God's Favorite (41 page)

At the end of the street there was a rotten wooden gate, with the seal of the Benedictine Order hanging from a single rusty nail. The abbey itself was quite old, a colonial remnant, with the charm of great age but the liability of being situated in a swampy backwater. Fewer than a dozen monks remained, most of them contemplatives with little connection to the world. Father Jorge strained to remember the name of the abbot, who had invited him to a barbecue once, not long after he arrived in Panama—a thoroughly dismal social occasion.

“Brother Martín!” The name came to his lips the moment the door creaked open and the owlish, gray-bearded monk squinted out of the gloom.

“Your Reverence,” the monk said uncertainly, taking in the impressive vestments.

“It's Father Jorge,” the priest reminded him.

“I hadn't heard the news of your promotion.”

“It's only temporary,” said Father Jorge. “As it happens, I'm in somewhat of a rush. Do you by any chance have a car that I can borrow? The papal Toyota has run out of petrol.”

“Ah.” The monk stood in the gateway, rocking back and forth on his sandals as if he were waiting for instruction. “I never trusted the other fellow anyway,” he said.

“Well, yes, however, the matter of the moment has to do with petrol and automobiles. I have a very pressing appointment and most urgently require your help. This goes to the highest level,” Father Jorge said, and then emphasized, “the very highest level.”

The monk's eyes grew wider with the implication. “But there's none of us here that drives, you see, Your Holiness. Now there is a housekeeper that buys the groceries, but she isn't here at present.”

“If you had some petrol, that would suffice,” Father Jorge said impatiently.

“We might have.”

“Might?”

“Petrol is quite dear, as you know.”

“Is it?”

“To a poor order such as ours. We cherish the little that we have.”

“I assure you that you will be repaid,” said Father Jorge, who then felt the need to add, “with interest.”

That seemed to be exactly the incentive Brother Martín was waiting for. He opened the gate and permitted Father Jorge to enter.

“It's only that we have some sizable expenses. Just look at the broken glass,” the monk said as he led Father Jorge through the dim mission. “We have more than a score of windows to repair. It's been one window after another with all these strange explosions. I don't know where we'll get the money for all the repairs.”

“The whole city is in a shambles,” said Father Jorge.

“I'm not surprised. It's been
boom, boom, boom.”

“Well, there was a war.”

“Really? There's a war?”

“Was
a war. It's over now.”

“You hear so little news here,” Brother Martín said regretfully.

Twenty minutes later Father Jorge drained the contents of a five-gallon can into the Toyota's tank. He kicked the side of the
car to wake up Manuelito and said his farewells to the insufferable Brother Martín, who held the empty petrol can and cast a gloating look at them. “Remember the windows, Your Reverence!” he called. “We are dependent on the charity of our fellows!”

“Merry Christmas,” Father Jorge said sullenly. Charity, indeed! Father Jorge now had a list of requisitions that ran on to a second page. He sighed and stuffed the list into the pocket of the Nuncio's cassock.

Manuelito peeked through the spokes of the steering wheel and pointed them toward Via España.

The Dairy Queen was well attended for Christmas Eve. Seven or eight cars waited at the speaker stations, which were entwined with plastic poinsettias, while roller-skating waitresses whizzed among them like bees going from blossom to blossom. One of them stuck her head partially in the window and stared ironically at Father Jorge. “What would you like?” she asked.

“Uh, Coke, please.”

“That's all? What about you, Grandpa?”

“I'll have a Beltbuster and a large fries and a medium Dr Pepper,” said Manuelito.

As they waited for their order, Father Jorge called the Nuncio on a pay phone and told him of their delay. “I may have missed him altogether,” he said.

“It's just as well, since I haven't been able to rouse the Americans anyway. Apparently there has been some sabotage of their phone lines. You may as well return.”

But first Manuelito had to eat. He put his teeth back in and began to nibble.

