Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  He listened briefly, once more, before throwing the chewed pen top across the room where it bounced off the fan and disappeared into a corner. "It is impossible! I do not believe this… go check again. It is not possible. That is another one million Euros. It is incredible. Find out more… OK, so don't fuck about. Pay him to find out some more. Yah, I know he's a greedy bastard. Tahir was always a greedy bastard. But if he knows something then give him something…of course…are you stupid, Toni? Give it afterwards, not before."

  There was a short silence as Guido continued to listen and roll the remnants of the pen between his fingers. The boyish chuckle had, by now, been replaced by a throaty growl like a small dog. Then he said more quietly, "Oh, give him what he wants, Toni…Tahir is like a little baby…and probably a little bastard baby…so when he starts to cry like he's a hungry little bastard baby it means he wants his bottle…it's feeding time…give Tahir what Tahir likes to drink…give him some fucking whiskey."

  Chapter Eight

  AT LEK'S CAFE in Thailand, Lek was shuffling around in his stained tee shirt and baggy black trousers. He'd just watched Jim Smith wander off into the hot sun muttering something in English to himself.

  Lek didn't really understand the old 'farang' he'd been calling 'Jim' since he'd suddenly arrived three years ago. But Lek liked him. Despite the beard and long hair and that his lips moved because he talked to himself, Jim had been good for business. Jim, Lek thought, had a natural flair as a businessman. But for Jim there would be no red flashing sign outside Lek's Cafe saying, in English, "Cold Beer and WiFi" and never any young backpackers from faraway places or local children playing computer games.

  Lek's customers, even those who came in with their backpacks and mobile phones tempted by the red sign, could hardly not notice the old 'farang' sitting with his bottle of beer and staring at the screen of his old and dusty laptop computer in the corner. But with eye contact difficult on account of Jim's long hair and beard, they rarely, if ever, spoke to him. For this courtesy Jim seemed quietly appreciative and would reciprocate their generosity by ignoring them completely. What was it about farangs, wondered Lek. So far from wherever their home was, why not talk to one another. With Jim gone, Lek continued to conduct his business by wiping tables and mopping the floor.

  ***

  "Want to come up, Mother? Mind the third rung. It's loose."

  Jim Smith had been talking to himself and his long dead mother throughout the ride home. As he propped the motorcycle beneath the house amongst the dry, worm-eaten firewood and carried the duffel bag up the wooden steps onto what he referred to as his 'veranda,’ the conversation continued. Three years was a long time to have been living like this, but he had made the most of it—liked it in fact. What he missed was conversation.

  "Inane chatter about pettiness is something I can manage perfectly well without, Mother. Constructive dialogue is what I miss. Saying what you think aloud re-enforces the reasoning behind the thoughts."

  He opened the rickety wooden door, lowered his head, ventured into the dark and stiflingly hot interior and stood for a moment allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Sorry, Mother—I've done it again. I got my feet muddy earlier and there is mud on the steps. Go careful."

  Living alone in a tropical hideaway with few personal possessions had not been part of Jim Smith's original plans for life after sixty-five but it suited him. "I've never been a man for material possessions, clothes, domestic appliances, cars or holidays."

  To appear to be a harmless, poverty-stricken old opt-out from Western society content with painting, bird watching, private rituals and lonely meditation was perfect cover for Jim Smith's ongoing campaign. "Margaret would be shocked though, if she knew how I lived, Mother. Margaret liked spending money and shopping."

  There was a brief pause as he considered his habit of talking to himself. It was getting worse, but it didn't seem to matter so he did nothing to discourage it.

  "Merely thinking words reduces them to insignificance. Spoken words are remembered, Mother. Thoughts are so easily forgotten. Anyway…that aside, a pleasant enough ride back from town. Give it a few days for a reply from Jan and Jonathan and then you must make a firm decision, old chap. Regret the consequences of the decision if you must, but never regret the decision itself."

  He put the duffel bag with the laptop on the top of a pile of boxes, re-emerged into the bright sun and slumped into his old wicker chair. "It's not revenge, Mother. Revenge is for the weak. Righting the wrong is for the strong." Then he stood up again.

