“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 programs.” Bumaya uttered the word as if it were a curse. “U.N. sponsored programs, private humanitarian programs. Larsen affixes himself to programs for personal gain.”
“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.”
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 in toto, one finds that Larsen was working 150 hours per week.”
“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 entrée 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.”