God's Favorite (40 page)

Father Jorge joined the Nuncio for a small lunch in the garden. So much had happened in the past few weeks that the two of them had not had time for their usual intimate chats. Father Jorge longed for the innocent pleasure of a time that now seemed beyond claiming, a time when he knew his calling and felt secure in God's service. Now he even doubted the goodness of God's intentions. Evil flourished, and wherever he saw the work of God there seemed also to be the trace of mischief.

They began with a tureen of chilled soup. Both men were so exhausted they could scarcely eat. “The snoring,” said the Nuncio. “Last night sounded like Roman traffic in the middle of the day.”

“The Hungarians took five more,” Father Jorge reported.

The Nuncio stared stupidly at a blue butterfly that had settled on a hibiscus blossom.

“You'd think there'd be more outrage,” Father Jorge said after a while.

“Mmm?”

“It's been a continual party ever since the Americans landed. I've never heard of a people who were so happy to be occupied by a foreign army. And yet I still wonder at the need for the invasion. If the goal was to kidnap—or kill—Noriega, did they really need such a massive display of force? All those soldiers, and so far they've failed.”

“It suggests that there is a larger design behind their stated goal,” said the Nuncio.

“The canal?”

“It's obvious, isn't it? The U.S. wants to continue to control it despite the treaty that makes them surrender it a decade from now.”

“You think they will abrogate the treaty?”

“Control can be achieved by other means. The Americans had the opportunity to encourage a moderate successor from within the ranks of the PDF. For whatever reason, they failed to do this. Perhaps it was incompetence or uncertainty about the nature of the successor. Perhaps it was a debt to Noriega because of his long service to the CIA. But I think the real reason is more profound. The Americans have decided that the way to control the canal is to eliminate the PDF. That way the Panamanians will permanently depend on the Americans to defend the canal. This entire kidnapping scheme is a pretense for the destruction of the Panamanian military.”

“But is that bad?” asked Father Jorge. “The whole institution is completely corrupt. Perhaps now the Panamanians have a chance to reform their country.”

“I suppose,” said the Nuncio doubtfully. He forced himself to take another helping of the soup. “Soon this entire adventure will be over,” he mused aloud. “Given the present climate of opinion in the Vatican, I've begun to consider retirement. But the truth is, I don't think I'm well suited for it. Compared to other alternatives, it may not be the worst destiny to befall a man my age. But I simply cannot picture myself sitting beside a cozy fire in some provincial cottage, much less rocking in a file of drooling priests on the porch of a geriatric monastery.”

Father Jorge said, “I've been considering retirement as well.”

The Nuncio was rarely caught so completely off guard. “You? But you are a fine priest with a golden future! I can't imagine what would make you think otherwise. I've seen how your congregation has grown, how they value your spiritual leadership. I realize that you are politically at odds with the Holy See, but the Church is not so rich in talent that it can afford to ignore a priest with a following.”

“It's not the politics that concerns me,” said Father Jorge hesitantly. “In the past few months, I've made some unhappy discoveries about myself. I'm a weak man, weak in spirit and in flesh. Until recently, I thought I had a certain moral authority. I believed I knew how the world worked and what was right and what was wrong. Now I realize that the world is more mysterious than I thought. I don't know anymore what is right or wrong. I used to think I was a force for good, but now I'm worried that I'm actually doing harm. I'm not a moral authority, I'm just a poor naive priest with a good education and a very limited experience in the world.”

“We're all limited by our experience,” said the Nuncio. “Perhaps you have made some mistakes—I know you hold yourself responsible for poor Giroldi—but you acted in good conscience.
He would have done what he did with or without your guidance. The consequences would have been the same.”

“My mistakes are more than just errors of judgment, I'm afraid,” he said. “I've violated my vows.”

The Nuncio looked at his secretary with great concern. He knew that there was more that the younger man wanted to say, but he was desperate to keep him from saying it. “Whatever is on your mind, I urge you to wait until this chaos subsides. We're all depleted by the press of events. Things that are said in the confusion of the moment cannot always be taken back.”

