“And then you came here.” It didn’t sound like a question, but it was.

“No,” Wilson told him, wondering how much the Arab knew. “First, I went to Lake Bled. Then I came here.”

“Lake Bled?”

“Slovenia.”

Nodding to himself, Hakim tore a chunk of pita in half and, using it as a scoop, slid a mound of baba ghanoush into his mouth. “And what’s in Slovenia?”

“A notebook.”

“Oh, yes, the famous ‘notebook’! Bo told me about it. You found it!?”

Wilson nodded. “I did. Many notebooks.”

Hakim smiled encouragingly, humoring the man across from him. He didn’t really understand what the American was up to. Bobojon had explained it to him months before, but none of it made much sense. The operation had something to do with this crazy scientist, Tesla, who’d been dead fifty years. Some lost books. A bomb that wasn’t a bomb. The way his nephew told it, the American was going to “stop the motor of the world.” Hakim laughed. The motor of the world!

“What’s so funny?” Wilson asked.

The Arab shook his head. “I was thinking of something else,” he lied. There was no point in insulting Wilson. Even if he was crazy, he’d been tested – and he’d passed. So he was a serious man and the important thing was to humor him, as a favor to Bobojon. Bobojon was doing serious work. And besides, Hakim needed help moving the hash. He paused. “I have good news for you!”

“What’s that?” Wilson asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Tomorrow you’re going to Tripoli.”

Wilson was puzzled. “Libya?”

Hakim shook his head. “Not that Tripoli,” he said. “This one’s in Lebanon, fifty miles north of Beirut. It’s the main port. Everything goes through there. Molasses, too.”

Wilson’s annoyance vanished.

“I’ve arranged a car. You’ll leave in the morning.”

“What about them?” Wilson lifted his chin in the direction of his babysitters.

Hakim turned in his seat and waved to the boys, whose faces lit up in smiles. “They go where the cans go.”

“And after the cans?”

“They go everywhere.”

Pushing a wedge of pita into a soft dune of hummus, Wilson brought it up to his mouth. “And once I’m in Tripoli, how do I find the ship?”

“No problem,” Hakim told him. “It’s in the port. Turkish flag. More rust than paint. The Marmara Queen.”

“And they’re expecting me?”

Hakim shrugged. “They’re expecting ‘the shipping agent’ for Aswan Exports. That’s you. It’s your molasses.”

“What about visas?”

“You won’t need any. Belov will meet you on the docks in Odessa. It’s all arranged. He’ll walk you through.”

Wilson frowned.

“What?” Hakim asked.

“I was thinking about Belov,” Wilson said. “Why doesn’t he rip me off? Just take the product, and walk away?”

“He won’t do that,” Hakim told him.

“Why not? Who’s going to stop him, Zero and Khalid?”

“Maybe not, but… I wouldn’t underestimate them,” Hakim said. “They’re good boys.”

Wilson chuckled ruefully. “You realize I don’t know shit about guns, right?”

Hakim shrugged. “So what? We do a lot of business with Belov,” Hakim said. “He won’t try to cheat us. It wouldn’t be smart. And Belov’s very smart. He’s Russian, but he works out of Sharjah. So we have a little influence. His planes are there, and he has a couple of warehouses. It’s a good place for him. He won’t risk that. Not for something like this.” He brought the tips of his thumb and forefinger almost together. “Anyway, if I’m wrong, you’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Hakim smiled, then popped an olive into his mouth, worked it around, and spat the pit onto the floor. “I’m going out of town for a few days,” he announced. “So maybe you’ll get to Antwerp first. Either way, get a room at De Witte Lelie Hotel. Can you remember that? ‘The white lily.’ Like the flower.”

Wilson nodded. “Then what?”

“When I get there, we’ll go to the diamond exchange. You and me. There’s a Jew we do business with.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened his eyes again. “He’ll take the diamonds, arrange the wire transfers. As we discussed: It’s seventy-thirty. You get the thirty. After that? You’re on your own.”

Wilson forked a chunk of lamb kebab into his mouth, and savored it on his tongue. “What about Bo?”

Hakim looked puzzled. “What about him?”

“Will he be there?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?” Wilson asked.

“He does special work. Even I don’t see him.”

Wilson dipped a chunk of pita into a dish of gray puree, and brought it up to his mouth. “What is this stuff?”

“Lamb tartare.”

Wilson set the bread aside. “What does ‘special work’ mean?”

Hakim considered the question. Finally, he smiled and said, “My nephew, he’s good with computers. So he helps us with communications.”

“How?”

The Arab sipped his wine, then carefully set the glass on the table. Folding his hands in his lap, he said, “Let me give you a bit of advice.”

Wilson raised his chin.

“We’re in business together,” Hakim told him. “You and me and Bobojon. Which is good. But you’re not one of us. And the way things work, it’s better if you’re not too curious. People get nervous. I get nervous. And that could be bad for you.” When Wilson said nothing, the Arab sat back in his seat and frowned. “Tell me something. Why are you doing this?”

Wilson rolled his eyes in a way that said, It’s complicated.

Hakim wagged a finger at him. “You know what I think? I think you’re an intellectual.”

Wilson grinned. “I’m an engineer,” he said. “It’s not the same.”

“Of course, but… when you were in prison, my nephew says that you were reading – always, you were reading. He says you read Qutb. Is that true?”

“Yeah.”

“Which book?”

“Milestones.”

The Arab nodded to himself. “What did you think?”

Wilson pursed his lips. Until he was hanged by Egypt’s Nasser, Sayyid Qutb was a revolutionary who preached a return to Islamic purity and the overthrow of corrupt Arab regimes. More than anyone else, his views had shaped the thinking of people like Osama bin-Laden. “I think Qutb is fine,” Wilson told him, “if you’re an Arab.”

“And if you’re not?”

“If you’re not, you need to look for someone else.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hakim exclaimed. “To each his own! So what about you? If not Qutb, who?”

Wilson shrugged.

“Bobojon said you have Indian blood,” Hakim persisted.

Wilson said nothing.

“Forgive me,” Hakim said. “I know nothing about Indians. Just the old movies.” He paused. “But tell me, does your tribe have anyone like Qutb?”

“My ‘tribe’?” Wilson repeated. “No, ‘my tribe’ doesn’t have anyone like Qutb. No tracts, no pamphlets, no Fiery Flying Rolls.”

Hakim laughed. “Then what? What do you have?”

“Laments.”

“Laments?”

Wilson nodded. “Yeah, there’s a lot of sad songs.”

“That’s it?”

“No,” he said. “We have the Ghost Dance.”

Hakim laughed, and poured each of them another glass of wine.

“Sad songs and dances! What a people!”

The Arab’s sarcasm struck a nerve. But even as the adrenaline curled through Wilson’s chest, his features remained as neutral as a sundial. After a moment, he said, “I didn’t know my parents. I grew up in foster homes. So I didn’t have any history – none that I knew, anyway. Someone said I was Indian, and I looked Indian. But it never meant anything. The first time I heard about the Ghost Dance, I was just a kid. I was in the dentist’s office, and there was an article in a magazine.”

“Yes?” Hakim looked confused, perhaps a little drunk.

“It was just an article. And pictures of a man they called Wovoka. He was all tricked out in a ghost shirt, with stars and moons on it.”

Hakim frowned. He had no idea what the American was talking about. Ghosts?