God's Favorite

by Lawrence Wright

  “Listen to him, Tony,” Felicidad advised.

  “So how do I become indigestible?”

  Fidel tugged on his beard in an impressive display of cogitation. “Well, one thought does occur. It’s the same as I suggested to the comandantes in Nicaragua. Organize the poor to be on your side. This is my suggestion. Make yourself their hero. Train them. Give them arms. Let everybody know, if the Americans invade, the people of the streets will rise! And they will kill the bourgeoisie! The people—they will be your poison!”

  “Beautiful,” said Felicidad.

  The waiter brought a silver platter containing the bill and set it in front of Tony. Tony stared at the sum in disbelief.

  “The advice is free,” said Fidel.

  GENERAL DELMAR HONEYCUTT pinned the last ribbon on his uniform and sized himself up in the full-length mirror. The newly appointed leader of the U.S. Southern Command was an exceedingly large man—at six foot seven, he had had to receive a special waiver to enlist in the military. As a tight end at West Point, he had broken scoring records that had stood for fifty years. He came out of Vietnam with a chestful of ribbons, medals, and oak-leaf clusters that might have seemed outlandish on a man whose chest was not so massive. With his sun-bronzed skin, General Honeycutt sometimes looked more like a larger-than-life, Soviet-style statue of himself than a middle-aged divorced man with a bleeding ulcer and credit-card debt who had been shunted off to Central America to guard a big ditch.

  “Give me that line again,” he said to Lieutenant Cheever, his fussy assistant.

  “The ‘bridge to two cultures’ thing?” Cheever was brushing the lint from the general’s expansive shoulders. “You’ve already been over it four times, General. I’m sure you know it by heart. Anyway, you’ll have a TelePrompTer.”

  “Makes a better show if you look spontaneous, like you’re thinking it up as you go along,” said the general. “Remember that when you’re writing my speeches in the future. Nothing too pretty. Rough it up a little.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, sir.”

  “I want everybody to know that we mean business here. We’re tough, but we’re on their side. Like the cop on the corner. Friendly, but there for a good reason.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand that, sir.”

  “What’s the president’s name again?”

  “Delvalle, sir.”

  “They change them with the seasons here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Am I ready?”

  “You’re ready, sir.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  THE PARADE GROUND AT SOUTHCOM was crammed with Panamanian officials and American military brass watching the U.S. troops march in review before their new commander. The elite of Panamanian society had fought for the tickets in the grandstand, eager to see the panoply of lethal gizmos that rolled out of the hangars and caverns of Fort Clayton. The crowd was at once cheery and ironic, like schoolchildren watching a faculty play. Overhead, a modest squadron of F-16s roared past, trailed by a wing of Tomcat fighters from the USS Forrestal, which happened to be in port. In truth, there was only a modest representation of advanced weaponry stationed in Panama, since the real danger to the canal, in the way of a military threat, was thought to be very small. Most of the armament was left over from the Vietnam War. Nonetheless, it impressed the natives, General Honeycutt believed. He sat next to President and Mrs. Delvalle and patiently explained what they were seeing. “That’s the Sheridan tank, ma’am, more maneuverable than its high-tech cousins. Still a formidable fighting machine.” “They are neat little missiles, aren’t they, sir? Nuclear-tipped.” And so on. He always relished the splendor of men and arms on display.

  General Honeycutt was so absorbed in the spectacle that he failed to notice the stirring in the crowd that marked the well-past-fashionable entrance of General Noriega. Tony arrived with his usual air of ownership, his gold buttons glinting, his ceremonial medals and his Légion d’honneur practically on fire in the tropical sunlight. Around his neck he wore the symbol of the supreme military commander, a heavy silver medallion inscribed with the image of the Panamanian eagle, surrounded by the insignia of each of the country’s military units. His ski-slope hat rose to a peak, with the gold seal of state on the front and gold laurel leaves on the bill. And under the hat: Tony’s hooded, viperous eyes and pitted, implacable face.

