God's Favorite (33 page)

Giroldi's eyes fell away from Tony's stare.

“Is the compound secure?” Tony asked the captain.

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm tired of all this shit!” Tony suddenly cried. He picked up Giroldi's weapon and fired it into the face of Corporal Alvaro. The top of the young man's head disappeared.

Tony threw the weapon back on the desk. He looked into Giroldi's weeping eyes. “Can you believe this?” Tony asked him. “Is this luck? I should be dead! I should be lying there with my head blown off like that poor whore's son!”

There were five other rebels in the room besides Giroldi. Now they shrank back against the wall, ashen with fear and shaking like trees in a storm. Giroldi dropped to the floor and began pounding his head against the linoleum tiles.

“It's a miracle!” said Tony, “a fucking miracle! Do you believe in miracles, Giroldi?”

Giroldi sobbed and continued to beat his head against the floor.

“You're a religious man, I assume you do.” Tony reached for a ceremonial machete above the couch. It had been given to him by the president of Venezuela, who told him that it had once belonged to Simón Bolivar. It was one of Tony's most cherished trinkets. He felt the edge of the blade.

“Kneel down,” he said to Contreras.

Contreras dropped to his knees.

“Love is a miracle,” Tony continued. “Until now, I never felt its force. But I have been saved by the love of a woman and by the grace of God. It's amazing, isn't it? What did I do to deserve it? I can't think of anything, can you?”

Giroldi appeared to be going completely mad.

“I don't know where I get this power,” said Tony. “Somebody up there is taking care of me.” He looked again at Contreras. “Stretch your hands out on the desk.”

Contreras looked up at him, his eyes pleading, but Tony stared back with a gay implacability. Then the wavy-haired lieutenant placed his trembling hands on Tony's desk. Everyone in the room was silent and agog.

“You pushed me, remember?” asked Tony. “That was rude.” He looked out the window where the Mountain Men were now commanding the walls. He waved his arms over his head and grinned as they cheered. Then, with a movement so rapid and powerful it was difficult to see, Tony brought the machete down across Contreras's wrists, slashing cleanly through the bones. Contreras withdrew the stumps of his arms and stared wordlessly at the arterial blood gushing out of them like firehoses. On the desk, his severed hands twitched eerily.

Several of the Mountain Men began to retch.

“I want a little more respect around here!” Tony shouted.

“Oh, God, please stop this!” Giroldi prayed. “Kill me! Kill me! Somebody kill me now!”

“Oh, Major, that would be so disappointing. Stand up,” he
said. Giroldi struggled to his feet and looked in Tony's eyes. Tony brushed the bloody machete against Giroldi's cheek, then rested it on his neck. It was so tempting. But then Tony turned to the captain of the Mountain Men. “Major Giroldi says he wants to die, but I don't think he wants it enough. Besides, we have a few questions to ask him. Then we'll consider his request.”

Tony took a handkerchief out of his pocket and meticulously wiped the blood from Giroldi's face. “Moisés, you were my friend,” he said. Then he kissed Giroldi on the lips—a long, furious kiss. He could feel Giroldi's soul disappearing.

“Just don't kill him,” Tony told the captain. “Everything else.”

T
O-NY
!
TO-NY
!
TO-NY
!”

Tony stood before the cheering crowd and waved the bloody machete over his head. In his other hand he held a carved icon of Christ. The worshipful crowd in the little provincial town of Santiago de Veraguas swelled the square and choked up the streets and alleyways. They reached out their hands to Tony, their eyes filled with tears, their mouths filled with the sound of his name. Somehow he had found the key to their love. They knew now that he was blessed.

“Thank you, my friends!” Tony cried. He waved the machete, then he waved Christ, and then he basked in the roar of their response.

“What do you think about Tony Noriega now?” he said.

The deafening cry of their love embraced him. Even Torrijos never had a moment like this, he thought. He was everything to them.

