“This Deutschland guy may have a family who wonders about him too,” Delaney said, somewhat lamely, Smith thought. Delaney had not told Conchi about who he, and others, now thought the Deutschland man had actually been. He had asked Smith not to tell her either.
“Bullshit, Frank, bullshit,” Conchi said. “You want to know who the guy is and what happened to the file because you get a big story maybe for your bullshit newspaper.”
Delaney suddenly looked very uneasy. Smith thought that Conchi had struck some sort of chord that Delaney clearly preferred to leave alone.
“Conchi . . .” Smith said.
“And you, Jonah, you want to know because you are stupid too, just stupid for fingerprints,” Conchi said.
“You sound a little like Fiona now, Conchi,” Smith said with a thin smile.
Conchi had flounced away from the table in high Spanish displeasure. She had to get back to the management centre to identify dead people for her own set of reasons—better reasons, or so she would have them believe, than theirs. Smith still had a couple of days left before he was to return to work after his hospital stay. He sat with Delaney for a while longer.
“This is all getting more dangerous by the day, Frank,” Smith said after Conchi had gone.
“It is,” Delaney said.
“You think they will go after Conchi now too?”
“It’s possible, Jonah,” Delaney said. “You’ll both have to watch yourselves while I’m away.”
“I’m not sure it was a wise idea to confront Becker so directly on this, Frank. I don’t,” Smith said.
“Maybe not. I’m not so sure. But he didn’t seem at all surprised by it. It’s too late now anyway.
But there’s no doubt he’s angry. I’m just not sure if he’s angry because he’s worried he’ll take the blame for this missing file or if he’s the guy who’s actually responsible for it going missing in the first place. I’m not sure if it’s actually just because he doesn’t like the idea of his team being accused of things if this all blows up.”
“It’s all blowing up already, Frank.”
“You got that right,” Delaney said. “He got you beaten up and maybe he’s got someone to try to run me down. He got someone to tell your wife about Conchi.”
“You think it’s Becker who did all those things, Frank? Really?” “Who else could it be?” Delaney said. Smith had pondered this for a while. He drank some tea. He noticed that Delaney ordered beer now, or something even stronger, no matter what time of the day they met to ponder situations together.
“I feel we should have a clearer plan of some sort,” Smith said.
“The plan is, I go to Berlin, and try to find out what’s really going on. If that body really is Klaus Heinrich, we’re onto something big. As in big enough for a guy like Becker to play hardball with us.”
Delaney had told him what he found out from what he called “good sources” in Germany and Canada. Smith had no choice but to assume that Delaney’s information was solid, that his sources were as good as he claimed.
“Why would an ex-Army man like Becker, if that’s who he actually is, and a pathologist, why would he be over here trying to prevent people like me from identifying a man like Klaus Heinrich?” Smith said. “All right, maybe it will turn out that Heinrich was a spy who didn’t die when people said he died or maybe he faked his own death, or whatever. People do that sort of thing sometimes. We thought Stahlman did that. Fine, all right. But what’s in it for a man like Becker? Heinrich’s already dead, one way or the other. So what are people trying to hide in this thing?”
“Jonah, congratulations, you are now asking exactly the right questions,” Delaney said. “That’s what I’m going to Berlin to find out. When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”
For reasons he could not quite understand, the new Jonah Smith had some doubts about whether this was how things would actually work.
Smith went back to work at the IMC on a Wednesday, after the period of rest ordered by Thai doctors, by Braithwaite, and by Interpol team leader Janko Brajkovic. Delaney had already been gone for two days when Smith returned to work.
Brajkovic took the fingerprint man aside on the day Smith returned for what the Croatian policeman called “some friendly career advice.”
“You have done badly, my friend,” Brajkovic said. “Everyone is pissed off. I myself am pissed off.”
“About what, Janko?” Smith asked.
Brajkovic was seated in his usual place, with his usual flask of coffee on hand to fight the morning-after effects of alcohol and other excesses. Smith waited beside Brajkovic’s extremely untidy desk to hear how the Croatian would describe the present situation.
