“The way it works is that once an asylum seeker is registered in Europe, the country in which they first register is considered to be responsible for them. So, if Qayoumi were registered in Bulgaria and then caught by the authorities in France, he would be sent back to Bulgaria and they’d deal with him there. Many of them prefer France, Germany, or the UK to countries like Slovakia, Bulgaria, Greece, and Italy.”

“He registers in France because it’s better to be an asylum seeker here than in some other places.”

Nazari gave a wry smile. “Not great, but yes, better than some other places. Maybe. I’m not an expert.”

“Looking at the photos I’d say he’s a pretty well-dressed asylum seeker.”

“Hmmm I hadn’t noticed that.” Nazari pulled out her phone and flipped through the images.

I said, “Look at the boots for one thing.”

She showed me the photo. Ankle boots in leather. Zip-ups. I said, “Sixty euros minimum.”

“Twenty or thirty if they’re fake leather.”

“Still expensive for an asylum seeker.”

“That’s possible.”

“Look at the shirt,” I said. “The close-up shot on the knife entry that you took.”

She flipped to the photo. Saw the nautical symbol. A ship’s wheel. “Designer brand. But I’m not convinced that he’s some kind of rich asylum seeker.”

I said, “Ok, forget that. You remember this morning? My shirt was torn and you gave me directions to replace it.”

“Fanny’s Friperie,” she said. "Did you find something you liked?”

I unzipped my Gore-Tex jacket and showed Nazari the brown shirt underneath. “It’s fine. Do you remember the old shirt?”

She shook her head. “Sorry I wasn’t paying attention to your shirt.”

I said, “You were grabbing me by the shirt.”

She laughed and turned a darker color. “I remember the grabbing part.”

I picked up my backpack and fished out the torn shirt. I showed her the logo with the nautical wheel. “It was the same shirt.”

Nazari looked at the shirt, then looked at the photo on her phone. “Same shirt.”

“Yes. The very same shirt. Even the same color.”

“You’re suggesting that the attacker thought you were Qayoumi? In which case it isn’t a robbery, more like an assassination.”

“Mistaken identity. He didn’t know what the target looked like, just knew what shirt he was wearing.”

“Did you tell the BRI assholes?”

“No. I didn’t realize until you showed me your pictures.”

“So you repelled the attackers and then they went and found someone else with the same shirt.”

“They regrouped after attacking me, got fresh orders, and went back out. The thing was a targeted operation and the shirt was the target.”

“Maybe you should go back and tell the BRI assholes.”

I said, “Maybe you should. I’m getting on a train.”