ON THE SECOND DAY, Monsignor Laboa came out of the embassy, crossing the avenue to the Catholic School where we had set up our command center. By then, a fairly large group of officers had gathered there, including Wayne Downing and U.S. Army South Commander General Mark Cisneros.
A small, older gentleman with white hair and spectacles, Laboa wore black trousers and a black shirt with a clerical collar. With regard to Noriega, he said, his hands were tied: “I am obligated to discuss this situation with the Vatican. I’m not in a position to make a decision on my own.”
That sent us into a holding pattern, with the Pineapple holed up in the wire-wrapped, sniper-scoped nunciatura and several hundred American soldiers waiting for him outside. Several times a day, one of us would cross the street to chat with either the priest or the papal nuncio. They shared very little information, and showed no signs of wanting to give Noriega up.
In taking the dictator in, Laboa was upholding the Vatican tradition of offering sanctuary to anyone fleeing persecution. I wasn’t sure how Noriega, Panama’s chief persecutor, fit that definition. It wasn’t until later I learned Laboa was all the while gently pressuring Noriega to surrender. No country would give him refuge, the priest told the dictator. The Americans had him surrounded. A peaceful, formal surrender would be the most dignified option.
Also, I learned Laboa did not mean for the Pineapple to get too comfortable: The nuncio housed Noriega in a room barely larger than a closet, decorated only with a crucifix. The dictator’s amenities included a television that didn’t work, a window that didn’t open, and zero air-conditioning. Apparently, he didn’t have access to a washer and dryer, either: Every now and then, one of the snipers would report that they could see a pair of red briefs hanging outside on a clothes line.
One night, I was sitting around at the school with Major Darrell Poor, a task force doctor, shooting the breeze. “You know what, Doc?” I said. “There’s only one thing I want out of this whole operation.”
“What’s that?”
“Noriega’s red drawers.”
Poor burst out laughing.