Hardin got up and started toward the door. “Didn’t realize I was wasting your time, Stein. Wouldn’t want to saddle you with any useless gravel. Maybe Hezbollah will want to buy them back.”

Stein laughed. “C’mon, Hardin. You really want to play footsie with that crowd, after what you pulled yesterday? I’d hate to fire up YouTube in a week or two and watch a video of you getting your head sawed off.”

Hardin shrugged. “Kimberley certs or not, you know I can find a buyer. And if these things make their way back to Al Qaeda, your buddies in Mossad aren’t going to be pleased with you.”

“Sit, sit,” Stein said, chuckling. “It’s a ballet. I say they’re worthless, you say they’re Solomon’s treasure. I say maybe a little, you say maybe a little more. We eat, we drink, we share the brotherly bonds of commerce–”

“Look, Stein, I was just a working-class kid before I went into the Corps, and I’ve spent that last couple decades bouncing around the less-civilized parts of the world, mostly with journalists. So what social skills I’ve got are rusty at best. I just wanna get this done.”

Stein held up his hands in surrender. “OK, OK. The customer is always right. So what have you got? A couple of ounces?”

“Eighteen.”

Stein’s eyes widened. “Eighteen ounces?”

Hardin nodded. “I would have been happier with two, if that makes you feel any better.”

Stein blew out a long breath. “How am I supposed to move that kind of weight? Dummying up the Kimberley certs on a smaller amount of carats is one thing, but this?”

“I know, OK? But I also know this is how you and your Mossad buddies keep the green out of Al Qaeda’s wallet.”

Stein was still for a minute. “You got a number in mind?”

“At $750 a carat retail? That’s $180 million and change. What I’d heard was you usually go ten percent.”

“I go ten percent when somebody brings me reasonable weight,” Stein said. “I’m gonna need a volume discount on this.”

“I just want my end. Give me a number.”

“Five million,” said Stein.

“You want me to get up and start toward the door again?”

“Ten.”

“Done,” Hardin said.

“You’ve got a sample, of course?”

Hardin had packed most of the stones into a compartment hidden in his bag. He’d left two stones in the canvas pouch he’d taken off the couriers. He handed it to Stein.

The pouch leaked some dirt onto Stein’s pants when he opened it. “Classy presentation,” said Stein, trying to brush off the dirt but just rubbing it in. He gave the stones a quick expert examination. “These representative?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want cash?”

“I don’t want a suitcase of it,” Hardin said. “Wire transfer.” Hardin pulled a slip of paper from the front pocket of his shirt and held it out toward Stein.

Stein shook him off. “A million or two I do out of pocket. Tel Aviv’s good for it. But they’re going to have to front the money this time. You can give me the account number when I get the cash.”

“How long?”

“Be a couple, three days,” said Stein. “How do I get in touch?”

“You don’t,” Hardin said. “Three days. I’ll call you.”

Hardin knew the Hyatt was really just an upper mid-level hotel in the States, but after a couple decades bouncing around the bush, it felt like the Alhambra. He’d been going pretty much nonstop for a day and a half since he hit the courier back in Sierra Leone. Flight from Lungi to Casablanca. Air France from Casablanca to New York, connection from Kennedy to O’Hare, then the meeting with Stein. He took a long, hot shower, made sure all the locks were set, put a chair up next to the door, and crashed.

Hardin woke up just after 9am and flicked on the set while he unpacked. Felt a little funny, his whole life crammed into one duffle. He’d grown up in America, understood the life-is-about-accumulating-shit gestalt, and yet everything he owned was stuffed into a four-foot canvas bag. He tried to think what he’d left behind that he’d miss. Nothing came to him. Well, his guns maybe. Had to leave those behind. So far as Hardin could tell, a nice weapon was the only thing that was easier to get in Ghana than it was here.

He took out his wallet, looked at the picture of the girl. Still had that. But he’d brought that to Africa with him, after the trouble with Hernandez. He thought for a minute about looking her up. Might still be in the area. She’d be forty, thereabouts, married probably, kids probably. And she’d invite him over because she owed him, and he’d come because he owed her. And there would be some husband trying to be the nice-guy host, wondering what this shit was about – or maybe knowing, if she’d told him – and her brother’s ghost in the room the whole time. Then Hardin would leave, and he’d know that picture was a just a picture now, not a possibility anymore. The picture was the only thing he’d brought from Africa he really cared about, so why fuck that up? If a dream is all you’ve got, why piss on it?

Hardin shook his head. Almost fifty and the only real relationship he’d had was with a wallet photo. Enough to make a guy think it was time to re-evaluate his life choices.

The TV droned on in the background; just white noise. Hardin dressed, ready to find some food. Just as he reached for the remote to turn off the set, the local station ran its teaser for the noon news show. Some spunky brunette trying to look serious. “This is Kathy McNally. Stay tuned for more details on the shocking murder of Chicago businessman Abraham Stein at last night’s Bulls game. That story, your Cubs spring training update, and the weekend forecast, all at noon.”

Hardin flicked off the set. Son of a bitch. Somebody’d offed Stein.

Hardin had no idea how Al Qaeda could be onto him this fast.

But maybe they weren’t. Stein had been killed at the stadium, and Hardin had been with him just a minute or two before the game ended. If Al Qaeda was looking for Hardin, why wouldn’t they have killed them both?

Either way, he had to figure his name was working its way up the hit parade. Fuck. This left him sitting on eighteen ounces of stones with no buyer and a short clock.

CHAPTER 6

Lynch was on his way into the office when McCord called him on his cell.

“Wasn’t expecting to hear from you yet,” Lynch said.

“No shit,” said McCord, mumbling through whatever he was eating. “Got done with you at what, eleven? I was over at the other scene until after two. But I got something you need to hear. That second stiff, looks like another .22. Haven’t chopped anybody up yet, and like I said, I’m not real optimistic on a good ballistics match with anything out of Stein’s noggin, so you might have to wait until we get the metallurgy back before we can make the tie for sure. But two guys getting popped with .22s half a mile from each other and maybe thirty minutes apart? Thought you might want to know.”

“Has to be the same guy,” Lynch said. “Can’t picture any of the gangbangers over on the west side using a .22.”

“Nah,” said McCord. “Anything smaller than a nine, they’d be afraid their pricks would shrivel up.”

“What can you tell me about the second victim?”

“You’re gonna love this,” said McCord. “Guy’s name is Membe Saturday. Refugee at some sort of shelter some nuns are running. Guy’s pretty much off the boat from Africa. Missing a hand, if that helps. Looks like somebody took it off with an ax a couple years back. Guess he was standing out front, taking the air, when somebody put three through his forehead.”

“Three again?”

“Yep.”

“Leave any brass?”

“Nope.”

“Makes him a calm motherfucker. Picking up the casings in the United Center bathroom, fine. Those had to be right there. But taking the time to find your shells out on a public sidewalk?”