Parallel to the railroad tracks was the canal itself, which was merely a dredged-out industrial river until it reached the Miraflores Locks at the foot of Fort Clayton. There the ships ascended the first of those gravity-mocking elevators that caused the waterway to rise above the natural riverbed and made the ships appear to hover giddily above the landscape. They entered the canal from the Caribbean port of Colón, floated over the mountains, and dropped into the Pacific beside Panama City. The Nuncio rode past the port, which was strongly lit by mercury lights and the slanting rays of the setting sun. There was a long line of lorries parked beside the warehouses, and beyond them were the crowded wharves and the huge cranes cutting tangents across the orange horizon. Manuelito drove so slowly that the workers who were finishing their shift walked casually across the road in front of the embassy Toyota, laughing and smoking, some of them casting curious looks at the yellow-and-white Vatican flag and the Nuncio inside.
Just past the port lay the Amador peninsula. The military base there was now home to the Panama Defense Forces. As he rode through the base, the Nuncio mused that the clerical life was a near cousin to the military one. He, too, had spent most of his life in the company of men, living in comparatively spartan quarters not much different from the barracks that these young soldiers occupied. He wondered how his rank would translate into military terms. He supposed that as an archbishop he would be the equivalent of a colonel—at least he hoped he wasn’t lower on the chain of command than that.
The peninsula narrowed into a spit of land not much wider than the palm-lined causeway. The canal lay on one side and the Bay of Panama on the other. Absorbing this inspiring view were several of the choicest houses in the entire country. Once they had been the quarters for senior American military personnel. Now that Fort Amador had reverted to the PDF, the houses served as homes for Carlos Lehder, the Ochoa brothers, and Pablo Escobar, the fugitive leaders of the Medellín drug cartel. More than a hundred other Colombian lawyers, accountants, bodyguards, and personal trainers were living in the best hotels in the country. The cartel’s business was now run from the lobby of the Caesar Park Marriott. Since Noriega took power, Panama had become a safe haven for the worst people in the world.
There was a little outdoor bistro at the tip of Amador that the Nuncio favored, more for the view than the food. He sat under one of the Cinzano umbrellas, which lent a nostalgic Roman ambience to the spot. An endless wavering line of running lights of the great ships, queued to enter the canal, stretched far out into the Pacific. Closer at hand, the catalpa trees were filling up with chattering parakeets, which were settling in for the night. Across the bay, the wicked city was getting dressed for the evening.
Father Jorge finally appeared, trailing apologies.
“Perhaps we should go ahead and order,” the Nuncio said. “I can recommend the grilled corvina, only because there is so little that can go wrong with such a dish. With a taste of garlic and lime, it’s quite reliable.”
“I’m not at all hungry.”
The Nuncio looked at his secretary with open exasperation. He had been looking forward to this dinner all day. Moreover, the young man’s asceticism was becoming annoying. “Look at you, your watchband is sliding nearly to your elbow,” the Nuncio chided. “You do yourself no merit by starving yourself.”
“I’m not starving, I’m just not hungry. But I’ll watch you eat.”
“At least get a bowl of bouillabaisse,” the Nuncio pleaded. “Otherwise, I’ll feel like a glutton on display.”
When the waiter came, the Nuncio ordered the pescado alcaparrado, a striped bass in caper sauce. “I recall that it’s prepared with minced carrots and something odd that I can’t bring to mind.”
“Turnips,” said the waiter.
“Ah,” the Nuncio said appreciatively. “The turnips are a surprise. So then you must have something a little bitter to balance the flavors.”
“It’s garnished with almonds.”
“Of course,” the Nuncio said. He sensed Father Jorge’s amusement. Well, it was his loss that he didn’t appreciate the soulfulness of food. The Nuncio never felt more in tune with the glory of creation than he did at the dinner table.
Father Jorge obediently ordered the bouillabaisse.
“So, what pressing business at the parish detained you?” the Nuncio inquired testily. Part of his displeasure was that he missed seeing Father Jorge, who had gotten so involved with the parish, and he simply felt neglected. He was surprised when the priest averted his eyes.
“In fact, I was not at the parish,” Father Jorge confessed.
“Really? I thought you said you were tied up in Chorrillo.”
“That was a lie,” Father Jorge said.
The Nuncio stared at him speechlessly.
“I was told not to let anyone know where I was,” Father Jorge said, stammering in embarrassment. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I can’t allow myself to deceive you.”
The waiter poured a sip of wine, and the Nuncio pretended to taste it.
“A few citizens have formed a group,” Father Jorge said in a low voice when the waiter had gone. “We are studying nonviolent ways to resist the tyranny. Right now it’s important that we meet in secret.”
The Nuncio was so alarmed by this news that for a moment he could not manage a response. Father Jorge had never expressed a single political opinion that the Nuncio was aware of, and now he was engaging in an activity of surpassing dangerousness. The Nuncio tugged nervously at his tangled eyebrows. “There is nothing secret in this country,” he warned.
