Fugitive

CHAPTER 1

It is coming soon, it is coming soon!” Jean-Claude Baptiste, President for Life of the People’s Republic of Batanga, told Charlie Marsh in the singsong English spoken by Africans who had been raised speaking a tribal dialect. Like most of the other men at the state banquet, Charlie was wearing a tuxedo. President Baptiste, who had never held a rank higher than sergeant, was commander in chief of the Batangan army and dressed in the uniform of a five-star general.

“Watch closely!” the president said with gleeful anticipation as he jabbed a finger at one of the many huge flat-screen televisions that were mounted along the walls of the banquet hall in the executive mansion. The massive chamber was longer than a football field and was modeled after the Las Vegas casino where Baptiste had won his most important fight. Using flat-screen TVs as wall hangings would have been out of place at Versailles, but they looked perfectly natural amid the mirrored walls, bright lights, and velvet paintings that gave the banquet hall the ambience of a sports bar.

“Now, look,” the president said excitedly. On all of the screens mounted along the walls, a younger Baptiste was laughing as he drove Vladimir Topalov, the number two-ranked heavyweight in the world, into a corner of the ring. This Baptiste stood six foot six and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds. His skin was as black as ink and the lights in the arena reflected off his smooth, shaved skull. The present-day version of Jean-Claude looked vaguely like the boxer on the screen, but weighed more than three hundred pounds and gave the impression of being two large men who had been glued together.

“Look Charlie, it comes now,” Baptiste told the blue-eyed man with blond hair and tanned, weathered skin who sat to his left at the end of a teak banquet table that easily sat fifty. Charlie feigned exuberant interest, as did the thirty other guests. Anyone giving the impression that he was not completely enthralled with Baptiste’s fistic skills risked an attitude adjustment session in the basement of the mansion, from which few emerged alive.

On the screen, Baptiste’s opponent staggered back a few steps. Blood from a deep cut over his right eye was blinding him. The future president of Batanga feinted with a jab before landing a crushing hook to his victim’s temple. As Topalov sank to the canvas, both the boxing and presidential Baptistes threw back their heads and laughed uproariously. Though the sound was off, everyone at the banquet knew that Baptiste’s many fans were chanting “ho, ho, ho,” as they always did when “The Happy Warrior” knocked down an opponent. Baptiste had earned his nickname by laughing delightedly whenever he subjected a foe to a particularly awful beating.

Topalov had been hospitalized after the bout. The man who had ruled Batanga before Baptiste had not been so lucky. After his knockout of the Russian, Baptiste returned to Batanga for a victory parade followed by a dinner in his honor given by the previous president of the republic. During dinner, a squad of army officers, bribed with money from Baptiste’s fight purse, stormed the banquet hall and engineered a coup. Rumor had it that Baptiste had made several excellent jokes while eating the heart of the ex-president in a Juju ceremony that was supposed to infuse him with the deceased’s spiritual essence.

Baptiste smiled, displaying a perfect set of pearly white teeth. “Was that not a wonderful punch, Charlie?”

“Very powerful, Mr. President,” answered Marsh. Charlie was a foot shorter and roughly one hundred and fifty pounds lighter than his host. Because he lacked Baptiste’s courage and vicious temperament, it had taken a considerable effort to hide his terror during dinner. Now he gathered what little nerve he possessed and raised the subject curiosity had prodded him to explore ever since Jean-Claude had invited him to sit in the chair usually occupied by Bernadette Baptiste, the only one of the president’s wives to bear him a child.

“Madam Bernadette would have enjoyed your display of virility, Mr. President.”

Baptiste nodded agreement. “Women want a powerful man, Charlie. They know your power will bring them great pleasure in bed, not so?”

Charlie looked down the table at Bernadette’s child, five-year-old Alfonse, who sat next to his nanny.

“I see your charming son is here, but where is your lovely wife?”

Baptiste’s smile faded. “Sadly, she could not join us this evening, but she told me to say hello to you if you asked about her.”

Charlie’s heart seized and it took every ounce of his energy to keep from throwing up.

“Ah, dessert,” Baptiste sighed as a servant rolled a pastry cart next to his ornate high-backed chair. The benevolent and all-powerful ruler of Batanga loved to eat almost as much as he loved to inflict pain, and he scanned the cart eagerly. It was laden with all of the president’s favorites, most of which he’d sampled for the first time in the fast-food restaurants and sumptuous casino buffets of Las Vegas.

“That one and that one, I think,” he said, indicating a huge piece of German chocolate cake and a three-scoop ice cream sundae heaped high with whipped cream, sprinkled with nuts, dotted with Maraschino cherries, and covered with caramel, strawberry, and chocolate sauces.

The president turned to Charlie. He was smiling broadly. “Eat up, my friend.”

Charlie had no appetite but he knew better than to disobey any presidential command, even one as benign as an order to eat dessert. As soon as the waiter placed an enormous slice of cherry cheesecake on Charlie’s plate, Baptiste leaned close to Charlie’s ear and whispered conspiratorially:

“I will tell you a secret, but tell no one else or it will spoil the surprise. After dinner, I have an interesting entertainment planned.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Baptiste responded happily. “Its nature is known only to me and Nathan.”

Charlie cast a nervous glance at Nathan Tuazama, who was sitting halfway down the banquet table, next to the wife of the Syrian ambassador. Tuazama was the head of the National Education Bureau, Baptiste’s secret police. The cadaverous black man’s head rotated slowly in Charlie’s direction at the same time Charlie turned toward him, as if Tuazama had read his mind. There were rumors that Tuazama had supernatural powers, and Charlie had not discounted these rumors completely. Tuazama’s thin, bloodless lips displayed none of the president’s joy. Unlike his master, Tuazama had no sense of humor. Charlie wasn’t even sure that he had any emotions.

“After dinner, you will be invited to join me in a most unusual and unforgettable experience,” Baptiste said, flashing his bright smile. “But enough talk. Come, Charlie, enjoy your cake.”

THE BANQUET DRAGGED on for another hour as Baptiste subjected his guests to replays of his favorite fights. Then, a little after one in the morning, he bid a merciful farewell to all but a select group, who had been instructed to stay. Charlie scanned the chosen few and found they included Nathan Tuazama; Alfonse (who could barely keep his eyes open); Madam O’Doulou, the child’s nanny; a justice of the Batangan Supreme Court who’d had the temerity to dissent in a case Baptiste wanted decided in a certain way; and an army general who was rumored to have criticized his commander-in-chief.

“Come, my friends,” Baptiste said cheerfully. “I want to show you something very exciting and much fun.”

Baptiste chuckled and his massive stomach shook. “Much fun, indeed,” he assured everyone.

A failure to laugh when the president said something he deemed amusing amounted to treason, so everyone smiled, except the exhausted Alfonse. As the heir to Batanga, Alfonse was-at least for the near future-exempt from Baptiste’s homicidal whims. When several Batangan Special Forces troops surrounded the group, it took an effort for Charlie to maintain his smile and it took a supreme act of will to look happy when Baptiste led the group to the special elevator that only went to the basement. The elevator’s walls glistened because they were cleaned daily to remove the blood and gore that frequently stained them. No one spoke as the elevator descended. Charlie prayed during the ride and he suspected that he wasn’t the only one begging the Lord to let him return to the surface in one piece or, at least, to die with a minimum of suffering.

The banquet hall’s casino-like décor had been insanely cheerful. Now the elevator doors opened on a dark and joyless world. Flickering low-watt bulbs cast sections of the damp, gray hallway in a sickly yellow glow, while leaving other parts in shadow. Mold grew on the walls and there was a faint smell of feces and disinfectant in the air. Solid steel doors spaced at intervals broke up the monotony of the corridor. As they exited the car, a scream shattered the silence. Alfonse’s eyes widened and Baptiste took him by the hand.

“Do not worry, my lovely child. You are quite safe with Papa. No one will hurt you.”

Baptiste led the procession to a door halfway down the narrow hall. Then he knelt so his face was close to his son’s.

“What happens to boys and girls when they are bad?” Baptiste asked.

Alfonse, who was very tired, looked confused.

“Come, come, my jewel. You know the answer to this simple question.”

“They are punished?” Alfonse answered tentatively.

Baptiste smiled broadly. “Is he not the most intelligent child?” he asked.

Charlie nodded, as the mention of punishment sent his heart rate up.

“Well, Alfonse,” Baptiste said, “your mommy was bad. She was cheating, and you know it is very bad to cheat. It is dishonest, is that not so?”

Alfonse nodded, but none of the adults moved or breathed.

“Do you want to see how we punish a mommy who cheats?” Baptiste asked Alfonse.

His son looked concerned but Baptiste did not wait for an answer. He stood up and nodded to Tuazama, who inserted a key in the lock. When the door opened, Charlie stared into total darkness. Then he felt an automatic weapon press into his back as he was herded into the room.

“Surprise!” yelled Baptiste as Tuazama flipped a light switch.

The nanny fainted. The Supreme Court justice threw up. The general was too stunned to do anything but stare. Alfonse shrieked. Baptiste’s deep, rolling belly laugh almost drowned out the child’s screams.

When the lights flashed on, Charlie’s eyes were drawn to a long metal table that was the room’s only furniture. Bernadette was lying on it on her stomach. She was naked and her long, smooth legs had been spread apart, exposing her to everyone. It took Charlie’s paralyzed mind a moment to figure out what-in addition to his lover being dead-was wrong with the scene. When he realized that the toes of Bernadette’s feet were pointing up and she was staring at him, even though she was on her stomach, Charlie’s knees buckled and he almost passed out.

“There, there, my friend,” Baptiste said as he wrapped one of his huge arms around his guest to keep him from sinking to the floor.

Charlie wished he could faint, but all he could do was stare into Bernadette’s dead eyes; a feat made possible by sewing her decapitated head on backward and propping it up on a pillow. Her legs had also been amputated and switched.

Alfonse’s unconscious nanny was no help with the hysterical child. Baptiste ignored him and focused all of his attention on Charlie.

“Are you okay, my friend?” he asked.

Charlie was so terrified he couldn’t speak.

“I tell you, it hurt me to do this,” the president continued, “but I discovered something terrible.” Baptiste’s huge arm pulled Charlie so close Charlie could smell the president’s sweat. “You will not believe this of my dear Bernadette, but Alfonse’s mother was having an affair.” Baptiste shook his head sadly. “What do you think of that?”

“It’s not possible, Mr. President,” Charlie croaked. “What woman would ever cheat on you?”

“Yes, yes, I know it makes no sense, but, sadly, it is true. But, you know, there is a mystery here. I do not know the name of the culprit who seduced her, yet. Have you any idea who it might be?”

Charlie felt his bowels loosen. There was no way Bernadette would have held up under torture.

“No, Mr. President, I never heard anyone say anything bad about Bernadette.”

