Klay studied another photograph and suddenly realized elephant tusks were poking up among the sardines. It was not only a sardine cannery. It was an elephant graveyard on ice.

“Oh, that’s clever, Father. How much can your people get for us?”

The priest shrugged.

Klay felt a growing urgency. His digital recorder had been running all morning. He needed a connection to Botha. The public had an interest. He had an interest. “Which countries would it come from?”

The priest’s eyes sharpened. “Why do you care?”

“We’ll need a reliable supplier. Not from a country at war . . .”

“Yes. Well, I don’t know that side. They talk about Zanzibar because of the Muslims. But I don’t know. I don’t need to know. It’s not a problem.”

“I used to hunt with a South African who might be able to help us,” Klay said. “Ras Botha. He’s a professional hunter, works all over southern Africa.”

The priest shook his head.

“He does a lot of international business,” Klay said.

“I don’t know him.”

Klay studied the dilation in the priest’s pupils, the moisture along his upper lip, the flush in the capillaries in the man’s cheeks. Martelino was telling the truth. He picked up a photograph and pointed to a pair of men on the pier holding assault rifles. “Is it dangerous, Father?”

“Oh, it is some crazy people down there. Very, very bad,” Martelino said. “Abu Sayyaf. The communists. But not all . . .”

“That’s right. Mindanao. It’s a Muslim state, isn’t it, Father?”

“It deserves to be. Full of very proud people, Mindanao. Never conquered. You Americans promised them independence during your war with Spain, so they stayed out of that fighting. Then you put us, the Catholics, in charge of them. Now they have what you call ‘trust issues.’”

“I don’t understand, Father. Islamic State is there, isn’t it? A Catholic priest trades with Muslim terrorists?”

“My mother is Moro. I have cousins on Mindanao. It is family I see when I look at these people, not terrorists. It is why I was selected by the president to facilitate the peace negotiations. We have created a new region for them called Bangsamoro Autonomous Region. It is here.” A map of the Philippines hung on the wall beside the desk. Martelino pointed to Mindanao Island, and put his finger on a thin sliver of the large island that was colored red.

“Not much,” Klay said.

“Not much,” he agreed. “But a start. Contiguous territories will be permitted to opt in over time. We are a poor country, and these are our country’s poorest people, Tomas. Over half cannot read or write. They work the Zamboanga docks, but they need more to have a future. We talk so that we do not fight.”

Klay had encountered ironies all over the world, but nothing beat this: the pedophile ivory trafficker was a peace negotiator.