The major gestured that he'd like to talk privately.
"Excuse us, Doctor," Phoumi said, and walked towards the house where he huddled with the Vietnamese. He'd taken the torch with him so all Siri could see by the natural light through the door was a bloodied towel, crumpled on the floor at the girl's feet. Instinctively, he knew it was important in some way. The two men returned and Phoumi handed Siri the torch.
"All right, Doctor?" was all he said.
Siri was fluent in Vietnamese and he was used to the brusqueness of the language, but he was struck by how unemotional these men had been.
"Yes?" Siri said.
"Perhaps it would be appropriate if you inspected the body. Just to be sure, you know?"
"To be sure she's dead, you mean?" Siri smiled. "She's got a metal spike through her heart. I think you can be quite sure she won't recover."
"Then, time of death, physical evidence, anything you can come up with will be useful."
Siri shrugged and walked carefully into the room.
Although he'd suspected as much, it was obvious that this was a sauna, albeit a small, hand-made variety. He'd sampled one himself during a medical seminar in Vladivostok. In a Russian winter the sauna had been a godsend, but, in tropical Laos where a five-minute stroll on a humid afternoon would flush out even the most stubborn germs, it seemed rather ludicrous. An old Chinese gas heater stood in the middle of the floor surrounded by a tall embankment of large round stones. A bowl of dry herbs and flowers sat beside it on the wooden planks. Siri presumed it had once contained water or oil but, if so, the liquid had evaporated away. Moisture and pungent scents still clung to the ceiling and the walls.
There were two benches — one low, upon which the body now sat, and one opposite about fifty centimetres higher. Siri placed the torch on the floor and knelt in front of the victim. He put his hands together in apology before beginning his examination. The weapon, which from outside had appeared to be a metal spike, was in fact a sword, to be more exact, it was an epee. Siri knew it well. His high school in Paris had provided after-hours classes in swordsmanship. It was a course the doctor had failed — twice. He hadn't been able to come to grips with all that delicate prancing and twiddling when the underlying principle must surely have been to kill the opponent or be killed. Despite the fact that he'd continuously overpowered his sparring partners, he'd ultimately been expelled from the class. The instructors had cited his two-handed running charge and his cry of "Die, you bastard," as reason enough to deny him a passing grade.
Yes, the weapon here with its broad-bulbed hand guard was certainly an epee. He couldn't recall having seen one in Laos before. It entered the woman's chest between the fourth and fifth ribs. It had most certainly punctured her heart. The trail of blood had drained from the wound, down her stomach, across her thigh and into a large puddle on the wooden floorboards at her feet. He felt her joints. Rigor mortis begins to show after two hours and peaks at twelve. Judging from the stiffness, it was Siri's educated guess that the poor woman had died somewhere between ten a.m. and two a.m. As he seldom carried his rectal thermometer to the cinema, that was as close as he could get for now.
He reached behind her and confirmed that the sword had been thrust with such force that it had impaled her against the wooden bench. The serene expression on her face and her relaxed sitting position told Siri that she was either looking forward to the experience of dying, or that the attack had come as a complete surprise. There were no indications she'd been shocked to see the weapon, or made any effort to save herself. Her eyes were closed and there was a curl at the corner of her mouth that could once have been a smile. He was about to turn away when he noticed a fresh scar on the inside of her right thigh. There was very little bleeding, which suggested it had been inflicted after her heart had ceased to beat. It was in the shape of an N or a Z, hurriedly carved on her skin.
Which brought him back to the towel that lay at her feet. It was stained with blood but the corners confessed to its original whiteness. Siri couldn't see how it fitted into the scenario. Whose blood was this? Did the assailant attempt to staunch the flow? Or, during the attack, did the murderer injure himself? Siri turned to the seat opposite. There were no bloodstains. This was presumably where the murderer had sat, he and his victim both naked, enjoying a sauna on a rainy Friday night. He tried to imagine the scene. They would have put their clothes outside under the carport to keep them out of the steam. In that case, the carport light would have been turned off or they'd have risked being discovered. So why turn it back on again when it was all over? And where were her clothes? And, the twenty-billion-kip question, where, in a box with two benches and a gas heater, would you conceal a ninety-centimetre-long sword? He began to test the wooden slats of the walls to see if there was a secret compartment, but Phoumi poked his head into the room.
"Doctor? Have you finished examining the body?" he asked.
"Yes, I was just — " Siri began.
"Good. Then I think you can tell us your findings and we'll handle everything else."
Siri shone the torch into the security chiefs face.
"I assume, by 'handle everything' you mean contact the national police force so they can conduct an inquiry?"
Phoumi laughed rudely.
"They'll be informed of the findings, of course," he said. "But this whole area is under my jurisdiction, and the victim is a member of our security team. We'll take care of it."
Siri abandoned his search and stood in the doorway.
"This may look like a foreign country," he said. "But the fact remains we are still in Laos and the victim is a Lao."
Phoumi's smile, his body language, and especially the way he reached for Siri's arm and squeezed it were all so condescending Siri had a mind to knee him.
"Then, if it is indeed a Lao problem," the chief said, "I suppose we should let the Lao Prime Minister decide what is appropriate. You will take his word on it, I assume?"
"He's home?" Siri asked.
"His house is a few blocks from here."
Siri knew where the PM's house was. He'd been there a number of times. But that wasn't an answer to the question he'd asked. He walked out of the sauna and sat on the step.
"Well, of course, the word of the Prime Minister is more than enough for me. Let's go and see him."
He swore, if Phoumi laughed again…If he flashed those 'everybody's friend' perfect teeth just one more time, Siri would run inside, remove the epee from the corpse and find a warmer scabbard for it.
"Doctor, surely even you understand that the PM can't just receive unscheduled visits," said the security head. "Even with an appointment it could be two or three days. I tell you what, I'll go and see him and bring his response. That good enough for you?"
In fact, Siri understood a lot of things. He understood, for example, that the PM had given up his ticket to the movie that afternoon because he was on an unannounced visit to the USSR. He'd left for Moscow the previous day. It helped to have a man on the inside even if it was only Civilai.
"Then I think you should go and talk to him," Siri agreed. "I'll wait here."
Phoumi was incensed.
"I hadn't realised how much more complicated you'd make things for us. I wanted a medical opinion, not a standoff," he said. "Couldn't you just take my word for it that your leader will ask us to take care of this? Do we really need to disturb him?"
"I think so," Siri smiled.
Phoumi and the tall, lanky Major Dung hesitated, then walked off with great reluctance to their fictional meeting with the absent prime minister. Siri was left alone with the sentry. The soldier looked uncomfortable. Siri decided to take advantage of the fact nobody had introduced him and act like someone of importance. He walked to the edge of the carport where the rain fell in strings from the corrugated roof. He washed his hands under them.