let me out of here!”

“Tony, calm down. We can discuss this, but you have to be in a receptive state.”

“Let me out or I'll have you killed.”

There was a long pause. Finally the door opened, and Dr. Demos cautiously stuck his head in. “How are you feeling today?” he said cheerily.

“Where are my clothes? I need to go to the office.”

“Well, actually you arrived without any.”

“How long have I been here?” Tony asked. “I don't even know what day it is.”

“You had a little breakdown, Tony.” Demos came in and sat in the white plastic chair. His sunglasses made his eyes unreadable. “They brought you here last night.”

“Who? Who did this to me?”

“Your friends. That's all I'm going to say. I don't want you to start threatening people who only want to help you.”

Tony slumped onto the bed. A breakdown!

“We got you on some medication that was supposed to calm you down a bit. You were really a handful, I can tell you. Convulsions, fits of rage.”

“I can't remember anything.”

“That's not unusual in cases of hysteria.”

“Are you saying I'm crazy?”

“We don't use that term,” said Demos. “I could offer you a diagnosis, but frankly it requires a bit more study. In the meantime, we have lots of ways to help you—drugs, therapy, analysis—but mainly what you need is rest.”

“I think maybe you're the one who's crazy, Doctor. Who knows I'm here?”

“No one, really. We've got you registered under another name.”

“Good. Get my uniform here immediately. If we hurry, maybe I can get to the office before anyone suspects.”

“Honestly, Tony, as your doctor I can't really permit this. You're in a pretty fragile state of mind.”

Tony ripped off the thin hospital gown and hurled it in the
face of Dr. Demos. “Look at this, Doctor!” he said, grabbing hold of his balls. “Do you have a pair like this? I didn't think so! Now get my uniform and my driver and let me out of here. I've got a country to run.”

An hour later, dressed in his highly pressed khakis, Tony slipped out the back of the Paitilla Clinic. His bodyguard opened the door to the armored Mercedes and Tony collapsed into the backseat. The bodyguard was a sweet-tempered young man nicknamed Scar because of a traffic accident some years ago in Colón. The path of the injury tugged down one corner of his mouth in a perpetual frown, so that no matter what his mood, his expression always appeared to be full of menace and wrath. Now he also looked guilty and a bit scared.

“Chief, are you okay?” Scar asked tentatively.

“No, I'm a fucking lunatic,” Tony snapped.

As they rode through the city, Tony looked out the window at the sky, which was being bled white in the punishing morning sunshine. Unwelcome fragments of the night before entered Tony's mind. Girls. Drinks. Empty hangers on Felicidad's side of the closet. He was alone. That wasn't a paranoid delusion. He was born to be abandoned by everyone he loved.

Half an hour later the Mercedes passed through the guard station and entered the parking lot of the Comandancia. The barracks were unusually quiet for midmorning. A single soldier leaned against a tank in the courtyard, his M-16 hanging from his shoulder. He snapped to attention as Tony stepped out of the Mercedes. Tony halfheartedly saluted and followed Scar toward the entrance. A few feet past the soldier, Tony heard the ominous sound of a round being loaded into a chamber. Scar suddenly wheeled around with his Uzi drawn, pointed at the wide-eyed young soldier.

“Something going on, Corporal?” Tony asked the soldier, whose face was a pale, tense mask. His nameplate said
Alvaro.
“N-n-no, sir, General, I wa-was just ch-checking the c-c-c-cartridge.”

“Checking the cartridge?”

The stuttering soldier slowly lowered his weapon and opened the chamber for Tony to inspect.

Scar kept his Uzi pointed at the corporal. “General, let's go to Fort Amador,” said Scar. “There's something going on here. It's not safe.”

Tony looked into the pale and clammy face of Corporal Alvaro. He was mestizo, like Tony.

“Is Major Giroldi here, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir. He's in the b-b-b-barracks.”

“Hmm. Very well. Let's go inside,” Tony said to Scar. “Giroldi will know what's going on.”

As soon as Tony entered the building, he heard a warning gunshot from the traitorous corporal outside. It was followed by the sounds of scattering footsteps and doors closing. Tony felt a chill of terror—and remorse. How could he have believed that the soldier would not betray him just because he was mestizo?

Scar pointed his weapon into the empty corridor. “This is not good, General. Let's get out of here.”

Tony drew his pearl-handled pistol. His hands were shaking so violently he could hardly hold it. “I just want to get to my office,” he said.

“Don't do what they're expecting, General.”

“They will have locked the gates by now,” said Tony. “We can't just stand here.”

The two men crept down the hallway, Scar looking to the front and Tony to the rear. A machine gun broke the silence. Tony dived to the floor.

“Cease fire!” a familiar voice cried.

Scar fired a burst from his weapon and then knelt beside Tony. “Chief! Are you all right?”

“I'm okay. They just surprised me.” Tony heard the clicking of automatic weapons locking into place at both ends of the corridor. “There's no way out. We'll have to make a run for the door.”

They ran fifteen feet to the entrance to Tony's office. It was locked. “Have you got a key?” asked Scar.

Tony fumbled in his pockets.

“Quick!”

He found the keys, but he couldn't make his hands work well enough to get the proper key in the lock. Scar snatched it out of his grasp. He quickly opened the door and poked the muzzle of his weapon inside. There was no one there.

As soon as they got inside the office and bolted the door, the phone rang. “General, it's no use,” said the voice that Tony now recognized as that of his trusted Major Giroldi. “Look out your window.”

