Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  "No," they said.

  "Steal a little and go to jail. Steal a lot and make a career of it. Ha, ha!" As he laughed, he looked around, caught the eye of a waiter and beckoned for the bill.

  Hamid and Farid, still struggling with their pizzas, listened to Guido's high-pitched laughter as it suddenly stopped and his tone became serious. Sitting with the top of his round head only just above the chair back, he asked. "So what other plans do you have for Cherry Picking? It is such a waste if I teach you how to play the game and you only play the game once."

  "Ah yes," said Hamid. "I do not always live in Beirut. Sometimes I visit my associates in Lagos, Nigeria, and Freetown in Sierra Leone. We have trading companies there. They are also called Cherry—Cherry Trading, Cherry Imports, Cherry Marketing."

  "And what do these companies do?" Guido asked as the waiter presented the bill on a silver plate. "Gracis, please leave it there. I will check it for accuracy."

  "Ah, many things," Hamid said doubtfully and glancing at Farid. "One thing is we deal in—what shall we say—computers."

  "Yah?" Guido leaned forward as much as the fully-fastened suit jacket allowed. He rested his arms on the table and entwined eight stubby fingers as if to say grace. On one middle finger was a large ring with a blue stone. On the other middle finger sat a wide, silver ring. "So tell me about these companies—or just tell me what you want me to hear."

  "Yes," continued Hamid. "We plan to diversify…"

  "Don't we all," Guido interrupted. "Please proceed."

  "Yes, we import old computers, service them and sell them to schools."

  "Very nice business," he said. "Anything else?"

  "Ah, we are also in the jewellery business."

  Guido used the middle finger with the blue stone to scratch his nose. "May I ask where you buy your stones?"

  "Uh, Bangkok," Hamid said hesitantly.

  "So what you are saying is that the stones really come from next door—from Myanmar? Guido knows many sorts of businesses you see " The small, beady eyes moved rapidly from Hamid to Farid and back again.

  "Ah, yes," said Hamid.

  "O…K," said Guido slowly as if a lot were going on inside his head. "Jewellery is a nice business. I like it. With jewellery we do not need money." He paused. "Your company in Lagos, Nigeria. Who runs it?"

  Hamid looked at Farid again. Farid looked at Guido. Guido looked at both of them in turn. It was Hamid who spoke. "Ah, it is a family business. My brother, Marcel, is in charge."

  "More family business," Guido said happily, apparently sensing it might be complicated and that he would need to concentrate if he was to remember names. He closed his eyes.

  "My brother Marcel is married to Farid's sister, Nadine."

  "Cozy," said Guido, his eyes firmly shut as if visualizing Nadine. "I like it. And your wife's name—the one who runs the so-called Coalition for Arab Youth—CAY?"

  "Ah, my wife," Hamid said, apparently warming to the word cozy. "Yes my wife is Leila. And we have two children, both girls, Nancy is seven and Diana is thirteen. My wife liked the Princess."

  "How nice," said Guido, his eyes perhaps smiling behind the closed lids. "And you, Farid. How is your family?"

  "Yes, I also am married. My wife is Sabah and we have two children also."

  "I like it," Guido said. "It is good to keep things in a family.” He opened his eyes at last and focused them on Farid. "So who is your contact in Myanmar?"

  Suddenly forced from the soft, coziness of family talk back to the hard commercial, Farid and Hamid's smiles ceased. "Uh, we don't know," said Farid.

  "Mmm." Guido sat back looking across the table at two half-finished pizzas. "There are new and exciting opportunities to be found in South East Asia, but I cannot tell you more about what I'm thinking without understanding your business better. A pity, but never mind." He paused. "OK, we will talk in more detail at your hotel. It is not so late and tomorrow I am too busy. Together we will ensure the future success of Cherry Picking. But…" he paused again, "You have already made a very good start by meeting Guido in Milano. The only problem was to eat the pizza."

