Fugitive Read Free Page A

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