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Charlie said, is how you' re going to deal with Baptiste's secret police?
    You mean that guy over by the wall? Evers said as he kept his eyes on Charlie, a big smile on his face. I spotted that clown as soon as he walked in.
    Yeah, well, don't be so smug. I spotted him too. He tailed me from my apartment and he didn't try to hide the fact that he was following me. There are people outside my place every minute I' m at home and someone on my ass whenever I go out. Baptiste wants me to know he's having me shadowed. His secret police are very good. They can make themselves invisible if they want to. This is Baptiste's way of telling me I' m on a short leash. What I want to know is how you' re going to deal with these guys.
    Don't worry about it, Evers said confidently. You get me the money and I'll get you out.
    Why should I believe you?
    Evers shrugged. Beats me. But you' re the guy who sent for me. So, the mercenary asked, what did you do to get Baptiste's panties in a bunch?
    Charlie hesitated. If Evers found out that the president had a personal grudge against him he might change his mind about taking him home. An American passport went only so far as protection, in Batanga.
    Come on, Charlie. If I' m going to risk my neck to get you out of here I have to know what I' m dealing with.
    Charlie looked down at the tabletop. I had an affair with one of Baptiste's wives.
    Evers whistled.
    He tortured her to death and showed me the results. Then he pretended he didn't know who her lover was, but he knows, Charlie said bitterly.
    Man, you are in a heap of trouble. But never fear. Chauncey Evers will come to the rescue.
    What do I do next? Charlie asked as he handed the autographed napkin to Evers.
    Get the money. Tell Rebecca when you have it and she'll tell me. Then you do exactly what I tell you to do and you'll be back in the good old US of A before you know it.

Chapter 4
    S ome people said that God was good and merciful, but Dennis Levy knew that was not true. One had only to turn on the television news to see evidence of gross injustice in the world. One percent of the Earth's population skied at Gstaad and lay on the beaches of Nevis while millions starved in Africa. And what about AIDS and Katrina and the poor in India, who lived in the streets and scavenged in garbage dumps for their meals? Closer to home, there were undeserving people who held positions of power and worked in luxurious offices with views of Central Park because they had married money, while those with real talent like Dennis Levy slaved away in a cubicle and had to kowtow to them.
    These were some of the things Dennis was thinking about as he trudged from his cubicle to the luxurious office of Martha Brice, his boss at World News. Levy had grown up lower-middle-class on Long Island and had worked like a dog in high school to earn a scholarship to an Ivy League university. While he bused tables in the cafeteria at Princeton, the legacy morons in his class received a weekly allowance from dear old dad. When Levy was studying into the wee hours and graduating with a three-point-fucking-eight GPA, the sons and daughters of the rich were getting drunk and stoned and screwing anything that moved, safe in the knowledge that plum jobs in their parents' firms or corporations waited for them regardless of their grades. Where was the justice in that, and what had all his hard work and sterling academic career gotten him? His rich classmates were raking it in as stockbrokers and lawyers; people who couldn't write their way out of a paper bag got the choice assignments at World News while he was making peanuts reporting on stories that would never earn him the reputation he deserved.
    Levy forced himself to smile when he announced his presence to Brice's so-called executive assistant, Daphne St. John; though he was willing to bet this was not her real name. Daphne was a stuck-up bitch, who had turned down Dennis's offer of a drink shortly after she was hired. Memories