“They have a special vacuum cleaner. Sanitized hosing and everything, sucks it straight into a hygienic bag.”

“So no incision, no electric saw, no examination of vital organs, nothing of that nature.”

“Nothing like in the movies, no. They just skipped that part and went straight to the paperwork.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Apparently not. The knife was inserted into Qayoumi’s thorax and penetrated the heart. End of story.”

“Good aim.”

“Not only that, the blade length was perfect. Knife went to the hilt, right between the ribs.”

I thought for a bit. An Afghan with the words ‘Unity, Liberty, Socialism’ tattooed on his arm. I said, “You know anything about Afghan history?”

“Pretty much nothing, no.”

“I don’t know much. But I’ve been there a bunch of times, in various capacities, for assorted reasons. So, you pick up some information here and there, from locals usually. They had a communist government. But that was a long time ago. Qayoumi looks like he’s in his fifties right?”

“Sure. Late forties, early fifties in my view.”

“Before we went in, the Russians were there. The Russians lost and left. Far as I know, the war against the Russians effectively killed any kind of Afghan socialism by the mid-eighties. That would have been what, thirty or forty years ago, depending. Even if Qayoumi was the last socialist left in Afghanistan, he would have been thirteen or something when the commie dream finally died, maybe younger even. Why would a ten-year-old get a tattoo like that?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Right. He wouldn’t. But if he did, what would that tattoo look like forty years later?”

“Stretched and faded because the kid’s grown.”

“Correct. Look at the photo.”

Nazari got the photo back up on her phone and multi-tasked again.

I said, “Stretched and faded?”

“Negative. Not exactly crisp and clear, but easy to read and not distorted. Tattoo looks good.”

“Which means that the guy was a fully grown adult when he got inked.”

“Right.”

“And the tattoo isn’t in any kind of Afghan language.”

“So maybe he’s not an Afghan.”

“So maybe he’s not.”

Nazari said, “What are you thinking?”

I looked over at her. “I’m going to make a call. Can we stop?”

“Why can’t you call from the car?”

“It’s not that kind of a call.”

“What kind of a call is it?”

“It’s a stand and concentrate kind of a call. It’s a make sure the reception is good kind of a call.”

She nodded. “Okay. No problem.”

A couple of vehicles whizzed by going the other direction. We were passing through a residential area near the river and closer to the town center. We were coming up on a little grassy recreation spot with picnic benches by the river. I said, “Pull in over there.”

She pulled the car over, parked and said, “So make the call.”