John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

“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?

Wilson continued: “It turned out, we had the same name. Not ‘Wovoka,’ but the same real name. I guess I kind of forgot about it, you know? Until later, when I went to prison. My second year in Supermax” – he laughed at the memory – “I’m sitting in my cell, watching the wall. And it hits me! This thing with the name – it’s no coincidence. It’s who I am. Literally! So it’s my past, my future. Everything.”

Hakim nodded absently. Wilson could see his confusion draining to boredom, the boredom to irritation. “What are you talking about?” Hakim glanced around for the waiter.

Wilson cocked his head. The Arab didn’t have a clue. And then he realized why. Hakim didn’t know his real name, or if he did, he’d forgotten it. To Hakim, he was “Frank d’Anconia” – and that was that. So there was no point in telling him about the other Jack Wilson. For Hakim, the coincidence didn’t exist.

Finally, Wilson said, “I’m talking about the Ghost Dance,” he said. “It’s what we have instead of Qutb.”

Hakim frowned. “But you haven’t told me what it is.”

Wilson leaned forward. “Wovoka… he had a vision. He saw the Indians begin to dance. By themselves, at first, and then with their ancestors. After a while, the earth shook and the dancers… well, in the vision, the dancers went into the sky. Just floated up. Then the earth swallowed everyone who was left. Which was the whites. All the Indians’ enemies. After that, the world began to heal.”

“To heal.”

“Yes. It went back to the way it was, the way it had been,” Wilson explained.

Hakim stared at him, blinking dully. Finally, he said, “I think you’ve had too much alcohol.”

Wilson took a deep breath. The fat bastard in front of him would never understand.

Then the Arab did something unexpected. With a wave of his hand, he brushed the conversation aside, and reached into the shoulder bag on the floor beside his seat. Removing a small black jewel box, he set it down upon the table, and pushed it toward Wilson. “This is for you,” he said, and lowering his head, touched his fingertips to his chest.

Wilson eyed the box. It was one of those velvet-covered cases used for wedding rings. “I didn’t know you cared.”

Hakim smiled. Open it, his eyes said.

For a moment, Wilson hesitated. Then he reached for the box and, prying it open, found a bloodred capsule in the silk niche that was meant for a ring. It wasn’t a vitamin.

Hakim chuckled. “Till death do us part.” Lifting the left side of his shirt collar, he offered a glimpse of an identical capsule taped to the collar’s underside, where a collar stay might have been.

Wilson stared at the capsule. “You think I’d take this?”

Hakim shrugged. “That’s up to you,” he said. “But if you’re caught, they’ll hurt you.”

Wilson closed the box, and put it in his pocket. “It’s painful?”

Hakim shook his head. “No. You see pictures from Jonestown? Afterward? Everybody’s smiling.”

Wilson leaned forward. “That was rictus. It’s different.”

The car nosed around a rotary out of Jounieh and angled off in the direction of a sign that pointed the way to Tripoli.

The driver was stern-faced and silent. Zero and Khalid, on the other hand, sat in the backseat talking animatedly and nonstop in Arabic. The language washed over Wilson like white noise, with only the occasional word or phrase in English to claim his attention. Okay! Fifty Cent! Viagra… them Knicks.

Zero and Khalid were there for his protection. Or so Hakim claimed. But Wilson knew better. Yes, they would protect him if someone tried to rip him off, but their main purpose was to make sure that he didn’t walk off with Hakim’s cut.

After a couple of hours jouncing up a decrepit highway, they entered the dusty outskirts of the port. They passed a derelict orchard, the weeds high between the evenly spaced trees, then a squatter’s village of brightly colored tents.

“Syrians.” Khalid sneered. “They take all the jobs.”

The Syrian encampment gave way to apartment blocks that looked like mausoleums. The ground and buildings were the same dun color. Kids chased a soccer ball, kicking up clouds of dust. A woman in white robes swept with a broom.

From the backseat Zero spoke in a voice suddenly louder than it had been. Khalid laughed, a soft scoffing sound. He said, “No way.”

At the checkpoint leading to the docks, the driver flipped open a worn wallet and extracted a folded piece of paper, which he handed over for inspection. The guard perused it, carefully refolded it, and handed it back, giving some instructions.

They passed a couple of small freighters being unloaded by gantry cranes, then skirted a large structure that looked to be a drydock. And then, there it was: The Marmara Queen. The links that made up the anchor chain were as thick as Wilson’s wrists. It flew the Turkish flag, crescent and star bright white against the crimson background. As the driver pulled up in the shadow of its enormous bow, a mammoth crane swung out over the deck and began to lower a bright blue container.

“Look at the size of this thing,” Khalid said. “It’s bigger than a football pitch.” He nodded toward the blue container. “You think that’s ours?”

Wilson shrugged. He knew one thing for certain. Hakim had a lot of juice, so barring some major catastrophe, the container would be on board before they sailed.

Wilson’s job was to accompany the hash to Odessa, where he would exchange it for a consignment of arms. Wilson would then escort the shipment of arms to Africa where it would be traded for diamonds – which he would deliver to Hakim at the De Witte Lelie Hotel in Antwerp.

Which meant that he was a glorified mule. Just like the girls who ferried coke up from Colombia, he would be earning his fee by putting himself at risk. Each leg of the journey would be dangerous and the peril would escalate as the trip continued. Wilson understood that there were dozens of things that could go wrong, with the greatest exposure at the points of transaction. Until he turned over the diamonds to Hakim, his ass was on the line.