“How was your trip?” he asked the Siberian in French.

“Uganda didn’t think much of your phony end-user certificates for the Kalashnikovs.”

The officer grinned. “That’s because the Ugandan defense minister supplied them to me without giving his superiors a cut.”

“I thought so. How much did he charge you?”

“Fifty thousand American.”

“He must have been feeling guilty. He only tacked on another twenty-five thousand. You’ll see it in the transport charges for the next load.”

The officer shrugged. “Where are the RPGs?”

The Siberian jerked his thumb toward the rear of the plane. “You’ll get them when I’ve seen the diamonds.”

The officer slid one hand into his pants pocket and produced a leather miner’s bag. He flipped the bag up to the Siberian, who hefted the bag on his palm, loosened the drawstrings, and spilled the contents into his hand. The morning sun caught on two dozen large rough stones. They were like ragged ice cubes in the heat, gleaming with promise.

“Feels light,” the Siberian said.

“They are perfect stones for Antwerp,” the officer said, climbing lithely aboard the plane, heading toward the five large wooden crates. “My South African says each will yield several two-and three-carat finished goods.”

The Siberian dug a jeweler’s loupe out of his trousers and studied the stones. “Perhaps, but documentation will cut into my profit. Even the damned Belgians are demanding paper proof that they are not conflict stones. Nobody wants diamonds with blood on them.”

“It washes off diamonds quite easily. I threw in an extra two hundred pounds of coltan to pay for your paperwork.”

The Siberian smiled slightly. “The transistor manufacturers of Prague will be pleased.”