I lived in a hotel the first week, then found a little place that a widow rented to me.
I watched the paper pretty close, expecting to see a story about the massacre in the Libyan desert. The Libyans were bound to find the wreckage of those jets sooner or later, and the bodies, and the news would leak out.
But it didn’t.
The newspapers never mentioned it. Finally I got to walking down to the city library and reading the papers from Europe and the United States.
Nothing. Nada.
Like it never happened.
A month went by, a peaceful, quiet month. No one paid any attention to me, I had a mountain of money in the local bank and in Switzerland, and neither radio, television, nor newspapers ever mentioned all those dead people in the desert.
Finally I called my retired Marine pal Bill Wiley in Van Nuys, the police dispatcher. “Hey, Bill, this is Charlie Dean.”
“Hey, Charlie. When you coming home, guy?”
“I don’t know. How’s Candy doing with the stations?”
“They’re making more money than they ever did with you running them. He’s got rid of the facial iron and works twelve hours a day.”
“No shit!”
“So where are you?”
“Let’s skip that for a bit. I want you to do me a favor. Tomorrow at work how about running me on the crime computer, see if I’m wanted for anything.”
He whistled. “What the hell you been up to, Charlie?”
“Will you do that? I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“Give me your birth date and social security number.”
I gave it to him, then said good-bye.
I was on pins and needles for the next twenty-four hours. When I called again, Bill said, “You ain’t in the big computer, Charlie. What the hell you been up to?”
“I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”
“So when you coming home?”
“One of these days. I’m still vacationing as hard as I can.”
“Kiss her once for me,” Bill Wiley said.
At the Capetown library I got into old copies of the International Herald Tribune, published in Paris. I finally found what I was looking for on microfiche: a complete list of the passengers who died twelve years ago on the Air France flight that blew up over Niger. Colonel Giraud and his wife were not on the list.
Well, the light finally began to dawn.
I got one of the librarians to help me get on the Internet. What I was interested in were lists of U.S. Air Force Academy graduates, say from five to ten years ago.
I read the names until I thought my eyeballs were going to fall out. No Julie Giraud.
I’d been had. Julie was either a CIA or French agent. French, I suspected, and the Americans agreed to let her steal a plane.
As I sat and thought about it, I realized that I didn’t ever meet old Colonel Giraud’s kids. Not to the best of my recollection. Maybe he had a couple of daughters, maybe he didn’t, but damned if I could remember.
What had she said? That the colonel said I was the best Marine in the corps?
Stupid ol’ Charlie Dean. I ate that shit with a spoon. The best Marine in the corps! So I helped her “steal” a plane and kill a bunch of convicted terrorists that Libya would never extradite.
If we were caught I would have sworn under torture, until my very last breath, that no government was involved, that the people planning this escapade were a U.S. Air Force deserter and a former Marine she hired.
I loafed around Capetown for a few more days, paid my bills, thanked the widow lady, gave her a cock-and-bull story about my sick kids in America, and took a plane to New York. At JFK I got on another plane to Los Angeles.
When the taxi dropped me at my apartment, I stopped by the super’s office and paid the rent. The battery in my car had enough juice to start the motor on the very first crank.
I almost didn’t recognize Candy. He had even gotten a haircut and wore clean jeans. “Hey, Mr. Dean,” Candy said after we had been chatting awhile. “Thanks for giving me another chance. You’ve taught me a lot.”
“We all make mistakes,” I told him. If only he knew how true that was.