TO-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.
IN 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.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. He liked the Nuncio, but he knew that behind those silken vestments there was a skilled manipulator whose cleverly chosen words could prod a man along a path he might not have chosen. “I’m a creature of the jungle, Monseñor. We’ll see who is more suited to combat in the tropics.”
“I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that!”
“You know what Machiavelli said about the Prince? War should be his only profession.”
“Ah, Machiavelli,” the Nuncio said in disgust. “I used to read him in seminary. Under the bedsheets. The pornographer of power.”
Tony laughed. “Yes—‘the pornographer of power.’ I like that! It’s very good. Of course, you and I may disagree on the merits of pornography, but on the subject of power, I believe we have a common understanding. And so I am surprised that you condemn Machiavelli.”
“I don’t see what you get from him.”
“Mainly, that the secret of success is to imitate the great ones of the past.”
“That’s useful, yes,” said the Nuncio. “And who, General, do you model your own life after?”
“Omar Torrijos and Jesus of Nazareth.”
The Nuncio arched his brow. “Once again, I see we have something in common.”
“You priests simply don’t understand that Jesus wasn’t just a religious figure. He was profoundly political.”
“The-brown-skinned-Third-Worlder-standing-against-the-imperial-power sort of thing?”
“Exactly.”
The Nuncio sniffed. “The Marxists held a similar view.”
“And you don’t approve of it.”
“I’m reluctant to see Jesus depicted as a political leader. He told us himself that his kingdom was not of this world.”
“Revisionism,” said Tony. “Look at his actual life—it was an unrelenting struggle against Roman occupation. The Romans were not satisfied until he was crucified.”
“In your case, I don’t think it needs to go that far,” said the Nuncio as he handed the General the latest American proposal. He tried to keep a neutral tone in his voice, but it was difficult, given the significance of the breakthrough. As the General read the document, the Nuncio uncorked the sherry and poured them each a handsome dollop.
The first few pages were reworkings of previous agreements, with new language designed to make the General’s abdication appear to be more like a routine retirement package, permitting nominal health benefits and pension contributions. Tony paused over this section, then turned to the key clause, in which the Americans agreed to drop all charges in exchange for his immediate departure from Panama. He read it through quickly and set it aside.
“The principle remains unacceptable,” said Tony. “They want me to leave power. This is the one point I cannot concede.”
“But what else are we negotiating?” the Nuncio asked, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I tell you in all seriousness, this offer is the last one that the Americans will put on the table. If you do not accept it, you are inviting a devastating response. We are talking not just about pension contributions but about your very existence.”
Tony sipped the sherry and weighed the Nuncio’s words. “Tell me, Monseñor,” he said after a moment, “would there have been a Christian church if Jesus had not been martyred?”
The Nuncio stared at him, dumbfounded. “Well, other great religions have been established by leaders who lived long lives and died natural deaths,” he said cautiously. “Muhammad and Gautama Buddha did not have to be sacrificed in order for their doctrines to be spread. The difference is that Christ’s death is meaningful. He suffered for the sins of all mankind. Through his sacrifice, we are redeemed. That’s the basic Christian message, and it is sealed in his blood.”
“I would like to believe that. But to me, the crucifixion is a favor God gave to Jesus because he loved him above all others. Without becoming a martyr, Jesus would have been just another Old Testament prophet, like Hosea or Joshua. But because God loved him more, he allowed Jesus to be sacrificed. By this action a whole new religion arose that worships the death of a single man.” Tony selected one of the biscuits from the tray. “Death is a high price to pay, but I would say that Jesus got a good bargain, wouldn’t you?”
“Is that your object—to be worshiped?”
“Of course, this is the fundamental appeal of politics, Monseñor. I don’t deny it. One wants to be loved.” Tony looked past the Nuncio to a dreamy portrait of Jesus on the library wall. Jesus was wearing a gleaming blue robe and was placing his hand on the head of a leper. There was a halo above his golden hair. “Do you really think Jesus was so pretty? I see all these calendars and stained-glass paintings, and he looks gorgeous. But is it historically accurate?”
“Well, we really don’t know what Jesus looked like,” the Nuncio replied. “Isaiah, of course, prophesied that the Christ would be despised by all men, he would be without comeliness, his complexion marred—”
“I knew it!”
“Of course, we can only speculate,” the Nuncio quickly added. This whole conversation left him deeply unsettled.