“Anyway, the point is that our man Qayoumi, who is not Qayoumi, if he was a Ba’ath party member from Saddam’s tribe and clan, there is almost no chance that he did not pass through a military interrogation at some point. Whatever he became afterwards, over the years, regardless if he is a dentist, a birthday party clown, or a barber, he’d have experience of running away, maybe fighting, definitely hiding.”

“Like a veteran prisoner.”

“Like a cross between a combat soldier, a hard-timer, and an urban guerrilla fighter, yes.”

“So what’s your point?”

“What I’m trying to say, is that a purely external examination won’t do. Not in this instance.”

“You think they should do an internal autopsy, cut him open and look inside? I don’t understand what that would bring to the table.”

“No saws, no knives, no cutting anyone open. I’m not advocating that.”

“What then?”

“Where do guys hide stuff when they’re in jail?”

She chewed her sandwich for a second, looking into space. “Where the sun never shines.”

“Yup. Where the sun don’t shine.”

“So you want to go looking in this dead guy’s ass.”

“I’m afraid so.”

She thought about it for a minute and finished her sandwich.

“Ok. We can do that.” She stood up, brushing crumbs from her clothing.

The Lille train station had a big old clock built into the steeple piled on top of the yellowing stone structure. The hour hand was at one p.m., not that far from the two.

I said, “There’s another thing I want to do first though. Do you know how to get to the migrant camp near Calais? I went there the other day with Father Bousquet and Miriam.”

Nazari nodded. “Sure. I can get us there.”

“On the way?”

“Not exactly, but only an hour out of the way, give or take traffic.” She looked at her phone. “Why do you want to go to the camp?”

“I’ll show you when we get there.”

Chapter Forty-Three

I changed out of the big sneakers and threw them in the bag with the duct tape. We decided that I’d drive, and Nazari would navigate with her phone. She said, “Scenic route or the highway. Three or four minute difference.”

“What are we talking about, in terms of scenery?”

“I think the choice is between flat fields and more flat fields.”

“Let’s do the flat field route then.”

She laughed. “So many choices.”

She was right, the road from Lille to the Calais area was nothing but flat fields in all directions. I held the wheel lightly, scanning the road. Near and far, using my peripheral vision and an intuitive sense of distance and proximity. I felt alert and sharp. No problem. Things were shaping up now, a resolution was vaguely in sight.