Fugitive

by Phillip Margolin

  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.