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

said. “What is that supposed to mean?”
    â€œI would like to get to the bottom of this if I can,” Smith said.
    Braithwaite was so incensed he stood up behind his desk and jammed his cigar into the ash mug on his desk.
    â€œSmith, let me be clear about this. I want you to listen very carefully to this. I want no pathetic amateur sleuthing going on during this operation, no bullshit wild goose chases over a minor clerical error. What on earth can you be thinking of? There is nothing to get to the bottom of in this, Smith. A file has been mislaid or lost. This happens in a place like this. It will turn up or it will not turn up, but I want you to cease and desist immediately with these harebrained conspiracy theories and get on with your work. I know the Secretary-General of Interpol personally. He has been out here on a visit and I know him from the old days anyway and I’m warning you, Smith, that if you persist in wasting my time and your time when you are out here in Phuket I will pick up the phone and have your ass hauled back to Lyon so fast your head will spin. I was never clear how you finagled that cushy little secondment to Interpol anyway and I can see now that it’s gone completely to your head. You’re a fingerprint technician, Smith. You’re not a police officer. You know fuck-all about investigations and I will not have you trying to get to the bottom of anything except the pile of fingerprint IDs sitting on your desk. Are we clear on this, Smith? Because I want you to be very clear on this. And I now want you to get the hell out of my office.” Smith stood up.
    â€œI’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” he said.
    â€œOut,” Braithwaite said.
    Smith stood up. “Sir,” he said.
    â€œAnd, Smith,” Braithwaite said. “If I hear of you bothering Colonel Pridiyathorn or the Germans or anybody else with any of this nonsense, after our little attitude meeting here today, I will have your guts for garters. Before I have your body shipped back to France. Or London. Or wherever. Understood?”
    Smith did not intend to immediately ignore Braithwaite’s orders, but he had to pass the German DVI section on the way back to his desk. Three of the team were there, in their identical spotless white golf shirts, two standing, one sitting, and all intently studying what looked like a series of numerical DNA data on a laptop computer screen. Smith knew one of them by name, Peter Hamel, a bearded Landeskriminalamt officer from a small city in some northern German state. The other two, Smith had seen almost every day but had not got to know. Hamel looked up, grinning as Smith walked by. “Professor Smith, Professor Smith,” Hamel called out, nudging one of his colleagues with an elbow. “Have you located by any chance the missing Deutschland file?”
    Smith had approached Hamel when he first started trying to locate the file. Hamel, however, had been interested only insofar as the missing person in question had a tattoo that almost certainly made him a German national.
    â€œHave you?” Smith said.
    â€œNot our responsibility, Professor,” Hamel said. His hand wandered as it always did to the bad comb-over he used, ineffectively, to cover his sunburned balding pate. “We are models of German efficiency in this section. We are not prone to, how shall I say, file loss.”
    Hamel’s colleagues chuckled. Smith looked over his shoulder, hoping Braithwaite would not see him with the German team so soon after their meeting. I am becoming paranoid, Smith thought.
    â€œOr erection loss,” one of the other Germans said. All three of them laughed extravagantly.
    â€œDid you lose anything else lately with your little Spanish sweetheart, Professor?” Hamel said. “She would be a challenge for someone of your age, I would imagine. Lose anything else lately, Professor?”
    â€œSend her over to the German section if you