  When the air show had concluded, leaping in an instant from the Atlantic to the Pacific over the inconsiderable spit of land that constituted Panama, General Honeycutt approached the unshaded podium. To his great annoyance, the TelePrompTer screen was blank. He shot a glance to the communications specialist first class who was manning the equipment. The suicidal look on the young man’s face amply expressed the situation. The general tapped his breast pocket, realizing that there was no copy of his speech there, either. Goddamn lucky thing that he’d read it before he got into this spot, he reflected, choking down the panic of public speaking that two years of attending Toastmasters Club meetings at Fort Hood had failed to overcome.

  The general looked into the grandstand, hoping to recapture the long list of names that he was supposed to officially recognize. President Mountainous? Was that it? The general remembered associating the president’s name with a geologic feature. Remember the image and the name would spring to mind: that was the theory. But he’d forgotten which image he was supposed to remember.

  The crowd was beginning to look at him curiously. “Welcome,” he finally said, “or perhaps I should say, ‘Thank you,’ for it is you who have made me feel welcome.” The general relaxed a bit. He’d done this before. “I particularly want to thank”—he made a stab at it—“President Valley and his lovely wife . . .” General Honeycutt caught a concerned look on Lieutenant Cheever’s face and quickly moved on. Next to the president were two vice presidents, one named Manuel Solís Palma and another whose name was completely blank in the general’s mind. He couldn’t very well acknowledge the first without the second, so he merely thanked “the two sterling gentlemen who stand beside the president in everything he does, vice presidents not only in name but in deed.” What did that mean? The general began to realize that his steering was gone and the speech was taking on its own wild momentum. “As I gaze upon the faces in the grandstand, I see—what? You know what I see, ladies and gentlemen? I see the faces of Panama’s cabinet, men and women who will lead this country into the next century. Their names—too many to mention—will one day be recorded in the textbooks. Their names will be on the streets and avenues of this great city. Schools will be named after them! I see the judges, the judges, yes—sadly enough, they often labor in anonymity, but surely their names will be in the lawbooks, you can count on that! I see the members of the Canal Commission. Boy, there’s an important group of guys! Let’s give them a round of applause!” He was really sailing now, completely rudderless, trying to avoid the puzzled expressions of the dignitaries in the crowd, who obediently applauded the flustered commissioners. “Priests!” the general cried. “I see the representatives of the Church here today, and I want to say that part of what makes this country great is religion! So, lots of priests. When the roll is called up yonder, you can bet that there will be a lot of priests on it! I say ‘priests,’ but I don’t mean to exclude representatives of other denominations. Catholicism is still a fine religion. Family values kind of thing. I know President Reagan relates to it, or I mean them, the values that I was referring to. So, summing up: good people, good values, Panama is a bridge between them, and as I think about it, we are all on that bridge of life . . .”

  Tony listened to the mysterious speech with growing incredulity. Obviously there were significant signals being sent out—the occasion demanded it—but the most important one dawned on him, as it had on every other Panamanian in the crowd, with the force of a thunderbolt: the Americans are not recognizing Tony Noriega! People were shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. There was a perceptible movement away from Tony, a united
leaning away, as if he had leprosy. In a few enigmatic sentences the huge American officer had signaled that Tony was contaminated, expelled, cast into the non-American darkness.

  Fidel was right, Tony thought savagely; he would have to make himself indigestible.

  CHAPTER 9

  OLD PARR. Very Old Parr. Very much very Old Parr. Every other sip, an enlisted man appeared from the shadows with a freshener to keep Tony’s drink maximally stiff.

  Tony was holding court at his round table in the back of La Playita, the private club owned by César Rodríguez and some of his Colombian pals. Ari Nachman was there, and Dr. Demos, Tony’s psychiatrist and political pollster. Several girls from Miami who specialized in consolation rubbed Tony’s knees. But with every drink, Tony could feel himself becoming more dangerous.

  “Tony, why are you taking this personally?” César asked. “The Americans know they can’t do business in Panama without you.”

  “He even thanked the priests!” Nachman said in disbelief.

