Fugitive

Alfonse’s unconscious na

“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 na

“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 I

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.