Wilson and the Mercedes driver entered the compound as Ibrahim was lecturing what looked like a family. There was an older man, who might have been in his forties; his wife, who seemed about the same age; and a young mother with three children: two boys, about ten, and a girl who couldn’t have been more than five. The family looked terrified.

Belov was nearby, leaning against the compound’s wall.

Wilson joined him. “I thought you’d be gone by now,” he said. “I thought you’d be heading back to Sharjah.”

Belov shook his head, and nodded toward Ibrahim. “Commander Ibrahim isn’t happy, so… I’m still here.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Problem is bullshit!” Belov said in a low voice. “He makes argument over RPGs.”

“Why?” Wilson asked.

“He wants Russian RPGs. But I don’t have. So I give him Chinese. Is perfect copy! No difference. Good weapon.”

“So?”

“So it’s up to Hakim,” Belov told him.

Wilson looked skeptical. “And how does that work?”

“Easy. He calls him on phone.”

Wilson felt his heart lurch. He glanced around. “Hakim?”

“Yeah.”

“He can do that?” Wilson asked.

“Why not?”

“From here?”

Belov shrugged. “With satellite phone? Yeah!” Belov looked at him. “What’s the matter? Is there problem?”

“No, I-” Before Wilson could could finish the sentence, a militiaman came into the compound, dragging a boy by the hair. The boy was naked, and he’d been badly beaten.

Seeing him, the family cringed. The little girl moved toward the boy with open arms outstretched, but was quickly captured by the older man, who clutched her to his chest. The mother burst into tears, and soon, the whole family was keening.

“What’s this?” Wilson asked. The boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen.

Belov shook his head. “Bad shit,” he muttered. “They say he steals diamond, so… he’s fucked.”

The grandfather – if that’s who he was – appealed to Commander Ibrahim. Wilson couldn’t make out a word of what he was saying – he was speaking Swahili, or something like it. But he was pleading hard in a low, tremulous voice.

Ibrahim adopted a judicious pose, frowning thoughtfully as the grandfather spoke. Occasionally, he looked at the others in the compound – at Wilson and Belov, at the soldiers, at the boy – and nodded, as if to say, Good point. It seemed, almost, as if he’d been persuaded by the older man’s speech, but then he grew bored with the charade, shook his head, and clapped his hands twice, in rapid succession.

Turning to the soldier at his side, he said, “Get on with it.”

With a grin, the soldier went into the pink building, and emerged, a few seconds later, with a jerry can of gasoline in one hand and a tire in the other.

Seeing this, the family let out a wail, the mother screamed, and the boy staggered where he stood. It seemed to Wilson that his knees buckled. But they didn’t give way. The boy just stood there, swaying in the courtyard. It was almost as if he was listening to music that no one else could hear.

Moving quickly to his side, the soldier slipped the tire over the boy’s head, then dragged his right arm through the hole at its center. Finally, he lashed the boy’s wrists together behind his back, using a plastic zip-tie. Then he filled the tire’s hollow core with gasoline, splashing it liberally over the boy himself, who was quaking to his family’s screams and pleas.

Wilson couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Ibrahim patted the air with his hands, and made a shhh-shing sound. “Nothing is decided,” he said. Then he turned to Wilson. “Did Belov tell you?”

“Tell me what?” The air was heavy with the smell of gasoline. It felt like the compound might explode.

“About the cargo,” Ibrahim said.

Wilson did a double take. Was this supposed to be a threat? The boy who’d taken the diamond was standing ten feet away, quivering, his hands cuffed to a tire drenched in gasoline. The kid was about to go off like a Roman candle and Ibrahim picks this very moment to bitch about the cargo? “Yeah,” Wilson said. “He told me. You’ve got a problem with the RPGs.”

“No! You’ve got a problem with the RPGs.” He stared hard at Wilson.

“So why don’t you call Hakim?” Belov asked.

“I did!” Ibrahim said.

Wilson felt his jaw drop.

“And?!” Belov demanded.

“He wasn’t there.”

Wilson realized that he wasn’t breathing. So he took a deep breath. Let it out.

Commander Ibrahim reached into a bag that was lying on the ground at his feet, and retrieved a satellite phone. “They said he’d be back in an hour.” He consulted a scrap of paper, and punched a series of numbers into the phone.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Wilson said.

Ibrahim looked puzzled. So did Belov. Nearby, the family was kneeling in the dirt, holding hands and praying.

“Why not?” Belov asked.

Wilson didn’t know what to say. “It’s late.”

Ibrahim gave him a look that questioned his sanity.

The boy with the tire around his shoulders sank to his knees.

The telephone must have rung six or seven times before anyone answered. Wilson’s heart was crashing against his ribs, while threads of silver began to wiggle and curl in the corner of his left eye.

Commander Ibrahim jumped to his feet, shouting into the phone. “Hallo? Hallo? Who is this?” He listened for a moment, then growled with impatience: “Speak English, for God’s sake! Where’s Hakim?” He listened for a while longer. “Then get him! Who the fuck do you think I’m calling? It’s his phone, isn’t it?” He kept his ear to the satellite phone, but turned to Wilson and Belov. In a quiet voice, he asked, “So what should I do with the boy?”

“Let him go,” Belov said. “You’ve made your point.”

Ibrahim nodded. “I suppose… What do you think?” he asked, raising his chin to Wilson.

Wilson didn’t know what to say. The vision in his right eye was beginning to go, and his thoughts were elsewhere. “I’ve got my own problems,” he muttered. If Hakim didn’t come to the phone (and why would he, how could he?), Ibrahim would begin to wonder. And that could not be a good thing in this place, under these circumstances.

Ibrahim frowned. “We all have – Hallo? Hakim! Where the fuck have you been? Speak up, man! I can barely hear! Look, we’ve got a problem with the glass samples that you sent. Yes, ‘the glass samples’!” A long pause. “Well, some of the glass was made in China. What the fuck am I supposed to do with… what? No, it’s not a lot of money. Maybe ten percent.”

“Maybe six percent,” Belov mumbled.

Commander Ibrahim was smiling now. “Okay, my brother! Now, you’re talking! I’ll tell him what you said… What? Yes, of course, he’s standing right next to me. Okay, okay, but… all right, no problem.” Commander Ibrahim handed the phone to Wilson. “He wants to talk to you.”

Belov was smirking.

Wilson was nearly blind, his eyes spangled with neural fireworks that only he could see. He laid the phone against his cheek, and said, “Hello?”

Ten seconds passed before Hakim said a word, and when he did, his voice was weak and tired-sounding. “Frank?”

Stupidly, Wilson nodded. Then he caught himself, and said, “Yes?”

“It’s Hakim…”

“I know.”

“So… everything’s okay? At your end, it’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said. “It’s fine.” How many people are listening, Wilson wondered. And where are they keeping him?

“Then I’ll see you in Antwerp in a couple of days.”

“Right,” Wilson said.

“At the De Witte Lelie Hotel. As discussed.”

“Right.”

A moment later, the phone went dead.

Wilson took a deep breath, then tossed the phone to Commander Ibrahim.

Who was smiling. “Sorry, Charley! He says you get ten percent less.”

Belov took a step toward him, looking outraged, but Wilson put a hand on his sleeve. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll make it back the next time around.”