“Your ridiculous search for that missing file has made everybody mad here, Smith. Braithwaite, Colonel P, I can never pronounce those damn Thai names, the entire German DVI team, me. You make it seem like everybody’s either a criminal or a fool around here, Smith. No wonder you get yourself beaten up.”
“I got robbed, Janko,” Smith said.
“You are too smart to really think that, aren’t you, Smith?”
“Why would someone beat me up just because I am trying to locate a lost file?”
“Because, fool, I told you, because you make everybody look like fucking criminals around here.”
“No, I do not,” Smith said.
“Braithwaite is so close to sending you back to Lyon you better have your bag packed and ready. I hear he has been talking to our illustrious SecretaryGeneral. I hear the Secretary-General is not a happy man.”
“I’m not interested in police gossip, Janko,”
Smith said.
“You better be,” Brajkovic said. “If they ship you back to Lyon like a bad boy, our illustrious Secretary-General may very well then ship you back to London like a very bad boy. Your wife won’t like that much will she, Smith? Or the lovely Concepción.”
Brajkovic had a remarkably irritating grin. His bared his nicotine-stained teeth to leer at what he assumed would be Smith’s extreme discomfort.
Smith, in fact, had considered the possibility that he could be sent back to London for his actions over the Deutschland file. The prospect of exchanging the Thailand disaster zone for the disaster zone of his marriage did in fact fill him with discomfort, if not quite dread. He did not want Brajkovic to see this, however, if only to prevent more fuel being tossed on management centre gossip fires that were now burning bright.
“Braithwaite wants to see you,” Brajkovic said, baring his yellow teeth once again. “He said you should report to him the moment you came back to work.”
“What on earth for?” Smith said.
“Maybe you are not so smart, Smith, if you don’t know why Braithwaite wants to see you. Maybe I am wrong about you,” Brajkovic said.
On the way to Braithwaite’s office Smith passed by the German DVI area. This, he thought as he approached it, was perhaps not so smart.
Horst Becker was not there. He would normally be working at the mortuary compound if he was on duty today at all. Hamel was there, however, and Krupp. Both policemen stopped what they were doing at their computer screens and stared coldly at Smith as he passed by.
Hamel called out: “You have balls, at least we can say that, Smith. To come back in here.”
“Why on earth should I not come back in here, Hamel?” Smith said.
“Why on earth should I not come back in here? Krupp, do you hear what this idiot is saying? Idiot,” Hamel said.
“The knocks on his head have left him damaged in his brain,” Krupp said. “Precisely,” Hamel said. “Idiot.”
Smith felt an unaccustomed wave of rage beginning to build in his system. Before his various transformations in Thailand, he was not a man prone to extremes of emotion, least of all rage.
“You have balls too, Hamel,” Smith shouted.
“To speak to me like that.”
“Oh, my God, the fingerprint man is upset,” Krupp said. “Too many blows to the head.”
“You both have a nerve to joke like this. You’re police officers. You think it’s funny that someone beat me up? You wouldn’t have had anything to do that, would you, Krupp? Or you, Hamel?” Smith shouted. His face was reddening.
“Steady now,” Hamel said. “Watch your mouth, Smith. Don’t shout at Landeskriminalamt policemen, that’s never a good idea.”
“Steady, Smith,” Krupp said, standing up behind his desk.
Brajkovic had heard the raised voices and came running into the section. Some other DVI officers and some Thai clerical staff started to gather round.
“Smith, Smith, just go,” Brajkovic shouted.
“No more trouble from you. No more.”
“There’s no trouble here that we cannot handle, Janko,” Hamel said from behind his desk. “We have the situation under control. There’s nothing here that a German police baton cannot handle.”
Krupp laughed extravagantly and sat back down behind his desk. Hamel continued to stare at Smith, inviting another outburst. “Just go, Jonah. Go,” Brajkovic said.
