The Tsunami File (19 page)

Delaney himself was feeling stifled after such a long online research session in his room. It was a sultry Phuket evening and from his open balcony door he could see giant thunderclouds building over Chalong Bay. A heavy overnight rain might break the oppressive humidity but any downpour was some hours away yet. His air conditioner was off, as usual. After years of life spent in hotel rooms, he had developed a strong preference for sleeping under fans.

He headed down to the lobby bar, laptop in hand. The night-desk girls, like the day shift, were aware, apparently, of his preference for solitude, possibly celibacy. Unlike so many of the male hotel residents, he had not found himself a local Thai “friend,” whether male or female, to bring back to his room each night. The night-desk girls found this worthy of an intense round of giggles every time he returned to the hotel alone and asked for his room key. As he passed them on the way to the bar, the giggles followed him until he was well inside.

The Metropole bar, like thousand of bars in upmarket hotels around the world, was dark, heavily carpeted, tinkling faintly with piano sounds, clinking with ice in glasses, and humming faintly with conversations in many languages. He sat at the long wooden bar along with the usual suspects. Journalists on assignment, stir-crazy European sales representatives, and, in this case, a good sampling of off-duty police, European and Thai. The hotel management frowned on prostitutes actually sitting in the bar, so Delaney did not have to fend off offers of company here.

He had developed the habit, again from too many years alone on the road, of repairing to such dim oases to think things through; when on assignment he needed some time to reflect carefully on information gathered and information still required. He ordered a double Jameson's and a beer, and pondered the situation he had encountered.

Rawson was absolutely correct. This was not at all the usual
International Geographic
hippos in the waterhole kind of story that he was starting to cover, or uncover. But, as usual for him, exactly where a story might lead and whether a story would ever make it into print was actually beside the point. At this stage he was simply seeking information.

Eventually, having read through and amplified his many pages of notes on the story so far, from the day he had first met Jonah Smith at the victims' funeral service at Phuket airport until logging off the news databases only a short while ago, having given the developing saga his undivided attention over a series of overpriced whiskies, Delaney made up his mind that his next destination must be Berlin.

He opened his laptop and composed two email messages. The first was for Rawson in Ottawa:

Jonathan, I have the third name for you. It is Klaus Wolfgang Heinrich. D.O.B. 18/05/40. Deceased possibly 08/10/01, possibly 24/12/04. Apparently a West German spook. What have you got? Bests, FD.

For Ackermann, there was this:

Dear Gunter. So sorry to have caught you, as it were, so early this morning. Far too early, I know. Sorry, sorry, sorry. But pressing affairs of state made it unavoidable, et cetera. Some good news for you, my friend. You will be delighted to know I'm coming to Berlin ASAP. Fun times ahead. Stand by. Regards, Delaney.

Delaney decided to approach Horst Becker directly. He didn't ask Smith for an opinion on this move, because he suspected that Smith would advise against it. He didn't ask press officer Ruth Connolly for permission to interview this particular member of the DVI teams; first, because he was absolutely sure she would forbid it, and second, because she seemed to be drowning in a sea of other troubles in her unenviable assignment of managing the world's media in Phuket while simultaneously managing a giant sampling of the world's police.

He had seen Connolly squabbling again a day previously with the Kendall man, about some public relations misdemeanour or other. And he had seen her locked in conversation, or possibly debate, with Braithwaite on the steps of the IMC as he arrived a day before that. As he passed them, Connolly and Braithwaite stopped their conversation and watched in silence. Perhaps, Delaney thought, as they would watch a condemned man walking to the gallows. Wishful thinking on their part. Or perhaps he was just becoming paranoid.

Delaney called Becker quite late, after he had got back to his room from the hotel bar. His decision to take the step of calling the German pathologist was assisted somewhat by the rapid series of whiskies and beers he had consumed that evening. Smith had told him Becker was staying in a villa somewhere well out of town with a number of other German colleagues. His phone number was on a neatly typed list of DVI team contacts Smith had been given by the Thai police when he arrived in Phuket, a copy of which Smith had very kindly donated to
International Geographic
.

“
Ja,
” Becker said after just one ring on his mobile phone.

“Mr. Becker, this is Frank Delaney. I'm a journalist doing a story here for a magazine. I'm sorry to call you after hours.”

There was only a slight pause at the other end.

“I know about you, Delaney,” Becker said.

“I was wondering if I could perhaps come to see you, to do an interview.” Another pause, again only very slight. “I see you have abandoned altogether the proper channels for such requests,” Becker said.

Now the slight hesitation came from Delaney's end.

“I suppose I have,” he said.

“I am not surprised by your request, Delaney,”

Becker said.

“I see,” Delaney said.

Another slight hesitation from the German side. Then Becker said: “Tomorrow, yes?”

“That's fine. When and where?”

“It is for you to choose. The prerogative of the journalist?”

Delaney hadn't thought this would be so easy. He had not expected to also be able to choose the venue. He thought the management centre would be too public a place, in case discussion got heated.

“Your villa?” he said.

“You are already aware of my accommodation details,” Becker said. “Very good.”

“Will that be all right?”

“Yes.”

“Ten o'clock?”

“Yes. I will be alone here then.”

“If you prefer,” Delaney said.

“I do,” Becker said.

Delaney called Bishop in his room. It was well after 11 p.m.