Just then Sister Sarita come running into the garden. “It's him,” she said.

“Who?”

“On the phone. The Little General. Pineapple Face.”

The Nuncio and Father Jorge exchanged a meaningful look. “It's just as I predicted,” said the Nuncio. When he picked up the phone, he heard the familiar grating tenor of the fugitive dictator.

“Merry Christmas,” said Tony.

“How kind of you to call,” said the Nuncio. “Merry Christmas to you as well.”

“I understand you've taken in many of our friends. We wanted to thank you for that.”

“Indeed, we're deluged, as you know,” the Nuncio replied. “Crammed with refugees. We're sleeping in shifts and nearly starving. Everything is rationed, down to the razor blades and toilet paper.”

“Still, you do the right thing,” said Tony.

“The bare minimum. Only what international law requires, no more.”

“And yet everyone in Panama appreciates your hospitality.”

“Not
everyone,
I hope, although we've served far more than our share.”

“If another refugee sought sanctuary, would he be safe?”

“Some refugees are more conspicuous than others,” the Nuncio said, silently praying that the Americans were monitoring his phone. “Moreover, there is the matter of protocol. In certain cases I would have to submit a request to the Vatican.”

“How long would that take?”

“Perhaps three days, if it is expedited.”

“I don't think you have such high requirements for your other guests. However, I understand the need for consultation. So I propose to allow you ten minutes to make the call. We can do the paperwork afterward.”

“Ten minutes! One cannot even get a Roman operator in that time!”

“I find myself at a crossroads, Monseñor. There are two directions open to me. One is to seek the sanctuary of a friendly legation. The other is to go into the jungles with my ragged army and wage years of guerrilla warfare against the imperialist puppet regime. Who knows how many will die in the struggle? It would be a tragedy if you felt personally responsible for the death of so many brave soldiers.”

“Indeed,” the Nuncio said reluctantly.

“So I leave it in your hands, Monseñor. Merry Christmas.”

The Nuncio hung up the phone and without a pause he picked it up again and began to dial a number.

“What are you doing?” asked Father Jorge.

“I'm calling the Americans. I warned them he would be coming here, but apparently they didn't believe me.” He listened incredulously as the phone rang and rang. “Have they no one in the entire embassy?” Finally he hung up and turned to Father Jorge. “What's the name of your contact at the CIA?”

Father Jorge was too shocked to answer.

“Quickly, there's no time for temporizing,” said the Nuncio.

“Rollins,” said the priest.

“Call him immediately and tell him the situation.”

Father Jorge dialed the number and asked for Rollins.

“Who shall I say is calling?” said the secretary.

“Thumper,” the priest said under his breath, but not so quietly that the Nuncio failed to hear.

“Not a good time to talk, Thumper,” said Rollins, when he got on the line. “Everything's gone to hell around here.”

“I just wanted to let you know that General Noriega is seeking refuge in the nunciature.”

“By all means, give it to him,” said Rollins.

“What?” Father Jorge said stupidly.

“I'll even cut you another check for your church.”

“But aren't you trying to arrest him?”

“Not us. As far as the agency is concerned, he's one of our own. I hope we'd do the same for you, Thumper.”

Father Jorge hung up and started to say something to the Nuncio, but the expression on the priest's face said enough. “Well, in that case, we'll have to think of something else,” said the Nuncio. “Our obligation is to keep the pope from inheriting this . . . time bomb! Believe me, the Vatican will want nothing to do with this. Whatever justification we use will be lost on Cardinal Falthauser. Moreover, we will have to hand him over to the Americans in the end, so we will wind up looking like cowards. They have a warrant that appears to be perfectly legal.”

Father Jorge sank into the wing-back chair. “I suppose we could hand him over to the Panamanians.”

“Excellent idea,” said the Nuncio. “Either they put his head on a stick or they let him run the country again. Which of these outcomes do you prefer?”

The phone rang again.

“Hello, General,” the Nuncio said unhappily. “I don't believe it has been ten minutes.”