Baptiste shook his head slowly. “She and her lover were very careful. They were very clever. But Nathan is working on this problem and I have complete confidence that he will ferret out the identity of the foul person who tempted my beloved Bernadette into breaking her marriage vows.”

Then the president smiled. “But come, everyone. It is late.”

He released Charlie and bent down to pick up his terrified son. “Now, now, Alfonse, you must be a man. A man does not cry when he confronts death. Enough of this.”

Baptiste stepped over the nanny’s body. “Revive Madam O’Doulou and bring her to Alfonse’s room,” he told the soldier in charge of the Special Forces squad.

“And this one?” the soldier asked, pointing at the judge, who was doubled over after a second round of vomiting.

“Leave him with Bernadette. I will decide what to do with him later.”

CHAPTER 2

The executive mansion was a six-story, concave monstrosity that resembled a stereo speaker. The exterior was covered by gold disks that reflected the sunlight in the daytime and deflected bullets anytime. Baptiste’s palace was set back from the road behind a spear-topped, wrought-iron electrified fence. A driveway curved past the front entrance, which was entered by climbing a set of steep marble steps. This enabled soldiers standing at the top to shoot down on anyone who tried to storm the mansion from the front.

Charlie staggered down the steps of the mansion in a daze, ripping off his bow tie, opening his shirt collar, and gulping in fresh air as he went. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side but, try as he might, Charlie could not get the image of the soles of Bernadette’s feet out of his head. Positioned as she was, she’d seemed so vulnerable.

A limousine provided by Baptiste had driven Charlie to the executive mansion but no car waited at the bottom of the stairs to take him back to his apartment.

“Where is my car?” Charlie asked one of the soldiers standing guard duty.

“All cars gone,” the soldier answered tersely.

“Then bring a car for me.”

The soldier’s smile was cold. “President Baptiste say no more cars tonight.”

Before this evening, Charlie would have reported the soldier for being insolent and would have demanded a car, but he was too upset and frightened to argue. There was a slim possibility that he could locate a minor functionary who would rustle up a car for him, but no power on earth could make him go back inside the mansion to find one.

The absence of his limousine and the soldier’s insolence were proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Baptiste knew he was Bernadette’s lover. The last time he’d been this frightened was twelve years ago, on the evening he’d fled from the parking lot of the Westmont Country Club after the congressman was shot. He’d stayed terrified until several weeks after his arrival in Batanga. Charlie remembered the moment the fear had lifted. He had been walking on the white sand behind his house, watching the waves sweep in. Emerald green palm trees had been swaying in the breeze and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Charlie had breathed in the clear, clean air and exhaled. Then he’d smiled and said, out loud, “I’m safe.” It didn’t take long for him to discover that what he thought was safety was only an illusion.

Charlie’s fear drove him down the long driveway to the guard house. Moments after the guard opened the gate, he was trudging toward town along Baptiste Boulevard. Cabs drove by and so did open-backed “money buses” that took passengers around the city on a set route for a dime, but Charlie’s apartment was only two miles from the mansion and he needed to walk to clear his head.

The back of the mansion faced the ocean and the cool breeze that blew inland at night chased away the thick, moist heat that folded over the inhabitants of equatorial West Africa most days. Charlie liked the heat. When he thought about it, Charlie realized that the beach weather was one of the few good things about Batanga. Most everything else was shit. Its president was a maniac and most of its citizens lived in fear and abject poverty. Even the rich Batangans lived at the whim of their insane ruler, and the rainy season was long and depressing.

Another good thing about Batanga, from Charlie’s point of view, was the absence of an extradition treaty with the United States or anywhere else. Batanga was a favorite sanctuary for deposed dictators, terrorists on the run, and wanted criminals. Baptiste extended the hand of friendship to them all, for a price. Twelve years ago, Charlie had fled to Batanga after being indicted for the murder of United States Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. When he had arrived, he had been rich from the royalties earned by his best-selling autobiography, The Light Within You, and the money he’d embezzled from Inner Light, Inc. In those early days, everything seemed rosy and he’d been treated like a prince. The people Charlie met were rich. They ran Batanga, lived in big houses, ate well, and threw wonderful parties. And the women…! They had dangled like ripe fruit, there for the taking and eager to share his bed because he was the president’s favorite. Charlie’s only contacts with the poor of Batanga were his houseboy and cook, who knew better than to say anything negative about their country or their president in a nation where anyone could be a spy, and where the secret police routinely made people disappear for any reason or no reason at all.

The changes had come so slowly that he didn’t realize anything was wrong until it was too late. For the first four years, Charlie had lived in a beautiful house with an ocean view, owned by the president. The rent was steep, but Charlie had several million dollars in his Swiss account, so it seemed like peanuts. So did the taxes he was required to pay for the privilege of living in a country that would not extradite him. Charlie spent lavishly because he was expected to throw the type of parties to which he had been invited. And there were those gifts for the ladies. All of these expenses were no big deal while his book topped the charts, fueled by the publicity surrounding his murder charge. Then another American celebrity killed someone and Charlie was no longer the flavor of the month. His book royalties were paid twice a year at six-month intervals, so it was almost a year before he was aware that something was amiss. The first time he learned that his income was shrinking, he wasn’t overly concerned. When the amount in the next statement was even smaller, Charlie started to panic.

Manipulating people was President Baptiste’s hobby, and he engineered Charlie’s slow descent from honored guest to lap dog with true genius. When a deposed African dictator fled to Batanga after looting millions from his country’s treasury, Baptiste asked Charlie if he would mind moving to a smaller house that was not on the beach. Charlie, who thought he was untouchable, ignored the suggestion. The president could have had Charlie shot or arrested, but he loved slow torture. The next day, Charlie’s servants, cook, and gardeners did not show up for work and they never returned. When Charlie complained, Baptiste again suggested that it would be best if Charlie watched his expenses by moving to a smaller place. Charlie stubbornly insisted that he could manage the cost of the villa. The following day, Charlie’s electricity was cut off and a government official informed him that his rent had been raised. Charlie suddenly saw the big picture. A week later, he was living in a smaller house with only a houseboy, who doubled as his cook. Twelve years after his escape from America, Charlie lived in a squalid apartment and drove a broken-down Volkswagen Bug.

Charlie knew that he was still alive because he amused Baptiste. The president brought him to parties, where he was frequently the foil of the dictator’s practical jokes. Sometimes Baptiste displayed his pet American on Batanga’s only television station or at banquets for visiting dignitaries from countries with anti-American policies. Most of the time Baptiste ignored Charlie, which was a good thing.

The route from the mansion to Charlie’s apartment led through the heart of Baptisteville. The shops were locked and shuttered for the night and the activity in the bars was winding down. Elderly watchmen sat on upturned wooden crates, guarding gated entrances for Lebanese merchants. Packs of emaciated feral dogs roaming the streets in search of food growled at the rare passerby. And there were the ever-present soldiers. Charlie knew that his white skin was no protection from the psychotic teenagers who formed Baptiste’s terror squads, but Charlie was not afraid of the soldiers, because he carried a presidential pass. Those who didn’t have a pass cut a wide swath around the young men toting automatic weapons, who were always unpredictable.

Charlie’s fear had not abated as he walked downhill toward Waterside. If anything, hurrying along the deserted streets made him more afraid. He imagined one of the black Mercedes favored by the secret police suddenly screeching to a halt beside him. Armed men would grab his arms, a black hood would be thrown over his head, and he’d be returned to the mansion to face whatever fate Baptiste held in store for him.

When he reached the bottom of the hill, Charlie heard the sea sweeping into shore behind the native market. The soothing sound accompanied him for another quarter-mile until he arrived at the Kamal S. Dean brick factory, which took up the ground floor of his three-story apartment building. Charlie walked through an arch at the side. As he climbed the partially enclosed stairway, the wind blew the salty smell of sea air at him and he could just make out the white foam on the crest of the waves that broke on the narrow beach below. Charlie was about to step onto the landing in front of his door when a man materialized out of the shadows. Charlie jumped back and threw up his hands to ward off a blow.

“It’s me, Pierre,” the man whispered. Pierre Girard, Bernadette’s brother, was wearing a tie-dyed dashiki and tan slacks. He was slender and bookish, with sad brown eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses.

Charlie collapsed with relief. “Oh, Pierre,” he said, his voice halfway between a sob and a sigh. “Have you heard?”

Bernadette’s brother nodded but his face showed no emotion.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlie said.

“There’s no time for sorrow. Baptiste knows you and Bernadette were lovers. He’s toying with you now but our president has a short attention span. When he tires of his head games he’ll send Nathan. You must leave Batanga.”

Pierre put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Bernadette told me how kind you were to her. She loved you, Charlie.”

“Thank you for letting me know that.”

“There’s something else you should know. Bernadette wasn’t killed because she was cheating on Baptiste, although that must have made her pain more enjoyable for the bastard. She was tortured for information.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are Batangans who want Baptiste dead or gone. She was helping us.”

Pierre squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “Do you want to avenge my sister’s death?”

“Of course, but what can I do? I can barely help myself.”

“You know Rebecca, the bartender at the Mauna Loa?” Charlie nodded.

“She can put you in touch with a man who can get you out of the country. He is a mercenary and it will be expensive.”

Charlie knew that he would probably die a horrible death if he stayed in Batanga. Even if Baptiste let him live, the best he could hope for was a life of fear in which every breath he took was dependent on the whim of a sadistic, homicidal lunatic. If he returned to the States, he would have to stand trial for murder, but twelve years had passed. Could the state even mount a case after all this time? The bottom line for Charlie was that even if he was convicted he would be better off on death row than in Batanga. In Oregon, the condemned experienced a quick death by lethal injection. In Batanga, the president liked to hear you scream for as long as possible.

“I think I know a way to manage it,” he told Pierre.

“Good. When everything is in place Rebecca will get in touch with you and she will give you something to take with you that Bernadette entrusted to me.”

“What thing?” asked Charlie, who was naturally suspicious and terrified of being caught helping the rebels.

“Diamonds, Charlie, many diamonds. We need you to carry them to America. We will take them from you there and use them to buy weapons for our people.”

“I don’t know…”

“Did you love my sister?”

Charlie’s eyes misted and he nodded, too choked with emotion to speak.

“Then don’t let her death be in vain.”

Charlie looked past Pierre to the sea. The odds were that he’d be dead before he could help anyone, but if he survived he could finally do something worthwhile with his life by helping Pierre.

“All right, I’m in.”

Pierre smiled. “Bernadette knew we could count on you. Thank you, Charlie.”

They spoke for a few minutes more. Then Pierre embraced Charlie before slipping over the side of the building and rappelling to the beach down the rope he’d used to climb to the landing.

