2

I was walking down the Avenue de l’Yser and, as always, felt suffocated by the powerful smells of open sewers, earth, and spices, despite the cool shade of the centuries-old trees, which gave the river district a measure of charm. I had decided to pay a little visit to Hamidou Kansaye, the police commissioner. He happened to be my father’s best friend and was the one man who could shed light on Bahia Tebessi’s case. Over time, I had learned that in Bamako, things were rarely what they seemed and that going into situations blind could be risky. And so I had decided to ask the best officer in Mali to help me.

I was working my way through a colorful crowd. A woman with sagging breasts was frying banana beignets. Two giggling toddlers with big bellies were waddling around her, their steps not quite steady. In the streets, antique Mercedes taxis, Chinese mopeds, and city vans—soutramas—crowded with passengers were jostling for the right of way. It was a happy uproar of horn honking and curses in the Bambara tongue. Making little progress on foot, I hailed a cab. I gave the driver the address of the national police force and slid into the backseat, trying my best to avoid the broken springs. The police headquarters was in the ACI-2000 district, a monstrous growth of modern buildings and immense Stalin-style avenues on the west side of Bamako.

A good half hour later, the taxi dropped me off in front of the drab yellow headquarters. I asked a guard armed with a Kalashnikov to inform the commissioner of my presence. While he walked over to the security post to use the phone, I took a good look at the building. Even though it had been built no more than two years earlier, it had a seventies-style look. Malians were good at putting up new buildings that looked old right from the start. The guard informed me that Kansaye was waiting. He made sure I knew the way and then, without any other formalities, let me go in unescorted and without even a visitor’s badge.

I walked into the monumental—and empty—lobby and climbed two flights of stairs before advancing into the hallway to the commissioner’s office. In the waiting room, a police officer in a sky-blue uniform was nodding off on a tattered velvet couch. As I shook him awake, I noted his stripes.

“Deputy chief, the commissioner is expecting me. Could you let him know I’m here?”

The man emerged from his lethargic state and looked at me with empty eyes. Finally, he recognized me. He sat up, saluted, and let out a booming, “Warakalan Jeman. I’ll inform the commissioner.”

“White Leopard.”

I had solved a few cases that got heavy play from local crime reporters hungry for front-page stories. The hacks loved to give investigators noms de guerre. It spiced up their stories. And so I had joined the inner circle of private sleuths and police detectives with zoology-themed nicknames like the “Sparrow Hawk of Mandé” and “Macky the Wildcat.” My sudden crime-solving celebrity brought with it certain advantages. I rarely had to wait for anything, I was invited to society gatherings, and my clients were convinced that I possessed magical powers, thanks to my totem. Animism was still very much alive in Mali, even with a majority of the population being Muslim. Deep down, though, I would have preferred staying in the comfortable shadows of anonymity.

I was White Leopard. It has always surprised me that, despite my mixed-race café au lait skin, Malians consider me white. In France I was a black dude on the force. It felt like the fate of the multiracial man meant always being opposite to whatever was commonplace. I was perfectly fine with that. I liked to stick out of the crowd.

The uniformed officer knocked on the metal door, and an electric bolt clicked. The deputy chief stuck his head through the opening and announced that I was there. I didn’t hear the response, but the officer waved me in. Hamidou Kansaye was standing behind his desk with the receiver of his telephone glued to his ear. He motioned for me to have a seat. Shivering, I complied. The room felt colder than Siberia. The AC was on full blast, as was often the case in the offices and homes of Mali’s rich and powerful. The more powerful you were, the colder it was. One of the three cell phones on the leather desk blotter started vibrating like a big beetle. Kansaye brought it to his free ear. Now he was entertaining two conversations at once. He alternated between French and Bambara as he told off both people on the receiving ends. Kansaye had the reputation of being irascible. His pals on the force had nicknamed him Pinochet. The locals called him “The Incorruptible.” I didn’t know if that was accurate, but I did know that everyone respected and feared him. Anyone who had ever tried to slip one by him always regretted it. Kansaye never forgot. He might as well have had “revenge is sweet” sown on a throw pillow.

Finally, he cut the two conversations off, hanging up the fixed phone and wearily throwing the cell on his desk.

After a bit of small talk, he got to the point. “Leopard, to what do I owe this visit?”

Kansaye, a Dogon, was in his sixties, but was still sturdy and vigorous. He had a harsh face and a thin mustache. He was wearing one of the sky-blue boubou robes that he loved. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the keen mind of someone who came from the earth and ancestral traditions. He was also a scholar and a lover of French literature. My father and he were like brothers. So much so that after my father’s death, Kansaye felt compelled to watch over me, and God knows he had his work cut out.

“Commissioner, I’ve come to talk to you about that French woman who was arrested for transporting cocaine.”

The commissioner froze and stared at me. I had aroused his interest, which was no easy task.

“How does that concern you?”

“I need to know which examining magistrate has been assigned the case.”

His eyes froze on me.

“Why?”

There was no point in procrastinating. I decided to lay my cards on the table. Kansaye had always been a faithful ally. Besides, it was impossible to put anything past this man.

“The mule’s sister hired me. She wants me to contact the judge and buy him off.”

He stood up and walked over to the AC. The temperature fell from Siberia cold to polar blast.

“How much?”

“Five million.”

He shook his head.

“You have to be careful where you step, Solo. This case is more complicated than it seems. Some high-ranking players are involved. I’m walking on eggshells.”

“Will you let me talk to Bahia Tebessi?”

He shrugged. “If you insist. She’s still being detained by the drug squad. And as for your judge, his name is Moussa Guino. He’s an asshole, but a greedy asshole.”

Kansaye had just given me the go-ahead.

“Insha’Allah,” he said in response to my promise to return the favor.

I thanked him and took off.