So if Ibrahim said the diamonds were good, the diamonds were good.

Even so, Wilson had done a bit of reading, and he’d learned that the diamond industry was an interesting one. Among other things, it was the quintessential cartel.

For more than a century, the price of gem-grade diamonds has been controlled by the South African DeBeers company and its partners. The firm accomplished this by creating a vertically integrated monopoly that enabled it to limit the supply of diamonds. It was able to do this because DeBeers owned all or part of nearly every diamond mine in the world. Those gems that it did not produce it bought through a subsidiary, the so-called Diamond Corporation.

In this way, the market was cornered.

Each year, some 250 “sight-Holders” were invited to London by the Central Selling Organization, or CSO. This, too, was a DeBeers creation, candidly referred to by Israeli diamond buyers as “The Syndicate.”

In London, sight-Holders were permitted to buy presorted parcels of diamonds at fixed prices, usually $42,500 each. The parcels could not be examined until after they were purchased, and so were something of a pig in a poke. If a sight-Holder didn’t like what he got, he was free to reject a parcel. But if he did that, he’d soon be out of business. No further invitations would be forthcoming from the CSO.

So the sight-Holders accepted what they’d been given, trusting DeBeers in much the same way that Wilson trusted Commander Ibrahim.

After buying their parcels, sight-Holders would resell them to wholesalers on the diamond exchanges of Antwerp, Amsterdam, New York, and Ramat Gan (Israel). Meanwhile, an artificial scarcity was maintained by the Diamond Corporation, which bought surplus diamonds wherever they might be found. These diamonds were stored by the kilo in London vaults, or left in the ground to be mined at a later date (if ever).

Conflict diamonds were the wild cards in the game. These were gems mined by the supernaturally violent rebel militias in Sierra Leone, Angola, and the Congo. Wrested from jungle riverbeds by de facto slaves earning sixty cents a day, “blood diamonds” made their way to the world’s exchanges by irregular routes, without the intervention of the Syndicate.

Because these conflict diamonds fueled wars throughout West Africa, while undermining the price of diamonds sold by the CSO, DeBeers worked to establish protocols that would ensure that “legitimate diamonds” came with a certificate of origin.

There was an ironic symmetry in this, Wilson thought. End-user certificates were forged or bought to enable the sale of arms to third parties like Commander Ibrahim, whose militia presided over a slave colony charged with mining diamonds in the jungle. Why, then, shouldn’t the diamonds require a certificate of their own, one that rinsed the blood from the stones by creating a phony paper trail all the way from Africa to the bride’s ring finger?

Though blood diamonds were no different from others, except in the violence of their provenance, they were sold at a discount to their counterparts from South Africa, Australia, and Siberia. According to Hakim, Wilson’s diamonds would fetch about four million dollars, about half of what they’d bring if DeBeers was marketing them.

The only problem, now that Hakim was hanging upside down in the hold of an aircraft carrier, was finding a buyer. With June 22 looming closer and closer, Wilson had no time to lose.

They got into Bunia a little after noon, pulling up in front of the heavily sandbagged Banque Zaïroise du Commerce Extérieur. While Zero and Khalid waited outside, Wilson went in to meet the manager.

Mr. Bizwa was an East Indian gentleman in his late forties. He sat behind an ornately carved Empire desk, beneath a portrait of the president, Joseph Kabila. Greeting Wilson with a firm handshake, he gestured to a chair and asked how he could be of help.

“I need a safe-deposit box,” Wilson told him. “For this!” He produced the ironwood head, swaddled in cloth, and set it on the desk.

“May I look?” Bizwa asked. Wilson nodded, and the bank manager unwrapped the sculpture.

“I think it’s probably pretty valuable,” Wilson said.

Bizwa frowned. “Well,” he said, “it’s certainly… very nice.”

“I bought it in Uganda,” Wilson told him. “Helluva good deal.”

There was a weak smile from Bizwa as he folded his hands, and tried to look helpful.

“I figured, since I’m in the neighborhood, I’d come over here. See what I can see.” He winked.

Bizwa looked puzzled. “You mean, diamonds?”

“Bingo!”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“But you’re not in the diamond business yourself?” Bizwa asked.

Wilson shook his head. “No, I’m a coffee buyer.”

Bizwa snorted with laughter. “You came to Bunia to buy coffee?”

“No, no,” Wilson said. “Like I said, this is just a side trip.”

“I see,” Bizwa replied, though he clearly didn’t.

Wilson glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward. In a whispery voice, he confided, “I was hoping you could help me out. I’ll want to buy a diamond. On account of I’m getting married,” Wilson explained.

“How nice!”

“So I was thinking… three, maybe four carats, rough. They say the rough diamonds, when they’re cut, lose half their size. So that would be, what? One and a half to two carats.”

“Mmmmnnn.”

“You think it’s doable?”

Bizwa nodded. “Yes. Quite doable.”

“But illegal, n’est-ce pas?”

The banker smiled. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have any difficulties. To begin with, there aren’t any police. Just traffic people who haven’t been paid for a long time.”

“What about the UN? I saw-”

“Uruguayans, Bangladeshis… they have a pretty full plate. And then, of course, what you’re suggesting… it’s what people do here.”

“Is it? Tell me about that. What do they do?”

“They buy and sell diamonds. It’s the entire economy.”

“Ah!” Wilson pretended to think about that. Then, he said, “So you could recommend someone! A diamond salesman?”

Bizwa gave him a hapless look. “Well, of course, but… they’re everywhere. Every taxi driver has a diamond to sell, or knows someone who does. Every militiaman, every – The thing is, it can be a bit dangerous. They could take advantage of you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Wilson told him. “I could be taken to the cleaners!”

“My best advice would be to stick with the dealers who have shops. They’re Lebanese, mostly. And having a shop means they’ll be there the next day. The cabdriver might not.”

“And they’re Lebanese, you said?”

Bizwa shrugged. “Almost all of them. There’s a Chinese gentleman, but I wouldn’t recommend that you do business with him.”

“Why not?”

Bizwa looked uncomfortable. “Well, he’s more of a wholesaler, and…” Bizwa made a face.

“What?” Wilson insisted.

“He has a reputation,” Bizwa said.

“I see.”

They sat without speaking for a moment, listening to the whir and click of the ceiling fan.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find something,” Bizwa told him.

“Thanks. And one more thing… can you recommend a hotel?”

Bizwa winced. “The only real hotels are closed, I’m afraid. But I’m sure there’s room at the Château.”

“Château?”

“Lubumbashi House. It was the governor’s mansion, once, I wouldn’t call it a ‘mansion,’ really. It’s more of a bungalow. A large bungalow.”

“What happened to the governor?”

Bizwa frowned. “Passed away.”

“I’m sorry. Must have gotten sick, huh?”

Bizwa shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t say he was sick. Healthy as an ox, actually.”

Wilson nodded thoughtfully. “But this hotel… it’s safe, right? I mean, for someone like me?”

Bizwa pursed his lips. “Yes, I think so. Journalists seem to like it. Visiting NGOs, government people – there’s quite a bar scene.” He smiled. “A safe-deposit box might be a good idea.”