“So we’re, like… tourists?”

“Not tourist! Smelling roses. Is good.”

Wilson gave his head a little shake, as if to clear it. “How long does it take to refuel?”

“Half hour.”

Wilson looked at his watch.

Belov leaned in, and lowered his voice. “We don’t just take fuel.”

“No?”

The Russian shook his head.

“Then what?” Wilson asked.

“We paint.”

“Paint?”

Belov put his thumb and forefinger together. “Little bit. On tail. Where numbers are.” His voice dropped twenty decibels and an octave. “I tell you something confidential.”

“Okay…”

“Is two Antonovs in hangar.”

Wilson thought about it.

Belov continued: “So we paint. Then we change transponders. Number Two Antonov takes off for Almaty. You know Almaty?”

Wilson shook his head.

“Shit town. Not important,” Belov said. “But good decoy. Now comes dark, and Number One Antonov is flaps up.” He sat back with a worried glow, as if he’d just explained the general theory of relativity to the guy behind him in a supermarket line. “You understand?”

Before Wilson could reply, the waiter returned, wheeling a cart crowded with pots of hot water and plates of tiny sandwiches. A teacaddy was produced, and they selected their teas – English Breakfast for Wilson, and an infusion of echinacea, palmetto berries, and nettle root for Belov. “For chakras,” he explained, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Excellent choice,” the waiter said, and slipped away.

Belov leaned in. “How much you know about Congo?”

Wilson shook his head. “AIDS and diamonds. Used to be Belgian. Lots of resources, lots of poverty.” He paused. Thought for a moment. “And they’re killing each other.”

Belov nodded. “Three million dead in five years.”

Wilson sampled one of the sandwiches, a mixture of cream cheese, apricot, and salmon on an equilateral triangle of Wonder Bread whose crusts had gone missing. Not bad, but it would take about ten of them to have an impact. He tried another: buttered pumpernickel with thinly sliced radishes. Even better.

“There’s gold,” Belov confided. “Also copper and… you name it. This place we’re going, Ituri province – it’s next to Uganda, okay? Beautiful, beautiful mountains…” He closed his eyes for a moment, then just as suddenly opened them. “But! This place, it’s death. Ten years, now, they’re fighting. I think it goes on forever.”

“Who’s behind it?” Wilson asked.

“You! Me! Them! Everybody!” Then he rattled off a string of acronyms.

Wilson wolfed down another sandwich. Tried to figure out what it was. Dijon mustard and cranberry sauce. Bits of turkey. “This guy we’re in business with-”

“Commander Ibrahim. He’s Ugandan, so… he’s having good English!”

Wilson looked puzzled. “What’s he doing in the Congo if he’s Ugandan?”

“Diamond mines,” Belov said. “Near Bafwasende.”

“Which is where?”

“Lindi River. Maybe thirty klicks from airstrip.” Belov grinned. “This is pygmy place. My advice: Don’t fuck with them.”

Wilson sat back in his chair. He was thinking, It’s going to happen. He glanced around, and tried to imagine it. A place like this, multiplied by a million… The systems break down, and it’s lights out! The fountain dies, the heat builds up. But, wait a second, what’s that? The generators! We’re saved! The lights flicker back to life, and everyone sighs in relief. There’s a rush of laughter and small talk, and then – uh-oh! – the generators die. Food begins to spoil, and the place begins to stink. And maybe, just maybe, they can’t get out. The doors are automatic, and they look like they weigh a ton. If you couldn’t get out – if you were locked in – after a couple of days, it would be like a George Romero film. The idea made him laugh. Talk about “cannon fodder”! All these people, the waiters and sheiks, businessmen and brats, sweltering in this bell jar of a hotel – entertained, perhaps, by 50 Cent. (We can only hope.)

“What is funny?” Belov asked.

Wilson shook his head. “Nothing, I was just… So what’s the drill, once we get there?”

Belov shrugged. “Drive to Bafwasende. Meet Commander Ibrahim, so we have chitchat. If hunky-dory, you get paid. Then, I think, you go to Kampala next day.”

“What’s in Kampala?” Wilson asked.

“Airport. Is gateway to world.”

“And you’re where?”

“I’m back to Sharjah.”

Wilson sipped his tea. It occurred to him that once Belov left, he’d be on his own – except for Zero and Khalid – and he’d be carrying four million dollars in diamonds. “Tell me something,” he said.

“What?”

“This guy, Ibrahim, he’s pretty tight with Hakim, right?”

Belov nodded.

“So what happens if I go missing?”

Belov frowned. After a moment, he said, “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Diamonds. If you go missing, is sad! We have tears in Sharjah, Beirut, but… we move on. Unless diamonds go missing, too. Then, I think, we have big problem. For everybody. Colonel Ibrahim, too.” With a grin, the Russian tapped his temple with his forefinger. “I see wheels turning, but… don’t worry. Many times, Hakim sends people to Congo. We don’t lose no one yet!”

Wilson nodded, but he didn’t look happy. He was thinking about Bobojon’s e-mail from the night before. “What about Hakim? What happens if he goes missing?”

Belov’s cheeks swelled up like a blowfish. He sat like that for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled. Finally, he said, “Is end of world.”

CHAPTER 16

Higher was safer. Higher was smoother.

Leaving Sharjah just after midnight, they’d climbed to thirty-five thousand feet over the Empty Quarter, and stayed at that altitude until Ethiopia was behind them. Somewhere over the southern Sudan, they began their descent, dropping lower and lower as they approached Uganda’s border with the Congo. As the plane sank gently into a sea of clouds, the moon winked out and the wings began to shiver, and then they began to bounce.

“Seat belt,” Belov said.

The cockpit was quiet and dark, the instrument panel glowing softly, the fuselage creaking. Belov and the navigator talked softly in Russian, while the pilot made adjustments to the controls.

Wilson buckled up. A flash of lightning, and everything went nova – the sky, the cockpit, the men’s faces. And then it was night again. Through the window, Wilson saw a wall of thunderheads flickering in the dark.

The plane yawed.

“Better get down quick,” Belov said.

“Yeah, that lightning-”

“Fuck lightning! Is bad neighborhood. Stingers, Strelas – a real mess!”

Wilson looked at the arms dealer. “Whose fault is that?” he asked, as the plane fell through a hole in the night, eliciting a yelp from the passenger cabin.

Belov chuckled.

The altimeter was turning counterclockwise and the fuselage was rattling, hard, when a dinner service crashed to the floor in the galley behind them. Wilson kicked a cup away and searched the ground for lights, an airport – anything.

“Weather like this, I think: Dag Hammarskjold,” Belov confessed.

“You know? Big UN guy. Went down over Katanga. Long time ago.”

“Missile?”

Belov shook his head. “No! Was shit weather, so… they’re flying on instruments, okay? Bad guys hijacked beam – sent plane into mountain. No more Hammarskjold!”

Wilson shuddered, his eyes straining in their sockets. He could imagine what it would be like, roaring out of the clouds into a wall of rocks and trees. At least it would be quick. A glimpse of the end, and then The End. But if a bomb went off inside the plane, or if a missile hit them… Maybe the fuel tanks would explode, and it would be over in an instant. But what if the plane broke up slowly, piece by piece? What if the passengers fell through the air like birds with a virus, like suicides – or like those people who stepped off the World Trade Center’s roof?