Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

CHAPTER 15

The Antonov rumbled down the tarmac, flaps at attention, the plane shaking and shuddering, roaring toward liftoff. A wall of pine trees loomed behind the fences, growing taller and taller and then they were gone. The plane’s vibrations faded to a pulsed thrum as Tiraspol dwindled beneath the wings, a toy slum in a wintry landscape.

Sitting in the cockpit with Belov, the pilot, and the engineer, Wilson relaxed as the plane banked to the south. The Russian lighted a cigar, puffed mightily, and cocked his head toward the engine on the port wing. “Exhaust! You see?”

Wilson glanced out the window, where a stream of turbulence poured over the wing. “What about it?”

Belov made a graceful gesture with his hand, creating a sine wave in the air. “Russian genius puts engine on top, not under wing – so makes possible short takeoffs. Also, landings! Crappy fields, this is no problem. In Africa, I’m using grass airstrips, always. So… is big deal. Normal plane, no way.”

“What’s the trade-off?” Wilson asked.

Belov shrugged. “Not-so-big plane. If I have Antonov-twelve, I haul twenty tons – not ten!” He waggled a finger in the air. “But then I need good runway, mile long, plus.”

Wilson looked out the window. As the plane climbed, he could see the engine on the left side of the plane. It was sitting on the leading edge of the wing, and he could see the exhaust flowing over the ailerons.

“Okay if I go back – check out my friends?”

“Sure! Is okay!” Belov said. “But no cooking!”

Wilson stared at him. “What?”

“No cooking! What you don’t understand?”

“You’re kidding.”

Belov shook his head. “Look at floor! Sometimes Arab peoples, they think because it’s metal, no problem! I’m telling you, they don’t know shit. So you tell them: no cooking.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

Unbuckling his seat belt, Wilson got to his feet. Through the window, he could see the Black Sea stretching toward the horizon. “How long to Sharjah?” he asked.

“Five hours,” Belov told him. “Maybe six.”

The pilot turned to him. “Sometimes, we have problems in Iraqi airspace.”

“What kind of problems?” Wilson asked.

“F-16s.”

Leaving the cockpit, Wilson walked back to where Zero and Khalid were seated on folding metal chairs, bolted into the side of the fuselage. They were smoking cigarettes, and each of them had a Diadora bag in his lap. On the floor in front of them was a dull black scar where someone had tried to cook dinner.

Wilson glanced around.

“Everything okay?”

Khalid chuckled. “He’s scared shitless,” he said, nodding at Zero.

“Well…” Wilson paused. “Lemme ask you something.”

Khalid’s eyebrows shot up, as if to say, Shoot.

“You make any calls last night?”

Khalid frowned. “No,” he said. “I call no one. Him, too! No calls.”

“What about the Internet?” Wilson asked.

The plane hit an air pocket, and Zero turned white.

Khalid’s frown deepened, then softened into embarrassment. He was thinking that Wilson was upset about the hotel bill. So he blamed his friend. “Yeah,” he said, confessing on Zero’s behalf. “He goes on pussy dot com, when I’m in the shower, y’know? Five minutes, maybe ten, I’m in the shower. When I get out, I see what he does, I make him get off.”

“No problem.”

“Maybe fifteen minutes-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wilson told him. “What I wanted to know was, you hear from Hakim? You get any e-mail from him?”

Khalid shook his head, looking relieved. “No,” he said. “We don’t get nothing from Hakim.”

They touched down in Sharjah a little after three.

Exiting the plane was like leaving a theater in midafternoon. A wall of heat fell on them, and the sky went off like a flare. Wilson fumbled for his sunglasses, squinting so tightly he might as well have been blind. Pools of oil, real or imagined, glittered on the tarmac. In the distance, a cluster of bone-white buildings shimmered in the molten air.

“Dubai,” Belov said, raising his chin toward the horizon. Behind them, a small truck began to tow the plane, heading for a hangar at the end of the runway.

“How long are we here?” Wilson asked.

“We leave tonight. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Wilson said.

“Good. Come. I get you dinner jacket.”

“Where we going?”

“Dubai. Couple miles.”

“What for?”

“Tea,” Belov replied.

“Tea?”

“With sandwiches!” Sensing Wilson’s skepticism, the Russian gave an apologetic shrug and said, “In Moscow, I am taking you to whorehouse. Have ashes hauled, no problem. Here? In Arab country? Is tea.”

Wilson had never ridden in a Bentley before. It was nice.

As was Burj Al Arab. Built to resemble the sail of the world’s biggest dhow, it stood about a thousand feet offshore at the end of a concrete causeway that linked it to Jumeirah Beach. Belov bragged that it had the tallest atrium in the world, the highest tennis court, the most expensive rooms-

“And…! Underwater restaurant! What you think?”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Wilson told him. “Sounds like a fuckup.”

Belov frowned, then got the joke and laughed. As they entered the atrium, a mâitre d’ caught their eye and led them to a linen-covered table near the fountain. Palm trees rustled in a fake breeze as a column of water shot into the air, a hundred feet or more, and then fell back – only to erupt again and again. Children ran shrieking among the tables, shattering the decorum. The temperature was about sixty-five degrees. Despite the jacket he was wearing, Wilson shivered.

“Hey!” Belov exclaimed, pointing across the room, where an entourage of gangsta wannabes followed a muscular black man to the elevators. “Fifty Cent! I know! You want shake hand?”

“Maybe another time,” Wilson told him.

The Russian shrugged, then beckoned a waiter to their table. “Having tea for two.” The waiter closed his eyes, inclined his head, and backed away with a practiced smile.

