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None.”

8
    I N T HE H AGUE , N ETHERLANDS , Francine Les Forges, prosecutor of the United Nations International Criminal Court, was meeting with her deputy prosecutor, Atavar Strinsky. The prosecutor had her back turned and was speaking on the phone at her large, gleaming, stainless-steel desk. She smoothed her black hair with one hand.
    Atavar was a young, pale-faced international law prosecutor in his second year at the ICC. While he waited for his boss to finish her telephone conversation, he glanced around her room. He had seen the pictures and plaques many times before. The framed photograph of her before the French Supreme Court of Appeals. Several framed newspaper clippings from the London Times and Le Monde, as well as articles from the New York Times and the International Herald. They all described the war crimes trial of Slobodan Milosevic, where she had been the youngest deputy assistant prosecutor on the case. On the other wall there was a large framed calligraphy in multiple colors saying the same thing in ten different tongues:
    THERE WILL BE NO GLOBAL PEACE
    WITHOUT GLOBAL JUSTICE
    A few minutes later, Les Forges hung up and swung around in her large executive chair, facing Atavar.
    â€œSo,” she began, “you said you have a referral for me.”
    â€œThis is the matter,” he began, “that I told you about. From Mexico. The incident down in the Yucatán. I sent you over the e-file on this.”
    â€œYes, I took a look at that. I think this is premature. But I have to tell you I am very intrigued. Quite interested. This could be a superb case for the ICC. Don’t you see? This was an unparalleled act ofaggression by a small combat force of American marines—I believe they were marines. I’m not sure. Do you know whether they were?”
    Atavar shook his head. “Ms. Les Forges, we are not entirely certain about that. We believe that the commanding officer is an officer with the U.S. Marines. But as to whether or not this was a unit of the marines…for some reason the information isn’t very clear on that.”
    â€œWell, never mind—that is not important. The United States decided to penetrate the borders of the sovereign State of Mexico in pursuit of what it has described as a cell of terrorists. But without permission—before committing an assault on a civilian house. The result?”
    Atavar started to rustle through the papers on his lap, mistaking the prosecutor’s rhetorical statement for a question.
    â€œThe result?” she continued, her hands waving in the air as if she were conducting a small orchestra. “Four Mexican nationals killed in an attack that certainly appears barbaric.”
    â€œThere is something you should know,” her deputy spoke up.
    â€œWhat?” the prosecutor snapped.
    â€œThis really isn’t a formal referral. It’s more like an inquiry.”
    â€œPlease explain that to me. What are you saying?” she demanded.
    â€œThe state party—here, Mexico—has not formally referred this matter to our office for possible prosecution. The Deputy Minister of the Interior called and merely wanted to find out whether we would be willing to look into this if it were formally referred.”
    Les Forges’ face grew animated. She snatched a cigarette out of her desk and lit it with a silver lighter, ignoring the no-smoking regulation in the ICC building.
    â€œYou see?” she began, standing up and straightening her suit brusquely. And then she started walking around the room as she talked. “The state party bureaucrats, they are cowards. They don’t want to commit to making a formal referral. So they call us—you see how they call us this way? Prying. Insinuating. Implying. Asking us whether we would do this, if they refer that. Would we prosecute this case if they refer the following facts to us? And I ask them to verify with a formal referral. And they turn me down