The Tsunami File by Michael E. Rose

feel you need assistance in this regard, Herr Professor,” said a German with the name “Krupp” embroidered on his team shirt. “We can be of assistance in this regard, with a lovely little woman like this.”
    â€œKrupp,” Smith said. “I would have thought you and your team would be more concerned that a file probably pertaining to an unidentified German body has gone missing.”
    â€œWe are most concerned, Herr Professor,” Krupp said. “It is a most unfortunate matter. We have in fact informed our team leader about this and you will be happy to know that another pathological examination of this body has been deemed appropriate.”
    â€œSimple,” Hamel said. “A file is lost by Interpol and we Germans will compile a new one.
    Simple.”
    Smith stood silently for a moment, resisting the urge to argue with them or to repeat his concerns. He turned away and walked back toward his section, saying nothing.
    â€œLose anything else lately, Herr Professor?” Krupp called out after him. “Any other difficulties of a more intimate nature you wish to discuss with your colleagues?”
    That night, Smith lay awake for a long time after he and Conchi had made love. She was staying overnight at his hotel more frequently now. He wondered where all of this business with Conchi might lead. Nowhere , he thought. Nowhere . He wondered whether Fiona was lying beside someone in their cramped bedroom back in London. She had not called him or emailed him at all during his time in Phuket. He sent her occasional emails with news, for form’s sake.
    Conchi slept soundly, face down, uncovered from the waist up. Her bare back moved up and down rhythmically as she dreamed. Smith lay on his back with a hand behind his head on the pillow. His head was spinning a little from the Mekong whisky they had drunk after dinner. His head was spinning as he analyzed his encounter with Braithwaite and tried to decide what, if any, his next steps should be.
    While they were eating dinner at his small table, Conchi had said again, as Zalm had done many times, as Braithwaite had warned him so forcefully, to simply let it go.
    â€œJonah, Jonah, Jonah, relax,” Conchi said.
    â€œWhy do you want to identify this one body so much?”
    â€œIt’s what I do, Conchi. I find out who people are.”
    â€œYou make too much of one thing.”
    â€œI know. I do. That’s how I am, I suppose,” he said.
    â€œYes, Jonah. Good boy. You see this about yourself,” she said.
    â€œBut you love me anyway, correct?” he said.
    â€œFor now.”
    â€œFor now, yes,” Conchi said, smiling at him over her tiny glass of Mekong.
    Sometime after Smith at last fell asleep that night, very late, someone pounded ferociously on the hotel room door. He woke with a start; Conchi woke with a start. He heard shouts from the other side of the door. It sounded like someone shouting in German.
    â€œJonah, what is this now?” Conchi said, sitting up and pulling a sheet to her shoulders. She was dazed by sleep and the sudden awakening. “Who is this in the middle of the night?”
    She seemed truly frightened. Smith got up and wrapped himself in a towel. The pounding at the door continued. It was definitely someone speaking German, cursing and grumbling it seemed, in German. He heard his name called out as well. He looked through the peephole of the door. “Who is it, Jonah, at this time of the night?” Conchi called out from the bedroom.
    Smith recognized who it was. It was Becker, a pathologist Smith knew by sight. A civilian who had come out to help the German DVI team with the identification effort. Becker was older by far than most of the other pathologists who had gathered in Phuket—in his late fifties or early sixties. Smith had heard it said that he was one of the most senior and respected pathologists at Frankfurt’s main military hospital.
    Smith