Charlie’s front door opened into a narrow hall flanked by a kitchen and bedroom on one side and a living room and the spare room he used as a study on the ocean side. He turned on a lamp that stood on a cheap wooden desk in his study. Luckily, there was electricity tonight. Charlie booted up his laptop and logged on to his e-mail provider. He assumed that the police would read any e-mail he sent, so he phrased this one carefully. It was addressed to Martha Brice, the editor in chief of World News, an ultraconservative magazine with a main office in New York.

“Dear Ms. Brice: My name is Charlie Marsh. You probably knew me as the Guru Gabriel Sun, author of the inspirational autobiography The Light Within You, an international best-seller. Twelve years ago I was framed for the murder of Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. and was forced to flee from the United States. Since leaving America, I have been living in the wonderful country of Batanga under the protection of its benevolent ruler, President Jean-Claude Baptiste. President Baptiste is a source of enlightenment and a true father to his people. The Western press has falsely labeled him a dictator. I have not given an interview in some time, but I wish to do so now to set the record straight about this courageous leader, who has been so unjustly maligned.

“I’ve seen you interviewed on TV and I’ve followed your career. I believe that the articles in World News present an unbiased view of world affairs. Would your excellent magazine be interested in sending a reporter to write an article that would tell the American people about the wonderful things President Baptiste is doing for the people of Batanga? If so, please contact me so we can arrange the details.”

Charlie read the e-mail twice before sending it. If Baptiste saw it he might hold off killing Charlie in the hope that the interview would be published. This would buy Charlie some time, and time was his most important ally. Time would give Charlie a chance to survive; a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless, and Charlie had always been a man who seized an opportunity when he saw it.

Charlie had drunk a lot at the banquet but the horror in the basement had sobered him. He doubted he could sleep, even though it was almost three in the morning. He poured a glass of scotch and carried it to his balcony, which was the best thing about his dingy apartment. Before sunset, he could watch the native fishermen surf the waves in their canoes as they brought their catch in to shore. After dark, the stars would shine bright in the African sky and he would gaze at the lights of ships anchored in the Freeport. During the rainy season he was presented with lightning storms that were as dramatic as a fireworks display.

Charlie took a stiff drink and tried to imagine what Bernadette had suffered before death had shown her mercy. A tear trickled down his cheek and he brushed it away. The tear was as much for himself as for his dead lover.

THE HEAT OF the sun woke Charlie. He opened his eyes and stared at the sea, wondering why he was outside. There was a chair next to Charlie. In the second after waking he thought he saw Bernadette out of the corner of his eye, sitting beside him, laughing in that way of hers that lit up any room she was in. Then Charlie remembered the events at the mansion and suppressed a sob.

Six years ago, Baptiste had introduced his fourth wife to Batangan high society. Charlie had been taken by her elegant beauty and warm smile but he knew she was untouchable and soon forgot her. Over the next few years, he saw Bernadette from a distance at state dinners and a party or two. He remembered the way her pregnancy suffused her features with a maternal glow and the way she smiled when she gazed at Alfonse. But she wasn’t smiling the first time he was alone with her.

A little over a year ago, the secretary of state had hosted a party for a visiting dignitary from Ghana. Charlie was bored by the company, annoyed by the noise, and tired of just about everything else that was going on. A set of stairs led down to the beach from the patio of the secretary’s house. Charlie set off along the shore and found Bernadette sitting on a thick log that had washed up in the tide. It was dark and neither the moonshine nor the ambient light from the house were strong enough to breach the shadows that obscured Bernadette’s face. When he drew closer, as well as tears glistening on her ebony cheeks, Charlie saw a split lip and a swollen eye. The darkness and the damage to Bernadette’s face prevented Charlie from recognizing her right away or he would have fled. God knew what Baptiste would do to a man found alone with his wife. By the time he realized who she was, Bernadette’s head was on his shoulder and her tears were dampening his shirt.

Bernadette had given up on kindness and now she’d met someone who was tender and compassionate. When she stopped crying and began to think clearly, Bernadette realized the threat she posed to Charlie. She thanked him, squeezed his hand, and left him alone on the beach. But then, a month later, while the president was in Las Vegas, gambling and whoring, Bernadette saw Charlie at a gala at the Batanga Palace, the country’s only luxury hotel. This time she lost her heart to him.

At first, Charlie resisted his desire to be with Bernadette, because he didn’t want to be cut into tiny pieces by a chain-saw or slowly turned into barbecue by a blowtorch, two of the president’s favorite methods of execution. But Charlie had never been in love before and he was stunned by the depth of his feeling for this beautiful lost soul. They began meeting in a room at the hotel, which Charlie rented under an assumed name. During their first tryst, Bernadette confided that the all-powerful ruler of the Batangan people was anything but in the sack. Charlie learned that Baptiste blamed Bernadette for his many failures in bed and beat her when he was unable to perform. The beatings had gotten so bad that she’d begun to fear for her life.

Bernadette and Charlie talked of escape and a life together, even though they should have known that the affair and their dreams were insane. But people in love lose touch with reality. Charlie never asked himself how it was possible for their trysts to go undiscovered in a country where everyone was a spy and the one person most likely to be the subject of surveillance was the supreme ruler’s wife. Now Charlie knew that Baptiste had always been aware of every move they’d made.

Charlie wept quietly as he wondered how it was possible for someone as wonderful as Bernadette to be dead. When he’d exhausted his tears, he closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and felt the sun on his face and the caress of a sea breeze. Waves were washing over the rocky beach below his apartment as they did every minute of every day. The world continued its beat and Charlie was alive to enjoy it. And as long as he was alive, there was a chance he would survive and win some measure of revenge for his lost love.

CHAPTER 3

Four days after his escape from the mansion, at a little after eight in the evening, Charlie walked through the milling Waterside crowds. The dusky air was filled with the competing rhythms of native drummers and radios blaring hip-hop and African highlife. Smoke from cooking fires curled into the night sky. The fires had been built in front of tumbledown shacks made of corrugated tin and other junk. They were stacked one against the other near open sewers. Women wrapped in rainbow-colored cloth sold fish fresh from the canoes of the fishermen while other vendors squatted on low stools beside small grills, hawking roasted yams.

Charlie passed bands of bare-chested boys wearing ragged shorts. They played in the dust near open-front stores protected by thick metal gates. These children believed that all white men were rich, so they approached Charlie with hands outstretched, crying, “Papa, papa, gimme five cents.” Many had distended bellies. One boy dragged a horribly mangled foot behind him. Another had a large lump on his stomach and sat in the road, his dull eyes staring. Older beggars with missing limbs or blind eyes pleaded for alms more quietly, thrusting rusty tin cups out when he walked by.

Charlie ignored the children and the beggars as he struggled up the hill toward the center of Baptisteville. At the top was Main Street, divided by a tree-shaded center island that stretched the length of the city. On either side were Western-style drugstores, movie theaters, restaurants, and gift shops that catered to wealthy Batangans, expatriates, and the rare tourist. The evening crowds were smaller here, because the European or Middle Eastern owners had closed their stores, but the streets were still crowded with taxis and money buses. Charlie crossed the road and turned into Lafayette Street, the center of Batanga’s nightlife. Here were the Cave, the Peacock, the Mauna Loa, and other brightly colored shack bars where bar girls hustled a mostly white clientele to the incessant beat of rock and hip-hop.

Charlie maneuvered past several Batangan men in shorts and ripped T-shirts who sat on the curb outside the Mauna Loa, joking, arguing, and drinking from bottles filled with warm beer. A cigarette vendor tried to interest Charlie in one of the packs that rested on a tray he’d balanced on a wooden stand. Several beautiful African girls in tight, flashy, low-cut dresses leaned against the outside wall of the bar. Charlie greeted the women, who knew him by name. One girl promised him a night of ecstasy unlike any ever experienced by mortal man. Charlie begged off, claiming that a night with any one of them would end with him dead from pleasure. The women were laughing when Charlie entered the shack.

Expatriate white men and African women sat along a wooden bar or at the few small tables that took up most of the floor space. Charlie edged past two Batangan girls who were dancing with each other to the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar,” and took the only empty stool at the bar.

“Eh, Charlie, why you not come more?” asked the bartender.

“Rebecca, you know I love you too much,” he answered. “If I come too much, I will say you must marry me.”

“Maybe I will say yes, eh?” she answered coyly.

Charlie shook his head, feigning sadness. “I can hope, but I know you will break my heart.”

Rebecca laughed raucously. “I say, Charlie, you bullshit me too much.”

Charlie smiled. “Do you think you can find me a cold Heineken?”

Almost everyone in Batanga lived from day to day. Baptiste’s secret police exploited their destitution by paying for information. Charlie had learned that it was wise to trust no one, but Pierre had told Charlie that he could trust Rebecca, a beautiful Batangan woman who had once been the mistress of the cabinet minister, who owned the Mauna Loa. Charlie frequented the bars on Lafayette Street and knew Rebecca. He had never heard her utter a subversive thought or discuss politics, and he was shocked to learn that she was part of the underground.

Bartenders meet a wide range of people and Rebecca had acquaintances, Batangan and otherwise, up and down the social ladder. Pierre had told Charlie that Rebecca would find someone who would help him escape from Batanga. This morning, a small boy had begged him for money using a code phrase. While Charlie was giving him a quarter, the boy told Charlie to come to the Mauna Loa at eight thirty.

Rebecca set a frosted green bottle on the bar, while Charlie casually scanned the room. The men in the bar were in groups or chatting up women. None looked the least bit interested in him. When he swiveled back, a white man who’d been sitting two stools away leaned across the bar girl who sat between them.

“I know you,” he proclaimed so loudly that he could be heard over the music.

“I don’t think so,” said Charlie, who could smell the booze on his breath from the distance of two barstools.

The man was broad-shouldered, big through the chest, and spoke with a southern accent. Charlie figured him for six two and two hundred. He was bald with a ruddy complexion and faint traces of boyhood acne and looked like he could handle himself in a fight.

“No, no, don’t tell me. It’ll come to me,” the drunk insisted. He gazed into space for a moment then snapped his fingers. “TV! I’ve seen you on TV.”

Charlie held his breath.

“You’re that guru. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“No, you got it.” Charlie sighed.

“Hey, honey,” the man said to the bar girl who sat between him and Charlie, “would you mind switching places? I’ll buy you another to make it worth your while.”

The bar girl surrendered her stool and the man moved next to Charlie.

“Hope you don’t mind but it’s not every day I bump into a celebrity in this place. Brad and Angelina don’t pop in here much,” he said with a braying laugh that set Charlie’s teeth on edge.

“Chauncey Evers,” the man said, reaching out a large hand. Charlie shook it reluctantly.

“Charlie Marsh,” Charlie answered as he tried to figure out how to get away. His contact was never going to approach him while he was with this clown.