  Chapter Eleven

  JIM SMITH WAS feeling hungry.

  He was still sitting cross-legged beneath the dog-koon tree in the cooling breeze from the electric fan on an extension lead, but he knew there was nothing in the house except a blackening bunch of bananas covered in fruit flies.

  It was now late afternoon and thinking the headache that was threatening to return was a sign of a lack of food he wheeled the motorcycle out and drove up the dirt track onto the main road. Then he headed towards the town and a roadside shop that sold everything from meat and fish balls on sticks to baskets of 'battu'—steamed Indian mackerel. The air was still, hot and humid as he rode homewards, still talking to himself.

  It was a year after his election that he had flown out of London Heathrow Airport to Frankfurt and then on to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia.

  "I needed the space," he mumbled into the oncoming hot wind as if talking to someone who sat behind him on the motorcycle. "Time to think and decide what to do. I was in a serious spot of trouble. When I was running the business I could escape to my office to think and emerge a few hours later with my mind clear and a sensible plan in my head. But in that bloody zoo, I had no hiding place, the nonsense seemed to follow me everywhere. If they thought I'd just give up, however, they were badly mistaken. They had no idea what makes me tick. I was James Smith and I am still the same James Smith, an obstinate bugger when it comes to doing what I think is right."

  But as a newly elected Independent Member of Parliament Jim was, he admitted, still a bit green when it came to politics.

  For the first time in his life he was unsure what to do for the best. All he knew was that someone, somewhere, wanted him out of the way. How far they might go was what worried him but the feeling persisted that he'd highlighted something so awkward for someone somewhere that they wanted him destroyed—completely.

  "I knew I would upset one or two people along the way, but I assumed they'd be big enough to handle it and perhaps do something. It seemed I was an independent, free-willed, politically incorrect old fart who had no business coming into their profession and behaving like a bull in a china shop. But I didn't reckon on a bigger gang joining in."

  The mumbling stopped as he turned off the road and bumped along the track leading to the house, but his mind was still on the past. The first casualty of the process to discredit him was his marriage. After thirty years of married life, he and Margaret had, as the media called it, 'separated.'

  Sitting on the 'veranda,’ he prodded a meatball with a stick, dipped it in chilli sauce, took a handful of raw, shredded cabbage, chewed, spat out a tiny piece of bone and wiped his mouth with his hand.

  "Look at it this way, Mother," he muttered. "I now realize that other politicians who suspected something of this magnitude might have decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Others might, I suppose, wait for the right moment to publish a book of revelations, by which time it would be back in the mists of time, deniable and far too late to do anything. But a book, suitably peppered with innuendo and just a few facts, might be profitable enough to boost a pension pot. Some might share opinions with one or two trusted friends in quiet restaurants and agree it was best to let the dogs lie for the sake of their careers. But I am a stubborn bastard, Mother. I was not like the other elected politicians. I had no Party, no friends and no allies. I had become an awkward outsider with an unconventional style and no one to share a cozy supper with. In fact, I knew I had made some unseen enemies."

  He stood up, bent his head so as not to hit the overhanging tin roof and went inside to fetch his bucket of drinking water—water he collected every time it rained. He brought it outside, sat in the chair and gulped down a mug full. The sun had now disappeared and a fresh, cooling breeze was picking up.

  So why had he gone into politics? It was as if his mother had just asked him.

  "Time on m
y hands, Mother. Not enough had been happening, you see. I'd always been so busy. But it had made sense to sell the business. Bigger businesses had been hovering around for quite a while as it became clear that the company needed the extra clout a publicly owned multinational could offer so I agreed rather reluctantly. It was my baby. I'd started it, ran it my way and was afraid it would lose its identity as part of something much bigger. But it made sense in other ways and I was pleased with the way the business had grown from a one-man band to employ over a hundred and at the cutting edge of technology. We were exporting to over seventy countries and had subsidiaries in Singapore and South Africa and a new joint venture just going in China that had taken the best part of a year to resolve the details. But, by the signing date, and having rejected the chance to continue as an advisor to the new Board, I knew I'd soon get bored.