“I’m sure you are right, and it is my belief that we should be open about our goals and methods. We are talking about a peaceful transition to democracy—marches and strikes, that sort of thing, not some kind of armed insurrection.”
“Still, if such actions are even being discussed, then you are signing your death sentence,” said the Nuncio. “Moreover, I should warn you that the Church also condemns involvement in such movements. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of its abhorrence of liberation theology and its determination to remove the clergy from politics. You will not find support from your superiors if you pursue this course of action.”
“You are my superior.”
“I am your superior, yes, in both age and rank, if not in wisdom. And whatever you think of me, I hope that you do not believe I am an enemy of justice. It is a laudable pursuit, God knows. I am certainly not an apologist for the status quo.”
“Silence is also a statement, Monseñor,” Father Jorge said evenly.
Never in their relationship had the younger man questioned the Nuncio’s judgment or authority. Certainly his secretary knew how perilous his actions might prove to be. Central America was a graveyard for idealists. Even if General Noriega spared him, his promising career in the Church would be ruined. Unwelcome memories of priests whose careers he personally had crushed flooded in on the Nuncio. Like Father Jorge, they had been earnest, pious men, committed but naive. Those who survived the repression they fought against were destroyed by the institution they served. One day a man would come, a man like the Nuncio—canny and hard—and the ideals of the priest would mean nothing to him.
“You must be careful that you don’t stir up too much wrath,” the Nuncio warned. “I would not presume to lecture you on morality. But on tactics—this is an area of expertise that I hope you would grant me. To navigate these difficult waters, you need to have a clear plan and a knowledge of what lies ahead. You can’t go sailing into the storm heedless of the consequences.”
“Tactics are important. But more important is public pressure. The people should be marching in the streets, not strategizing in the coffeehouses. Noriega will not be outmaneuvered. He must be overthrown.”
“If that is what you are talking about, then I beg you to disband immediately,” the Nuncio pleaded. “Be certain that you have already been marked by Noriega’s men. We should find you another post out of the country as quickly as possible.”
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“That may be your choice, Monseñor, but if it is my decision, I prefer to stay.”
The Nuncio held his chilled wineglass in both hands. How much easier it is, he thought bitterly, to be young and defiant than to be old and cautious. The rebel who is fighting for a change is so much more appealing than the old man who only wants to survive. “There was a young priest I met when I first arrived in this country,” he said. “Father Gallego—he held a small parish in the countryside. Probably you would not think of him as a radical. I know he did not think of himself that way. He attempted only a few simple, decent things, such as organizing peasants for housing and setting up agricultural cooperatives. But somehow he offended a relative of Torrijos. He was arrested and then disappeared. Of course, you’ve heard this story hundreds of times in Salvador, but it was unusual in Panama. No one thought that he had committed such a great offense. Later, we heard he was beaten into a coma, then taken into a helicopter over the Pacific. The name of the soldier who pushed him out of the helicopter was Noriega. For many of us, it was the first time we had heard that name.”
“I know about his capacity for violence,” said Father Jorge. “I promise you I am not that naive.”
“I didn’t say that. The point about poor Father Gallego is that he did not become the martyr he deserved to be, either to the people of Panama or to the Church. He became a joke. People laughed about why, if he was so holy, he couldn’t fly. His reputed killer became the ruler of the country, the confidant of American presidents. Even the pope receives him. So what is the lesson one draws from this?”
“If you are suggesting that the righteous suffer and evil is rewarded—well, this does not come as a surprise to me,” said Father Jorge. “Our actions still must be based on what we know is right. One only hopes that God will judge us more fairly.”
The Nuncio saw the hopelessness of changing his secretary’s mind. “Well, then, allow me to become involved,” he said.
“You? But you said you are opposed to everything we are doing!”
“I am opposed to the way that you are doing it—meeting in secret, whispering against the government. Such actions are bound to draw attention and brutal reprisals. If you are plotting revolution, it has to be done openly and in such a way that it appears to be harmless. And the best way to do that is to let an old man be your leader. It is youth that power fears.”
“What about the Church?”
The Nuncio shrugged. “For some time the Vatican has paid no attention to me. I think they expect me to die or retire momentarily. They are not likely to notice the idle talk of an old renegade. We can meet in the nunciature, as if it is perfectly normal. But please, promise me that there will be no more of these underground conspiracies.”
When the waiter brought their dinners, the Nuncio stared at his garnished sea bass without appetite. He watched as Father Jorge dumped chili sauce into his soup—a puzzling Latin habit that turned all food into an overheated sameness. There was a new game to be played, and despite what he had said, the Nuncio knew how dangerous it could be. His career—and his life—had nearly run their course; Father Jorge’s were just leaving the gate. He must do what he could do to save him.
