John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

Belov shrugged. “Easy. First, we go nowhere.”

Wilson shot him a look.

“No joke. Place we’re going… this place doesn’t exist.” He cocked an eye at Wilson. “You know Transniestria?”

Wilson shook his head.

“I rest case,” Belov said. “Ten, fifteen miles. Like being on moon.”

“Why is that?”

Belov thought about it. Finally, he said, “Perestroika! Remember? Means, ‘restructure,’ I think.”

Wilson nodded.

“First thing, big cutbacks for army. Then Wall comes down. Soon, everything comes down. No more Evil Empire, okay?”

Wilson nodded a second time.

“Okay. So, soldiers come home. Cuba, Germany, everywhere – it’s hasta la vista ! But now, we have big surpluses. Tanks and APCs. Artillery! Choppers, rockets. Mortars, missiles. Antiaircraft guns. They have to put surplus somewhere, right? So where do you think?” Belov raised his chin toward the windshield. “Transniestria.”

As they neared their first checkpoint, the Russian explained that Transniestria had been a part of Moldova, which, in turn, had been a part of Romania until the end of the Second World War. Annexed by the Soviet Union, Moldova declared its independence when the USSR dissolved. Russian troops remained where they were, however, on Moldovan territory east of the Dniester River. That was fine with the locals, who liked the idea of an independent state allied with Moscow. And so Transniestria became what diplomats like to call “a fact on the ground.”

The only problem (other than the country’s extreme poverty) was that almost no one recognized it. This meant that its citizens were effectively stateless. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Transniestria doesn’t exist.

“Transniestria, he is No-Man’s-Land,” Belov said. “Big problem. No country, no trade. No trade, no money. So everyone is poor. Not good. Someplace else, normal poor country, poor is okay. Look at Argentina. Africa! People get in line to give money. IMF, World Bank, Soros. Morgan Stanley! Here? No! No country? No help! All you can do is leave. Except you can’t leave, because to leave, you need passport. And Transniestrian passport, this is like cartoon.”

“So what do they do?”

“They get passport somewhere else. In Russia, maybe, or Ukraine. Third best is Internet. You’d be surprised how many Knights of Malta living in Tiraspol.”

“What’s Tiraspol?” Wilson asked.

Belov did a double take. “This is capital of Nowhere,” he explained. “Maybe twenty miles now. But first, airport. I show what you’re buying!” Belov told him. “You see with eyes!”

Wilson’s shoulders heaved. “If you tell me it’s all there, I’m sure it’s fine.”

Belov slapped Wilson on the knee, and guffawed. “I never do business this way! First time! So tell me, what happens? You land in Congo. Client opens crate. And – uh-oh! Is grapefruits! What then?”

“Well,” Wilson said, “then I’d have a problem.”

“No shit!”

“But that won’t happen,” Wilson told him, “because then you’d have a problem.”

Belov looked surprised. “With you ?” he asked. The question was almost cheerful.

“Of course not. I’d be dead by then.”

“Is true! You’d have red hole.” The Russian tapped his forefinger, three times in rapid succession, against his forehead. “Right here.”

“I know.”

“So… for me? I don’t see problem.”

“You’d have a really basic problem,” Wilson said, punning on the only Arabic he knew.

Belov looked puzzled for a moment, and then he chuckled. “Is good joke. ‘Basic.’ You mean al-Qaeda.”

“Well, Hakim and his friends.”

Belov nodded. “True.” The Russian pursed his lips. After a moment, he said, “So! We go to airport. Maybe you don’t know guns, but you know grapefruits from grenades, right?”

Wilson laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Grapefruits are pink inside.”

“Okay, so you see crates, and later, maybe you talk to Hakim. And you tell him: ‘No pink.’”

The Tiraspol airport was nothing like Wilson expected. He’d imagined the kind of airstrip you find in the Caribbean: a ribbon of asphalt running past a cinder-block terminal. But what he found, instead, was a military base with barracks and hangars, and runways capable of handling the biggest cargo planes.

Chain-link fences, four feet apart, circled the base. Each was topped with razor wire. The Escalades came to a stop in front of a guardhouse, and cut their engines. A soldier appeared beside the car, and ordered the driver to roll down the window. As he did, a second soldier examined the undersides of the Escalades, using a mirror attached to the end of an aluminum racing jack.

Belov and the soldier chatted in Russian for a bit, then the soldier saluted and waved them on. Leaving the road, they followed a dirt track that ran beside the fence for half a mile until it came to an end at a hangar on the far side of the airfield. Belov motioned for Wilson to follow, then put up a hand when Zero and Khalid began to follow.

“Just you,” the Russian said, his breath like smoke in the freezing air.

Wilson hesitated, then gestured for his bodyguards to wait. They looked disappointed. And thoroughly chilled. Other than a sweater that Zero had acquired on the ship, they were wearing the same clothes they’d worn in Baalbek. T-shirts and jeans. Cheap jackets.

Sucks to be them, Wilson thought, and kept walking. A gust of wind brought tears to his eyes.

Inside the hangar, a medium-size cargo plane, more than a hundred feet long and almost as wide, occupied the entire space. It was painted a gray-blue color that Wilson guessed would make it hard to see from the ground.

“Golden oldie!” Belov exclaimed. “Like me!” He laughed. “Antonov-seventy-two. I get from Aeroflot, ten years now. Very good plane.”

“How much does it carry?” Wilson asked.

“Ten tons, metric.”

“Nonstop?”

Belov scoffed. “No way. Not even close. Not even with extra tanks.”

“So we have to refuel.”

Belov nodded.

“Where?”

The Russian smiled. “Sharjah.”

Wilson thought about it. “That’s kinda out of the way, isn’t it?”

The Russian looked surprised. “You know Sharjah?”

“I know where it is,” Wilson told him. Hakim had mentioned the place at dinner, and Wilson looked for it on a map in the lounge aboard the Marmara Queen. One of seven sheikhdoms in the Emirates, it was a patch of sand on the Persian Gulf, just across from Iran. Which put it about two thousand miles southeast of the hangar they were standing in.

The Congo, on the other hand, was south west. And that’s where they were going.

Belov smiled. “We’re in Sharjah two hours, maybe three. Not to worry.”

The Russian cocked his head for Wilson to follow him around to the rear of the plane, where a hinged cargo-loading ramp disappeared into the fuselage. Nearby, a pair of battered forklifts sat amid a dozen containers, some sealed, some open. The Russian handed him a typewritten list on a single sheet of onionskin paper. There was no letterhead, just the word CEKPET stamped in ink at the top of the page.

36 type-69 40mm (man-portable) RPGs (w/4X telescopic sight) $124,200

90 rockets (40 mm) 35,050

200 assault rifles: AK-47 7.62mm (30-round magazines, side-folding) 84,460

1,000 boxes, 20 each cartridges 7.62mm 10,100

50 Franchi SPAS-12 combat shotguns 55,000

500 boxes, 10 shells (00 gauge) 8,320

10 flamethrowers (Brianchi) 1,460

4 vests (Kevlar) 1,220

12 stabiscopes (Fujinon, 3rd generation) 201,550

100 Rigel 3100 tactical night-vision goggles 505,200