  "But what I brought with me on my first days as a new boy in politics was not a book of rules and regulations, but a bag of dirty washing and a few other files that showed that all was not quite as it should be in the corridors of power. Then I quickly learned that the rules and regulations that I had not fully read were often used to pour cold water on controversy and unpopular opinion and kick them into the long grass where they could be lost and hopefully forgotten altogether. And I quickly learned not to expect support from anyone however high up the chain of command; after all they were far too busy trying to remain popular until the next election. If they got a whiff of something that smelled a little unpleasant, they wanted to move away to where the air smelled fresher.

  "But that left those targeted by this obnoxious old fart pulling dirty washing out of the bag he'd brought with him to start to play a new game—a game with few rules and no bloody sympathy."

  He suddenly sprang to his feet and went inside the house, conscious of the use of a couple of words his mother would have frowned on. He had almost heard her. "Language, James, language." But he still felt annoyed, annoyed enough to use words he, himself, didn't like.

  Five minutes later he re-emerged carrying a cup of coffee and wearing just his shorts. He sat down in the chair once more. Darkness was now enveloping the house.

  "Yes, Mother, it was one hell of a whirlwind during the few weeks before I eventually arrived in Kuala Lumpur. Perhaps if I had been any other politician facing the same sort of attention I might have deliberately gone to ground by staying inside my London flat. In fact, I tried it for two days and spent the whole time on the internet and watching TV. But I've always hated being housebound and with a group of photographers and a TV camera parked outside it was two days too many. It was also unfair on the other residents of the block and I had gone out of my way to apologize for the inconvenience. With no rear exit that didn't involve trespassing and clambering over numerous fences and walls, I'd tried to leave by the front door just to buy some newspapers to read what sort of fuss they were now making of me. But it had been hard going pushing my way through the crowd and then they followed me. Finally, I turned back again and locked the door. But I could read all about the fuss on the internet, TV and radio anyway so I wasn't missing much.

  "But much of my life for the past thirty years involved hopping on and off airplanes, so a vague plan started to form. I decided to go abroad for a few days to be alone to think. So, I packed an overnight case with a few bare essentials and some paperwork, took a deep breath, made my way up the steps to street level, forced through the crowd on the pavement and flagged down a taxi to Heathrow Airport.

  "I flew to Frankfurt and stayed overnight in the Sheraton Hotel. But because a small group, including two familiar faces, still seemed to know where I was and were in the hotel foyer next morning, I returned to the airport. Then, for no other reason than there was a Lufthansa flight going to Nairobi and I have always liked Nairobi I bought a ticket. A day later, I took a Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong thinking that that, surely, would be enough to find myself alone. But, no. A new face appeared. He followed me in a taxi all the way from the airport into Kowloon—a Chinese man in jeans, just like the later one in KL—and they no longer had cameras. That was what started to unnerve me. The next day I flew to Kuala Lumpur, Mother, and they were still following me."

  Chapter Twelve

  TRUCK DRIVER MITCHELL'S job was a collection from Freetown Airport freight area and another delivery to Rocki General Supplies in Sani Abacha Street for the attention of Mr. Moses. "It is two hundred boxes," said Mitchell's boss, Mr. Suleiman, at Mambolo Transport Enterprises as Mitchell was leaving.

  "But I can only fit one hundred and forty boxes in the truck and ten on the front seat," said Mitchell. It was only three weeks since his long and troubled drive to Sulima and Mitchell was concerned he might need to go again.

  "No problem. You take one hundred this morning and one hundred this afternoon. Anyway, maybe these boxes are smaller."

  "But if Mr. Moses wants them taken to Sulima I will be gone for four days, maybe eight days," said Mitchell. "We need a bigger truck."

