“I met the army surgeon again a few years later. I was a qualified doctor by then. We were at a reception. He was drunk. He told me more than he was probably supposed to. He said the second shooter was a Corsican. He’d been in North America establishing a foothold for his family in various illegal activities. Some years earlier his two brothers had been in Annam setting up a network to send Chinese opium to Marseille. It was around the time Doumer was in Vietnam trying to find money to fund his projects. For two years he’d bought up the entire opium harvest and it still wasn’t enough, so he started to eat away at some of the private contractors who had established networks. The Corsicans had set up such an organization. Doumer made an offer to take over their trade, but the brothers were answerable to the family. They refused him.”

“And I bet they had an accident,” said Daeng.

“A truck they were traveling in exploded. The authorities said it was a petrol tank leak, but some of the workers said they’d seen men with military haircuts creeping around the night before. Doumer denied any involvement but the Corsicans knew better. The younger brother, my man, was on the boil for a long time. That’s why the family sent him to the States. But the Corsicans have short fuses and long memories. He watched the news of Doumer’s return to France and fumed when the old man assumed the senate seat for Corsica. There were those who suggested Doumer was merely carrying his opium business home. The family suffered again at his hand and the elders finally gave the green light for the younger brother to return to France. By then, Doumer had become president and the rest we know.”

“And you think the Godfathers still have a black list with your name on it, Siri?”

“It’s not impossible, Daeng. There are still Corsicans in Laos left over from the opium heydays of the forties and fifties. They’re married to Lao women and waiting for opportunities. Any one of them could be related to my man. There could be a contract out on me for old times’ sake.”

“You see, Ugly?” said Daeng to the dog. “This is what happens when you allow strangers to attach notes to your nether regions.”

“And that’s odd too,” said Siri. “Ugly doesn’t let anyone near him. A head pat’s the most he can handle. He’s not going to stand still for five minutes while an assassin ties a ribbon to his tail, is he now?”

“Yet, he obviously did.”

“Curious.”