Braithwaite looked like he had been beaten up as well. But his face bore the signs of strain and fatigue, not batons.
He sat very still for a time, simply looking quietly across his desk after Smith had sat down. A cigar lay extinguished in the coffee mug he used for an ashtray.
“You puzzle me, Smith,” Braithwaite said eventually.
“Why is that, sir?” Smith said.
“You seem to be a good man, good at what you do, dedicated. Smart. They think highly of you back in London. You’re a good Scotland Yard man.”
“Thank you.”
“They thought highly enough to send you over to Interpol for a few years on a nice little secondment in the south of France,” Braithwaite said.
Smith said nothing.
“The Interpol people then thought highly enough of you to send you over here on this very important operation.” Smith still said nothing.
“What has got into you, exactly, Smith? Can you tell me? Why would you risk all of that, and jeopardize this operation and risk harming the reputation of Scotland Yard and Interpol and the German police, one of the finest police forces in the world, with this nonsense. Can you explain that to me, please?”
Smith was about to try, but Braithwaite spoke again. He really did look very tired, Smith thought.
“You exhaust me, do you know that?” Braithwaite said. “I’m tired.”
“It’s a very hard assignment for you, sir.”
“They gave you a pretty good beating, didn’t they,” Braithwaite said. “Yes, they did.”
“It wasn’t actually a robbery was it, Smith?”
“No, sir, I don’t think it was.” Braithwaite suddenly looked even more tired. He rubbed his eyes with both fists. He stared at his unlit cigar.
“I don’t like it when a Scotland Yard man gets beaten up, Smith,” he said. “That would be rather an obvious position for someone like me to take, correct?”
Smith said nothing. Braithwaite rubbed his eyes some more.
“That reporter has left Phuket, I’m told,” Braithwaite said suddenly. “He has,” Smith said.
“Is he coming back?”
“He might,” Smith said. “You never know with reporters.”
“No,” Braithwaite said. “That’s what gets my goat.”
Smith waited for whatever it was the Detective Chief Superintendent actually wanted to communicate.
“Here’s a suggestion, OK, Smith?” Braithwaite said. “From a Scotland Yard colleague. You go back over to your desk and start working again on those fingerprint IDs. We need you on this operation. I want you to keep your head down from here on and get us as many damn matches as you can get and I want you to stay out of the way of trouble of any sort. I don’t want you to upset people anymore about that damn missing file and I don’t want people beating up my people anymore about that damn missing file. Is that clear? I want all of the people on this operation to just get back to work and identify all those bodies in those bloody containers and then we can all go home and leave this godforsaken place behind us. Do you follow me, Smith? I don’t want any more trouble here. It’s enough. You forget about that file, someone will do another postmortem on that body at some point when they get around to it, we’ll get some more prints off it and you can have another look and in the meantime we can all just get on with our work. Do you follow?”
Smith thought that Braithwaite was far too tired to want to hear about break-ins at the mortuary site or fingerprints having been surgically removed. Braithwaite appeared to be under enough strain as it was. “Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t like it when a Scotland Yard man gets beaten up,” Braithwaite said. “OK? I’ve told the German team leader that. No more drunken brawling on my watch.”
Smith did not inquire as to what the German team leader might have said in response.
“Thank you, sir.”
“No more trouble. Do you follow?”
“I do.”
“Out,” Braithwaite said.
Smith and Conchi slept that night in his giant hotel bed for the first time in a long while. With his wife back in England, and Delaney in Germany taking whatever next steps that had to be taken, and a reprieve, apparently, having been granted by Braithwaite, things were somehow back to whatever could now pass for normal for Smith and Conchi in Phuket.
“You can love me for now, again,” Smith said as they lay together under his sheets.
“Maybe for a little, little time extra after that too,” Conchi said. “Maybe.” The new Jonah Smith had found himself becoming prone to strong emotions, like rage and pleasure and sometimes something almost like joy. The old Jonah Smith had felt nothing much of anything for a very long time.
