He thought back to his days there at the hospital. To their lunches on the river bank. To Lah, and her handmade baguettes and pretty smile. And he recalled one week when she was away at the Soviet hospital, a small operation on a rather aggressive mole. She said it had been particularly painful because she had a low tolerance for opiates and had refused pain killers.

“That’s how he got her,” said Siri. “The combination of the opiate and the psychoactive drugs on an elderly woman. It would have shut down her central nervous system. And if he got the doses right he could have timed it to within a day of his schedule.”

“So, someone knew about her intolerance,” said Dtui.

“Must have,” said Siri.

“Somebody’s playing God,” said Geung.

His stutter had become less pronounced since his marriage.

“Exactly,” said Dtui. “He’s blurring the line between natural and unnatural death. But how can he have access to everyone’s medical history? A colleague talking about his allergies is one thing, but Lah was a Lao bread maker with no foreign contacts and a life that was limited to a few city blocks. How does he find out . . . ? Siri, she must have been seeing a doctor.”

Siri knew Dtui would arrive at that conclusion soon enough. He still had Civilai’s medicine bottle with Dr. Porn’s label in his pocket. He’d known the doctor since he arrived in Vientiane and he respected her. He’d trusted her with his secrets. He didn’t want to believe she’d have a role in this macabre drama but nothing in those odd days of Lao noir was out of the question. Only one thing could vindicate her.

Siri jumped to his feet and the goats scattered to the ends of their tethers.

“All right, team,” he said. “Let’s get back inside.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Dtui asked.

“He’d have expected it of me,” said Siri. “When I next see him, he’ll be complaining about the rust on the scalpels and the coldness of the dolly under his arse. No pleasing some people.”

Dtui probably took that as a comment designed to lighten the mood, but Siri knew it was true.

Mr. Geung had placed a hand towel over Civilai’s face and it helped. The comrade’s eyes, despite hours of manhandling, had refused to close. It was as if the old fellow was keen to see what had finally defeated him. They were surprised to see the scars of at least two bullets and one long, poorly stitched wound from a knife or machete. And that was only the front. Siri knew a politician would invariably have more knife wounds in his back.