Tony peeked out through the slatted window toward the battlements that surrounded the Comandancia. Hundreds of soldiers lined the walls, their weapons pointed directly at Tony's office. As soon as Tony's face appeared between the tiny crack in the blinds, a dozen weapons fired, shattering the windows and sending the blinds flying. Tony hit the floor and rolled under his desk. The bullets ripped through ceiling tiles and exploded the fluorescent lights.

“No one should die for this, General,” Giroldi was saying on the phone. “It's time for you to give up power. I am speaking to you now as a friend, not as a soldier. You see that we have taken care of everything. There is no escape. I can only ask you to respect your office and surrender peacefully. If you do, we will protect you. You will not have to fear for your safety. You have my word.”

Scar whispered into his other ear, “Have you got any weapons here? Any extra ammunition?”

Tony shook his head.

“Give up, General,” Giroldi said impatiently. “Throw your weapons into the hall. Otherwise, we will have to kill you.”

“I need a few minutes to think.”

“I'm sorry, General, there will be time for thinking later.
Throw the weapons into the hall now or we will fire. This is the truth.”

Tony slumped in defeat. Scar cracked open the door and sent his machine gun into the hall. It went skittering across the waxed floor.

“Your pistol as well,” Giroldi said.

A moment later the door opened, and Giroldi entered with a dozen other mutinous officers. Two of them pushed Scar against a file cabinet and frisked him. Tony recognized them all—some of his most trusted men, but none of them more so than Moisés Giroldi. His savior! The man he trusted most in the world! Tony had been best man at Giroldi's wedding. The betrayal was complete.

“You have done the wise and honorable thing, General,” Giroldi said. He looked self-consciously triumphant, as if he were posing for a postage stamp. “Now I'll have to ask you to move over there against the wall.”

He gestured to a spot covered with civic awards and photographs of Tony with world leaders.

“What are you going to do?” asked Tony.

“Please, just move over there,” said Giroldi. “I am giving the orders now.”

But Tony's feet wouldn't move. A wavy-haired lieutenant named Contreras shoved him hard. “Don't you understand orders, General?” Contreras said. He roughly led him to the window and jerked open the blinds, holding Tony forward like a trophy. “Look at him! Here's the monster, Tony Noriega!”

A great cheer arose from the men. “Kill the bastard!” some of them cried. Several of the officers in the room agreed. “Yes, let's kill him,” they said. Their voices were thick and excited. “Let's get it over with now.”

Tony's legs went to rubber and he sank to the floor. The rebels laughed at him. “Get up, General,” Scar said encouragingly as the rebels jeered. Then, under his breath, he added, “Be a man.”

Tony wanted to be a man, but he found himself weeping.

Giroldi looked at him with pity. “Don't be afraid. No one is going to die here.”

“What do you want of me?”

“We have a few documents for you to sign. It's a very simple procedure. I think you'll find that we've been more than considerate about your well-being.”

Tony accepted the papers, but when he tried to read them his eyes couldn't take in the words.

“I've got a pen, General.”

“Just—just give me a few minutes, Moisés. I need to pray.”

Giroldi hesitated.

“Don't trust him, Major,” Contreras said urgently. The other officers quickly agreed.

Tony sat on the floor like an infant.

“He must be treated with respect,” Giroldi said. “We will leave him alone to make peace with himself and with God. What can he do? You see for yourselves he is not dangerous anymore.”

When they were gone, Tony quickly grabbed his private phone. It was unbelievable to him that they had not cut his line immediately.

Carmen answered, her voice thick with sleep. “Tony? How dare you call me!” The line went dead.

Tony dialed again. “Carmen, don't hang up! The son of a bitch Giroldi is throwing me out. They're going to shoot me, I'm sure of it.”

“Tony, that's terrible.”

“I agree.”

“I wish you hadn't behaved so badly last night.”

“Carmen, please! I need you to call my supporters! Find somebody! There must be somebody loyal! The Mountain Men division, the Dobermans, even the Digbats—”

There was an insistent knock on the door.

“You don't remember the things you said?”

“Carmen, I beg you! Forgive me! I was stupid, I was hurt! I said things I didn't mean.”

“I hope that's true.”

“Listen, if the Americans aren't in on the coup, there's still a chance. Get the chief of police! Tell him to round up the families of the headquarters staff—Contreras and the others.”

“General?” said Giroldi's voice. “We're coming in.”

“Carmen, this is your chance to be free of me. But if you don't save me, I'm a dead man. So think about what you really want.”

T
HE WHOLE CITY
is throbbing with rumors of a coup,” Father Jorge said as he burst into the library. “Has there been anything on television yet?”

“Not yet,” said the Nuncio, “but it's true—rebel officers have taken over the Comandancia and gunshots have been heard.”

“Gunshots?” Father Jorge looked grim.

“Gunshots, then silence. I suppose that means he's dead now.” The Nuncio was surprised at his own reaction as he said these words. Certainly Panama would be better off without the General, and the Nuncio had to admit that his own life would be made considerably easier without the press of refugees and the constant focus of international attention on Panama. He would happily return to the obscure existence that he had led before Noriega became the world's most despised villain and the Vatican turned its withering eye in his direction. Still, there was a sense of loss, as if something vital had been subtracted from the universe. “It's to be expected, I suppose. I'm sure we'll hear something official, but in the meantime—” The Nuncio suddenly noticed the expression on Father Jorge's face. “You had no part in this, I hope?” he said.