  "Work," he said even louder than normal. "Got to get a move on. Time to do some painting, Mother. I'm a man of strict routine. Routine is part of efficiency, of self-discipline and of unerring commitment to a job that, once started, must be completed totally and utterly to one’s satisfaction. Routine means good time management."

  Painting, every day, before it got too hot or when it cooled down a little was a serious routine that Jim rarely wavered from, so he went down the steps again. Painting was done by perching on a plastic stool inside a flimsy structure made out of strips of wood covered in mosquito netting and tied to the lower branches of the mango tree with nylon rope.

  "My studio, Mother, and we'll need the electric fan on today. It's warm. Just aim it at your legs. Anything higher and the paper flaps and I can't paint."

  Facing Jim was his painting of a mynah bird, the paper held by two bulldog clips to a sheet of plywood. This was propped against another plank of wood to keep it well away from the trunk of the mango tree. "It's the mut see-deng—the red ants—they march in line up and down the tree and right across my wet paint. It's partly why I prefer water colors to oils…but, where there's a will there's a way, I work with both."

  Jim was only moderately pleased with the mynah bird. Its eye was still not quite as he wanted. Eyes depicted mood, feeling and emotion and he felt he had been getting better at it, but the mynah seemed to be looking away from the viewer as if distracted. Unusually, he'd struggled with it for three days and it was not getting any better. He gave it one more go, looked at it sideways—"A little better I suppose"—then got up, tied the entrance to the studio with a short length of nylon string, picked up the drinking water bucket and carried it into the shade of the dog-koon tree. Here, he sat down, cross-legged.

  "Same bloody nightmare again last night, Mother. Then the headache this morning. Perhaps it's the coffee." He paused, took a mouthful of water from the plastic mug. "So, what made me wake up this morning? Oh yes, that bloody photo. Why on earth Margaret thought it was me is a mystery. It didn't even look like me. The man's hair was shorter, tidier, middle parting, probably a bloody ponytail as well and I've never been to such clubs in my life. I've been in bars and so on when abroad with clients, of course, but only occasionally. It went with the job. It was business. Serious stuff. But I have no idea what goes on in clubs like that in Soho and neither has Margaret.

  "She probably imagines otherwise decent men behave badly or oddly once inside them, Mother, that they use make-up and aftershave, dress strangely, do their hair to impress the waiting women in their short skirts, fluffy rabbit tails and long ears. But I know darned well I didn't leave the flat after ten thirty and certainly not to visit a nightclub in Soho."

  Chapter Nine

  A SHINY, BLACK BMW pulled silently away from the government building. Inside, taking up all of the rear seat, the Finance Minister relaxed. It had not been a bad performance, perhaps not one of his best, but he had never liked addressing post-budget conferences.

  This was his fourth such budget speech and each time the questions afterwards seemed to get harder. That was why he no longer sat alone at the grand table with the great flag behind him but with some suitably chosen support to both his right and to his left. As they answered questions of detail and sensitivity he could now relax, place his hands together in front of him and take his time to scan the audience of press and politicians and to smile and nod.

  As the Minister's
car began to negotiate the chaotic early evening city traffic, he glanced over the uniformed driver's shoulder, through the heavily tinted front windscreen. The white police car was in place, blue and red lights flashing. He looked behind where the second police car followed close up to the rear of the BMW. Feeling safe, he leaned over, snapped open the crocodile skin briefcase, extracted his speech notes and flipped to sheet three.

  "…so the Federal budget is primarily aimed at bringing almost half of the country's population above the dreaded poverty line…"

  Mistake. He should never have listened to Secretary of Finance, Masoog. Never use words like 'almost' and 'dreaded' and never, ever quote figures that made the future look just as bleak as the past. But he had managed to get Masooq himself, sitting on his right, to reply to the question on that one so he had smiled.

  He skimmed further.

