Fugitive: A Novel

by Phillip Margolin

  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 povert
y. 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.