That was ten years ago, and he still had trouble tying the knot. He knew how to do it in theory, but, standing in front of the bathroom mirror and looking at the white shirt collar and the blue silk tie in his hands, he felt vulnerable. He felt particularly vulnerable to be without his Roman collar and black shirt for a dinner with Macarena Bruner. Like a Knight Templar setting aside his armour to go and parley with the Mamelukes beneath the walls of Tyre. The thought made him smile uneasily as he glanced at his watch. There was just enough time to dress and walk to the restaurant. He'd found it on the map, in the Plaza de Santa Cruz, a stone's throw from the ancient Arab wall. The connotations of which the modern Knight Templar found rather disturbing.
Lorenzo Quart was as punctual as the robot-like Swiss Guard at the Vatican. He always worked out his schedule by dividing the hours precisely and making efficient use of every second. He had enough time to deal with the tie, so he made himself do the knot calmly, adjusting it carefully. He liked to move slowly, because his self-control was a source of pride. In his dealings with the world he was constantly striving to avoid a hurried gesture, an inappropriate
word, an impatient move that might break the serenity of the regulations. Even when he broke rules that were not his own something that Spada, with his gift for euphemism, called "walking along the outer edge of the law" the appearance of morality was safe with him. In his case the old curial saying, Tutti i preti sono falsi, wasn't accurate. He was quite indifferent as to whether or not all priests were frauds; he would be an honourable Knight Templar.
Maybe that was why, after regarding himself for a moment in the mirror, he removed the tie and white shirt and put on a black shirt with a round collar. As he buttoned the shirt, his fingers brushed the scar beneath his left clavicle, a memento of the American soldier who struck him with the butt of his rifle during the invasion of Panama. It was the only scar Quart had acquired in the line of duty; the red badge of courage, Spada called it wryly. His Grace and the pusillanimous head-hunters in the Curia were impressed. Quart himself would have preferred for the lunatic with the Kevlar helmet, M-16, and badge that said J. KOWALSKY on his bulletproof vest "Another Pole," Spada said later caustically to have taken Quart's Vatican diplomatic passport more seriously when it was brandished under his nose at the nunciature, the day that Quart negotiated General Noriega's surrender.
Apart from the broken-shoulder incident, the operation in Panama had proceeded flawlessly, and the IEA considered it a classic of diplomacy in a crisis. Following a hazardous flight from Costa Rica, Quart landed in Panama a few hours after the American invasion and Noriega's admission to the Vatican diplomatic legation. Officially, his task was to assist the nuncio, but really he would be monitoring the negotiations and keeping the IEA directly informed. He had come to relieve Monsignor Hector Bonino, an Argentine-Italian who had no diplomatic experience. The secretary of state didn't trust Bonino to handle a matter like this. It was indeed an unusual situation. The Americans, behind wire fences and tank traps, had installed powerful loudspeakers blasting out rock music twenty-four hours a day to psychologically weaken the nuncio and his refugees. Inside the building, spread throughout the offices and corridors, an assortment of people sat waiting: a Nicaraguan, head of Noriega's counterintelligence; five Basque separatists; a Cuban economic adviser who kept threatening to commit suicide if he wasn't returned safe and sound to Havana; an agent for CESID, the Spanish central' intelligence agency, who went in and out of the building as he pleased to play chess with the nuncio and keep Madrid informed; three Colombian drug traffickers; and General Noriega, Pineapple Face himself, on whose head the Americans had put a price. In return for asylum, Monsignor Bonino required that his guests attend Mass daily; and it was moving to see them wishing each other peace Noriega all prayers and chest beating under the watchful eye of the nuncio, with Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA blaring outside. On the crucial night of the siege, when Delta commandos with their noses painted black tried to storm the nunciature, Quart maintained telephone contact with the archbishops of New York and Chicago until President Bush agreed to call off the raid. At last Pineapple Face gave himself up without laying down too many conditions, the Nicaraguan and the Basque separatists were discreetly transported out of Panama, and the drug traffickers ran to reappear later in Medellin. Only the Cuban, who came out last, had problems. The Marines found him in the trunk of an old Chevrolet Impala that Quart had rented. The CESID agent had agreed to drive the man out of the nunciature, just for the hell of it, risking his career. The agreement negotiated for the Cuban's release was kept secret, so Marine Kowalsky knew nothing about it, nor was he particularly concerned about the subtleties of diplomacy. So Quart, despite his collar and Vatican passport, ended up with a broken shoulder when he attempted to mediate. As for the Cuban, a nervous type by the name of Gir6n, he spent a month in a Miami jail. And not only did he break his promise to commit suicide, but on his release he obtained political asylum in the United States after giving an interview to Reader's Digest entitled "I Too Was Fooled by Castro".