“I have to apologize upfront. I haven’t read your book. I meant to but I haven’t. But I did see you on TV during the thing at the prison when you saved the prison guard’s life. That was something.”

Two men and two women vacated a table. Evers picked up his glass.

“Let’s grab that table and you can tell me all about the standoff at the prison.”

“That’s okay,” Charlie said, desperate to beg off. “I’m supposed to meet someone.”

“Well, you can drink with me until she gets here,” Evers said with an exaggerated wink, “and the drinks are on me. It ain’t often I get to meet a genuine hero who was on television and wrote a book.” Evers lowered his voice. “And wants to escape from this hellhole.”

“You’re…” Charlie started, but Evers had turned away and was weaving unsteadily through the close-packed tables. As soon as he was seated, he thrust a pen and a napkin at Charlie.

“Can I get your autograph for my girlfriend?” he asked loudly.

“Can you get me out of here?” Charlie said as he leaned over the napkin.

“That’s easy,” Evers assured him.

“How soon can you do it?”

“As soon as you pay me seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Seventy-five?” Charlie repeated anxiously.

“And it’s got to be in cash. I don’t take checks. Is that a problem?”

“No,” Charlie said.

World News had agreed to do the interview, so Charlie would ask Rebecca to get a message asking for the seventy-five-thousand-dollar fee to Martha Brice through Pierre Girard and the rebels.

“What I want to know,” Charlie said, “is how you’re going to deal with Baptiste’s secret police?”

“You mean that guy over by the wall?” Evers said as he kept his eyes on Charlie, a big smile on his face. “I spotted that clown as soon as he walked in.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be so smug. I spotted him too. He tailed me from my apartment and he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was following me. There are people outside my place every minute I’m at home and someone on my ass whenever I go out. Baptiste wants me to know he’s having me shadowed. His secret police are very good. They can make themselves invisible if they want to. This is Baptiste’s way of telling me I’m on a short leash. What I want to know is how you’re going to deal with these guys.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Evers said confidently. “You get me the money and I’ll get you out.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Evers shrugged. “Beats me. But you’re the guy who sent for me. So,” the mercenary asked, “what did you do to get Baptiste’s panties in a bunch?”

Charlie hesitated. If Evers found out that the president had a personal grudge against him he might change his mind about taking him home. An American passport went only so far as protection, in Batanga.

“Come on, Charlie. If I’m going to risk my neck to get you out of here I have to know what I’m dealing with.”

Charlie looked down at the tabletop. “I had an affair with one of Baptiste’s wives.”

Evers whistled.

“He tortured her to death and showed me the results. Then he pretended he didn’t know who her lover was, but he knows,” Charlie said bitterly.

“Man, you are in a heap of trouble. But never fear. Chauncey Evers will come to the rescue.”

“What do I do next?” Charlie asked as he handed the autographed napkin to Evers.

“Get the money. Tell Rebecca when you have it and she’ll tell me. Then you do exactly what I tell you to do and you’ll be back in the good old US of A before you know it.”

CHAPTER 4

Some people said that God was good and merciful, but Dennis Levy knew that was not true. One had only to turn on the television news to see evidence of gross injustice in the world. One percent of the Earth’s population skied at Gstaad and lay on the beaches of Nevis while millions starved in Africa. And what about AIDS and Katrina and the poor in India, who lived in the streets and scavenged in garbage dumps for their meals? Closer to home, there were undeserving people who held positions of power and worked in luxurious offices with views of Central Park because they had married money, while those with real talent-like Dennis Levy-slaved away in a cubicle and had to kowtow to them.

These were some of the things Dennis was thinking about as he trudged from his cubicle to the luxurious office of Martha Brice, his boss at World News. Levy had grown up lower-middle-class on Long Island and had worked like a dog in high school to earn a scholarship to an Ivy League university. While he bused tables in the cafeteria at Princeton, the legacy morons in his class received a weekly allowance from dear old dad. When Levy was studying into the wee hours and graduating with a three-point-fucking-eight GPA, the sons and daughters of the rich were getting drunk and stoned and screwing anything that moved, safe in the knowledge that plum jobs in their parents’ firms or corporations waited for them regardless of their grades. Where was the justice in that, and what had all his hard work and sterling academic career gotten him? His rich classmates were raking it in as stockbrokers and lawyers; people who couldn’t write their way out of a paper bag got the choice assignments at World News while he was making peanuts reporting on stories that would never earn him the reputation he deserved.

Levy forced himself to smile when he announced his presence to Brice’s so-called executive assistant, Daphne St. John; though he was willing to bet this was not her real name. Daphne was a stuck-up bitch, who had turned down Dennis’s offer of a drink shortly after she was hired. Memories of her incredulous refusal still burned, but he was damned if he’d let Brice’s glorified receptionist know it.

“Mrs. Brice is on an important call,” Daphne told him, clearly implying that Brice’s meeting with him was not important. “Take a seat and I’ll tell you when she’s ready to see you.”

Dennis planted himself on a sofa and fumed silently while he leafed through the latest issue of World News. He had just finished mentally editing another article on the Middle East poorly written by one of the senior hacks when Daphne told him he could enter Brice’s inner sanctum.

Dennis was tall and gangly, with the pasty complexion low-paid reporters have when they only make enough to subsist on fast foods. His black hair was curly and his blue eyes were intense. He always seemed to be on edge and-though he was obviously very smart-he was slow to get jokes, because he lacked a sense of humor. Dennis was also socially inept. He had no sense of style and never felt comfortable in a restaurant that rated stars or at a function where a tuxedo was required.

Martha Brice was completely at home at Le Bernardin or a society gala. Dennis grudgingly conceded that she had a first-class mind, as evidenced by the diplomas from Yale and the Columbia University School of Journalism that hung on her wall, but she couldn’t have been more than ten years older than he was and she was already the editor in chief of a major news magazine. What really bugged Dennis was that she’d gotten her position by marrying Harvey Brice, who owned World News and was at least twenty years her senior. Dennis couldn’t really argue that she wasn’t a good executive, but he felt that he was as qualified to run a major magazine as she was, and might be sitting in Martha’s chair if he’d had the good fortune to be born to wealthy parents instead of the owner of a dry-cleaning establishment and a first-grade teacher.

Dennis also had to concede that Martha Brice was glamorous if, in his opinion, a bit overweight. Her heart-shaped face was framed by jet-black hair shaped in a bob, and she’d applied bright red lipstick to her thick, pouty lips. The lustrous hair and fire-engine mouth contrasted sharply with her pale white skin. Today, she was wearing a black Armani pants suit with a cream, man-tailored shirt. Tasteful black pearl teardrop earrings and a matching necklace told you that she was loaded but didn’t have to broadcast the fact.

“Good to see you, Dennis,” Brice said as she motioned him into a chair. “How are you getting along?”

Dennis had no idea what she was asking about. Did she want to know about his private life, or how he liked his job? He decided to play it safe.

“Fine,” he answered.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you and I’m very pleased with your work.”

Dennis blushed. He was not used to praise.

“I know you haven’t been given the most challenging assignments,” Brice continued, “but one way I gauge how dedicated and competent my reporters are is to see how they handle assignments I know won’t necessarily interest them. Now it’s time for you to take a step up. Are you interested?”

“Definitely,” Dennis answered, sitting up straight without realizing he was doing so.

“How old are you, Dennis?”

“Twenty-five.”

“You would have been thirteen, twelve years ago,” Brice said, more to herself than Dennis. “Do the names Charlie Marsh or Gabriel Sun mean anything to you?”

Dennis frowned. “Didn’t he start some kind of New Age religion and then get charged with murder?”

The editor nodded. “The press called him ‘Satan’s Guru’ and the case was plastered on the front page of every newspaper in America. Mr. Marsh first gained notoriety during a prison standoff at the state penitentiary when he saved a prison guard’s life. He was rewarded with an early release and wrote a best-selling autobiography called The Light Within You, which attributed his miraculous conversion from petty criminal to hero and alleged humanitarian to the discovery of God’s light within himself. The TV talk shows ate it up.

“Marsh started calling himself Gabriel Sun and hawking self-revelation and salvation through Inner Light seminars, which he held all over the country. Twelve years ago, United States congressman Arnold Pope Jr. was shot at one of these seminars. Marsh and the congressman’s wife were charged with the murder and Marsh fled the country.”

Brice slid a thick folder across her desk.

“This is background on the guru. It will give you enough information to conduct an interview with him.”

Dennis flipped through the file, which was crammed with newspaper clippings and computer printouts.

“Marsh is hiding out in Africa, isn’t he?” he asked, starting to remember facts about the subject of his story.

Brice nodded. “He’s in Batanga.”

Dennis frowned. “Isn’t that the country that’s ruled by a cannibal?”

“Those rumors about President Baptiste eating the ex-president’s heart have never been verified. I suspect he spread them himself to scare the dickens out of anyone who was thinking of opposing him. But you can ask Mr. Marsh. I hear he knows the president very well.”

“So, how am I doing this interview, by phone?”

Brice smiled warmly. “You know that’s not how we conduct business at World News. I’ve booked you on a flight to Lagos, Nigeria, that leaves at seven tonight from JFK.”

“This evening?”

“That’s not a problem, is it?”

“No, no. I can leave tonight.”

“Good. It’s a short hop from Lagos to Baptisteville.”

Dennis was stunned by his good fortune. He was flying to Africa to interview an international celebrity in a country ruled by a cannibal. How cool was that! And though he knew next to nothing about Charlie Marsh, he was a quick study. By the time he landed in Baptisteville, he’d be ready to rock and roll.

“Is there anything special you want me to discuss in the interview?” Dennis asked.

“Don’t worry about the interview. Mr. Marsh will be returning to the States with you and you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him.”

Dennis frowned. “Isn’t he still under indictment for murder?”

“Yes. That’s why he’s returning. He’s always claimed he was innocent of the charges and he wants to clear his name.”

“Wow! So this could be a really big story?”

“It will be a really big story, and it will be your story. Do you think you can handle it?”

“Definitely!”

“There could be a book in this, too. You’ll see what I mean when you read through the file.”

A book! A huge story and a book! Dennis was having trouble breathing.

“There is one thing, though,” Martha said. She reached behind her desk and pulled out a valise that looked like it had gone through the wars. “When you pack I want you to use this suitcase.”

“I have a nice valise at home.”

“I’m sure it’s much nicer than this but it doesn’t have seventy-five thousand dollars concealed in it, does it?”

“Seventy-five…”

“Mr. Marsh is in great danger. He could be dead by the time you land, tomorrow. Hopefully, he’ll be alive and you can give him this money, which will be used to aid his escape.”

“This sounds dangerous,” Dennis said warily.

