“If I wasn’t meeting someone I’d gladly accept your offer. Maybe another night.”

Rebecca leaned in close and lowered her voice. “Mr. Evers wants you to go to the garden by the pool after you finish your drink. Take the path that leads to the hut bar.”

Dennis started to say something, but the woman touched his lips gently with her fingers.

“Maybe we will meet again tomorrow night, yes?” she said loud enough to be heard by anyone who was listening. Then Rebecca walked away, her hips swaying rhythmically in a manner calculated to attract the attention of every man in the bar. While all eyes were on Rebecca’s backside, Dennis worked on his drink, hoping the alcohol would help him calm down. When he’d drained the glass dry, he left the bar through the door that led to the pool.

The temperature was in the eighties, but the air seemed cool in comparison to the 100-plus degree heat that had greeted Dennis at the airport. The back of the hotel was a tropical paradise. Lights illuminated oversize ferns, palm trees, a spectacular array of flowers, and several paths that led away from the pool into a garden. At the start of one path, a sign pointed toward a hut without walls that was covered by a thatched roof. A bar took up the center of the hut. Dennis was halfway down the path when he heard someone behind him. Before he could turn, a hand clamped down on the wrist that held the flight bag. Dennis’s blood pressure skyrocketed.

“I’m Evers. Don’t say a word. Just give me the bag and keep moving. Have a drink at the bar then head to the rendezvous.”

Dennis released the bag and a huge, bald man walked past him and disappeared into the garden. Dennis was still shaking when he sat at the bar. A stiff scotch helped him relax a little. When he’d finished it, he went to the front of the hotel and asked the doorman where to find some action in town. As soon as he was given the name of a few bars and the street they were on, Dennis asked the doorman to get him a cab. The doorman blew a whistle and a taxi pulled up. The cabbie was a big man wearing a dashiki decorated with a picture of Jean-Claude Baptiste. When Dennis got into the taxi, he turned his head toward the backseat.

“Where to, my friend?” he asked with a jovial grin.

“Lafayette Street.”

“Ah, you are looking for fine Batangan women,” the cabbie said with a knowing shake of his head.

“Maybe,” Dennis answered nervously.

“I show you the best bars.”

“Great.”

“You are American?”

“Yes,” Dennis answered tersely, remembering Charlie’s admonition to talk to no one.

“Not too many Americans come Batanga way.”

When Dennis didn’t respond, the driver said, “I like Americans. They tip big.” Then he laughed.

Dennis cast a few surreptitious glances out the back window of the taxi as it sped into town. He didn’t see any cars following him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Dennis said. “I want to go to Idi Amin Beach.”

“That trip more money,” the cabbie said.

“That’s okay.”

The beach had originally been named after Batanga’s first president, but President Baptiste had rechristened it in the name of his boyhood idol. The compound where many of the expatriates lived backed on it. The driver cut through a few side streets before turning onto Baptiste Boulevard, the main road out of the city.

“What kind work you do in America?” the driver asked.

“I write for a magazine.”

“Ah, Penthouse, Playboy, they are good magazines.”

“Actually, it’s a news magazine. We report what’s happening in the world.”

The cabbie shook his head. “That’s a good thing. It is wise to know about the world. Have you come to Batanga to write about our great country?”

“Uh, yes. The American people want very much to learn about Batanga.”

“That’s good. Batangans know much about America. We see the movies. Many gunfights and car chases. Have you ever been in a gunfight or a car chase?”

“That doesn’t really happen. I mean, not often. They just put those in the movies to make them exciting. Most days of the year, it’s pretty boring in America. Americans just get up and work and watch television and go to sleep. There’s not much exciting going on.”

“I would like a television. It would be a good thing to have. They show our great football team on TV.”

The streetlights disappeared a mile past the executive mansion and the only hole in the dark night was created by the cab’s headlights. By the time they were close to the expatriate compound, Dennis was starting to feel confident that he would escape from Batanga. The cabbie kept up a constant chatter and Dennis found himself talking too, because it helped him relieve his tension. When Dennis saw the wall that sealed off the expatriates from Batanga, he told the cabbie to go on for another two miles. The driver asked for more money and Dennis gave him five dollars as Charlie had instructed. The driver responded with a big grin and drove on. He almost missed the turnoff, but Dennis spotted it. The cab backed up and began to bounce as it moved slowly along the unpaved road.

Dennis began to worry when he didn’t see anything that resembled an airstrip. Then the trees disappeared and Dennis spotted a Land Rover and Charlie’s Volkswagen parked in the middle of an open field.

“Stop here,” Dennis said.

The cab stopped and Dennis handed the driver the fare and a big tip.

“You want me to wait for you?” the driver asked.

“No, thanks. I’ve got a ride back to town.”

Dennis got out and Charlie walked out of the shadows.

“So you decided to come along on our little adventure,” he said to Dennis.

“I’ve never walked away from a story yet,” Dennis said, trying to sound like a hard-as-nails veteran reporter.

Charlie started to say something else when he noticed that the taxi had not moved.

“Did you tell him to go back to town?” he asked just as the cabbie stepped out of the taxi with a gun in his hand.

“Down on the ground,” the driver commanded.

“Who…?” Dennis started to ask just as the cabbie clubbed him with the gun.

“On the ground,” the cabbie barked. Charlie dropped to the dirt and Dennis collapsed, dazed by the blow.

“Is anyone else here?” the cabbie asked as he scanned the darkness. Before Charlie could answer, the taxi driver’s head exploded and red mist fanned out behind him.

“Fuck!” Charlie said as Chauncey Evers appeared, cradling a high-powered rifle outfitted with a night-vision scope.

Evers grabbed Dennis by the arm. As the mercenary pulled him to his feet, Dennis gawked at the dead cabbie. Then he threw up.

“Get your shit together,” Evers said, tightening the grip on Dennis’s bicep. “Baptiste’s men will be here any moment.

“Turn on the car lights and light the flares,” Evers told Charlie. “We don’t know how close the other bastards are and our ride is on its approach.”

Evers released Dennis’s arm. Dennis staggered a few steps. He felt woozy from the blow to his head. Something trickled down his cheek. When he took his hand away, it was covered with blood.

“I’m bleeding.”

“For Christ’s sake, grow up. Do you want to die here?”

Dennis stared at Evers.

“Well, you’re going to if you don’t get your ass in gear. There are a series of flares on either side of the runway and we’ve got to get them lit.”

Charlie had already turned on the headlights of the Volkswagen and the Rover. He was lighting his second flare on one side of a narrow dirt airstrip when Dennis set off his first. Dennis was still nauseated from the blow to his head but he pushed through the pain and kept moving. Just after he set off the next flare he heard the faint sound of an aircraft approaching. Seconds after all the flares were lit, a small plane dropped out of the sky. It didn’t look much bigger than a pickup truck, and Dennis, who had flown infrequently and always in a commercial airliner, had trouble believing that this toy would be able to fly four grown men out of the jungle.