Lubumbashi House was a rambling bungalow whose stucco walls were filigreed by not-so-long-ago gun battles. A graceful shambles, the villa sat in ruined gardens, surrounded by an eight-foot wall whose gray surface danced with lizards. At the side of the house was an empty swimming pool with a crater in the deep end.

“What happened to the pool?” Wilson asked as he filled out a registration form for himself and his companions, paying for the first night in cash.

The manager, a tired-looking Belgian with alcohol on his breath, shrugged. “Mortar attack. Two years ago.”

“Anyone killed?”

The manager shook his head. “Not in the pool,” he said, and handed Wilson a pair of keys. “No sheets or towels, I’m afraid. Maybe tomorrow. If you’d like a complimentary drink…?” He gestured to an adjacent room.

Wilson thanked him. Zero and Khalid demurred. They wanted to see their room.

The “bar” was actually a sort of living room, with couches and easy chairs scattered across polished wood floors. Ceiling fans turned slowly overhead, driven by a generator rattling in the garden. Besides himself and the waiter, who doubled as a bartender, Wilson was alone in the room with a burly Portuguese who might have been sixty years old.

“Frank d’Anconia.”

“Da Rosa. Jair da Rosa.”

Wilson dropped into a leather club chair, and signaled the waiter. “Gin and tonic,” he said. “And whatever my friend’s drinking.”

Da Rosa smiled. “Merci.”

“And what do you do, Mr. da Rosa?” Wilson asked.

“Me? I organize. I am an organizer of outcomes.”

Wilson looked puzzled. “What sort of outcomes?”

“Military ones.”

Wilson laughed. “And how’s business?”

“Good! It’s always good in Africa, though I think, maybe not so good as last year or the year before.”

“I’m sorry.”

The mercenary made a gesture, as if to say, C’est la vie. “I have hopes. These things turn around. They always turn around.”

The waiter arrived with a tray, holding two gin and tonics. The Portuguese raised his glass in a silent toast, revealing a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Three blue dots that formed a triangle. “Chin-chin!”

Wilson took a sip. “So, business was better… before?”

Da Rosa’s cheeks inflated for a moment. He blew a little puff of air across the coffee table between them. “Business was great,” da Rosa replied. “There was an African World War.”

The expression was new to Wilson, and he must have shown it.

“Nine nations, twenty militias, four million dead,” da Rosa explained.

“Four million?!”

Da Rosa made a rocking motion with his right hand. “A hundred thousand, this way or that.”

“I had no idea.”

“Blacks,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And it wasn’t all at once. It took four or five years, so I think, perhaps, you missed it. But yes, four million. It was really something.”

Wilson didn’t know what to say. Sipped his drink.

“And you?” da Rosa asked. “What about you? You’re a tourist? An opera singer? What?”

Wilson chuckled. He was unsure how much to say, and decided to stick to the story he’d given at the bank. “I’m a coffee buyer.”

Da Rosa pursed his lips, and nodded. “Interesting business. Arabica or robusta?”

Wilson blinked.

Da Rosa laughed. “Diamonds, then.”

Wilson shrugged.

“Buying or selling?” da Rosa asked.

He thought about it. “I guess that depends. Are you in the market?”

Da Rosa snorted. “No! Too dangerous. But you should visit Lahoud – Elie Lahoud. He’ll give you a good price and, if you mention my name, maybe there’s something in it for me. Who knows?”

“Lahoud… he’s Lebanese?”

“They’re all Lebanese,” da Rosa assured him.

Wilson frowned. He wanted to avoid the Lebanese, some of whom might have crossed paths with Hakim and his friends. The last thing he needed was Zero and Khalid chatting with their countrymen. The less they knew, the better. In fact… “Someone said there’s a Chinaman.”

Da Rosa grimaced. “Yes, of course – Big Ping! Has a shop on the Rue de Gaulle. Wear Kevlar.”

Wilson laughed. “That bad?”

Da Rosa shook his head. Drained his drink, and rattled the ice. “No, he’s okay. But you don’t go to Big Ping for a couple of diamonds. He’s more of a wholesaler.”

“I thought they were all wholesalers,” Wilson said.

“Well, they are. Only Ping, he’s dealing directly with the militias, so he’s comfortable with big loads.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not for him.”

“Why not?” Wilson asked.

“Because he’s a triad,” da Rosa told him. “Sun Yee On.”

Wilson frowned. “Which is what?”

Da Rosa pursed his lips. “Fifty thousand gangsters, working as a team. Like Wal-Mart, but with guns.”

Wilson went looking for Big Ping’s shop the next morning, following a crudely drawn map that the hotel’s manager had given him. Even with the map, it wasn’t easy. Most of the streets were unmarked, and the buildings were unnumbered. He could have asked someone on the street, How do I get to Big Ping’s? But if da Rosa was right, that would be like asking the way to Al Capone’s.

So they walked. And walked some more.

Zero and Khalid did their best to look mean. That was what they did – that was their whole thing – and they glowered with the best of them. But Wilson could tell they were scared. There were lots of AKs on the street, and everywhere you looked, there were people with handguns in the backs of their jeans. Walking a step behind Wilson, Khalid grumbled, “I thought we’d be in Europe now. Hakim said-”

“I thought so, too,” Wilson lied. “But there’s special business.”

Khalid was silent for a while, peering at the signage, and eyeing a gang of nine-year-olds that trailed behind them. “Hakim never said anything about ‘special business.’”

Wilson glanced over his shoulder. “That’s why it’s special.”

Suddenly, Zero let out a bark, and pointed to a sheet-metal sign hanging above a heavily carved wooden door at the end of a narrow alley.

777 EX-IM 777

PING LI ON, PROP.

An Asian man sat on a stool beside the door, a shotgun resting across his knees. The moment Wilson entered the alley, the man got to his feet and waved his forefinger from side to side. Wilson hesitated, and then he understood. He turned to Zero and Khalid. “Wait here.”

Big Ping’s office was cool and dimly lighted, with a couple of small glass cases holding a modest display of cut and uncut diamonds. Overhead, a bank of fluorescent lights buzzed noisily, while a table fan turned left and right atop a painted Chinese chest. A heavily carved ivory screen stood by itself in the far corner of the room.

An elderly Chinaman waited behind one of the counters, his face blank. Nearby, a handsome young Asian in a white linen suit sat on a folding chair with his elbows on his thighs, flipping through a tattered copy of Hustler.

Wilson looked into the old man’s watery eyes. “Mr. Ping?”

The old man’s face twisted into a frown. “No Ping!” He hesitated for a long moment. Eventually, a smile flickered under a tangle of nostril hairs. “You want buy diamond?”

Wilson shook his head.

The smile vanished as the old man snorted in contempt. “So! You sell diamond!”

Wilson gave him an incredulous look. “That’s amazing! You should be a private eye.”

The old man wasn’t laughing, but the guy in the white linen suit cracked a smile. Dropping the magazine, he got to his feet. “I’m Ping.”

Wilson turned to him. Offered his hand. “Frank d’Anconia.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re the one who set the kid on fire…” With a gesture of his hand, he led Wilson behind the ivory screen, where a massive iron door was bolted into the wall. Beside the door was a nickel plate with the outline of a hand engraved on its surface. Ping pressed his own hand into the engraving. A diode flared, and the door sprung open on its hinges. “In here…”