We took the farthest booth. The bartender ignored us. Finally, one of the drinkers came over. Paunchy guy in a green polo shirt and gray pants. A little chrome change machine hanging from his belt said he was official.

He looked at Bumaya, scowled. “What’ll it be?”

Milo ordered Scotch, and I said, “Me, too.”

Protais Bumaya said, “I would like a Boodles and tonic, please.”

“We got Gilbeys.”

“That will be fine.”

Green Shirt smirked. “It better be.”

Bumaya watched him waddle off, and said, “Apparently, I have offended someone.”

“They probably don’t like tall, dark strangers,” said Milo.

“Black people?”

“Maybe that, too.”

Bumaya smiled. “I had heard this was a progressive city.”

“Life’s full of surprises,” said Milo. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Bumaya?”

Bumaya started to answer, stopped himself as the drinks arrived. “Thank you, sir,” he told Green Shirt.

“Anything else?”

“If you’ve got some salted peanuts,” said Milo. “If not, just a little peace and quiet, friend.”

Green Shirt glared at him.

Milo downed his Scotch. “And another of these, too.”

Green Shirt took Milo’s shot glass, crossed over to the bar, brought back a refill and a bowl of nubby pretzels. “These salty enough?”

Milo ate a pretzel and grunted. “Gonna earn my stroke honestly.”

“Huh?”

Milo flashed his wolf’s grin. Green Shirt blinked. Backed away. When he’d reclaimed his stool, Milo gulped another pretzel, said, “Yeah, it’s a real progressive city.”

Protais Bumaya sat there, trying not to show that he was studying us. In the miserly light his skin was the color of a Damson plum. Wide-set almond eyes moved very little. His hands were huge, but his wrists were spindly. Even taller than Milo, six-four or -five. But high-waisted; he sat low in the booth, gave a strangely boyish impression.

The three of us drank for a while without talking. Frankie Valli gave way to Dusty Springfield only wanting to be with us. Bumaya seemed to enjoy his gin and T.

“So,” said Milo, “what’s with Albin Larsen?”

“A progressive man, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“You know different.”

“You were at the bookstore observing him,” said Bumaya.

“Who says it was him we were observing?”

“Who, then?” said Bumaya. “George Issa Qumdis gives political speeches all the time. He is a public man. What could a policeman learn from watching him? And that fellow in the Navy jacket. Impulsive, but not a serious criminal.”

“That’s your diagnosis, huh?”

“He sprays paint,” said Bumaya, dismissively. “You questioned and released him. You are a detective, no?”

Milo reread Bumaya’s business card. “Special Envoy. If I call this number and ask about you, what are they going to tell me?”

“At this hour, sir, you will get a recorded message instructing you to call during regular business hours. Should you call during business hours, you will encounter another recorded message replete with many choices. Should you make the correct choice, you will eventually find yourself talking to a charming woman named Lucy who is the secretary to Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, Esquire, an articulate, charming San Francisco attorney who serves as de facto West Coast Consul for my country, the Republic of Rwanda. Mr. MacKenzie, in turn, will inform you that I am a legitimate representative of my country.”

Bumaya flashed teeth. “Should you choose to avoid all that, you may simply believe me.”

Milo drained his second Scotch. Strong, abrasive stuff; I was working at getting the first shot down.

“Special envoy,” he repeated. “You a cop?”

“Not currently.”

“But?”

“I have done police work.”

“Then cut the bullshit and tell me what you want.”

Bumaya’s eyes glinted. He wrapped long, manicured fingers around his glass, poked a finger into the drink, pushed the lime wedge around. “I wish for Albin Larsen to get what he deserves.”

“Which is?”

“Punishment.” Bumaya reached into an inner pocket and produced his shiny black billfold. Flipping it open, he fingered what appeared to be a stitched seam. The stitching parted, exposing a slit. Reaching into the slit, he drew out a tiny white envelope.

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.