Belov sat back in his chair, and regarded Wilson with a wry smile. “Halfway there,” he said.

“A little less.”

“Few miles, maybe. Who’s counting?”

“I hope someone is. I’d hate to come up short.” Wilson looked around. “Max…”

“What?”

“Why are we here?”

Belov shrugged. “I said! Refueling. Is long way, Congo.”

“I mean, here. In the Magic Kingdom, or whatever you call it.”

“Burj Al Arab. Everyone knows this place. Is famous!”

“So we’re, like… tourists?”

“Not tourist! Smelling roses. Is good.”

Wilson gave his head a little shake, as if to clear it. “How long does it take to refuel?”

“Half hour.”

Wilson looked at his watch.

Belov leaned in, and lowered his voice. “We don’t just take fuel.”

“No?”

The Russian shook his head.

“Then what?” Wilson asked.

“We paint.”

“Paint?”

Belov put his thumb and forefinger together. “Little bit. On tail. Where numbers are.” His voice dropped twenty decibels and an octave. “I tell you something confidential.”

“Okay…”

“Is two Antonovs in hangar.”

Wilson thought about it.

Belov continued: “So we paint. Then we change transponders. Number Two Antonov takes off for Almaty. You know Almaty?”

Wilson shook his head.

“Shit town. Not important,” Belov said. “But good decoy. Now comes dark, and Number One Antonov is flaps up.” He sat back with a worried glow, as if he’d just explained the general theory of relativity to the guy behind him in a supermarket line. “You understand?”

Before Wilson could reply, the waiter returned, wheeling a cart crowded with pots of hot water and plates of tiny sandwiches. A teacaddy was produced, and they selected their teas – English Breakfast for Wilson, and an infusion of echinacea, palmetto berries, and nettle root for Belov. “For chakras,” he explained, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Excellent choice,” the waiter said, and slipped away.

Belov leaned in. “How much you know about Congo?”

Wilson shook his head. “AIDS and diamonds. Used to be Belgian. Lots of resources, lots of poverty.” He paused. Thought for a moment. “And they’re killing each other.”

Belov nodded. “Three million dead in five years.”

Wilson sampled one of the sandwiches, a mixture of cream cheese, apricot, and salmon on an equilateral triangle of Wonder Bread whose crusts had gone missing. Not bad, but it would take about ten of them to have an impact. He tried another: buttered pumpernickel with thinly sliced radishes. Even better.

“There’s gold,” Belov confided. “Also copper and… you name it. This place we’re going, Ituri province – it’s next to Uganda, okay? Beautiful, beautiful mountains…” He closed his eyes for a moment, then just as suddenly opened them. “But! This place, it’s death. Ten years, now, they’re fighting. I think it goes on forever.”

“Who’s behind it?” Wilson asked.

“You! Me! Them! Everybody!” Then he rattled off a string of acronyms.

Wilson wolfed down another sandwich. Tried to figure out what it was. Dijon mustard and cranberry sauce. Bits of turkey. “This guy we’re in business with-”

“Commander Ibrahim. He’s Ugandan, so… he’s having good English!”

Wilson looked puzzled. “What’s he doing in the Congo if he’s Ugandan?”

“Diamond mines,” Belov said. “Near Bafwasende.”

“Which is where?”

“Lindi River. Maybe thirty klicks from airstrip.” Belov grinned. “This is pygmy place. My advice: Don’t fuck with them.”

Wilson sat back in his chair. He was thinking, It’s going to happen. He glanced around, and tried to imagine it. A place like this, multiplied by a million… The systems break down, and it’s lights out! The fountain dies, the heat builds up. But, wait a second, what’s that? The generators! We’re saved! The lights flicker back to life, and everyone sighs in relief. There’s a rush of laughter and small talk, and then – uh-oh! – the generators die. Food begins to spoil, and the place begins to stink. And maybe, just maybe, they can’t get out. The doors are automatic, and they look like they weigh a ton. If you couldn’t get out – if you were locked in – after a couple of days, it would be like a George Romero film. The idea made him laugh. Talk about “cannon fodder”! All these people, the waiters and sheiks, businessmen and brats, sweltering in this bell jar of a hotel – entertained, perhaps, by 50 Cent. (We can only hope.)

“What is funny?” Belov asked.

Wilson shook his head. “Nothing, I was just… So what’s the drill, once we get there?”

Belov shrugged. “Drive to Bafwasende. Meet Commander Ibrahim, so we have chitchat. If hunky-dory, you get paid. Then, I think, you go to Kampala next day.”

“What’s in Kampala?” Wilson asked.

“Airport. Is gateway to world.”

“And you’re where?”

“I’m back to Sharjah.”

Wilson sipped his tea. It occurred to him that once Belov left, he’d be on his own – except for Zero and Khalid – and he’d be carrying four million dollars in diamonds. “Tell me something,” he said.

“What?”

“This guy, Ibrahim, he’s pretty tight with Hakim, right?”

Belov nodded.

“So what happens if I go missing?”

Belov frowned. After a moment, he said, “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Diamonds. If you go missing, is sad! We have tears in Sharjah, Beirut, but… we move on. Unless diamonds go missing, too. Then, I think, we have big problem. For everybody. Colonel Ibrahim, too.” With a grin, the Russian tapped his temple with his forefinger. “I see wheels turning, but… don’t worry. Many times, Hakim sends people to Congo. We don’t lose no one yet!”

Wilson nodded, but he didn’t look happy. He was thinking about Bobojon’s e-mail from the night before. “What about Hakim? What happens if he goes missing?”

Belov’s cheeks swelled up like a blowfish. He sat like that for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled. Finally, he said, “Is end of world.”