John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

Big Ping looked uncomprehendingly from Wilson to da Rosa to his son. Then he stubbed his cigarette out, and cut loose with a burst of incomprehensible lingo.

Little Ping nodded, and turned to Wilson. “My father says you should go to the bank, and bring the diamonds here, so he can evaluate them. He’s a good appraiser, and he’ll give you an excellent price.”

Wilson dismissed the idea with a bored nod. “Right! But you know what? I don’t think we’ll do that. Because it occurs to me that maybe – just maybe – something might go wrong, and, well, I could be robbed. So we’ll do something else. But before we do anything, there’s a couple of things I need to know.”

Little Ping translated for his father. Finally, he said, “Yes?”

“If we agree that four million dollars is a fair price, can you handle it?”

Suddenly, Big Ping gave up the pretense of not speaking English. With a wave of his hand, he interrupted his son’s translation, and said, “Of course.”

Wilson turned to him. “Good. And if we do business, you can wire the money to my bank?”

“Oui,” Big Ping replied. “If everything is in order, we can make the transfer through the HongShang Bank.”

“Great! So we’ll do it like this: We’ll go to the Banque Zaïroise, and take a look at the diamonds. They have a private room available for box holders, and you can bring any equipment you need.”

“Then what?” Big Ping asked.

“If we’re in agreement, you ask your bank to make the wire transfer to my bank. Not the one in Bunia, but a British bank. Isle of Man. I’ll wait with you until my bank confirms the funds are in the right account. Then we’ll go to the Banque Zaïroise a second time. I’ll give you the diamonds, and… bye-bye.”

“Bye-bye,” Big Ping repeated.

“And there’s one other thing,” Wilson said.

“There’s always ‘one other thing,’” da Rosa observed.

“I’ve got two friends outside…” Wilson told them. Big Ping raised his eyebrows in a way that was meant to be a question. “I want to make sure they’re taken care of.”

Big Ping cocked his head, and frowned. Little Ping looked bewildered. After a moment, he said, “I think it’s better – you pay your own people.”

Wilson shook his head. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “What I mean is, I want you to take care of them. Can you do that?”

Silence. Da Rosa looked puzzled. Big Ping stroked his chin. After a moment, he turned to da Rosa with a grin and said, “Flyswattah! He means: flyswattah!”

It went down exactly as Wilson expected.

In the morning, he went to the bank with the Pings, who brought along a kit with a felt cloth, a small microscope, and an array of loupes. The three of them sat at a small iron table in a glorified broom closet for nearly three hours, looking at the diamonds, one by one. Eventually, Big Ping got to his feet, and announced they had a deal. There would be no bargaining. He would pay four million dollars, as Wilson suggested.

Less a finder’s fee for da Rosa, he added. Plus a second fee for the wire transfer, and a third fee for what he called “the other business.” Wilson agreed with a hurried “Okay, okay!,” sealing the deal before the Chinaman tacked on a value added tax and cab fare.

In the end, Wilson would receive $3.6 million by wire transfer from Hong Kong to St. Helier.

He handed the Chinaman a piece of paper with the transfer codes he needed, and promised to meet him at his office the next day. Zero and Khalid would accompany him. In the meantime, it was decided that he would stay in his hotel, where Ping and his friends could keep an eye on him. Once the wire transfer came through, he would accompany Ping to the bank and give him the diamonds.

That night, Wilson treated the boys to a dinner of elephant steaks, washed down with a bottle of what was alleged to be Dom Pérignon, but which tasted suspiciously like Asti Spumante.

He told the two of them that he’d spoken to Hakim by satellite phone from Big Ping’s office, and that the old man was delighted with the way things had gone. He had reservations for each of them on a flight from Kampala to Antwerp in two days’ time. Big Ping’s people would take them to Kampala, and Hakim would meet them at the airport in Antwerp. And there was one other thing, Wilson said. He had a surprise.

Khalid’s eyes widened. “What?” He looked like a kid, coming downstairs to a Christmas tree.

“You’re getting a bonus,” Wilson told him.

“A bonus?”

Wilson nodded. “Ten thousand dollars.” He paused for a second, and added, “Each.”

Khalid gasped.

Zero looked from one man to the other, then tugged at his friend’s galabia, demanding that he translate. Khalid spoke softly in Arabic, and a look of ecstasy came over them both. For a moment, Wilson was afraid Zero might burst into tears.

So he slapped him on the back with a laugh, and basked in his bodyguards’ delight. They were good kids, and it was nice to see them happy.

Da Rosa sat by himself at a separate table, nursing a gin and tonic. As he watched the celebration unfold in front of him, he shook his head in disbelief. This guy, d’Anconia, was a piece of work.

Little Ping was notified of the wire transfer by e-mail at eleven a.m. the next morning. Wilson confirmed the transaction in a call to the St. Helier bank twenty minutes later. At noon, he met the Pings at the Banque du Zaïroise du Commerce Extérieur. Together, the three of them went into the bank, leaving their bodyguards outside, warily eyeing one another. It was, Wilson reflected, quite a crowd. Zero and Khalid on one side, and on the Pings’ behalf, their counterparts: four young gunmen in T-shirts and sunglasses, none of whom was old enough to drink in California.

Inside the bank, the older Ping examined the diamonds for a second time. When he’d confirmed that this was the same batch that he’d seen the day before, he moved the diamonds, head and all, to a second safe-deposit box – one that he’d rented for the purpose. With a satisfied look, he shook Wilson’s hand. “That’s that,” he said.

Wilson cocked his head. “Except for that other thing…”

Big Ping nodded. “Of course,” he said, and beckoned Wilson to follow him. “We take care of that now.” Together, they walked back to the Chinaman’s office.

Wilson didn’t know what to expect. He had very mixed feelings about what was going to happen. He liked the boys, he really did. But their loyalties were to Hakim, not to him, so they were a danger to him now. Hakim’s associates would soon come looking for their money, and when they did, it would be a whole lot safer for Wilson if Zero and Khalid weren’t around to help them.

Which was too bad. Terrible, really, but that’s the way it was. Great men did terrible things. How else were they to accomplish their dreams? That was the tragedy of the world-historical man. He sacrificed his humanity to the greatness of his vision and, in doing so, condemned himself to a kind of solitary confinement, sealed off from the rest of the human race by the impenetrable barrier of his own greatness.

You don’t blame a lion for killing a gazelle. It’s what the lion does.

When they arrived at the door to the office, Little Ping took Wilson by the arm, and nodded toward Zero and Khalid. “Tell them to wait here.”

Khalid heard and understood.

Little Ping had sodas and chairs brought to them. Zero thanked him effusively, and the boys sat down outside the heavily carved wooden door, just under the sign with the lucky numbers.

Going up the stairs to the second floor, not knowing what to expect, Wilson stood before a window, watching the alley with Little Ping. Soon, Big Ping huffed up the stairs, talking quietly on a cell phone.