He waved for silence now. Reluctantly, the crowd subsided. “First, a prayer of praise and thanksgiving to the just and merciful God of the universe, whom we may call Jehovah, or we may
call Allah, or Yahweh, or Buddha, or the Universal Conscience of the cathedral of our souls. To him, to this God of the rich and poor, of whites and blacks: We beseech you to bring your presence here today. We ask that all Panamanians overcome their differences and aid us in the mighty struggle ahead. Amen.”

“AMEN!”

“Now it is time to be serious,” Tony continued. “I will tell you what transpired on this amazing day. The traitors conspired with the gringos! They asked me to resign, to hand over my country. I said
never
—never will I leave my beloved country!”

“Never! Never!”
the frenzied crowd responded.

“You will have to kill me before I give away my country! It will never happen!”

“Never! Never!”

“Do you know what occurred? They were such cowards they couldn't kill me! Even the mighty United States was too frightened of Tony Noriega!”

The cheers drowned him out. Tony danced around the stage for a moment, then motioned again for silence. “In my heart, I pity the traitors. They trusted the monster of the north, and they themselves were betrayed. Just like the Bay of Pigs, they were left to die. So we learn a lesson. We learn that we cannot trust those who do not love us, who only want to use us. We must put our faith in ourselves. We must learn to be vigilant. Yes, we are surrounded. The enemy is everywhere! He is even inside us, like the worm of death. It's time for the patriots to stand up. You know who the traitors are. You know who celebrated when they thought Tony Noriega was dead. I want their names! I want their names!”

“Names! Names! Names!”

Tony waved them into silence again. They were like a sea of children—his children. “We will cleanse our country of traitors. We will run the American imperialists out of our sacred Canal Zone! We will purge the spies that infest our military institution! We will throw out the seditious foreign priests who are stirring up the malcontents! We will make Panama our country again!”

They loved it. They were crazy for him.

“Good men died today,” Tony said, “soldiers in the courageous Mountain Men division, strong and patriotic warriors. But their blood will not be lost! They have spilled it on their country's soil, and we will grow strong from it. We will become hard and resolute from the blood of the patriots! From now on, our policy will be a bullet for our enemies, a club for the undecided, and money for our friends!”

The friends in the audience cheered.

“We can no longer play the game of democracy while we are dealing with this enemy from within. I stand here today to declare myself your maximum leader for national liberation.”

More cheers as he eliminated the façade of democratic rule.

“You know me! I'm Tony Noriega! A man of peace! A man of patience! But my patience is at an end. Once again the United States has threatened the peace and tranquillity of our country. Once again we have been equal to the task. But I say enough! Enough! Enough! From this moment on, a state of war—”

The cheering stumbled to a confused halt.

“A state of war exists between the peace-loving republic of Panama and the monster of the north! We will stand on the banks of the canal and watch the bodies of our enemies float by!
War! War!
” he cried jubilantly into the abrupt stunned silence.

I
N THE FOLLOWING DAYS
, the Nuncio received reports of American troops arriving in Panama to reinforce the already massive garrisons. Every night the air swarmed with American helicopters, and during the day jets traced cloudy lines in the sky. It would seem suicidal for General Noriega to attempt any attack on the American bases or personnel, and yet soon after the infamous war speech a campaign of harassment against Americans stationed in Panama began in earnest.

Lieutenant Cheever awakened General Honeycutt with the news that a U.S. Army private had been beaten and locked in the
trunk of his car while PDF officers raped his wife. “Not only that, sir, but three American officers have been locked up on trumped-up charges. We've already filed a protest, for whatever good that might do.” For the next several nights American military personnel were roughed up by Panamanian police, who appeared to be under orders to provoke an incident. Meanwhile, a small-scale guerrilla war targeted U.S. bases in the zone. In his top-secret report to the Pentagon, General Honeycutt disclosed that American marines had engaged a squadron of commandos attempting to blow up the fuel tanks at Howard Air Force Base. Several of the commandos were killed, some others wounded, but the Americans covered up the incident when they learned that the guerrillas were Cubans. The provocation could easily have escalated into war with Castro, but for whatever reason, the Americans declined the opportunity. The atmosphere was electric and ready to ignite, but still the affronts continued. All this was taking place during the Christmas season, when the city was lining itself with lights and the streets were filled with posadas instead of demonstrators. Five thousand children had been brought from the interior to view the parades.

