The Tsunami File by Michael E. Rose Read Free Book Online

looked aggrieved. “Noted, thank you,” Braithwaite said again. He turned to Colonel Pridiyathorn, a career Thai policeman who had been given the similarly uninviting assignment by Thailand to help coordinate, with Braithwaite, the entire DVI operation. More than four thousand drownings altogether and tourists from 35 countries missing.
    â€œColonel, can you approach donor countries to see what can be done?” Braithwaite said.
    â€œYes, I will see to it,” Pridiyathorn said gravely, noting the request on a yellow legal pad. His face was heavily lined. Smith doubted the colonel had been getting more than four hours’ sleep a night since December.
    Pridiyathorn wore a green Thai police uniform, complete with holstered sidearm. Braithwaite was in a generic blue policeman’s shirt, not London Metropolitan Police issue, with the added feature of special button-on “TTVI IMC Commander” insignia on the epaulettes. Thai designers had been very busy making up banners and regalia after the disaster.
    â€œThank you, Austria,” Braithwaite said.
    â€œOther issues?”
    Smith thought for a moment of raising his hand to describe the problem of the missing Deutschland file, but did not. A face-to-face session with Braithwaite would be more effective.
    â€œTransport services could use a new fax machine,” said an American voice. “Ours has packed it in.”
    â€œNoted,” Braithwaite said, looking over to Pridiyathorn, who entered the request on his pad. “Anything else?”
    No one else in the hall raised their hand. “Good,” Braithwaite said. “Now, confirmed identifications?”
    Smith daydreamed as the various teams droned on about identifications made. After some initial mistakes in January, a proper coronial system and the Identification Board had been introduced in Phuket, with checks and double-checks and crosschecks so that all identifications were solid. As the month of April approached, no foreigner’s body left Phuket before the most senior Thai officials and the DVI commanders themselves were convinced the identification was correct.
    Detective Chief Superintendent Adrian Braithwaite of the London Metropolitan Police had one of the very few enclosed offices in the management centre. It had likely belonged to the man who ran the telephone exchange in the building years ago. The fact that it was enclosed meant that the modern air-conditioning system installed in the main working areas did not help out much in Braithwaite’s space. A small Toshiba cooling unit had been installed in the window facing onto the street, and a revolving floor fan near the door. Both hummed steadily, but Braithwaite was still suffering.
    His face was beaded with sweat and he regarded Smith contemptuously across his large red-hued wooden desk, another relic from the previous occupant. Braithwaite’s blue shirt was randomly mottled darker blue with dampness. His large malodorous cigar dribbled ash.
    â€œYou’re not actually a sworn police officer, if I remember correctly, are you Smith? You’re a civilian, if I remember correctly,” Braithwaite said as he tried to unload cigar ash into a souvenir FBI coffee mug he kept on his desk for that purpose.
    Smith knew that if Braithwaite was playing the civilian card, the time spent that afternoon explaining his concerns about the missing file had been wasted.
    â€œYes, sir. Twenty-one years this year.”
    â€œThat long,” Braithwaite said.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI suppose after all those years, civilian employees of the Met Police could be forgiven for thinking they can somehow acquire investigative skills by osmosis.”
    Braithwaite tapped his cigar, hoping Smith would take offence.
    â€œI’ve worked alongside police officers on a lot of difficult cases,” Smith said.
    â€œHave you now,” Braithwaite said, plugging his cigar back between his lips.
    â€œYes,