The Tsunami File (37 page)

“Incredible,” Smith said eventually.

“That's how I would describe it,” Delaney said.

“Imagine a man with that kind of life story—East Berlin, West Berlin, Cold War, spying, constantly dissembling, all that kind of very, what, very mysterious, politicized European kind of life—ending up killed on a beach way out here in Thailand by a freak wave.”

“Ends up in a body bag in an old shipping container, ends up getting identified by a fingerprint man from Scotland Yard via Interpol.”

“Ends up getting identified by a reporter from Montreal,” Smith said.

“I got some more details that we needed. You made the identification.” “You got his life story.”

“Some of it. You never get it all.”

“You got the Mueller story. This business of a gay affair between a major spy and the head of the BKA. Unimaginable. No one knows about that. It's an incredible story and you got that for us.”

“Some people know about that, Jonah.”

“Not many. It's never been public.”

“No. That's true.”

“You're very good at what you do, Frank,” Smith said. “Truly.”

“So are you, Jonah. Truly.”

“So here we find ourselves.”

“Yup.”

“And the next step?”

“Information is not valuable unless it's used, Jonah. Right?”

Smith looked at him for a long time. “I'm a man who makes identifications and hands them over to my police brethren,” Smith said eventually. “All my life. Making the identification was the thing. Someone else decided what to do next.”

“We don't have that luxury, Jonah. It's a big bad complicated world out there.”

“So it is.”

“I'm surprised I need to remind a Scotland Yard man about that.” Smith said nothing.

“So?” Delaney said. “Next step?”

“We tell someone,” Smith said.

“Yeah? Like who? How? What for?”

“Come on, Frank, for goodness' sake,” Smith said.

“You're the ID man. We've got the ID now. What do you want to do with it?”

Smith looked genuinely perplexed. He studied the tips of his fingers as he pondered the situation.

“We'll go to Braithwaite,” he said eventually.

“OK,” Delaney said. “Then what? What happens to the information then? What's the result?”

Smith was starting to look extremely uneasy.

“Come on, Frank. He'll act on it.”

“You sure?”

“He's a career policeman.”

“So was Mueller.”

“Come off it, man. What else is there for us?”

“Well, as I told you, I've got some very good friends in the Canadian spy service. They have friends in a lot of other spy services. We can tell them, for example. Tell them the whole story and see what happens then.” “What would happen?”

“Up to them. Just like with police. It would be up to them how they used the information.”

“That's no good.”

“Why not?”

“Well, what if they use it, I don't know, some way that's not good?”

“Not good? Interesting concept. What does that mean?”

“Not the way we think it should be used.”

“Which is?”

“Frank . . .”

“What outcome do you want, Jonah?”

“I just want people to know about this,” Smith said.

“Who? How many? Where? To achieve what?”

“That's the sort of question you journalists have to ask,” Smith said.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“OK, Jonah, fine, so we'll be journalists in this one. Is that what you want? We won't be spy guys or friends of spies. Not cops or friends of cops.”

“Well, we certainly can't find out about a story like this and just let it go.”

“Tell your cop brethren who the man was, and how Ulrich Mueller was connected to him, and tell them about the coverup and let it go. Make the identification and let it go. Isn't that what you used to do?”

“This is different,” Smith said.

“It's a big bad old complicated world out there, Jonah.”

They agreed to let the big questions ride for a little while longer. But Smith seemed in no hurry to go back to the IMC and Delaney wanted a briefing of his own.

“Becker?” Delaney said. “How's he been this past while? He certainly saw me today at the ceremony. He may think it's his move now. Or maybe he's the kind who'll wait for opponents to make another move.”

“He hasn't said a word for quite a while,” Smith said. “Since that time he went to see Conchi at her hotel just after you left; he hasn't come near us again.” “He scare her bad?”

“Yes, she was scared. But she's pretty tough. She didn't give anything away.”

“He doesn't need much from her anyway if he's listening to your conversations with his little microphones. I hope he heard our little playlet last night.”

“You think that's him with the microphones?”

“Quite possibly,” Delaney said.

“Who else?”

“Police, maybe, from a couple of countries. Your own people, maybe. Braithwaite, for example. He's got a big stake in this. The Thais, maybe.”

“No,” Smith said. “Not Braithwaite. Not my people.”

“German police. German intelligence. BND. The Americans.” “The Americans?”

“No, probably not. Not yet, in your case anyway. They're interested in what I do now, as I told you. Not you. Not yet. That bug was planted when the Yanks didn't even know your name. If they even know it now.”

“The Americans can't be that interested in this in any case, surely.”

“The Americans have a long history of taking a great interest in things that might influence elections. Anywhere. Things that might put like-minded administrations in power somewhere, or recalcitrants out of power.” Smith looked dubious.

“What about your people?” he said. “Your friends at CSIS.”

“No, I don't think so. Canadian spooks play things a little different. They've got different priorities. They're still not in the big leagues. And they'd figure they don't need to plant microphones on this one anyway. They think they've got me for that sort of thing.” “Do they?”

“Not always.”

They walked some more. A man and a woman dressed in white stood at the edge of the sand and looked forlornly out. The woman threw a small bouquet of flowers onto the water and started to cry. Her partner rubbed infinity patterns on her back with his left hand. Their child, a sunburned blonde girl also dressed in white, built sand castles not far away and talked happily to herself as she worked.