There was nothing like a declaration of war to awaken the interest of the press. They quickly filled the rooms of the Marriott, and one could see them at the better restaurants in town, interviewing members of the Civic Crusade and buying drinks for government spokesmen, or filming outside the downtown shopwindow where Guillermo Endara lay in a hospital bed in the third week of his hunger strike. The press had cash, and they were greedily welcomed everywhere.

It was all very exciting and dramatic, much like the atmosphere the Nuncio remembered when the Olympics had come to Rome in 1960. There was that same sense of theater, of being at the center of the world's stage. But so much attention demanded a resolution. Once the curtain rises, the actors tend to play out their roles.

The Panamanian government reacted to the unwanted press
invasion by staging a raid on the reporters' hotel. A heavily armed PDF squad burst into the lobby of the Marriott and beat up members of the Civic Crusade who had been having drinks with reporters at the bar. When several reporters attempted to intervene, they were beaten as well. All of this, by the way, was captured on videotape and aired on the U.S. evening news. The world press reacted by sending vast reinforcements. One couldn't venture out in the evening anymore without fifty requests for interviews.

The Americans made sure that the PDF was aware of their immensely superior force. Nearly every day there were tank exercises outside the zone and overflights by warplanes. Hundreds of body bags were shipped to Gorgas Hospital. At the diplomatic level, the Americans organized an international boycott of Panamanian products. The country was coming to a complete halt commercially.

Despite the hostilities between the two countries, negotiations continued between Noriega and the American State Department, with the Nuncio acting as a go-between. He tried to keep the Americans flexible, but after the rape of the soldier's wife and the attack on American bases, it was all the Nuncio could do to keep the ambassador on the phone. “This time he's gone too far,” the ambassador kept saying, and yet every day there was some new outrage to add to the media bonfire. The latest American position papers showed an increasing reluctance to negotiate—another sign that the military option was gaining favor.

The Nuncio thought that there was still a chance that General Noriega would listen to reason. Clearly, the advantages of staying in power were quickly disappearing. Moreover, the Nuncio had finally achieved a breakthrough: the Americans agreed to drop the indictments. The U.S. Justice Department was howling, but the key to the settlement was on the table at last, the Nuncio believed. He tried to contain his euphoria, but he had to admit that it was a diplomatic triumph. Perhaps even the Vatican
would recognize it as such, should the secret dealings ever come to light. (They always come to light.)

He persuaded Sister Sarita to prepare the sugared biscuits that General Noriega had so enjoyed on a previous visit to the nunciature. At four in the afternoon, the nun showed the General into the library, where the Nuncio was waiting with a bottle of rather extraordinary sherry that he had been saving for a special occasion.

“Don't you find her attractive?” Tony asked when the nun had left them alone.

“Sister Sarita?” the Nuncio said in disbelief. “She's nearly as old as I am, if that could be possible.”

“Still, there's something sexy about her.”

“Indeed?”

“And I rarely find nuns that appealing.”

“Nor do I, thank goodness.”

Tony giggled. “This must be evidence of my disturbed mental state. Everyone is saying that Tony is crazy.” In fact, his laugh did sound a little hysterical.

“I assume you are not so crazy that you actually want to go to war with the Americans.”

“Want it? No. But I am ready.”

“But really, General, the Americans could destroy this charming little country in the space of a few minutes. The prospect of seeing those awful machines turned on Panama fills me with horror. I mean, you're a military man—can there be any question about the inevitable conclusion to such a contest?”

“They thought the same about Vietnam.”

“Somehow I don't see you as another Ho Chi Minh.”