  "…If we consider two dollars the minimum daily wage then ninety million people live below the poverty line, so we will launch many new schemes to help the needy, provide soft loans to unemployed youths and assist students to gain the qualifications the country so badly needs. And, following the agreements signed in New York and London, the country will now stand to benefit from international aid specifically targeted at these groups."

  Good. He'd mentioned schemes, funds, loans. Positive news. He'd drawn in the unemployed, the students and had then handed questions on that to the Chairman of the Federal Revenue Board, Tariq. And Tariq, sitting to his left, had also done well. What was it Tariq had said? "These outstanding new steps will ensure sustainable development." It was always good to mention sustainability if the world's press were there to pick it up. And then Tariq had said, "The Government's Youth Program, Business Start-Up scheme and Income Support scheme can only lead to rapid improvements for all…"

  The Finance Minister smiled again, tucked the notes back into his case, snapped it shut, closed his eyes and thought instead about the purchase of the new penthouse apartment he'd just finalized in Dubai.

  Chapter Ten

  "IT IS MR. Hamid and Mr. Farid, yah? Good, good. Buongiorno e benvenuti alla bella Italia. Welcome to Italy—to Milano. I am Guido, Signore Guido if you like but Guido is OK. Oggi fa molto caldo. It is very hot today, no? OK. Come, come, follow me."

  Hamid and Farid, the two Lebanese, had taken a late afternoon KLM flight from Amsterdam. They glanced at one another with raised eyebrows but followed the short and stocky frame of the Italian as he marched in quick strides towards the exit.

  "Yah, my car," he pointed as they arrived outside. He ushered them towards a large black Mercedes illegally parked but watched over by an airport security man. "Molto grazie, Umberto. It is not far. Please put your cases on the back seat. That is a nice case, Mr. Hamid. Is it Italian? We will arrive to talk the business in no time. Relax."

  He got in and drove off but continued talking. The two Lebanese behind continued to glance at each other and shrug. Neither of them could see their host for the headrest was positioned well above the top of his head and the seat so low it was debatable whether he could see the road ahead. Nevertheless, he drove quickly and expertly and in the heart of Milan he stopped outside a restaurant, jumped out, handed the car keys to someone and led the way into the restaurant. "Donna worry about your nice cases. Everything is safe with Bruno. Mi segua—follow me, please."

  The choice of restaurant was obvious. The Park Hyatt Milano where the visitors were booked to stay was close by.

  As Guido pushed the door open, an elderly waiter in a black suit rushed forward. "Ah, Giuseppe. We are here. These are my guests." Giusepppe bent down to Guido's level and planted a delicate but manly, cheek-to-cheek kiss. Guido touched the spot where their cheeks had touched and smiled. "Yah," he said. "These are my good friends from Beirut, John," he said using, perhaps, Giuseppe's preferred name for non-Italians.

  "Welcome, your table is ready." Then he whispered to Guido. "We have a case of 2007 Sassicaia for you or if you prefer…"

  "Yes, the Sassicaia, and give Bruno a case for my car. No need for the menu. It is too late for them, they ate on the plane and they have had a busy day. Give them a pizza margarita and I will explain why it is called margarita. As for me, I'll have mundeghili de vitel alla milanese, insalatina di asparagi e salsa alla senape."

  "Of course, of course," Guiseppe said, flapping white napkins. Was he pleased to see Guido? After forty years in the trade it was impossible to know.

  The single bottle of wine was brought and poured without tasting. "Salute," Guido said lifting his glass. He sipped it, but then took a full mouthful, washed it around his mouth and swallowed. His two guests watched, sipped and looked at each other as Guido stuffed a pure white napkin into his shirt collar, coughed and thumped his wide, soft chest. "Yes, it is a my favorite. I like it. It is the best from Tuscany," he announced speaking in English. "We will eat soon. Fabrizio is the master for the pizza margarita. Italian food is much better than Lebanese." He gave his gurgling laugh at his own humor and then drained the glass. "So," he said, "Your business is now established?"

  "Yes, it is called Cherry Pick Investments," the one called Farid replied. "It is registered in Singapore. We can now start."

  "Yah, yah. What do you have in mind?"

