“Of course not.”

“Are you my man, Dennis, or should I give this assignment to Shelby Pike?”

Shelby and Dennis had started at World News at the same time. Dennis was of the opinion that Pike was a talentless suck-up. There was no way he was giving up this chance at fame and fortune to Shelby Pike.

“I’m in, Mrs. Brice.”

“Then you’d better hurry home and pack,” Brice said.

BARBARA WALTERS: Why did you change your name to Gabriel Sun after you were released from prison?

CHARLIE MARSH: In the Bible, Gabriel is an angel who serves as a messenger from God and I felt that a greater power, be it God or Allah or whatever, had chosen me to be His messenger when Crazy Freddy tried to murder the hostages. And, of course, the sun is a symbol of the inner light that consumed me at my moment of truth.

WALTERS: What were you feeling when Freddy stabbed you? Were you afraid you’d die?

MARSH: To the contrary. When Freddy stabbed me I was filled by my inner light and I was completely at peace. There was no fear, only love. And it’s this experience that I want others to have so they can know that they have the power to change themselves for the better.

WALTERS: Many of the hostages said that you were able to convince Mr. Clayton, who was one of the most violent prisoners in the penitentiary, to stop his assault on the guard by telling him you loved him.

MARSH: That’s true, Barbara. When I was infused by my inner light I learned that Love is the most powerful force in the universe, and that Love can overcome violence. And it isn’t just violence that can be overcome once we learn how to turn on and harness our inner light, Barbara. As I explain in my seminars, when our inner light is on, it fuels the self-confidence that can make us successful in business, personal relationships, and every other aspect of life. And I’m very excited about the opportunities my seminars give me to help so many people succeed by learning how to harness this power that is in each and every one of us.

The seat-belt light flashed and a flight attendant announced the descent into Baptisteville International Airport. Dennis put the transcript of the twelve-year-old Barbara Walters Special interview back in Marsh’s file, put the file in his flight bag, and glanced out the window. Wisps of vapor thickened into billowy, opaque clouds that hid the ocean from view. Then they were through the clouds and the plane swept over a vast expanse of clear blue water, a white sand beach, and a thick stand of emerald green palm trees. After a series of sharp bumps, the plane coasted to a stop in front of a long, one-story terminal.

A blast of thick, hot air struck Dennis when he stepped out of the plane and descended the portable staircase to the runway. As he crossed the tarmac, his shoes stuck to the asphalt and the humidity made his shirt cling to his body. Moving in the African heat was like swimming through glue, and he prayed that the terminal was air-conditioned.

The sun was so bright that Dennis was forced to shade his eyes. When he could see, he was overwhelmed by an onslaught of color. He had never seen so much green or a sky so blue, and everyone was black. The airline mechanics, the pilots and the flight attendants, and most of the passengers were black. So were the soldiers with their automatic weapons and the vast majority of the people waiting behind the plate-glass windows in the arrivals area. Dennis was the oddly colored person here, and it made him feel a little uncomfortable.

The outside of the terminal had been painted a drab brown and the middle of one wall was taken up by a larger-than-life image of Jean-Claude Baptiste’s smiling face, above which was the greeting, WELCOME TO BATANGA. The president’s eyes seemed to focus on Dennis when he approached the building, as if Baptiste knew he was smuggling in money and a forged passport to help Charlie Marsh escape his grasp. Dennis had read stories about the atrocities committed in Batanga, and he felt sick and a little disoriented as he waited to go through customs. He imagined being taken from the line to a windowless, soundproof room where he would be strapped to an uncomfortable wooden chair by terrifying, steely-eyed interrogators and confronted with the money that had been found in the lining of his suitcase. But when it was his turn, a bored customs inspector asked him a few perfunctory questions before stamping his passport and waving him on.

Dennis hurried to reclaim his suitcase. He tried to stay calm as he waited for the baggage handlers to bring it from the plane but he found it difficult to keep from shifting in place and impossible to keep his head from swiveling this way and that looking for the policemen he felt certain were closing in on him. He also checked the crowd in the baggage claim area for Charlie Marsh, who was supposed to meet him at the airport and drive him to his hotel, but he saw no one who resembled the smiling, dreamy-eyed swami he’d seen in the photographs in the file.

Dennis spotted his suitcase and grabbed it, expecting to be pounced on any minute. When there was no pouncing, he carried the valise to the front of the terminal where groups of Batangans and a few expatriates were greeting his fellow travelers. A man detached himself from the wall and walked toward Dennis. He wore dark glasses, khaki pants, a sweat-stained T-shirt advertising Guinness Stout, sandals, and a baseball cap.

“You from World News?” he asked.

“Dennis Levy,” Dennis answered with a smile of relief. He extended his hand. Charlie hesitated, then glanced around anxiously as he shook it. Charlie’s grip was limp and disinterested and his palm was sweaty.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and headed for the door.

Dennis caught up with Charlie when he stopped at a rusty, dented, dirt-stained Volkswagen standing at the curb in a no-parking zone. Two policemen were standing next to the car. Dennis froze, certain that they were about to be arrested. Then Charlie slipped each cop some money and Dennis realized that they had been paid to watch the car. Charlie opened the trunk so Dennis could put his suitcase in it.

“Do you have the money?” Charlie asked as soon as they were in the car.

“Yes. It’s in the lining of my suitcase.”

“The full seventy-five?”

“It’s all there.”

“Thank God,” Charlie intoned, closing his eyes briefly.

Moments later, they were careening down a two-lane highway just as the sun was starting to disappear behind a row of low green hills. Dennis waited for Charlie to say something else, but the subject of his future best-seller was concentrating on the road and seemed to have forgotten that there was a passenger in his car.

“Are we going to my hotel, Mr. Sun?” Dennis asked in an attempt to get a conversation going.

“Marsh, Charlie Marsh. Call me by my right name.”

“So, you don’t go by Gabriel Sun anymore?”

Charlie glared at him for a second before returning his eyes to the road in time to veer around a stray goat.

“Forget about all that Sun shit,” he said when they were out of peril. “That’s way in the past.”

“Okay.”

The Volkswagen drove by an outdoor market that had been set up in a clearing at the side of the road. Dennis shifted in his seat to take in the scene. Native women wrapped in multicolored cloth carried babies strapped to their backs while balancing baskets of fruit, rice, and fish on their heads. Men in khaki shorts and disintegrating T-shirts that hung in shreds from their well-muscled backs passed in front of wooden stalls selling red, yellow, and blue tins and boxes. Oddly, the goods in each stall appeared to be identical. Children played among the stalls. Some of the people on the roadside smiled and waved when the car flashed by. Dennis waved back. Marsh ignored them, jamming the heel of his hand on the horn if someone got too close, but never decreasing his speed.