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 su
burbs. 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.”
Fugitive: A Novel Page 4