27

Expatriates, officials in uniform, and wealthy Malians were exchanging pleasantries in the gardens of the ambassador’s residence. Waiters dressed in white were carrying trays underneath the foliage of ancient trees. A doe wandered among the guests, begging to be petted and fed. Holding my glass of Champagne, I happily joined the crowd. Mike Kedzia was talking to some guy whose beard, round shape, and wrinkled face fit the bill of an old foreign affairs politician. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Rony. This was the third time my Lebanese helper had tried to reach me. I didn’t pick up.

“What the hell are you doing here, Solo?”

Someone grabbed my elbow. Turning around, I found Kansaye. He was glaring at me.

“Commissioner, how good it is to see you here,” I said, feigning pleasant surprise.

“You’ve gone completely insane. How could you show up here, on French territory, where you’re a wanted man,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Hey, I’ve got my invitation, so be nice, please. And anyway, why are you here?”

In a large group of expatriates, I noticed a man in the white uniform of the overseas gendarmes, who were in charge of security at the French embassy. And he was throwing glances in our direction.

“Stop clowning around, Solo. That guy who’s watching us—he’s the attaché to the French embassy’s security and a police inspector who might know you from the days when you were the talk of the town back in your other homeland.”

“Never met him. What is this little shindig anyway?” I asked to change the subject.

“It’s a party organized by the ambassador to encourage cultural patronage in Mali.”

“Really? I never knew you were a fan of the arts.”

“You are such a pain. I was invited by my friend, the security attaché.”

The man in question was now approaching us with glass in hand. He was tall and thin and directing his curious eyes at me. Kansaye started walking toward him, leaving me behind. The two of them greeted each other warmly, and then the French cop made it clear that he wasn’t going to be diverted.

“So, Hamidou, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

For the first time ever, I saw the police commissioner lose a bit of his impeccable composure.

“Sure… This is Souleymane Diabaté. He’s the son of an old friend of mine.”

“Diabaté, you say? That means you’re a griot?”

In Mali the Soumano, Kouyaté, and Diabaté families were traditionally griots—poets and musicians who passed on the countries oral heritage. I let out a loud laugh. “So I see you’re familiar with our cultural history, sir. Let me assure you, there’ve been no traveling musicians or storytellers in our family for a long time.”

The cop stared at me with resolve.

“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that?” I asked, beginning to squirm inside.

“I’m sorry, but I almost mistook you for a piece-of-shit lowlife I know of: a fellow Frenchmen named Camara. The resemblance is striking.”

I faked a shiver. “Phew. You had me worried for a second there. And what did this person do to get on your bad side?”

“He’s a traitor. He was a police officer until he turned—”

I could sense Kansaye tensing up beside me. “How about we refresh our drinks…” He hailed a waiter.

“To finish answering your question, Mr. Diabaté, he killed a lot of people,” the officer continued. “But the worst part is that he killed one of our own men, and then he fled the country. Like most French cops, I’ve been familiar with his most-wanted poster for years. And it’s got a great photo. We only recently learned that he had sought refuge in Mali. It’s his father’s homeland.”

I couldn’t help challenging him in his little game.

“Was.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was his father’s native country. Souleymane Camara’s father died four years ago.”

“So you know him?” the officer asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Bamako is really a village, and this man you’re describing as a killer in your country is hailed as a hero here. Everyone knows who he is.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that. The White Leopard and all that crap.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Kansaye chimed in. “As a private detective, Camara has solved some important cases. And he doesn’t make his poor clients pay.”

The security attaché dismissed Kansaye with a sarcastic laugh.

“It’s because he’s got a lot to make up for.”

“I believe that,” I said calmly. “But might it be possible that he’s not quite as bad as the scumbag you describe?”

“You give him far too much credit,” the police officer thundered. “A hundred cases solved free of charge couldn’t make up for what he’s done.”

People were turning around and staring at us.

“And what would you do if you found yourself face-to-face with him?” I asked in a final attempt to provoke him.

A waiter filled our Champagne glasses. I emptied mine like a parched horse at the trough.

“I imagine I’d spit my hatred in his face and arrest him,” the officer said. “After all, we’re on French territory here.”

I smiled confidently as Kansaye stepped in.

“Come now, Christophe. You know that’s just nonsense. If you arrested Camara—who, by the way, has Malian citizenship—we’d all get wrapped up in an endless roll of legal and bureaucratic red tape. Mali, just like France, does not extradite its citizens.”

The security attaché took several moments to reflect.

“Now that I’ve gotten a better look at you, I don’t think the resemblance is that strong,” he said coolly.

He walked away and rejoined the group he had been with.

“Looks like he’s not a big fan of yours,” the police commissioner said.

“He has his reasons,” I replied, giving Kansaye a friendly pat on the shoulder. I ditched my chaperone and headed toward the Ukrainian.