Thirty minutes later, Father Jorge noticed that a Land Cruiser with tinted windows was passing by for the second time. It slowed, then pulled into the slot next to them just as Manuelito was finishing his last french fry. The driver's window lowered and a man with a ferocious facial scar peered out. Suddenly both doors opened and two men abruptly got out and jumped into the
Toyota, the scarred man in the front seat with Manuelito and the other man in back with Father Jorge.

Tony recognized Father Jorge immediately. “Is this some kind of priestly trick?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“Where is the Nuncio?”

“He was indisposed. He sent me instead.”

“Even the Church betrays me,” Tony said furiously.

“If you want to go to the nunciature, you can come with me. Otherwise, we'd be happy to drop you elsewhere,” Father Jorge said. “The Libyans, the Iraqis?”

Tony clenched his teeth. The men rode in silence for a while. This was actually the first time Father Jorge had seen the General up close. He seemed remarkably harmless despite the weapon that was visible under his T-shirt.

“What are you looking at?” Tony said sharply.

“I didn't realize you were so small.”

Tony turned away in disgust. “I had a file on you. You were the pig who was always preaching against me. I could have gotten rid of you like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Why didn't you?”

“Because my heart is soft.”

Father Jorge smiled slightly. “I can't imagine that my humble sermons caused you such distress. I was only saying masses for Hugo. My reputation for being outspoken is more than I deserve.”

“You look a bit like him, you know,” Tony observed. “Pretty.”

“Thank you,” said Father Jorge.

“Handsomeness is a serious fault in some men. They think that because of their looks they are morally superior, that God has cast them in the leading role. That was Hugo's problem. He had the face of a movie star but the mind of a chorus girl. I don't really think he was destined for greatness in life.”

“Perhaps he would not have been so important if you had not had him killed.”

Tony pulled his cap down over his eyes and said not another word.

I
'
M AFRAID OUR QUARTERS
are quite spartan,” said the Nuncio as he led Tony upstairs. “We've made a little dormitory in the parlor. Your bodyguard can sleep there. Meanwhile, we've made the best room available for you. Father Jorge and I are at either end of the hall. Yours is right here.
Voilà!”

He opened the door to a cubicle containing a cot, a crucifix, a window air conditioner, and a black-and-white Philco television set with a taped-together antenna. “It's small but it's clean. I'm afraid the appliances don't work very well, the air conditioner not at all, the television set only occasionally. In any case, dinner is at seven and there is a Christmas mass at midnight.”

“Thank you,” Tony said numbly. The room already looked like prison to him.

The Nuncio went down to the kitchen, where the staff was assembled. There were four nuns, including Sister Sarita, who acted as their mother superior; the driver, Manuelito; and a young Chinese gardener from Uruguay. The Nuncio looked them over carefully. Any one of them could be the Vatican's spy.

“Under no circumstances is the General to use the phone or receive outside messages,” the Nuncio told them. “We don't want him setting up office here. We also need to maintain control over the information he receives. In the end, this is a Panamanian matter and we must treat it that way. We will offer General Noriega respect and try at all times to ensure his safety, but remember that our ultimate goal is to spare the Holy Father any further embarrassment. Sister Sarita, will you hide the fax machine?”

That evening the Basque terrorists prepared a large turkey with sausage stuffing and candied yams for Christmas dinner. The dining room was festooned with plastic ivy and garlands of immortelles. The remaining refugees made a touching effort to
dress for the occasion, given that most of them had arrived with nothing more than the clothes on their back.

“Isn't the General going to join us?” the Nuncio asked Scar, who was enthusiastically helping himself to a second portion of turkey.

“Oh, he would never eat this,” said Scar.

“I didn't realize the General had dietary restrictions.”

“He's a vegetarian,” said Scar. “Two things you never do around General Noriega: eat meat and smoke. He's a fanatic on these subjects.”

The Nuncio absorbed this information without comment.

The radio was playing Christmas songs and the guests were chatting so volubly that the Nuncio did not hear the commotion outside. Suddenly he noticed that the silverware was chattering and the candelabra began to shimmy as if there were a small earthquake. Conversation died and the guests looked at each other in confusion.

