Gazing across the table, Bumaya flicked the edge of the envelope with a shiny fingernail. “How familiar are you with the genocide that ravaged my country in 1994?”
“I know that lots of people died and that the world stood by and watched,” said Milo.
“Nearly a million people,” said Bumaya. “The most frequently quoted figure is eight hundred thousand, but I believe that to be an underestimate. Revisionists who wish to minimize the horror claim only three hundred thousand were butchered.”
“Only,” said Milo.
Bumaya nodded. “My belief, backed up by observation and knowledge of specifics, is that when deaths from severe injuries are factored in the final number will be closer to one million, or perhaps even more.”
“What does any of that have to do with Albin Larsen?”
“Larsen was in my country during the genocide, working for the United Nations in Kigali, our capital, during the worst of the atrocities. Consulting. A human rights consultant.”
“What did that mean, in the context of your country?”
“Whatever Larsen wished it to mean. The United Nations spends billions of dollars paying the salaries of people who do exactly as they please.”
“Not a fan of world bodies, Mr. Bumaya?”
“The United Nations did nothing to stop the genocide in my country. On the contrary, certain individuals on the U.N. payroll played active and passive roles in the mass murders. International bodies have always been good at condemning tragedy after the fact, but staggeringly useless at preventing it.”
Bumaya raised his glass and took a long, hard swallow. The small white envelope remained wedged between the fingers of his free hand.
“You’re saying Larsen was involved in the genocide?” said Milo. “Are we talking active or passive?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Humor me, sir.”
“I do not know, Detective Sturgis,” said Bumaya. “Yet.” He glanced at the bar.
“Want another?”
“I do but I will decline.” Bumaya flicked the white envelope again. “In January of 2002, a man named Laurent Nzabakaza was arrested for complicity in the Rwandan genocide. Prior to that, Nzabakaza had served as administrator of a prison on the outskirts of Kigali. Most of the prisoner were Hutus. When the violence began, Nzabakaza unlocked their cells, armed them with spears and machetes and clubs and whatever firearms he could find, and pointed them at Tutsi homes. It was a family outing; Nzabakaza’s wife and teenage sons participated, cheering the murderers on as they raped and hacked. Before all that finally came to light and Nzabakaza was arrested in Geneva, he found himself a new job. Working as an investigator for the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. Albin Larsen helped him obtain that position. Larsen has done the same for other individuals, several of whom have subsequently been identified as genocide suspects.”
“The bad guys are working for the court that’s supposed to be trying them.”
“Imagine Goering or Goebbels being paid by the Munich tribunal.”
“Is Larsen some sort of bigwig among the Hutus?”
“Larsen was- is an opportunist. His credentials are impeccable. Doctorate in psychology, a professor both in Sweden and the United States. He has been on the U.N. payroll and that of several humanitarian organizations for over two decades.”
“Human rights expert,” I said.
Bumaya opened the little white envelope and removed a small color photo that he laid in the middle of the table.
Two smiling boys in white shirts and plaid school ties. Gleaming ebony skin, clear eyes, cropped hair, white teeth. One slightly older than the other; I guessed nine and eleven.
“These lads,” said Bumaya, “are Joshua and Samuel Bangwa. At the time this picture was taken they were eight and ten. Joshua was an excellent student who loved science and Samuel, the older boy, was an excellent athlete. Their parents were Seventh Day Adventist elders who taught at a church school in the village of Butare. Shortly after Kigali fell to the Hutu insurgents, Butare was targeted because it had been a primarily Tutsi town. Both of the boys’ parents were hacked to death by Laurent Nzabakaza’s troops. Their mother was repeatedly raped, pre- and postmortem. Joshua and Samuel, hidden in a closet and watching through a crack in the door, escaped and were eventually spirited out of Rwanda by an Adventist minister. As crucial witnesses against Nzabakaza, they were taken to Lagos, Nigeria, and put up at a U.N. boarding school that catered to diplomats’ children and the offspring of Nigerian government officials. Two weeks after Laurent Nzabakaza was apprehended in Switzerland, the boys failed to show up for breakfast. A search of their room found them in their beds. Their throats had been cut ear to ear. A single stroke of the razor for each child, no wasted energy.”
“A pro,” said Milo.
Bumaya extracted the lime wedge from his glass, sucked on it, put it back. “The school was a guarded, secure facility, Detective, and there were no signs of forced entry. The case remains unsolved.”
“And Albin Larsen-”
“Was a psychological consultant to the school, though seldom on the premises. However, one week before the boys were slaughtered, he arrived in Lagos and took a room in the faculty wing. The alleged reason for his visit was a U.N. site certification. While he was there, he engaged in other local activities, as well.”
“Such as-”
“Allow me to finish. Please,” said Bumaya. “It has been learned that Larsen was not due to inspect the school for several months and chose to step up the schedule.”
“You think he killed the two kids?” said Milo.
Bumaya’s brow creased. “I have learned nothing to indicate that Larsen has ever acted violently. However, he is known to have associated with violent people and to facilitate their actions. What would you, as a detective, say about the following confluence of facts: Larsen’s friendship with Laurent Nzabakaza, the threat the boys represented to Nzabakaza, Larsen’s unexpected presence at the school.”
Milo picked up the photo, studied the smiling faces.
Protais Bumaya said, “I’m certain Larsen hired someone to slaughter those children. Am I able to prove it? Not yet.”
“You were sent here to prove it?”
“Among other assignments.”
“Such as?”
“Fact-finding.”
“Find any facts?” said Milo.
Bumaya sat back and exhaled. “So far, I have not accomplished much. That is why when I saw you observing Larsen I thought, ‘Aha, this is my opportunity.’ ” He flattened his hands on the table. His knuckles were gray. “Would there be any way for you to share information with me?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
Long silence.
Bumaya said, “I see.”
“What else do you know about Larsen?” said Milo.
“In terms of?”
“What were his other ‘local activities.’ ”
“Professor Larsen is a man of far-reaching interests,” said Bumaya, “but for my purposes, they are not relevant.”
“I care about my purposes,” said Milo.
“He was involved in
“Misery pimp,” said Milo.
Bumaya smiled faintly. “I have never heard of that expression. I like it. Yes, that is an apt description.”
“Are we talking big money?”
Bumaya’s smile stretched wider. “One would think, that with all the paperwork bureaucracies require, someone would ascertain that there are only so many hours in a week.”