  “Maybe he needs a little welcome party,” said Tony. “A demonstration of the people’s righteous anger.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Tony, but you should be careful,” said César. “Don’t pull the trigger right away.” César was drinking White Russians as a tonic for his new ulcer.

  “What the Americans did was very clever,” Dr. Demos said. “If you make too big a stink, they can say you are paranoid.”

  This point really rankled Tony. He had to give the American general credit. Not mentioning Tony’s name had been far more damning than if he had singled him out and criticized him. This way, the general made his point while giving Tony nothing to reply to. That was part of his humiliation, that he had been so cleverly handled, with a subtlety rarely associated with American diplomacy.

  “I think they are only playing with you,” Nachman offered. “If you give them a little something, they’ll remember who they are dealing with. Tell them what Fidel had for dinner—they’ll jack off to that.”

  “More arms to the Contras,” said César.

  “Maybe I’ll give them a few names,” said Tony. “People in the drug business. It’s like catnip to them.”

  Frozen smiles all around the table.

  Tony turned to one of the girls, a sophomore in telephone marketing at Miami-Dade Junior College. “And you, my mercenary little friend, what would you advise me?”

  “Fuck ’em, Tony,” she said eagerly. “Fuck ’em right and left.”

  Tony grinned. He looked across the room, where Roberto was sitting alone. The sight of Roberto’s sly eyes peeking over his champagne glass made Tony’s blood pressure hop.

  “Look at him,” Tony said. “He’s spying on us.”

  “Roberto’s gone loco, haven’t you heard?” said Nachman. “They say he found some guru who made him stop having sex. He became completely insane.”

  “Technically,” said Dr. Demos, “I believe he’s suffering from delusions of persecution springing from type-two schizophrenia.”

  “Can you believe it?” said César. “And just when the Miss Universe pageant comes to town.”

  “The most beautiful women in the world, and Roberto decides to become a virgin again!” Nachman marveled at the mysteriousness of that.

  “Hey, Roberto!” Tony called out, silencing the rest of the room. “Do the Americans know you are a communist?”

  Roberto looked stricken, but he quickly put up a brave smile. “What communist drinks Dom Pérignon?” he asked lightly.

  “Dom Pérignon? It’s for cunts!”

  Tony’s companions laughed, but they were uneasy. Everyone else was dead quiet.

  “Waitress—hey, beauty,” Tony said, “bring Roberto a man’s drink. Johnny Walker—Red Label.”

  Tony laughed as Roberto walked out of the room. For a moment he simply sat staring down the dress of the future telephone marketer. Then he sighed. “Now is the time to teach the Americans a terrible lesson.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Nachman asked. “You can’t make them too mad, you know.”

  Tony drained off the rest of his scotch. “Tony Noriega is a good friend, but he is also a terrible enemy,” he said. “The U.S., it is like a monkey on a chain. All you do is play the music, and the monkey performs.”

  “Well, the U.S. is also like an elephant,” César said cautiously. “It takes time to get him to move, but when he does, it’s a heavy move.”

  THE EXTERIOR OF the Atlapa Convention Center was bathed in floodlights when Tony arrived with his retinue of bodyguards. In the vast hall, waiters carrying trays of lobster wove through the tables and potted palms. The reflections of the many-faceted jewels on the bosoms of Panamanian society shown like a galaxy of infinite value. When the national anthem concluded, a beaming President Delvalle, wearing a tuxedo and the red, white, and blue sash of his office, approached the podium. “Tonight, the eyes of many nations are on Panama,” he said, “as we go about the serious business of choosing the most beautiful woman in the world. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Miss Universe pageant.”

  Tony noticed Pablo Escobar entertaining a half-dozen bankers at the table closest to the stage. Escobar was disconcertingly at ease, and when he glanced up and caught Tony staring at him, he winked. This gesture was so threatening that, despite himself, Tony gasped. That Escobar has balls, he thought admiringly. They might become friends if one of them didn’t kill the other first. He signaled to his bodyguards and walked quickly out of the crowded room, down the escalators, down another flight of stairs, to a labyrinthine complex of subterranean walkways that connected the convention center to the subbasement of the Marriott across the street. His grim-faced bodyguards walked on either side of him, and a pair of PDF lieutenants raced ahead like hounds, opening doors to various rooms.

