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Overview
—Portland Oregonian
“Margolin knows how to pack in the thrills.”
—Tess Gerritsen
In Fugitive, New York Times bestseller Phillip Margolin brings back his most popular protagonist, attorney Amanda Jaffee, star of Wild Justice, Proof Positive, and other spellbinding thrillers. Fugitive ensnares Amanda in a dangerous web of secrets and death when she becomes professionally involved with a con man and possible murderer who’s been targeted by an insane and relentless African despot. With page after page of breathtaking excitement that never lets up, Fugitive is Phillip Margolin at his very best, featuring the trademark twists and intensity that inspired the Seattle Post-Intelligencer to proclaim him “A master of heart-pounding suspense.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061236242 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 01/26/2010 |
| Series: | Amanda Jaffe Series , #4 |
| Pages: | 432 |
| Sales rank: | 416,867 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.18(w) x 7.56(h) x 1.03(d) |
About the Author
Place of Birth:
New York, New YorkEducation:
B.A. in Government, American University, 1965; New York University School of Law, 1970Read an Excerpt
Fugitive
Chapter One
It is coming soon, it is coming soon!" Jean-Claude Baptiste, President for Life of the People's Republic of Batanga, told Charlie Marsh in the singsong English spoken by Africans who had been raised speaking a tribal dialect. Like most of the other men at the state banquet, Charlie was wearing a tuxedo. President Baptiste, who had never held a rank higher than sergeant, was commander in chief of the Batangan army and dressed in the uniform of a five-star general.
"Watch closely!" the president said with gleeful anticipation as he jabbed a finger at one of the many huge flat-screen televisions that were mounted along the walls of the banquet hall in the executive mansion. The massive chamber was longer than a football field and was modeled after the Las Vegas casino where Baptiste had won his most important fight. Using flat-screen TVs as wall hangings would have been out of place at Versailles, but they looked perfectly natural amid the mirrored walls, bright lights, and velvet paintings that gave the banquet hall the ambience of a sports bar.
"Now, look," the president said excitedly. On all of the screens mounted along the walls, a younger Baptiste was laughing as he drove Vladimir Topalov, the number two-ranked heavyweight in the world, into a corner of the ring. This Baptiste stood six foot six and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds. His skin was as black as ink and the lights in the arena reflected off his smooth, shaved skull. The present-day version of Jean-Claude looked vaguely like the boxer on the screen, but weighed more than three hundred pounds and gave the impression of being two large men who had beenglued together.
"Look Charlie, it comes now," Baptiste told the blue-eyed man with blond hair and tanned, weathered skin who sat to his left at the end of a teak banquet table that easily sat fifty. Charlie feigned exuberant interest, as did the thirty other guests. Anyone giving the impression that he was not completely enthralled with Baptiste's fistic skills risked an attitude adjustment session in the basement of the mansion, from which few emerged alive.
On the screen, Baptiste's opponent staggered back a few steps. Blood from a deep cut over his right eye was blinding him. The future president of Batanga feinted with a jab before landing a crushing hook to his victim's temple. As Topalov sank to the canvas, both the boxing and presidential Baptistes threw back their heads and laughed uproariously. Though the sound was off, everyone at the banquet knew that Baptiste's many fans were chanting "ho, ho, ho," as they always did when "The Happy Warrior" knocked down an opponent. Baptiste had earned his nickname by laughing delightedly whenever he subjected a foe to a particularly awful beating.
Topalov had been hospitalized after the bout. The man who had ruled Batanga before Baptiste had not been so lucky. After his knockout of the Russian, Baptiste returned to Batanga for a victory parade followed by a dinner in his honor given by the previous president of the republic. During dinner, a squad of army officers, bribed with money from Baptiste's fight purse, stormed the banquet hall and engineered a coup. Rumor had it that Baptiste had made several excellent jokes while eating the heart of the ex-president in a Juju ceremony that was supposed to infuse him with the deceased's spiritual essence.
Baptiste smiled, displaying a perfect set of pearly white teeth. "Was that not a wonderful punch, Charlie?"
"Very powerful, Mr. President," answered Marsh. Charlie was a foot shorter and roughly one hundred and fifty pounds lighter than his host. Because he lacked Baptiste's courage and vicious temperament, it had taken a considerable effort to hide his terror during dinner. Now he gathered what little nerve he possessed and raised the subject curiosity had prodded him to explore ever since Jean-Claude had invited him to sit in the chair usually occupied by Bernadette Baptiste, the only one of the president's wives to bear him a child.
"Madam Bernadette would have enjoyed your display of virility, Mr. President."
Baptiste nodded agreement. "Women want a powerful man, Charlie. They know your power will bring them great pleasure in bed, not so?"
Charlie looked down the table at Bernadette's child, five-year-old Alfonse, who sat next to his nanny.
"I see your charming son is here, but where is your lovely wife?"
Baptiste's smile faded. "Sadly, she could not join us this evening, but she told me to say hello to you if you asked about her."
Charlie's heart seized and it took every ounce of his energy to keep from throwing up.
"Ah, dessert," Baptiste sighed as a servant rolled a pastry cart next to his ornate high-backed chair. The benevolent and all-powerful ruler of Batanga loved to eat almost as much as he loved to inflict pain, and he scanned the cart eagerly. It was laden with all of the president's favorites, most of which he'd sampled for the first time in the fast-food restaurants and sumptuous casino buffets of Las Vegas.
"That one and that one, I think," he said, indicating a huge piece of German chocolate cake and a three-scoop ice cream sundae heaped high with whipped cream, sprinkled with nuts, dotted with Maraschino cherries, and covered with caramel, strawberry, and chocolate sauces.
The president turned to Charlie. He was smiling broadly. "Eat up, my friend."
Charlie had no appetite but he knew better than to disobey any presidential command, even one as benign as an order to eat dessert. As soon as the waiter placed an enormous slice of cherry cheesecake on Charlie's plate, Baptiste leaned close to Charlie's ear and whispered conspiratorially:
"I will tell you a secret, but tell no one else or it will spoil the surprise. After dinner, I have an interesting entertainment planned."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Baptiste responded happily. "Its nature is known only to me and Nathan." Charlie cast a nervous glance at Nathan Tuazama, who was sitting halfway down the banquet table, next to the wife of the Syrian ambassador. Tuazama was the head of the National Education Bureau, Baptiste's secret police. The cadaverous black man's head rotated slowly in Charlie's direction at the same time Charlie turned toward him, as if Tuazama had read his mind. There were rumors that Tuazama had supernatural powers, and Charlie had not discounted these rumors completely. Tuazama's thin, bloodless lips displayed none of the president's joy. Unlike his master, Tuazama had no sense of humor. Charlie wasn't even sure that he had any emotions.
Fugitive. Copyright (c) by Phillip Margolin . Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.