Delaney and Smith stopped to watch from a distance.

“I'm leaving Fiona,” Smith said suddenly. “I thought you should know that, for some reason. Not sure why.”

“Well, well, well. There's the lead story, as we say in the trade,” Delaney said. “Yeah. It's a pretty big story.”

“Next step?” Delaney asked. “After that?”

“Not quite sure at this stage. Spain maybe. Or Bosnia. Not sure.”

“I see. With Conchi.”

“Oh yes,” Smith said.

“She knows this?”

“Who? Fiona or Conchi?” Smith smiled wryly.

“Both. Either.”

“Fiona, no. Not yet. Conchi, yes.”

“Spain. Nice this time of year.”

“It wouldn't be right away. There's still work to do here. And Conchi has her work left to do in Bosnia.” “Bosnia then.”

“Not sure yet. We'll sort it out.”

“Lots of unidentified bodies still in Bosnia.”

“Perhaps they'll need some help from a slightly damaged middle-aged fingerprint man over there,” Smith said with another smile, this one almost rueful. “That's who I am.”

“They're always in demand, my friend. Lots of identification work left to do out there in the big bad world.”

“Disaster victims,” Smith said. “People not unlike myself.”

“You're no victim, my friend,” Delaney said.

“No?”

“No. I don't think so,” Delaney said.

They agreed to meet in the afternoon at the Whale Bar. Smith said he needed to get back to work and needed more time to think. Delaney was glad of the unexpected additional time for thinking and resting.

Back at the hotel, he read a couple of agitated email messages from Rawson and listened to some Rawson voicemails. His editors at
International Geographic
were understandably agitated as well. There was little else of note on his computer screen or on his phone. Kate Hunter was maintaining her silence. Delaney was not sure when, or if, he would try to break that silence.

He slept for a while—in a hiatus, at that familiar point where a story, as a result of a reporter's intervention, begins to take on a new life of its own.

At 3 p.m. he showered and dressed and made his way past the smiling girls in the hotel lobby. All was quiet on the streets as his taxi made its way to the Whale Bar. The bar, too, was very quiet. Off-duty DVI teams had not yet filed in to swap stories.

A few people, not locals, were on high wooden stools, chatting to Prasan the barman. Only a couple of tables in the dimness down past the row of stools were filled. Smith was sitting at a small round table near the front, in a pool of warm sunlight that had formed on the floor below the plate-glass façade. Delaney was surprised, and not pleased, to see Conchi and Zalm sitting with him. This was to have been a working meeting, a meeting for private discussion about next steps—not for after-work drinks. Smith sensed his displeasure.

“Conchi and Stefan are just going to have a fast welcome-back drink with us, Frank, and then we can get down to business.” Delaney looked over at Zalm.

“Jonah is being very mysterious, Frank. He hasn't told me a thing,” Zalm said, raising his glass. “I'm still not to be trusted, it seems.”

“All will be revealed in due course,” Smith said.

“Will it?” Delaney said.

“You're in a very bad mood this afternoon,” Conchi said.

“Yeah, I am,” Delaney said.

“Have a drink,” Zalm said. “I'll buy.” Zalm summoned Prasan. The barman came over, gave their table a wipe, and smiled broadly at them all.

“Welcome back to the Whale,” he said to Delaney.

“Singhas again all around, I think, Prasan. Beer OK for you, Frank?” Zalm said.

“I'll have a small whisky with mine, thanks,” Delaney said.

“He is in a very bad mood, Prasan,” Conchi said. “Give him a very big whisky.”

It was true that Delaney was beginning to feel irritated, uneasy, that valuable time was being lost with social niceties in tropical bars.

They drank, made small talk, wasted time. Delaney could see Smith watching him and trying to make silent apologies across the table for the delay.

“Frank Delaney is now going to make things right,” Conchi said eventually, out of the blue. She seemed uncharacteristically giddy that afternoon. Perhaps she was in love. Perhaps it was the beer. “Then we can all get back to our normal work.”

“Is our work normal, Conchi, my dear?” Zalm asked, red in the face from the hot sun streaming through the expanse of window glass.

Delaney fought back his feelings of frustration. He sat half listening to the chatter and looked idly around. Prasan was deep in conversation with the drinkers sitting at the bar. One of the patrons from the back tables, a fat man in a sweat-stained white mourner's outfit, headed to the toilets near the entrance.

A tall man, not a Thai, came in from outside and sat at the lone table between their own and the L-shaped bar. Too close, Delaney thought, becoming increasingly irritated, for any serious conversation to be had with Smith even when Conchi and Zalm decided it was time to leave. He began to doubt that any real progress would be made that day at all.

The new arrival had a close-cropped military haircut and wore big aviator's sunglasses with dark green lenses. He set down on the floor a black Nike sports bag he had been carrying. He nodded silently at Delaney, and then went up to the bar to order his drink.
Cop
, Delaney thought.
Or soldier. Tough guy
.

After about 15 more minutes, Conchi and Zalm finished their beers and got ready to go.

“So sorry, mischief boys, we will go now and leave you all alone,” Conchi said. “Good idea,” Delaney said.

“Oh please, Frank Delaney, cheer up today, OK?” she said.