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A staff member interrupts the meeting. One of the original four Walungu sisters is waiting for me outside; she’s reporting that her brother-in-law was killed last night. When she enters, I recognize her and remember her name: Isabelle. I give her a big hug. The other women linger, arms folded. They’ve all heard the story. He was their neighbor.

“He died or he was killed?” I ask.

“They shot him,” Isabelle answers.

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Local government soldiers.”

“Why?” I ask.

“We don’t know why.”

“To punish him?” I say. “To steal from him?”

“They waited for him on his way back home.”

“So they knew him?” I ask. “Is that common? The Congolese Army just . . . assassinating people?”

They all nod emphatically, all too aware of the truth. “Ndiyo.” Yes.

“Who else have they killed?”

One of the women calls out, “Three cases in two months of government soldiers killing someone.”

Everyone ticks their tongues, a Congolese gesture of agreement and disapproval. I’m trying to get my bearings. Looting and rape are standard fare for the Congolese Army. But killing civilians? This is the first I’ve heard of it.

“We don’t know why?” I persist. “They must have a reason.”

“It’s a matter of conflict between people. When people are in trouble, they bribe soldiers to avenge them. They are hired to kill.”

I AM SITTING on the terrace back at Orchid when a group of Pakistani UN officers wanders out onto the terrace. One lingers by my table, waiting for an invitation to practice his English. I notice that the patch on his uniform reads PAK ARMY.

The officers look beyond the gardens to Lake Kivu. The man near me says, “Very beautiful country.”

I’m bored and happy enough to engage. “Yes, so beautiful.”

“But the people . . . not good. Very black.” Coaxing me to join his anti-African club, he adds, “Don’t you agree?”

I slowly turn my neck and look at him, dead cold. “The people here are wonderful. Huge hearts.”

His buddies inch away.

“Work hard . . .” he says.

I can hear a “but” coming, so I shoot him down before he can start. “Yes, they work so hard.”

“Okay.” His colleague seems aware of the breach and is eager to usher him onward.

MAURICE, SERGE, AND I park on the side of Walungu’s main drag and wait in the car. A credible anonymous tipster with UN connections has heard about our inquiry into the massacre. He was verifiably present with my UN major escorts at the massacre site. He approached asking us to meet him at a rendezvous point. He stayed up late last night copying the files.

A handful of Congolese military men lurk on the opposite side of the road and seem to find me the most interesting attraction. One of them is especially keen to stare and I’m inclined to stare back. His face is shrouded with an army-green ski-cap. Creepy. I’m desperate to take his photo, but photographing the military is not legal and his is not a friendly stare. I pretend I’m watching some women who are struggling up the muddy road in the rain, their loads covered in dirty plastic, while I hold my camera sideways and try to capture a shot of Ski-Mask Guy. But all I manage to grab are a series of photos of raindrops on the car window. He’s blurry and out of focus in the background. It’s too bad, it would have made a great visual metaphor. I mentally title the photo I didn’t get: The Hidden Face of the Congolese Army.

“Okay,” Maurice says, motioning. Enough time has passed. We weave our way through Walungu’s back pathways to a private home where our source has been waiting for us. We slip inside; the floor is damp and the faint sound of running water comes from somewhere within the dark hut, which is lit only by the sunlight coming through the doorway. We teeter on wooden benches opposite each other. He produces a small stack of papers and hands them over: carefully copied daily reports from Kaniola, as well as incidents of recent assassinations by the Congolese Army. He says, “You will need to copy it.” “We can’t just keep this?”

“Not in my handwriting.”

I would be amused were it not for the weight of what he’s inching towards telling