“It is dangerous, but so is reporting in a war zone or flying into the eye of a hurricane. Top reporters court danger. I had you pegged as someone who would welcome the chance to take risks to land a story that could win a Pulitzer Prize. Was I wrong? If you think this is too big for you…”

“No, no, I can handle it, but won’t Mr. Marsh be arrested when he lands in the States? Don’t they check to see if you’re a wanted criminal on the computers at Immigration when you fly in from a foreign country?”

Brice nodded. “That’s why he’ll be using a passport with another name.”

“But that’s illegal.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll be arrested if I help him sneak into the country illegally.”

“Perhaps, but we’d hire the best lawyers for you. Besides, I suspect you’ll be protected by the First Amendment.”

“Is that true? Have you asked a lawyer about that?”

“There wasn’t any time. Mr. Marsh’s life is hanging by a thread. Do you want to chance his being arrested, tortured, and killed while we seek a legal opinion?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you my man, Dennis, or should I give this assignment to Shelby Pike?”

Shelby and Dennis had started at World News at the same time. Dennis was of the opinion that Pike was a talentless suck-up. There was no way he was giving up this chance at fame and fortune to Shelby Pike.

“I’m in, Mrs. Brice.”

“Then you’d better hurry home and pack,” Brice said.

CHAPTER 5

BARBARA WALTERS: Why did you change your name to Gabriel Sun after you were released from prison?

CHARLIE MARSH: In the Bible, Gabriel is an angel who serves as a messenger from God and I felt that a greater power, be it God or Allah or whatever, had chosen me to be His messenger when Crazy Freddy tried to murder the hostages. And, of course, the sun is a symbol of the inner light that consumed me at my moment of truth.

WALTERS: What were you feeling when Freddy stabbed you? Were you afraid you’d die?

MARSH: To the contrary. When Freddy stabbed me I was filled by my inner light and I was completely at peace. There was no fear, only love. And it’s this experience that I want others to have so they can know that they have the power to change themselves for the better.

WALTERS: Many of the hostages said that you were able to convince Mr. Clayton, who was one of the most violent prisoners in the penitentiary, to stop his assault on the guard by telling him you loved him.

MARSH: That’s true, Barbara. When I was infused by my inner light I learned that Love is the most powerful force in the universe, and that Love can overcome violence. And it isn’t just violence that can be overcome once we learn how to turn on and harness our inner light, Barbara. As I explain in my seminars, when our inner light is on, it fuels the self-confidence that can make us successful in business, personal relationships, and every other aspect of life. And I’m very excited about the opportunities my seminars give me to help so many people succeed by learning how to harness this power that is in each and every one of us.

The seat-belt light flashed and a flight attendant announced the descent into Baptisteville International Airport. Dennis put the transcript of the twelve-year-old Barbara Walters Special interview back in Marsh’s file, put the file in his flight bag, and glanced out the window. Wisps of vapor thickened into billowy, opaque clouds that hid the ocean from view. Then they were through the clouds and the plane swept over a vast expanse of clear blue water, a white sand beach, and a thick stand of emerald green palm trees. After a series of sharp bumps, the plane coasted to a stop in front of a long, one-story terminal.

A blast of thick, hot air struck Dennis when he stepped out of the plane and descended the portable staircase to the runway. As he crossed the tarmac, his shoes stuck to the asphalt and the humidity made his shirt cling to his body. Moving in the African heat was like swimming through glue, and he prayed that the terminal was air-conditioned.

The sun was so bright that Dennis was forced to shade his eyes. When he could see, he was overwhelmed by an onslaught of color. He had never seen so much green or a sky so blue, and everyone was black. The airline mechanics, the pilots and the flight attendants, and most of the passengers were black. So were the soldiers with their automatic weapons and the vast majority of the people waiting behind the plate-glass windows in the arrivals area. Dennis was the oddly colored person here, and it made him feel a little uncomfortable.

The outside of the terminal had been painted a drab brown and the middle of one wall was taken up by a larger-than-life image of Jean-Claude Baptiste’s smiling face, above which was the greeting, WELCOME TO BATANGA. The president’s eyes seemed to focus on Dennis when he approached the building, as if Baptiste knew he was smuggling in money and a forged passport to help Charlie Marsh escape his grasp. Dennis had read stories about the atrocities committed in Batanga, and he felt sick and a little disoriented as he waited to go through customs. He imagined being taken from the line to a windowless, soundproof room where he would be strapped to an uncomfortable wooden chair by terrifying, steely-eyed interrogators and confronted with the money that had been found in the lining of his suitcase. But when it was his turn, a bored customs inspector asked him a few perfunctory questions before stamping his passport and waving him on.

Dennis hurried to reclaim his suitcase. He tried to stay calm as he waited for the baggage handlers to bring it from the plane but he found it difficult to keep from shifting in place and impossible to keep his head from swiveling this way and that looking for the policemen he felt certain were closing in on him. He also checked the crowd in the baggage claim area for Charlie Marsh, who was supposed to meet him at the airport and drive him to his hotel, but he saw no one who resembled the smiling, dreamy-eyed swami he’d seen in the photographs in the file.

Dennis spotted his suitcase and grabbed it, expecting to be pounced on any minute. When there was no pouncing, he carried the valise to the front of the terminal where groups of Batangans and a few expatriates were greeting his fellow travelers. A man detached himself from the wall and walked toward Dennis. He wore dark glasses, khaki pants, a sweat-stained T-shirt advertising Guinness Stout, sandals, and a baseball cap.

“You from World News?” he asked.

“Dennis Levy,” Dennis answered with a smile of relief. He extended his hand. Charlie hesitated, then glanced around anxiously as he shook it. Charlie’s grip was limp and disinterested and his palm was sweaty.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and headed for the door.

Dennis caught up with Charlie when he stopped at a rusty, dented, dirt-stained Volkswagen standing at the curb in a no-parking zone. Two policemen were standing next to the car. Dennis froze, certain that they were about to be arrested. Then Charlie slipped each cop some money and Dennis realized that they had been paid to watch the car. Charlie opened the trunk so Dennis could put his suitcase in it.

“Do you have the money?” Charlie asked as soon as they were in the car.

“Yes. It’s in the lining of my suitcase.”

“The full seventy-five?”

“It’s all there.”

“Thank God,” Charlie intoned, closing his eyes briefly.

Moments later, they were careening down a two-lane highway just as the sun was starting to disappear behind a row of low green hills. Dennis waited for Charlie to say something else, but the subject of his future best-seller was concentrating on the road and seemed to have forgotten that there was a passenger in his car.

“Are we going to my hotel, Mr. Sun?” Dennis asked in an attempt to get a conversation going.

“Marsh, Charlie Marsh. Call me by my right name.”

“So, you don’t go by Gabriel Sun anymore?”

Charlie glared at him for a second before returning his eyes to the road in time to veer around a stray goat.

“Forget about all that Sun shit,” he said when they were out of peril. “That’s way in the past.”

“Okay.”

The Volkswagen drove by an outdoor market that had been set up in a clearing at the side of the road. Dennis shifted in his seat to take in the scene. Native women wrapped in multicolored cloth carried babies strapped to their backs while balancing baskets of fruit, rice, and fish on their heads. Men in khaki shorts and disintegrating T-shirts that hung in shreds from their well-muscled backs passed in front of wooden stalls selling red, yellow, and blue tins and boxes. Oddly, the goods in each stall appeared to be identical. Children played among the stalls. Some of the people on the roadside smiled and waved when the car flashed by. Dennis waved back. Marsh ignored them, jamming the heel of his hand on the horn if someone got too close, but never decreasing his speed.

“Look at those dumb bastards,” he muttered.

Dennis gave Charlie an odd look. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. Marsh appeared to be an angry and frustrated man. Dennis wondered if he should make the reason for Marsh’s anger and frustration the central theme of his interview. If Charlie Marsh had gone through a spiritual transformation during his years in Africa, Dennis’s book would be even more interesting. He’d read the articles Martha Brice had included in the file, about the exciting prison standoff, Charlie’s affair with the congressman’s wife, and the murder case, so he knew the book would have sex, politics, and violence, but this could add a whole new intellectual layer to the biography that would engage the critics and those who voted for literary prizes.

AS THEY NEARED Baptisteville, clusters of huts constructed from mud and tin started to appear at uneven intervals. Occasionally, Dennis spotted a house built with concrete blocks, which vaguely resembled the ranch houses he’d grown up with in the suburbs. Behind the buildings, grassland stretched to the horizon. The foreign landscape captured Dennis’s attention and he found himself asking Charlie questions about what he was seeing. Charlie answered his questions grudgingly and deflected any questions about subjects Dennis could use for the interview.

Dennis guessed that they’d reached the outskirts of the city when they passed the executive mansion, which reminded him of a casino he’d visited in Atlantic City. A few minutes later, the Volkswagen was stalled in traffic on a narrow, one-way street lined with two-story buildings. Balconies shaded the street-level stores. Through the open fronts, Dennis glimpsed shelves and display cases stocked with bolts of cloth and canned goods.

Throngs of people crowded the sidewalks but it was rare to spot a white face. Horns honked and beggars supported by wooden staffs limped by. The traffic moved and the car drove out of the business district onto a sea-cliff drive. In the distance, at the top of the cliff was the fifteen-story Batanga Palace hotel, a stark, modern edifice that was the tallest building in the city.

“I’m going to tell you the facts of life,” Charlie said as the hotel driveway came into view. “In Batanga everyone is a spy. You can’t trust a soul. The average Batangan will sell his mother to the secret police for a few dollars. So, you don’t talk to anyone about anything. Not the bellboy or the desk clerk, not anyone.

“Now, we’ve been followed since we left the airport. No, don’t turn around. You won’t be able to pick them out. When we pull up to the hotel, act natural. You’re going to want to hang on to your suitcase, but that would be like waving a big sign that says, ‘I’ve got something hidden in here.’ So you let the bell man take the suitcase up to your room. Then you take the money out and put it in that flight bag you’re carrying. After you do that, have a shower, which is the first thing a white man who hasn’t been in Africa before would do when he got to his hotel. But keep your flight bag with you in the bathroom. As soon as you’re changed, go down to the bar. Bring your flight bag with you. If you leave it in your room it’s going to be searched.”

“Are you going to meet me?”

“No. I’m out of here as soon as I drop you off. Now listen up. A big, bald white man will contact you. His name is Evers. You give him the money. He’s going to fly us out of here, tonight.”

“Tonight! But I just got here.”

“And you’re just going to leave. Evers is a mercenary. He’s got a plane coming in on a bush airstrip a few miles outside the city. As soon as you give him the money he’ll contact his partner and we’ll all meet up at the strip.”

“Is Evers going to take me there?”

“Hell, no. You don’t want Baptiste’s men seeing you two together. All he’s taking is the money.”

“Then how will I get there?” Dennis asked anxiously.