CHAPTER 6
OLLIE, YOUR GLASS is empty,” Tony observed. He signaled to one of the several topless stewardesses aboard his yacht, Macho III. “Chiquita, another carrot juice for Colonel North.”
Chiquita curtseyed and disappeared into the cabin.
“These ribs are terrific,” said North, wiping his fingers on his bathing suit. “Aren’t you having any?”
“Actually, I don’t eat meat.”
“I’m surprised,” said North.
“I think it’s a sin to eat the flesh of other animals. Of course, you should enjoy your meal, don’t worry about the moral consequences.”
North studied the pork rib in his hand and then took another bite. “You know, this really interests me. I mean, all through history, man has eaten meat. In First Timothy, the apostle Paul warns us against vegetarians.”
“Yes,” said Tony, “and because of such foolishness I have turned to the Buddhist faith.”
“Gosh, I don’t know much about that,” said North, wiping the sauce off his chin.
“I used to tell Bill Casey, ‘Buddhism is the only spiritual discipline for a rational man.’ But the Jesuits had him hypnotized.”
Both men were quiet, thinking of the recently deceased CIA director. For Tony, the loss had been particularly worrisome. Casey had been his sponsor for decades.
“But you have other fish to fry, as you Christians say,” Tony continued. “So, how can I help you? This thought is always in the front of my mind—how can I help my American friends?”
“First of all,” North said, smiling brilliantly as he accepted the carrot juice from Chiquita, “thanks for all you’ve done. No, I mean that sincerely. Our two countries have had some misunderstandings. I won’t hide the fact that there was some upset over the Barletta ouster. The thing is, that’s all in the past. There are more important things to consider. We want to continue our special relationship with you. You’ve always been on our side when it counts. Especially with the Contras. The president wants you to know that he appreciates it. From the bottom of his heart. You’ve been at our side in the battle for freedom in Nicaragua.”
“I tell you, Ollie, we’re going to win that war.”
“You don’t need to tell me!”
“I’ve had enough trouble, believe me, with the commies in my own government,” said Tony. Occasionally it was wise to wave the red flag in front of the Americans. “They need a firm hand. To be honest, I think they also need to be a little afraid. Otherwise . . . another Cuba.”
“I would hate to see that, General. We all would.”
“Sometimes a leader in this part of the world has to do things that Americans don’t understand.”
“Well, there I would agree with you,” North said as he watched Chiquita stretch out on the sundeck. He forced himself to look out on the gentle gray swells of Balboa harbor. “Speaking of things that are hard to understand, there’s something else we need to talk about. This is a hard thing to tell a friend. You know about the Senate investigation.”
Tony remembered hearing about it in the CIA briefing in New York.
“Now it turns out that Helms has proposed an amendment to the Intelligence Authorization Bill.”
“Really? Who would let him do that?” asked Tony.
“Well, of course there’s nothing unusual about that, General. You know these senators—always trying to get their way! But this particular amendment requires the CIA to report to the Senate about these . . . I guess you’d call ’em ‘allegations’ about the involvement of the Panamanian military in drug trafficking and money laundering. Also, about the death of this fellow Spadodifera.”
“Spadafora.”
“Right.”
“What does the president think about this proposal?”
“You can count on him to stand firmly against it.”
Tony leaned back and exhaled in relief.
“You seem to be taking this pretty well,” North observed.
“Part of the training we receive as Buddhists is to detach from worldly events,” said Tony. “You give me this information, I ask myself: What can Tony Noriega do about it? The answer is, nothing. Tony Noriega cannot change the course of destiny. He can only observe and realize that all things pass by in the great river of life.”
“Wow,” said North. “I’d like to get to that place, General. That’s the right way of looking at things, that’s for sure. But the thing is, the son of a bitch Helms has the votes.”
“Tell me what you mean exactly,” said Tony. He had never quite understood the nuances of democracy.
“I mean, the Senate is going to have a full-blown investigation. Helms is dead set on it. And it’s going to be a stinker, you can be sure. They’ll subpoena every little gunrunner and dope dealer who ever passed through Pa
nama.”
“I know that my friends at the agency will take care of me.”
“Of course, they’ll do what they can. But it’s a different place over there without the old man. He really loved you. This new guy, the jury’s still out on him. Oh, and speaking of juries, there’s something else I have to tell you. There’s this renegade prosecutor down in Florida.”
“A prosecutor? Have I committed some crime?”
“This jerk is just trying to make a name for himself. They say he’s got your name on a drug indictment.”
Tony laughed genially. “And what are my American friends going to do about it?”
“Gosh, General, there’s not much we can do. They went to a grand jury. I don’t know how much you know about our country, but—”
“After all the favors you ask of me, this is how you repay me?”
“I just feel awful about it.”
“And what about my friend George Herbert Walker Bush?”
“I’m sure he feels awful about it, too.”