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secret police exploited their destitution by paying for information. Charlie had learned that it was wise to trust no one, but Pierre had told Charlie that he could trust Rebecca, a beautiful Batangan woman who had once been the mistress of the cabinet minister, who owned the Mauna Loa. Charlie frequented the bars on Lafayette Street and knew Rebecca. He had never heard her utter a subversive thought or discuss politics, and he was shocked to learn that she was part of the underground.
    Bartenders meet a wide range of people and Rebecca had acquaintances, Batangan and otherwise, up and down the social ladder. Pierre had told Charlie that Rebecca would find someone who would help him escape from Batanga. This morning, a small boy had begged him for money using a code phrase. While Charlie was giving him a quarter, the boy told Charlie to come to the Mauna Loa at eight thirty.
    Rebecca set a frosted green bottle on the bar, while Charlie casually scanned the room. The men in the bar were in groups or chatting up women. None looked the least bit interested in him. When he swiveled back, a white man who'd been sitting two stools away leaned across the bar girl who sat between them.
    I know you, he proclaimed so loudly that he could be heard over the music.
    I don't think so, said Charlie, who could smell the booze on his breath from the distance of two barstools.
    The man was broad-shouldered, big through the chest, and spoke with a southern accent. Charlie figured him for six two and two hundred. He was bald with a ruddy complexion and faint traces of boyhood acne and looked like he could handle himself in a fight.
    No, no, don't tell me. It'll come to me, the drunk insisted. He gazed into space for a moment then snapped his fingers. TV! I've seen you on TV.
    Charlie held his breath.
    You' re that guru. Tell me I' m wrong.
    No, you got it. Charlie sighed.
    Hey, honey, the man said to the bar girl who sat between him and Charlie, would you mind switching places? I'll buy you another to make it worth your while.
    The bar girl surrendered her stool and the man moved next to Charlie.
    Hope you don't mind but it's not every day I bump into a celebrity in this place. Brad and Angelina don't pop in here much, he said with a braying laugh that set Charlie's teeth on edge.
    Chauncey Evers, the man said, reaching out a large hand. Charlie shook it reluctantly.
    Charlie Marsh, Charlie answered as he tried to figure out how to get away. His contact was never going to approach him while he was with this clown.
    I have to apologize upfront. I haven't read your book. I meant to but I haven' t. But I did see you on TV during the thing at the prison when you saved the prison guard's life. That was something.
    Two men and two women vacated a table. Evers picked up his glass.
    Let's grab that table and you can tell me all about the standoff at the prison.
    That's okay, Charlie said, desperate to beg off. I' m supposed to meet someone.
    Well, you can drink with me until she gets here, Evers said with an exaggerated wink, and the drinks are on me. It ain't often I get to meet a genuine hero who was on television and wrote a book. Evers lowered his voice. And wants to escape from this hellhole.
    You' re Charlie started, but Evers had turned away and was weaving unsteadily through the close-packed tables. As soon as he was seated, he thrust a pen and a napkin at Charlie.
    Can I get your autograph for my girlfriend? he asked loudly.
    Can you get me out of here? Charlie said as he leaned over the napkin.
    That's easy, Evers assured him.
    How soon can you do it?
    As soon as you pay me seventy-five thousand dollars.
    Seventy-five? Charlie repeated anxiously.
    And it's got to be in cash. I don't take checks. Is that a problem?
    No, Charlie said.
    World News had agreed to do the interview, so Charlie would ask Rebecca to get a message asking for the seventy-five-thousand-dollar fee to Martha Brice through Pierre Girard and the rebels.
    What I want to know,