“Ask the doorman at the hotel where the nightlife is, then have the doorman get you a taxi.”

“Should I bring my suitcase?”

“Are you stupid? Who brings a suitcase to a bar? No, you don’t bring your suitcase. You leave it in your room so no one thinks you’re skipping out.”

“Hey, back off, Charlie. I’m new to this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“You’d better be a fast learner because one stupid move could cost you your life. Now pay attention. As soon as you’re away from the hotel, tell the driver you’ve changed your mind and want to see an old friend. Give him these directions,” Charlie said, slipping Dennis a piece of paper. “This will take you to the expatriate compound so it will look like you’re visiting a white friend. When you get to the gate of the compound tell the driver to go two more miles. If he balks, slip him five dollars. He’ll take you to the moon for that kind of tip. Watch the odometer. Just before it hits two miles, you’ll see a dirt road off to the right. Take it a mile in and we’ll be there.”

“I don’t know about this,” Dennis said nervously.

“You have two choices. Do what I just told you and get out of this hellhole tonight, or use your return ticket to fly out tomorrow. The problem with choice number two is that you’ll have to be in Batanga in the morning, by which time President Baptiste will know that I’ve flown the coop.

“Now ask yourself, who is the last person with whom I was seen and who do you think will be questioned about where I’ve gone? While the secret police are adjusting the voltage to the electrodes attached to your testicles, I’ll be flying to freedom and you’ll be wondering why you aren’t with me.”

“Attaching electrodes! They can’t do that, can they? I’m an American citizen.”

“You think Baptiste gives a shit? When he finds out I’ve escaped, he’s going to want to hurt someone, and you’re going to be the only one here.”

CHAPTER 6

The shower felt great. The cold water washed away the fatigue of travel and the layer of sweat that had caked his body ever since Dennis had stepped out of the plane into the African sun. The mere fact that he was in Africa was astonishing to someone who had never been farther than the East Coast of the United States. As Dennis toweled off, he thought about everything that had happened since he’d landed in Batanga. The events of the past hour both scared him to death and exhilarated him. The exhilarating part involved mercenaries, secret police, and the possibility of a thrilling escape in the night. The scary part involved the possibility that the escape would be thwarted by the secret police and he would end up with electrodes attached to his testicles. Dennis was terrified of being tortured, but he was more frightened of losing the most important story and the greatest professional opportunity of his life.

After he changed into fresh clothes, Dennis carried his money-filled flight bag to the bar, which was packed with expatriates and wealthy Batangans. Charlie had told him to order a piña colada, which would identify him to Evers as the person with the cash. Dennis found a table and put his flight bag between his feet so he could touch it. He was halfway through his drink when a gorgeous black woman in a short red dress sat next to him.

“That’s an interesting drink you have there. What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a piña colada.”

“You like that drink?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. It’s good.”

“Is it sweet?”

“A little.”

He felt a sudden pressure on his left knee and the heat rose in his cheeks when he realized it was caused by the woman’s hand.

“I can be good too and I’m sweeter than your drink. Do you want to taste me?”

Sweat formed on Dennis’s brow, even though the hotel was heavily air-conditioned. He had very little sexual experience and a situation like this had never before presented itself. Every nerve in his body was urging him to answer in the affirmative and whisk this stunning woman up to his room. Then he remembered his Pulitzer Prize and why he was in the bar.

“If I wasn’t meeting someone I’d gladly accept your offer. Maybe another night.”

Rebecca leaned in close and lowered her voice. “Mr. Evers wants you to go to the garden by the pool after you finish your drink. Take the path that leads to the hut bar.”

Dennis started to say something, but the woman touched his lips gently with her fingers.

“Maybe we will meet again tomorrow night, yes?” she said loud enough to be heard by anyone who was listening. Then Rebecca walked away, her hips swaying rhythmically in a manner calculated to attract the attention of every man in the bar. While all eyes were on Rebecca’s backside, Dennis worked on his drink, hoping the alcohol would help him calm down. When he’d drained the glass dry, he left the bar through the door that led to the pool.

The temperature was in the eighties, but the air seemed cool in comparison to the 100-plus degree heat that had greeted Dennis at the airport. The back of the hotel was a tropical paradise. Lights illuminated oversize ferns, palm trees, a spectacular array of flowers, and several paths that led away from the pool into a garden. At the start of one path, a sign pointed toward a hut without walls that was covered by a thatched roof. A bar took up the center of the hut. Dennis was halfway down the path when he heard someone behind him. Before he could turn, a hand clamped down on the wrist that held the flight bag. Dennis’s blood pressure skyrocketed.

“I’m Evers. Don’t say a word. Just give me the bag and keep moving. Have a drink at the bar then head to the rendezvous.”

Dennis released the bag and a huge, bald man walked past him and disappeared into the garden. Dennis was still shaking when he sat at the bar. A stiff scotch helped him relax a little. When he’d finished it, he went to the front of the hotel and asked the doorman where to find some action in town. As soon as he was given the name of a few bars and the street they were on, Dennis asked the doorman to get him a cab. The doorman blew a whistle and a taxi pulled up. The cabbie was a big man wearing a dashiki decorated with a picture of Jean-Claude Baptiste. When Dennis got into the taxi, he turned his head toward the backseat.

“Where to, my friend?” he asked with a jovial grin.

“Lafayette Street.”

“Ah, you are looking for fine Batangan women,” the cabbie said with a knowing shake of his head.

“Maybe,” Dennis answered nervously.

“I show you the best bars.”

“Great.”

“You are American?”

“Yes,” Dennis answered tersely, remembering Charlie’s admonition to talk to no one.

“Not too many Americans come Batanga way.”

When Dennis didn’t respond, the driver said, “I like Americans. They tip big.” Then he laughed.

Dennis cast a few surreptitious glances out the back window of the taxi as it sped into town. He didn’t see any cars following him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Dennis said. “I want to go to Idi Amin Beach.”

“That trip more money,” the cabbie said.

“That’s okay.”

The beach had originally been named after Batanga’s first president, but President Baptiste had rechristened it in the name of his boyhood idol. The compound where many of the expatriates lived backed on it. The driver cut through a few side streets before turning onto Baptiste Boulevard, the main road out of the city.

“What kind work you do in America?” the driver asked.

“I write for a magazine.”

“Ah, Penthouse, Playboy, they are good magazines.”

“Actually, it’s a news magazine. We report what’s happening in the world.”

The cabbie shook his head. “That’s a good thing. It is wise to know about the world. Have you come to Batanga to write about our great country?”

“Uh, yes. The American people want very much to learn about Batanga.”

“That’s good. Batangans know much about America. We see the movies. Many gunfights and car chases. Have you ever been in a gunfight or a car chase?”

“That doesn’t really happen. I mean, not often. They just put those in the movies to make them exciting. Most days of the year, it’s pretty boring in America. Americans just get up and work and watch television and go to sleep. There’s not much exciting going on.”

“I would like a television. It would be a good thing to have. They show our great football team on TV.”

The streetlights disappeared a mile past the executive mansion and the only hole in the dark night was created by the cab’s headlights. By the time they were close to the expatriate compound, Dennis was starting to feel confident that he would escape from Batanga. The cabbie kept up a constant chatter and Dennis found himself talking too, because it helped him relieve his tension. When Dennis saw the wall that sealed off the expatriates from Batanga, he told the cabbie to go on for another two miles. The driver asked for more money and Dennis gave him five dollars as Charlie had instructed. The driver responded with a big grin and drove on. He almost missed the turnoff, but Dennis spotted it. The cab backed up and began to bounce as it moved slowly along the unpaved road.

Dennis began to worry when he didn’t see anything that resembled an airstrip. Then the trees disappeared and Dennis spotted a Land Rover and Charlie’s Volkswagen parked in the middle of an open field.

“Stop here,” Dennis said.

The cab stopped and Dennis handed the driver the fare and a big tip.

“You want me to wait for you?” the driver asked.

“No, thanks. I’ve got a ride back to town.”

Dennis got out and Charlie walked out of the shadows.

“So you decided to come along on our little adventure,” he said to Dennis.

“I’ve never walked away from a story yet,” Dennis said, trying to sound like a hard-as-nails veteran reporter.

Charlie started to say something else when he noticed that the taxi had not moved.

“Did you tell him to go back to town?” he asked just as the cabbie stepped out of the taxi with a gun in his hand.

“Down on the ground,” the driver commanded.

“Who…?” Dennis started to ask just as the cabbie clubbed him with the gun.

“On the ground,” the cabbie barked. Charlie dropped to the dirt and Dennis collapsed, dazed by the blow.

“Is anyone else here?” the cabbie asked as he scanned the darkness. Before Charlie could answer, the taxi driver’s head exploded and red mist fanned out behind him.

“Fuck!” Charlie said as Chauncey Evers appeared, cradling a high-powered rifle outfitted with a night-vision scope.

Evers grabbed Dennis by the arm. As the mercenary pulled him to his feet, Dennis gawked at the dead cabbie. Then he threw up.

“Get your shit together,” Evers said, tightening the grip on Dennis’s bicep. “Baptiste’s men will be here any moment.

“Turn on the car lights and light the flares,” Evers told Charlie. “We don’t know how close the other bastards are and our ride is on its approach.”

Evers released Dennis’s arm. Dennis staggered a few steps. He felt woozy from the blow to his head. Something trickled down his cheek. When he took his hand away, it was covered with blood.

“I’m bleeding.”

“For Christ’s sake, grow up. Do you want to die here?”

Dennis stared at Evers.

“Well, you’re going to if you don’t get your ass in gear. There are a series of flares on either side of the runway and we’ve got to get them lit.”

Charlie had already turned on the headlights of the Volkswagen and the Rover. He was lighting his second flare on one side of a narrow dirt airstrip when Dennis set off his first. Dennis was still nauseated from the blow to his head but he pushed through the pain and kept moving. Just after he set off the next flare he heard the faint sound of an aircraft approaching. Seconds after all the flares were lit, a small plane dropped out of the sky. It didn’t look much bigger than a pickup truck, and Dennis, who had flown infrequently and always in a commercial airliner, had trouble believing that this toy would be able to fly four grown men out of the jungle.

The makeshift runway was about 2,000 feet long and the plane bounced along the ground when it hit the dirt. As soon as it reached the end of the strip it made a U-turn.

Headlights appeared from the direction of the main road and Dennis heard car engines racing.

“Move,” Evers barked. Dennis jumped into one of the two rear seats, next to Charlie. Seconds later, Evers was sitting next to the pilot and they were taxiing toward freedom.

Two black Mercedes burst onto the runway and followed the plane down the dirt strip. A gun poked out of the rear window of the lead car and Dennis saw a flash.

“Up!” Evers shouted.