“Monseñor! The building is surrounded by gringos!” Sister Sarita reported.

“Now they come!” the Nuncio exclaimed.

As he came out of the front door, the Nuncio shielded his eyes against the glare of the headlights from a dozen tanks. The rumble was deafening. Past the glare he could see the dark forms of the war machines and the toadstool helmets of thousands of American soldiers. The muzzle of a tank cannon pushed against the gate of the nunciature, which was straining and about to burst open.

“Monseñor, I understand that you are harboring an international criminal,” the American general shouted through the bars.

“Apparently we have been chosen for this purpose.”

“I want you to get your people out of there. Either you hand him over to us or we're coming in.”

“Do as you wish,” said the Nuncio. “I'm delighted that you're taking this problem off my hands. But this is not the way to go about it.”

“We've got thirty thousand troops who've been hunting night and day for this turkey. I don't see how you're going to stop us.”

“Obviously, I can't. If you choose to enter against my will, I cannot prevent it.”

“I'm glad you see my point.”

“However, you should consider the fact that once you pass through this gate, you will be standing on the soil of the Vatican. As far as international law is concerned, that would be equivalent to invading Saint Peter's Square. Certainly it would be a brilliant moment in your career, General. Thirty thousand American troops assaulting the Catholic Church—this could be the most memorable public-relations disaster since the Huns entered Rome.”

General Honeycutt rocked thoughtfully on his heels while his mighty machines gurgled and thrummed like hungry animals.

“In the meantime, I hope you'll excuse me,” the Nuncio said. “We're at dinner.”

F
ROM HIS WINDOW
Tony had been watching the massing of troops—more soldiers than he had ever seen anywhere, more than his entire army. Helicopters hovered like a swarm of mutant mosquitoes. He had seen the Nuncio go out and talk to the American general and he wondered what arrangement they had come to. For a few cherished hours, Tony had actually felt safe in this room; now he expected that he would be hurled into the arms of the waiting Americans at any moment, or else that some specially trained squad of men in black would suddenly burst through his window and snatch him. Or murder him. They were capable of anything.

He missed his beautiful daughters. He missed his birds. He missed Carmen.

He was sitting in his bed, cradling his pillow, when he heard the knock on his door.

A potbellied man stood there in his undershorts. It took a
fraction of a second for Tony to realize that he was looking at himself.

“I thought you might need a mirror,” said the Nuncio. “Our own rooms don't have them, but we realize that our guests have different considerations.”

“Thank you,” Tony said, mustering up as much dignity as possible.

The Nuncio propped the mirror against a wall. “I'll have one of the nuns hang it for you in the morning.”

“You spoke to the Americans.”

“Yes, they seemed to require a lesson in international diplomacy. But I think now they at least understand the concept of sanctuary.”

“They are still here, however.”

“Of course it would be too much to hope that they would simply leave us alone. I'm afraid we're in for a long siege.”

“How long?”

“That will depend entirely on you. You can stay here as long as you wish,” the Nuncio said reassuringly as he produced a large meerschaum pipe, which he had saved from his college days, and filled it with a particularly sweet tobacco called Three Nuns. It amused him to think of it as Catholic tobacco. He hadn't smoked in nearly thirty years. “I would never consider forcing you to leave. But perhaps we should discuss your future plans.”

“I prefer to go to Mexico or Spain,” said Tony as clouds of tobacco smoke began to form in the room.

“Unfortunately Mexico has refused to respond to our query and Spain has withdrawn its previous offer.”

“Did they say why?”

The Nuncio shrugged and puffed.

“Cuba, then,” said Tony.

“Yes, but the U.S. will never allow that, and I doubt the Panamanians will, either. Frankly, we haven't had a good response to our requests for asylum. As I see it, there are three alternatives. Stay here”—puff—“turn yourself over to the Panamanian authorities”
—puff—“or trust yourself to the American legal system. Who knows what a good lawyer might do for you?” Puff puff puff.