I said, “Larsen pads his bills.”
“Consultant here, consultant there. To believe his vouchers, he is the busiest man in the world.”
Milo said, “What kind of programs are we talking about?”
“I am familiar only with those in my country and in Lagos. For the most part, we are talking about schools and welfare societies. At least a dozen. When one examines the paperwork
“Any of those programs involve prison rehabilitation?” said Milo.
Bumaya smiled.
“What?” said Milo.
“Prison work is how Larsen came to know Laurent Nzabakaza. He obtained Lutheran church funding for a psychological training program to help prisoners in Nzabakaza’s prison overcome their criminal tendencies. Sentries for Justice. Substantial payments to Nzabakaza helped… is the expression, ‘grease the runway’?”
“The skids,” said Milo. “Grease the skids.”
“Ah,” said Bumaya. “In any event, the prisoners treated by Sentries for Justice were the exact group armed by Nzabakanza and aimed at Butare. Larsen had already begun an identical program in Lagos, and when the genocide ended his Rwandan activities he began concentrating more on the Nigerian branch.”
One big, dark hand closed around his glass. “I believe I will take another drink.”
Milo took the glass, went to the bar, brought it back, filled high.
Bumaya drank half. “Thank you… Larsen attempted to latch himself onto the Bosnian crisis but failed because of too much competition. Recently, he’s expressed considerable interest in the Palestinian issue. Was one of the foreigners who traveled to Jenin to express support for Arafat during the Israeli siege. He supplied the U.N. with stories about the Jenin massacre.”
“The one that never occurred,” said Milo.
“Yes, a brief, but inflammatory international fraud ensued, and Larsen was paid for his consulting. His entree to that region is likely because a cousin of his- Torvil Larsen- is an official with UNRWA in Gaza. When international conflict arises, Larsen will always be there to make a few dollars. If he is not stopped.”
“You aiming to stop him?” said Milo.
“I,” said Bumaya patting his chest, “am a fact-seeker, not a man of action.”
Milo looked at the photo of the smiling boys. “Where in L.A. are you staying?”
“At the house of a friend.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Name, address, and phone number.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Why,” said Milo, “would you have a problem telling me?”
Bumaya lowered his eyes. Finished his drink. “I’m staying with Charlotte and David Kabanda.” He spelled the surname slowly. “They are physicians, medical residents at the Veterans Hospital in Westwood.”
“Address?” said Milo.
“Charlotte and David know me as a university classmate. I studied law. They believe I’m a lawyer.”
Milo tapped his pad. “Address.”
Bumaya recited an apartment number on Ohio.
“Phone?”
Bumaya rattled off seven digits. “If you call Charlotte and David and divulge what I’ve told you, they will be confused. They believe I am conducting legal research.”
“Their apartment your sole place of residence?” said Milo.
“Yes, Detective.”
“You’re an envoy but you don’t get hotel chits?”
“We are a very poor country, Detective, struggling to reunify. Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, our de facto consul, serves us at a discount rate. A genuine humanitarian.”
Milo said, “What else can you tell me about Larsen?”
“I have told you much.”
“Shall I repeat the question?”
“A one-way avenue,” said Bumaya.
“Uh-huh.”
Bumaya showed two rows of even, pearly teeth. “That is all I have to say about the matter.”
“Okay,” said Milo, closing the pad.
“Sir,” said Bumaya, “it is in both our interests to cooperate.”
“Sir,” said Milo, “if there’s something you need to know, I’ll inform you. Meanwhile, be careful. A foreign agent getting involved in an ongoing investigation wouldn’t be a good thing.”
“Detective, I have no intention of-”
“Then we’ll have no problem,” said Milo.
Bumaya frowned.
Milo said, “Want another drink? It’s on me.”
“No,” said Bumaya. “No, thank you.” The snapshot of the murdered boys remained on the table. He picked it up, placed it back in his snakeskin billfold.
“You pretty good with firearms, Mr. Bumaya? Being a former cop and all that.”
“I know how to shoot. However, I am not traveling armed.”
“So if I look around your friends’ apartment, no guns are going to show up?”
“Not one,” said Bumaya. His mouth moved around, covering a swath of emotional territory, until it finally settled on a small, flat smile. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Detective Sturgis. My sole purpose is to gather facts and to report back to my superiors.”
“All this trouble for Albin Larsen.”
“He and others.”
“Others here in L.A.?”
“Here, other cities. Other countries.” Bumaya’s eyes shut and fluttered open. His irises, once clear and inquisitive, had clouded. “I will be doing this for a very long time.”
We watched him leave the bar.
Milo said, “Think I was rough on him?”
“A bit.”
“I sympathize with the cause, but he’s all about his own goals, and I don’t need complications. If I can get Larsen off the street, I’ll be doing Bumaya and his superiors the biggest favor of all.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Does it?” He frowned. “Those two boys.” He looked away, summoned Green Shirt for a third shot.
Green Shirt looked down at me. “You, too?”
I placed my hand atop my glass and shook my head. When Milo’s refill arrived, I said, “Bumaya has his own agenda, but what he said firms things up for us. Larsen’s got a history of exactly the kind of scam we theorized about. And he uses violence when it suits him.”
“The quiet ones,” Milo muttered.
“Tonight, when he introduced Issa Qumdis, he had plenty of fire.”
“Ideology and profit,” he said.
“Misery pimp. I like that.”
He drank.
I said, “Just out of curiosity, how do you know so much about Issa Qumdis?”
“What, cops don’t read?”
“Never knew you to be political.”
He shrugged. “Rick leaves books and magazines around. I pick ’ em up. One of them happened to be
“Never knew Rick to be political, either.”