The nose of the plane jerked skyward and they began a steep climb. Dennis was pinned to his seat and thought he would throw up again. Then they were in the clouds and Charlie was laughing hysterically.

“Thank you, thank you,” he hollered, “and God bless America.”

CHAPTER 7

At the height of her agony, Rebecca cried out to Jesus. Jean-Claude Baptiste nodded his approval. In addition to practicing an animistic tribal religion, the president of the republic hedged his bets by attending Roman Catholic mass regularly, and he approved of a woman who kept her faith under trying circumstances. The interrogator asked the bartender from the Mauna Loa another question. When he found her answer unsatisfactory he did something that caused her to scream again.

There was a knock on the door to his office and Baptiste turned down the intercom that was transmitting the interrogation from the basement. Baptiste liked to conduct his own question-and-answer sessions in person when he could, but his position as president didn’t leave him much free time, so he’d learned to delegate and made do with listening to important interrogations over the intercom.

The door opened and Nathan Tuazama entered. He was dressed in a tan business suit, a light blue silk shirt, and a forest green tie. Most men trembled in Baptiste’s presence but Tuazama was a man whom Baptiste feared. This was due to a dream Baptiste had had many years ago that featured him and Tuazama. In it, both men were being menaced by a lion in a clearing in the jungle, but the lion appeared to be unable to choose between them. Every time the lion headed toward Baptiste he grew confused, changed direction, and headed for Tuazama. Then, just as he was about to pounce on Nathan, he would again grow confused and start toward the president. In the dream, the lion was never able to make a decision about which Batangan would be his dinner.

Baptiste had told Nathan about the dream. Then he had consulted an old man in his village, who was a magician. The day before the consultation, Tuazama paid the old man twenty dollars. The Juju man listened intently as the president recounted his dream. Then he read the entrails of a goat and revealed that the fates of Baptiste and Tuazama were inextricably entwined. Since then Baptiste had been very solicitous of Tuazama’s well-being and Tuazama had done everything he could to encourage Baptiste in the belief that he would stay alive as long as the chief of his secret police was well cared for.

“Sit down and listen for a few moments, Nathan.”

There was another scream followed by another plea to Jesus for mercy.

“She is strong,” Baptiste said.

Tuazama shrugged. “That’s true, but she’ll tell us what we want to know eventually. In any event, this interrogation may be unnecessary. I believe I’ve figured out what happened and where Charlie has gone.”

Baptiste leaned forward, eager for the information.

“The night of the banquet at the mansion, Charlie sent an e-mail to World News, an American magazine, offering to give an interview. A few days later, a mercenary named Chauncey Evers met with Charlie in the Mauna Loa, where the bartender works. The man who saw this thought that Evers was a harmless drunk and didn’t bother to report the meeting. He has been dealt with.

“Yesterday, Charlie picked up an American journalist named Dennis Levy at the airport. Levy works for World News and he was on the plane that flew Charlie out of the country. After driving in from the airport, Charlie dropped Levy at the Batanga Palace, where Evers was staying. My guess is that the bartender put Charlie in touch with Evers and Charlie arranged to have Evers take him to the United States.”

“But Charlie’s a wanted man in America.”

“He’s not stupid, Mr. President. He had to know you’d figured out that he was Bernadette’s lover. He knows what would have happened to him if you decided to punish his transgression. I’m guessing he chose American justice over yours. And then, of course, there is the matter of the diamonds. A child went to Marsh’s apartment yesterday. I suspect Rebecca will eventually confess that she sent the child to Charlie with the diamonds.”

“Where does this Levy fit in?”

“Charlie is running out of money. I’ve checked. Evers doesn’t come cheap. I’m guessing that World News paid Charlie for the interview and he used the fee to pay Evers. Levy probably smuggled the money into the country.”

Baptiste stared straight ahead and Tuazama waited patiently.

“I underestimated Charlie,” the president said. “I should have given him to you sooner. I want you to handle this matter personally. Go to America and bring back the diamonds.”

“And Charlie?”

“Charlie’s not important. He’s nothing to me anymore. It’s the principle of the thing now, Nathan. If I let Charlie get away with this everyone will think I am weak. So, find what he’s taken then make an example of him that will grab the attention of the next traitor who thinks about crossing me.”

CHAPTER 8

Amanda Jaffe’s phone woke her out of a deep sleep. She groped for it after the third ring.

“Hello,” she mumbled groggily as soon as she located the receiver.

“Is this Amanda Jaffe?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Martha Brice. I’m the editor in chief of World News.”

Shit, a reporter, Amanda thought as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and brushed her long black hair away from her face. Amanda’s boyfriend, Mike Greene, the chief criminal deputy at the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, had spent the night with her at her condo because neither of them had a meeting or court appearance until noon. Amanda had been looking forward to sleeping in, for a change.

“Do you know what time it is, Ms. Brice?”

“That’s Mrs. Brice, and since its seven a.m. in New York, it must be four where you are,” the woman answered calmly.

“Is there some reason you couldn’t call me at my office at a civilized hour?”

“Actually, there is. I’m in my corporate jet headed for Oregon. I should be at the airport in four hours. I want to meet with you as soon as I land.”

Brice’s imperious tone acted like a double shot of espresso.

“Look, Mrs. Brice,” Amanda snapped, “I don’t try my cases in the press, and if you think the best way to get an interview with me is to wake me up in the middle of the night, you should take a refresher course at whatever journalism school you attended.”

“You must not have understood me, Ms. Jaffe. I’ll chalk that up to my waking you. I’m not a reporter. I am the editor in chief of World News. I run the magazine. I don’t conduct interviews. I’m flying to Portland to hire you to work on a case; one that I’m certain you’ll want to handle.”

“What case?”

“I don’t wish to discuss the particulars over the phone.”

Amanda was quiet for a moment. She didn’t like Brice’s attitude, but she was intrigued.

“I’ll be in my office by the time you land,” she said.

“I won’t have time to drive into town. I have an important meeting in New York, later today. I’d like you to meet me at my plane. There’s a conference area on board. There’s also a galley, so I can provide breakfast. Am I correct that you’re partial to blueberry pancakes?”

Amanda’s mouth opened in surprise. “If that was meant to impress me, you’ve succeeded.”

“I’m afraid you’re too easily impressed. One of my assistants Googled you. I obtained that piece of information from an interview you gave to one of my competitors after the Cardoni case.”

“That was a few years ago.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”

Amanda laughed. “No, Mrs. Brice, and your offer of blueberry pancakes has served its purpose. I’ll need the carbs to get me through the day, since I’m going to be sleep-deprived.”

“Come to the Flightcraft FBO at eight.”

“FBO?”

“It means fixed base operator. Think terminal. Jennifer Gates, my administrative assistant, will be waiting in the lounge and she’ll escort you on board. One more thing. Don’t tell anyone about our meeting.”

“You don’t want anyone to know you’re coming to Portland?”

“That is correct. You’ll understand why when I tell you about the case,” Brice answered just before she broke the connection.

Amanda flopped onto her back so she could gather the strength to get up and get dressed. She found Mike lying on his side, watching her. As chief criminal deputy in the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, Mike had led many of the county’s high-profile murder cases and they’d met when he prosecuted the Cardoni case, which almost cost Amanda her life. They’d had an on-again, off-again relationship ever since. If they weren’t so busy, she and Mike might have had time to figure out where that relationship was going.

Mike had blue eyes, curly black hair, and a shaggy mustache. Because he was a bulky six-five, he was frequently mistaken for someone who played college football or basketball-sports in which the cerebral DA had never engaged. Instead, Amanda’s boyfriend competed in chess tournaments and was good enough on the tenor sax to play professionally.

“I guess we’re not eating breakfast together,” Mike said.

“Sorry,” Amanda said, “duty calls.”

“A new case?”

“Yup.”

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t know, and I can’t tell you the identity of the client, so don’t ask.”

“Mrs. Brice must be rich,” Mike said with a grin.

“Please forget you heard that name or I will not have sex with you until the next millennium.”

Mike laughed.

“And how did you know she was rich?”

“Yours truly knows what an FBO is. Don’t forget, I practiced law in LA. So, she’s flying in on a private jet, huh.”

“Mike,” Amanda warned.

Greene laughed again. Then he looked at the clock on the nightstand. “What time do you have to be at the airport?”

“Eight.”

Mike snaked an arm across Amanda’s stomach. “I’m going to have trouble getting back to sleep,” he said as his hand moved slowly to Amanda’s breast.

Amanda rolled toward Mike. Being jerked out of sleep always jangled her nerves and she did have plenty of time to shower and dress.

“All men are pigs who only think about one thing,” she said.

Mike grinned and answered with the most valuable phrase he’d learned in law school: “Assuming that’s true, what’s wrong with it?”

IT WAS HOT for a Portland summer and Amanda had the air conditioning cranked up as she drove along the freeway to Airport Way, the road that led to Portland International Airport. Just before the road curved toward the parking garage for the main terminal and the arrivals and departures areas, she saw a sign that read BUSINESS AVIATION and turned into a parking lot that fronted the Flightcraft FBO, a one-story steel-and-glass building that acted as the terminal for private aircraft. Inside were a few rows of seats and a check-in desk. When Amanda entered, an attractive brunette with bouncy, shoulder-length hair stood up. She was wearing a blue pinstripe pants suit, a white silk shirt, and a strand of white pearls and looked very businesslike as well as very elegant.

Amanda was good-looking, but no one would call her elegant. Years of competitive swimming had given her broad shoulders and a muscular build she kept hard by continuing the workouts that had made her a PAC-10 champion and given her a shot at an Olympic berth. Her figure was nothing like that of a fashion model, but it still attracted men.

“Ms. Jaffe?”

Amanda nodded. The woman held out her hand and they shook.

“I’m Jennifer Gates, Mrs. Brice’s assistant. Mrs. Brice is waiting for you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jennifer. Lead on.”

A sleek white Gulfstream G550 with the World News logo stenciled on its fuselage waited on the tarmac a short distance from the terminal. Amanda climbed a set of steps and walked into an interior unlike that of any plane in which she’d ever flown. The floor was covered with a deep beige carpet you’d expect to find in a Manhattan penthouse and the walls were paneled in dark wood. There were fourteen roomy seats upholstered in tan leather, one of which had been converted into a neatly made bed. Midway back from the cockpit was an oak conference table with a single place setting consisting of a monogrammed linen napkin, a crystal glass filled with ice water, another glass for the orange juice in a crystal pitcher, and silverware that Amanda was willing to bet was real silver.

Amanda had gone to college in the Bay Area and law school in Manhattan, so she wasn’t totally ignorant of fashion, but the woman sitting across from the solitary setting was obviously an expert. She wore black Manolo Blahnik slingback pumps, black crepe pants, and a gray tweed Donna Karan belted jacket with black trim. A gold link necklace graced her neck, gold earrings dangled from her ears, and she told time on a Cartier tank watch. Next to her on an empty seat was a large black leather Prada hobo bag. Brice’s nails were manicured, her makeup was perfect, and her hair looked as if a stylist had just worked on it. No one would ever guess that she’d flown a redeye cross-country.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Jaffe,” Brice said.

