God's Favorite by Lawrence Wright Page A

across the street. But a light tap on a car horn brought him splashing back into consciousness. He licked the crust off his dry lips and shielded his eyes against the blinding Panama afternoon and the fiery sheen of the limousine.
    The guard slung his weapon over his shoulder and regarded the limo with wonder. The window lowered.
    â€œTake this to your boss,” said the man inside the cool puddle of gloom. The guard saluted and accepted a package the size of a shoe box wrapped in green foil.
    F RANKLY , R OBERTO , you have never struck me as a military man. It is not your special gift, in my opinion.”
    Roberto Díaz Herrera shifted uncomfortably in the stiff cane-back chair he had been offered in Tony’s game room. It was Tony’s aerie in the treetops, which could be reached only by way of a spiral staircase from his second-floor library. Through the windows one could see the city and the Gulf of Panama and the verdant hills of the Canal Zone. “Tony, I do not have to defend my military record—it speaks for itself,” Roberto said indignantly, ignoring the chuckle of Ari Nachman, an Israeli intelligence agent and arms merchant, who was sorting through Tony’s record collection. In the background, the Dallas Cowboys were playing the Pittsburgh Steelers on a fuzzy giant-screen TV.
    â€œHaven’t you ever imagined another career for yourself?” Tony asked as he poured a whiskey for himself at the bar beside the faro table. “It would solve a lot of your problems. Something that might take you abroad?”
    â€œAre you telling me to get out of the country?” Roberto said incredulously. “What have I done wrong? Everything you have asked of me I have done! Every day, I am only trying to prove my loyalty to you!”
    â€œMy God, Tony, how can you listen to this shit?” Nachman interjected. “Ray Conniff, Vikki Carr—the Osmonds?”
    â€œI only want to help you, Roberto,” Tony said.
    â€œWhat, exactly, is my problem?”
    â€œThe Spadafora business,” said Tony. “Many people suggest that you are responsible.”
    â€œMe! Tony, we agreed that Nicky was responsible! He resigned! Now you say I am also responsible? How can that be?”
    â€œPeople are saying it was a conspiracy.”
    â€œTony, we are your friends! Even Nicky, I count him as well. Why do you seek to punish the people who have stood by you, who have worked for you—my God! You would turn your back even on me?”
    â€œYou know, Roberto, my balls are my friends, too. But when I run, they bump into each other.”
    From the stereo, the voices of Donny and Marie Osmondsang “Make the World Go Away.” Nachman began dancing slowly around the room with a martini in his hand.
    â€œObviously, I need to take actions that will signal my intention to resolve this terrible matter,” Tony continued. “I am prepared to be merciful, but don’t test me, Roberto.”
    The guard stuck his head through the opening where the spiral staircase arose. Tony looked at him sharply.
    â€œA man brought this for you, General,” he said as he set the box on Tony’s desk. “A Colombian.”
    Tony nodded, then looked expectantly at Roberto.
    â€œThis won’t work, Tony,” said Roberto. “I am not Nicky Barletta. I won’t just go quietly.”
    â€œI understand your needs, Roberto. I am only saying some changes will have to be made—at very high levels. The situation demands it.”
    â€œYou can make all the changes you want, you can stab your friends in the back—but it is not my name that people in the streets are chanting.”
    â€œThe people in the streets,” said Tony dismissively, “are only having fun. This waving of handkerchiefs—do you think it troubles me? It’s amusing, really. They are only teasing me. But even so, they are saying in all seriousness that actions must be taken. And