  The two Lebanese looked at one another as if unsure who should speak. It was Farid again. "There is an organization called the Coalition for Arab Youth—CAY," he said. "It is to support groups of young people who want to see a peaceful outcome to the many on-going conflicts in the Middle East."

  "But?" asked Guido, reaching across the table to pour himself another glassful. He smiled over the rim, the small beady eyes staring at Farid.

  "But, maybe not." Farid tried returning the smile.

  Guido raised an eyebrow with his own smile fixed into position. "It is not something I have heard of. Who runs this youthful coalition?"

  "A woman professor from the American University of Beirut. She has a small network of teachers who try to encourage peaceful dialogue not armed struggle. It has received some publicity and has a record of organizing events and conferences…"

  Guido clapped his hands. "Good. A track record is so necessary. Some paperwork, a few press releases and some important sounding names like Professor X or Doctor Y. Go on, please."

  Farid continued. "But she is struggling for lack of funds."

  "Ah, and what would she do with money?"

  "She will establish new Coalition for Arab Youth offices in Saudi Arabia, Dubai, Jordan and Tel Aviv run by women who agree with its principles."

  "Very nice. And how much would this cost?"

  Farid hesitated. "About two million Euros—maybe over three years."

  "Very nice. And how do you fit into this noble plan to enrich Arab youths?"

  Farid looked at Hamid. Hamid spoke. "The professor is my wife."

  Guido did not flinch. "Ah, here comes your pizza and here comes my mundeghili de vitel alla milanese. Let us eat…and also talk."

  After one mouthful of pizza for the Lebanese, Guido, his mouth full of food, looked up from his plate. His eyes flashed from Farid to Hamid and back again. "So, where will the money come from?"

  Hamid was chewing on a piece of dry pizza crust. "We need help. Can you help us? We were told you are very expert in this matter. We believe there are European funds that might be available."

  "Yes, you are correct and I am an expert. The criteria will be that it meets European Middle East policy. Who decides the policy is a complete mystery to us voters, but that is the way our democracy works. But once it's there we do with it what we can. Here it is similar to the old USSR but not yet as bad as North Korea." He giggled and as he did so a large piece of green asparagus landed in the middle of the table next to the water jug. Still stuffing more food into his mouth he went on:

  "And who will ensure the funding is properly used and fully accounted for? We can't have taxpayers feeling aggrieved that their money ends up in the pockets of rich men living in Beirut, o
r with Hamas or evil people like ISIS or Al Shebab or Boko Haram." His eyes flickered between his two guests.

  Hamid put his knife down. "We have a management company in Beirut and…"

  Guido interrupted. "Is this Cherry Pick, Beirut, Limited?" He giggled once more and another speck of chewed food flew from his open mouth.

  Hamid tried to smile. "We are thinking to bid for funds with a management charge of say fifteen percent. That would be in order?"

  He watched and waited as Guido scraped the last forkful, put it in his mouth, pulled the stiff white napkin from out of his shirt collar and wiped his face. Chewing on what was still left in his mouth he screwed the napkin up, threw it into the middle of the table and watched it slowly unfold itself once again.

  "Fuck—I told Giuseppe about that. I have warned him many times. The fucking laundry uses too much starch. If these people cannot do what customers want, do they know what will happen to their business?" With that he drew a short, fat finger across his soft, white neck and glared around as if looking for Giuseppe. Then, with barely a pause:

  "But fifteen percent, that is nothing. It is not worth getting out of bed. With good advice and careful management, fifteen percent would be a gross underestimate. If Cherry Picking is to benefit from this well-meaning organization, it should look to make at least fifty percent. You must be more ambitious, my friends. If you want advice on the bid process, to draw down money to ensure it travels in the right direction and then cover your tracks, then say so, but fifteen percent will only just cover Guido's charges."

  "I see," said Farid and Hamid in unison again. "So it is possible?"

  "Of course," Guido replied and he spread his short arms wide. "To be ambitious—that is my motto. You know we have a saying in Italy—a rubar poco si va in galera, a rubar tanto si va cariera. You know what that is in English, my friends?