“Nifty wheels,” Amanda answered as she completed her survey of the Gulfstream’s interior.

“I like it. Can I offer you orange juice, coffee?”

Amanda slid into the seat with the place setting. “Orange juice would be great, and I bet your chef can whip up a latte.”

“Single or double?” Brice asked as an amused smile creased her lips.

Amanda smiled back. “A double, please.”

Brice looked up at Jennifer Gates, who poured Amanda a glass of orange juice then walked to the back of the plane to place her order for a latte.

“Now that I’m suitably impressed, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Do the names Gabriel Sun or Charlie Marsh mean anything to you?”

“Satan’s Guru! Of course I know who he is. The trial of Sally Pope was my father’s biggest case.”

“Mr. Marsh is returning to Oregon to face the charge that he murdered Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. I would like you to represent him. You’ll be paid a five-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer. If the retainer is insufficient to cover your time, additional fees will be provided.”

Amanda had been given some large retainers, but nothing like this. It took all of her courtroom training to keep her excitement from showing.

“Why is World News willing to fund Gabriel Sun’s defense?” she asked.

“It’s not. Do you remember Mr. Marsh’s best-seller?”

“The Light Within You? Of course. I was in college when my father defended Sally Pope. I’ll bet every student at Berkeley read that book.”

“I’ve negotiated a contract with Charlie’s old publisher on his behalf for a new book; an autobiography that will take up where his first book left off. Charlie will tell all about the shooting at the Westmont Country Club, his flight to Africa, his life in Batanga, and his trial-the trial you will conduct.”

Brice leaned forward slightly and locked eyes with Amanda.

“There’s no question that Charlie’s new book will be a best-seller. Everyone in America will read it, and you will become the best-known criminal defense attorney in the country. Are you interested, Ms. Jaffe?”

Brice leaned back and let her pronouncement sink in.

“Of course I’m interested,” Amanda said just as Brice’s chef appeared with her pancakes. Jennifer Gates was following a few steps behind, carrying Amanda’s latte.

The Pope case had made her father’s reputation. The trial of Sally Pope and the continuing saga of Charlie Marsh’s flight to Africa had dominated the airwaves for more than a year. Amanda was already famous in Oregon-and she was known in professional circles outside of the state-but she would become a household name in every state in the Union if she defended Satan’s Guru.

“What’s your relationship to Charlie Marsh?” Amanda asked as she poured hot maple syrup over the stack.

“It’s strictly professional.”

“Then what are you getting out of this?” Amanda asked before taking her first bite.

“Exclusive access. He’s agreed to speak only to World News and to permit us to embed one of our reporters in your defense team during the trial.”

Amanda lowered her fork. “Whoa, wait a minute. What would this reporter be doing?”

“His name is Dennis Levy. He’s a very competent young man. I think you’ll like him.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Mrs. Brice. What do you envision Levy doing during the trial?”

“I envision him being a fly on the wall. He’ll be present in court, of course, but he’ll also sit in on strategy meetings, your conferences with Mr. Marsh, interviews with witnesses. Then he’ll also do one-on-one interviews with you and your team. We’ll have an edge on every other newspaper, magazine, and TV news program.”

“We may have a problem. I can’t have your reporter setting out my strategy in your magazine for everyone in the DA’s office to read.”

“Of course not. Dennis won’t do anything to compromise Mr. Marsh’s case.”

“And he’s not going to be able to sit in on my meetings with Mr. Marsh. He’s not an attorney so he’s not covered by the attorney-client privilege. If a third party is present during a conversation I have with Mr. Marsh, the privilege disappears. Your reporter could be called as a prosecution witness and be forced to testify about everything Mr. Marsh said to me in confidence.”

“What about his First Amendment protections as a member of the press?”

“I’m not an expert in this area, but I’m pretty certain the courts have held that the First Amendment doesn’t protect a reporter in these circumstances.”

“I’ll have my legal staff look into the question. Again, I’m not going to do anything that could hurt Mr. Marsh’s chances at an acquittal.”

“Mr. Levy would have to follow my instructions. I’m going to want to review his articles before they’re published to make sure nothing he writes will tip our hand or reveal a confidence.”

“I think we can work that out. So, are you on board?”

“I’m definitely interested, but I may have a conflict. You know that my father-Frank Jaffe-represented Sally Pope, Mr. Marsh’s codefendant?”

Brice nodded.

“As I said, I was in college when the trial was held, but we’re partners now and I have to make certain that no conflict exists.”

“Mrs. Pope was acquitted, wasn’t she?”

“The case was dismissed with prejudice, in the middle of the trial. The legal effect is the same.”

“So where’s the problem?”

“There may not be one, but I have to make certain. If there is none, I’ll definitely take the case. That is, if Mr. Marsh wants me as his lawyer. You understand that you won’t be my client, he will. If he wants me, I’m in.”

“Good.”

“Where is Mr. Marsh now?”

“En route to New York. He’ll stay in an apartment World News owns.”

“You’re not going to announce his return, are you? I don’t want the district attorney to know where he is. He’d have him arrested.”

“I have no intention of letting anyone know that Mr. Marsh is back in the States until you tell me it’s okay.”

“Good. The first thing I’ll do, as soon as I’m certain I can take the case, is to arrange Mr. Marsh’s voluntary surrender. This will give me time to set up a bail hearing. I don’t want him in jail while we’re preparing for trial if I can prevent it.”

Brice reached into her hobo bag and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to Amanda.

“This is your retainer and a list of phone numbers that will reach me. Let me know as soon as possible about the conflict problem.”

“I’ll want to speak to Mr. Marsh immediately, once I’m on board.”

“I’ll send the jet for you and you can meet in New York, if you’d like.”

Amanda ran her hand over the leather-upholstered seat. “I might just take you up on that if you throw in another free breakfast. These pancakes are delicious.”

CHAPTER 9

Amanda could barely contain her excitement as she drove to her office. She’d been involved in some big cases that had gained national attention, like Cardoni-the serial killer case-and the Dupre matter, which had involved the murder of a United States senator. But the attention State v. Charles Marsh would garner would be on a whole different plane. Her life would be turned upside down, but it would be worth it for the chance to be part of history.

Then there was the personal reason for taking the case. What a coup it would be if she cleared Marsh’s name the same way her father had cleared Sally Pope’s.

Amanda parked in her lot and walked through the waves of rolling heat to the Stockman Building, a fourteen-story office building in the heart of downtown Portland. Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi leased the entire eighth floor. As soon as Amanda checked for messages at the front desk, she went to her father’s office.

Frank Jaffe was a big man in his late fifties, with a ruddy complexion and curly hair that was starting to show more gray than black. His nose had been broken twice in his youth during brawls, and he looked more like a criminal than a doctor of jurisprudence. Frank’s spacious corner office was decorated with antiques and dominated by a huge desk he’d bought at an auction soon after opening his practice. Over the years, the desk top had been scarred by cigarette burns, paper-clip scratches, and coffee stains that were hard to spot, because almost every inch was covered by law books, stacks of paper, or files.

Amanda announced herself by tapping on Frank’s doorjamb. He looked up from the draft of the legal memo on which he was working.

“What’s the reason for the smile that’s plastered across your puss?” Frank asked.

Amanda plopped herself down on one of the two client chairs that stood on the other side of Frank’s desk.

“Why do you think I was given this?” Amanda asked, tossing the retainer check toward Frank. He stared at the check for a moment. Then he whistled. Amanda’s smile widened.

“Did you win the lottery?” he asked.

“Sort of. I’ve just been hired to defend the case of the century.”

“Enough already,” Frank said, unable to contain a grin. “Out with it. What case is big enough to warrant this type of retainer?”

“Charlie Marsh is returning home to stand trial for the murder of Arnold Pope Jr.”

Frank stopped smiling. “You’re kidding!”

“I’m dead serious. He’s on his way back to the States from Africa as we speak. World News magazine is going to put him up in New York until I can arrange for his surrender.”

“How is he paying you?”

Amanda told her father about the book deal and Martha Brice’s expectations regarding World News’ exclusive coverage of the case. When his daughter finished, Frank frowned.

“I don’t like this business with the reporter.”

“Me either, but I can control him, and Brice agreed to my restrictions.”

“Or said she did. From what you’ve told me, she’s the type who will promise the world and not mean a word of it. She’ll count on you not being able to give up a half million dollars once it’s in your account. When she has you involved she’ll push the envelope.”

“Or try to. I made it clear that Charlie is my client, not she. And I hope you know I can handle the Martha Brices of this world.”

“That I do, but it won’t be easy, and you’ve never been involved in a media circus like the one you’re about to encounter. It can be intoxicating. How many world-class lawyers have you seen turn into fools as soon as they were given a chance to pontificate on national television?”

“Point taken, but you forget that I’ll have a wise old mentor to guide me while I’m on my journey along the yellow brick road. I’m sure I can count on you to pour a bucket of cold water on me if I start acting like a jackass.”

Frank smiled. He’d have the bucket ready, but-knowing his daughter as he did-he doubted he’d ever have to use it.

“I have two requests, Dad,” Amanda said. “Can you fill me in on the Pope case? I read the papers and saw some of it while you were trying it, and we talked a little, but that was twelve years ago and I could do with a refresher course.”

“You want me to do that now?”

“Give it a shot.”

“I don’t know if I can, off the top of my head. Look, I do have to finish this memo. So why don’t we order in and talk in the conference room at lunch? I’ll have the file brought up from storage. That will give me time to think.”

“Fair enough.”

“You said you had two requests. What the second?”

“It dawned on me that we might have a conflict problem. I haven’t talked to the bar yet, but I’ll be representing a codefendant of someone you represented. She can’t be charged again, but I can still imagine problems. So, I wondered if you would get Sally Pope to sign a waiver.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Frank said, his face displaying none of the emotions that the thought of seeing Sally Pope evoked.

Frank and Amanda talked for a while more. Then Frank told her that he needed to get back to his memo and she went to her office. Frank did have to finish the memo but he really wanted time alone to deal with the possibility that he would have to see Sally Pope again. She’d been out of his life for a long time but there were still scars.

Frank leaned back in his chair and stared out of his window at the green hills that towered over downtown Portland. The sky was clear and blue and dotted with white clouds; a tranquil scene that was at odds with the emotions boiling up inside him. Thinking about Sally Pope was painful, so Frank turned his attention to Charlie Marsh. Frank’s client may have been Sally Pope but the trial had always been about Marsh, and Charlie’s story began with the prison standoff.