“You sober, Tim?”

“Always, Frank. Are you?”

“Sort of. Not really.”

“What's up?”

“You want to take some wildlife pictures tomorrow?” Delaney said. “A possibly dangerous beast?”

“Sure. What time?”

Delaney rented a car the next morning for the drive out to the German team's villa. In his experience, it was always better to have return transportation arranged, if an interview was expected to be hostile and it was to take place away from major thoroughfares where taxis ply their trade.

Bishop was happy to be on a shoot of any sort. Delaney explained on the way that Horst Becker, however, would not be happy with the sort of questions he was going to be asked about a missing DVI file and that they both might get ejected from the house. He did not tell Bishop that he badly wanted a photograph of Becker to show Ackermann, and possibly others in Berlin and Ottawa, if required.

Becker's bald head looked for all the world like a glistening, partially excavated flesh-toned cannonball. The archeological impression was reinforced by the grey beard that covered the bottom half of the aging sphere.

A Thai houseboy had come to the door of the villa, but Becker was standing right behind. The German pathologist wasn't wearing a DVI team shirt. Instead he had on a khaki expedition shirt, with button pockets on the chest, and epaulettes. Khaki trousers matched the safari look. All was immaculate, military-style, precisely pressed. Only the leather sandals betrayed a certain informality.

“And who is this with you, Delaney?” Becker said as they all stood at the doorway. He did not offer a handshake.

“This is my photographer, Tim Bishop,”

Delaney said.

“You said nothing about bringing a photographer.”

“It's standard procedure for my magazine to have pictures of people I interview.” Bishop was fitting a wide-angle lens to one of his cameras while he waited.

“There is no need to prepare your equipment, young man. There will be no photographs taken here today.” Becker said.

“Why is that, Mr. Becker?” Delaney said. Bishop looked over at Delaney, as he had looked often in previous assignments in many places around the world, often rather unpleasant and dangerous places, waiting for a cue as to whether to try to take a few quick shots before being sent away by an uncooperative subject.

“No photos,” Becker said. “If you raise that camera, young man, I can assure you your career will be over.”

Bishop enjoyed such situations very much. He was no longer bored. Becker locked eyes with Delaney.

“Let's not play journalist games this morning, if you please, Delaney. Send your young man away. You and I will go inside.”

“I'll go have a juice somewhere, Frank,” Bishop said. “There's a place down the road I saw coming in. Call me on my cell when you're done.”

Delaney was sure Bishop would take lots of shots of the exterior of the house as he left, as well as the car in the driveway, the mailbox, the houseboy if possible, the neighbours' houses and anything else of any remote possible interest.

“OK, Tim. Maybe Mr. Becker will change his mind after we've had the interview.” “This will not happen,” Becker said.

They sat at a wicker dining table in an alcove near sliding doors to a long back courtyard filled with fragrant flowering jasmine and bougainvillea. The houseboy brought them iced tea. Delaney wondered if the boy might be Becker's bit of local R&R. Becker looked like any number of aging German sex tourists who got off planes in Thailand on any given day. Except that Becker had other reasons for coming to Thailand, possibly even legitimate ones.

“I am not a man who likes to waste time, Delaney,” Becker said.

“I see,” Delaney said. “Well, then, thank you for agreeing to meet me today.”

“Let us not waste time then pretending you are here as a journalist today,” Becker said.

“I am a journalist,” Delaney said.

“Please,” Becker said. “You insult my intelligence. My only problem has been trying to find out who you actually work for.” “Why do you think I'm here?”

“The file,” Becker said without hesitation.

“Jonah Smith.”

Delaney had not expected to get down to basics so quickly that morning.

“That's something that would interest a journalist, wouldn't it? A missing file?”

“Or someone else.”

“Like who?”

“That is what I would like to find out. Who you are and why you are here in Phuket.”

“So you will be interviewing me today?” Delaney said.

“In a sense, yes,” Becker said.

“Look, Mr. Becker, as you don't like to waste time, I'll just get straight to the point. I'm a journalist, despite what other theories you might have developed. I'm doing a story for
International Geographic
about the DVI work here and in other places like Sri Lanka and the Maldives. I've interviewed a lot of people. Along the way, I've been told about a file that's gone missing here. . . .” “By Smith,” Becker said.

“. . . It sounds to me like a breach of procedure or security and it may be that a body that could have been identified may now not get identified. That's something that would interest a journalist, surely.”

“Or someone else.”

“Can you help me with this angle, Mr.

Becker?”

“Why do you think I would have information on such matters, Delaney?”

“The body was a German national.”

“Was it?” Becker said.

“I believe so.”

“Someone has told you this, or you have proof?”

“There was a tattoo, for example. It said
Deutschland
, apparently.”

“You have seen this body? You have seen such an identifying mark? You have seen the missing file? Some papers? Who tells you such things? These are confidential matters. You are confident about these facts?”

“Can you confirm any of these facts for me, Mr. Becker?”

“Why would you think I am able to do that, Delaney? And why do you think I would assist you in police matters even if I had such an ability?”

Delaney said: “Why did you go to Jonah Smith's hotel last week and warn him to stop asking about the file, Mr. Becker? As we're not wasting any time here today . . .”

Becker got to his feet and stood over Delaney, as short men often do. His face had been reddening. Beads of sweat glistened on the top of his smooth head.