  “What’s going on?” asked a busboy when one of the soldiers poked into the kitchen.

  “Where’s the reception area for the contestants?” the officer demanded.

  “We’re not supposed to say.”

  The soldier pulled the boy into the hallway. His eyes widened when he recognized Tony. The boy quickly pointed to a double doorway at the end of the corridor. “But what’s going on?” he asked under his breath.

  “The General is going to fuck Miss U.S.A.,” the soldier informed him.

  At the end of the corridor was the Venetian ballroom. A policeman at the entrance was peeking through the crack in the doors when the approaching footsteps captured his attention. He quickly jumped to attention. The bodyguards pushed him aside and burst into the room.

  Two hundred of the most beautiful women in the world stood there like wood nymphs. Short and tall, dark and light, intense and silly, husky and shrill: variety, wonderful female variety, offered itself in ball gowns.

  Swarming around the nubile contestants was a fawning mass of handlers and cosmeticians and fashion consultants and relatives and reporters and agents and personal trainers and ass-patting pageant officials. Tony wandered through them like a hunter, his eyes seeking a single quarry, shoving out of his mind the appetizing distractions that arose at every point of the compass.

  Suddenly there she was, tall, blond, strikingly beautiful if a bit horsy, her sash cutting a hypotenuse between her ample midwestern breasts. Half a dozen photographers were circling and firing at the scene of the highly favored Miss U.S.A. talking to Miss U.S.S.R., a staged event meant to echo recent developments at the summit talks. The Russian contestant was trim and muscular, standing a bit on tiptoe to match the statuesque American. Both of them were talking to a third party—an amusing third party who made them laugh and blush, a third party Tony recognized with an abrupt start: Roberto.

  “Oh, General!” Roberto said in alarm as he noticed Tony hissing in his ear.

  “General?” said Miss U.S.A.

  Tony now took her in completely. She was a type who particularly appealed to him: a green-eyed blonde with luminous, downy skin. A small gold cross lounged in the billo
ws of her breasts.

  “Welcome to Panama, Miss U.S.A. and Miss U.S.S.R.,” Tony said, offering a little Prussian, heel-snapping bow. “If there is anything you desire, it is yours.”

  Miss U.S.A. gave him an interested look. “You must be the fella in charge,” she concluded.

  “Excuse me very much,” said Roberto, hastily introducing Tony to the two contestants, who were obviously flattered to be meeting “Panama’s beloved leader,” as Roberto graciously described him.

  “Pleased to meetcha,” said Miss U.S.A., pumping Tony’s limp hand several times with shocking vigor. “I’m Brandi Thistlewhite.”

  “Brandi—such an intoxicating name.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Roberto said the same thing.”

  Tony turned to Roberto and grinned ferociously. Roberto abruptly excused himself.

  “See ya later, Mr. Ambassador,” Brandi said as Roberto rushed away.

  “My name, Tatyana Chernyshevskaya,” said Miss U.S.S.R., seizing Tony’s hand as if it were a Baltic republic.

  Faced with the towering actuality of Brandi Thistlewhite, whose disinfected sexuality presented no obvious approach, Tony nearly lost heart. The entire enterprise suddenly seemed hopeless; she was a fortress of nonchalance—uninterested, unavailable, and blandly incorruptible.

  “My God, these American women!” Tony finally exclaimed. “They are so clean!”

  “Well, thank you, I guess,” said Brandi, “but I don’t think I’m any cleaner than the other girls. I mean, everybody washed, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Still, somehow you seem cleaner. And your teeth, I think you have never had a cavity. Is this true?”

  “They got sealed when I lost my baby teeth.”

  Brandi’s lips demurely closed the curtain on her gleamingly perfect incisors, but not before Tatyana cast them a covetous glance.

  “I always feel, when I meet a beautiful American woman, that she has just been created, that God has just made her fully adult, like Eve, innocent and fresh, with the dew of creation still upon her,” said Tony.