Read 'A' for Argonaut for Free Online Page B

and if you do, you should opt for serenity. You can still have a full life.”
    “So, no harm done. I just get cut down to a pitiable gimp,” Maran murmured.
    “Look at this talk as a Bomb Damage Assessment. If these attacks come on, you’ll be faced with fear and guilt all in the same blow, rough for a combat soldier, an operator. It’s obvious that you love to live on the edge. But panic syndrome can be random. If it hits you, remember these words. You’ll be better off in a stress-free world.”
    “Sure, Doc. Scout’s honor. I’m all yours.”
    “The nurses tell me you’re into the Wolfe Tones and hip hop. Have a hard time with choices?”
    “Go and duck yourself in a cold tub.”
    “Great. Can I suggest you switch to Vivaldi and Bach?”
    “Want me to enroll in Bible study, too?”

Chapter 6

    Six
    Kinshasa, DRC‌—‌Months earlier
    I f there was hell on earth, Kinshasa was its capital. It had once been a French colonial center known for old world gentility. Now it was a morass of poverty, crime, and disease. The most dangerous city on the world’s most dangerous continent, the rape capital of the world.
    Months before Maran’s mission, an Afro-Asian beauty stood bargaining for uncut diamonds in a ramshackle shop on Avenue Equateur in Commune de la Gombe, Kinshasa, in the DRC, formerly Zaire. It was one of those shops there that had seen better days under Belgian colonialism. The wood frame of the crumbling structure was newly plastered with a thick coat of red paint. You could see the deeply uneven brush strokes in the paint, making it look like the owner had hired some crippled kids off the street to do the work, which he had.
    The street outside teemed with a gaggle of nationalities and races: native Congolese, olive-skinned Arabs, dark-skinned Portuguese Angolans, lily-white Afrikaners. They wore brilliantly dyed robes in myriads of color, turbans, and western-style silk sport shirts. The air stank. Garbage steamed in the cesspools that served for gutters. Gaunt dogs lay nearly dead in the shade. Several stared blankly at a severed, rotted monkey head.
    Amber Chu took out a wallet-sized diamond balance from the breast pocket of her Ted Lapidus hot pink silk safari shirt. To look at her, you would not know she spent her spare time at a Russian Combat Sambo martial arts dojo. She was what you would call a bit chunky, although the chunks were put together with the sculptured art of an athletic Rubens, and, if you were lucky enough to touch her, you would feel curves of rock-hard flesh. She looked substantial, strangely beautiful. On her head perched a narrow-brimmed hip white straw fedora. A battery of spectacularly large diamond and platinum tennis necklaces adorned her neckline. Her lips were slashed with fuchsia “Neons & Nudes” lip gloss highlighted with blue pearl. Under a wide black ostrich leather belt decorated with a row of red enamel medallions and a large silver and gold buckle, a bright red silk skirt wrapped her waist and swirled around her legs, hugging the curves of her hips. Leather thongs traced spirals around her calves over patterned nylon tights and the sandals she had bought in a Dubai boutique were speckled with gemstones. She exuded complexity, her toughness contrasted with the undeniable intelligence that sparkled from her eyes. The owlishly-round tortoise-shell glasses perched low on her nose gave her an aura of scholarly dignity.
    She stood at the counter of the shop. A photograph on the wall showed Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt supporting a ban on the sale of illegal conflict diamonds. Behind them, a black boy, about twelve years old, stood with an AK-47 against his shoulder, one hand clenched on the handgrip. A sign on the wall next to the photo trumpeted:

    ALL OUR STONES ARE GUARANTEED
    AS CERTIFIED TO CONFORM TO THE KIMBERLY PROCESS
    AND ARE CONFLICT FREE.

    Of course, that, like everything else about the place, was a lie. The sign alluded to the Kimberly Process