“And yet I think you have had time to make your decision,” said Tony.

The Nuncio sighed.

“You will need to pick me up in the embassy car,” Tony continued.
“I don't trust the Americans to let me in if I just show up. It's too dangerous.”

When the Nuncio hung up, he sat at his desk and glowered. Father Jorge had never seen such an expression on his mentor's face.

“So you agreed?”

“He's waiting at the Dairy Queen,” the Nuncio said.

“Shall I have your car brought round?”

“Yes,” said the Nuncio, “but I'm not going. You are.”

“I distinctly heard you say that
you
were meeting him.”

“It's far more important that I reach the ambassador and get the Americans to intercept him. You put on my vestments. No one will guess you're not me.”

“Noriega will! He knows us both. He'll suspect a trick, and frankly I don't like to think what he might do.”

“Don't worry, he has no choice. When the flood comes, even the goats climb the trees. Here—” The Nuncio took off his skullcap and placed it on Father Jorge's head. “I promote you. Go get my robe and take the papal Toyota. I'll call the Americans. Don't worry. They'll ride to your rescue like the cavalry.”

T
HE STREETS OF
Panama City looked like the aftermath of a hurricane—nearly deserted except for the American soldiers, who were at long last arresting looters. As the Toyota cruised slowly out of town, Father Jorge passed several hog-tied young men lying on their bellies on roughly torn strips of corrugated cardboard. There seemed to be no urgency about collecting them; they were just deposited there, like trash. The priest was growing accustomed to extraordinary sights. He no longer exclaimed at the weirdness all around him. Even his imposture of the Nuncio seemed somehow natural and understandable. He was attired in the full splendid regalia—the collar, the cassock, the velvet cincture, and even the same cordovan moccasins that
the pope favored. Father Jorge couldn't keep from surreptitiously stroking the satiny cassock. There was promise in it.

But these thoughts were interrupted by a
bing! bing! bing!
coming from the dashboard.

“What's the problem?” he asked Manuelito, the white-haired driver whose head did not quite reach over the perimeter of the steering wheel.

Manuelito said something, but Father Jorge couldn't understand. Manuelito slowly pulled over to the curb, then reached into the glove compartment and took out a set of false teeth. “It's about to run out of petrol,” he said when his teeth were in.

“Isn't there a station nearby?”

“Many.”

“What? Are they all closed?”

“It's Christmas Eve, Father.”

“Ah.” Father Jorge thought for a moment. The Dairy Queen was still some distance away, on the outskirts of the city. “Do you think you can make it to the Benedictine abbey? The monks may have a car. Or some petrol at least.”

Manuelito maneuvered the Toyota along the bay toward Old Panama, where the Benedictines maintained their small monastery. The tide was out and predatory terns congregated on the glistening rocks of the shoreline. At the edge of the rain forest stood the ruins of Old Panama. The graceful spire of a gutted cathedral rose above the loamy jungle soil. There was something spookily alive and emergent about the ghostly city that the pirate Morgan had put to the torch three hundred years ago. Father Jorge reflected on the fact that there was nothing more charming than seeing the wreck of a former civilization—but then he remembered the charred remains of Chorrillo and the heartbreak of his parishioners. Soon, no doubt, the entire neighborhood would be razed and planted over with far superior apartments, financed by American reparations, but it still seemed a loss that nature wasn't allowed to reclaim some part of modern civilization—to dignify it by letting it go to ruin.
These guilty thoughts were interrupted by a coughing from the engine. The Toyota lurched forward violently, sputtered, and lurched again before slowing to a halt and expiring in a last frustrated burp. Father Jorge got out and walked the last half mile.

He turned down a cobblestone path. Here the walking became precarious, especially since the Nuncio's shoes were rather too small for him. They were little more than carpet slippers anyway—thin, Italian made, so that every pebble made an impression underfoot. A boy passed by pushing a bicycle cart and nearly fell off as he observed the spectacle of Father Jorge in the Nuncio's grand costume; then the boy laughed and began honking his rubber horn.