“I like the sound of that, Conchi,” he said.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t think you are very stupid, Jonah, about things like little file folders that have gone missing.” “I understand that,” he said.
Conchi paused, and then said: “Frank Delaney says we should watch ourselves now, while he is away. Shall we be scared maybe?”
“No,” Smith said.
“They tried to kill Frank Delaney with a car,” she said.
“We’ll be all right,” Smith said. “When Frank finds out what’s going on, we’ll tell the right people and it will all be over.”
“Do you think so, Jonah Smith fingerprint man?” Conchi said, tracing a fingertip down his face from forehead to chin. “We identify the bad guys.”
“We shall identify the bad guys,” he said.
“File stealers. We throw them in jail, maybe, no?” Conchi said.” “Maybe,” Smith said.
Once in a while in Phuket, Thailand, in the spring of 2005, in the months after the tsunami disaster, there was some good news. Some of that good news came on the day after Smith returned to work.
The body of Mrs. Stokke’s daughter had finally been identified. While Smith was in hospital and then recuperating on the orders of his superiors, a Thai search team had found the body of a European child deep in a storm water culvert more than 10 kilometres from the beach where she had been swept out to sea on Boxing Day. Search teams were still, more than three months after the tsunami, occasionally finding bodies in obscure places far from the tourist beaches.
Very few DVI people had any doubt that this horribly disfigured and deteriorating body brought to the mortuary compound in a child-sized body bag was that of young Charlotte Stokke. Then, while Smith was on sick leave, Werner Eberharter, Interpol’s Austrian deputy team leader and, Smith was willing to admit, a reasonably good fingerprint examiner, had made a tentative match against antemortem marks taken from Ch
ristmas wrapping paper on the gifts Charlotte Stokke had opened before her family flew to Phuket for their ill-fated holiday.
Norwegian policeman Magne Vollebaek had brought a variety of AM prints to Phuket personally. He had done as much as any policeman could in the months after the tsunami to help identify Mrs. Stokke’s daughter. Charlotte’s fingers had, as would be expected, deteriorated badly after weeks in tepid brackish water, but Eberharter was as sure as he could be that prints from two of the girl’s leastruined fingers matched some of those that a Norwegian technician had found on a torn piece of metallic red and green Christmas paper.
Vollebaek had also brought X-rays from Charlotte’s Oslo dentist. The little girl had had no fillings; at eight years of age, she was too young for that. Forensic dentists like dental fillings. They stand out clearly on postmortem X-rays and they can be matched easily with antemortem images. Charlotte had no fillings, but her parents had apparently been worried about how some of their little girl’s teeth were aligned. They had asked for X-rays to be done, and these X-rays, of a slightly crooked line of children’s teeth, were also carried to Phuket by missing persons detective Magne Vollebaek.
With the acceptable fingerprint match and the very good dental match, the Identification Board had formally ruled that the body in the filthy drain culvert was that of one Charlotte Margaret Birgitte Stokke, born 21 July 1996, Oslo, Norway, died 24 December 2004, Phuket, Thailand. No one, it seemed, had any interest in preventing identification of this particular disaster victim. No files had gone missing, no one was under any threat whatsoever for trying to identify Mrs. Stokke’s daughter.
Vollebaek had hurried to Phuket from Oslo as soon as he received word that a little girl’s body had been found in a drain culvert. For his troubles, Vollebaek had been given the task of informing Mrs. Stokke when the identification was officially declared valid.
Vollebaek stood on a chair in the management centre when he told a small group of DVI officers from a variety of countries how it had been. They gathered quietly in a cramped corner of their mazelike partitioned workspace to hear about it. They looked quietly at the ground and at each other as Vollebaek described Mrs. Stokke’s shriek—the shriek, Vollebaek said, almost like that of an animal—when he had told her that the body in the child-sized body bag had been identified. Conchi and Smith stood at the back of the small crowd as the Norwegian policeman spoke.
The Tsunami File Page 19