  "No problem," said Mr. Suleiman. "Just deliver the two hundred boxes to Rocki General Supplies. Let us see what Mr. Moses wants."

  "I don't like Mr. Moses," said Mitchell, "and he doesn't like me."

  "That's because he's a fraudster, a crook and a skimmer, Mitchell. All skimmers are like that. They don't like people. They only like money and they always want more. Now, go. Do not be late. And here is the money to give to the customs man if he is difficult today. We will add it to Mr. Moses' invoice."

  The hassle at the airport freight terminal was never as bad as the sea port and Mitchell's papers were all in order. Two hundred boxes of water purifiers it said on the documents. The supplier, a company called Ecoteck from Bologna, the manufacturer, Guangdon Trading, China, and the buyer—Rocki General Supplies, Freetown Sierra Leone. It looked straightforward and the boxes were, indeed, much smaller than the last consignment. Mitchell loaded them into his truck by taking them one by one off the pallets they had arrived on and saw that every box had the same blue letters on the sides just as the last delivery he had made to Rocki General Supplies.

  But working alone in the humid early morning heat Mitchell was now sweating heavily. He was ready to go but water was what he needed first and there was a plastic bottle on his driver's seat. It was just as he drained the last drops from the bottle that he heard someone shouting. "Stop, stop." Granville, the warehouse manager was running towards him.

  Mitchell jumped down, threw his empty bottle onto his seat. "Yessah?"

  Granville came up, panting. "Big mistake… they give you wrong pallets. These boxes are for not for you. You must unload them. These boxes are still waiting for collection by someone else. Your boxes are still inside the warehouse. They arrived last night Swissair from Italy. Big mistake. I already slap Tamba. Very careless. Too much girlfriend. He still drunk from last night I think. Too much poyo. I slap him hard."

  "OK," said Mitchell. "So you want me to unload my truck again?"

  "Yes, we will bring the right pallets out here for you on the forklift truck. Please start now."

  "OK," said Mitchell and started to unload the two hundred boxes once more and re-stack them on the empty pallets. Halfway through, the forklift truck appeared, made four visits and dropped another four full pallets alongside Mitchell's truck. Mitchell looked at them, covered in clear plastic film. "My boss, Mr. Suleiman, must buy a bigger truck, I think," he said to the forklift driver. "One for loading pallets. Mambola Transport business is growing too fast."

  "These boxes are very light," said the forklift truck driver. "It is easy for you. You should not complain so much. Just do your job."

  "Yessah," said Mitchell, wondering if the forklift driver was Tamba, the one who had already been slapped at least once. But, indeed, the new boxes did feel much lighter. Mitchell was able to carry three at a time instead of one at a time and within half an hour he had re-loaded the truck. Then he went to look for Granville to make sure everything was now in order. He found him in h
is office drinking ginger beer and eating benny cake.

  "I have reloaded the new boxes," he said, wondering if he might be invited to partake of a drop of ginger beer. "Is the paperwork OK?"

  "Yes," said Granville with his mouth full. "No problem, it was the wrong boxes but not the wrong paperwork."

  "I'll be going, then," said Mitchell, lingering just a fraction, his mouth as dry as the dust lying on Granville's desk.

  "Ok, no problem," said Granville and took another bite of benny cake.

  This time, Mitchell drove his truck slowly and carefully along Sani Abacha Street, knowing full well how upset other traders became if their businesses were interrupted. This time, also, he reversed the truck up to the metal doors of Rocki General Supplies without trouble and knocked twice on the metal door. Then he knocked harder. At last the little door inside the bigger door creaked opened and Mr. Moses appeared. Mitchell felt a waft of cool, air-conditioned air on his face and feet. "You are late," Mr. Moses said, looking up at Mitchell's truck with a 'McDonnell's—the Queen of Whiskey' sign printed on the new tarpaulin.

  "Yes, sir, sorry Mr. Moses. There was a problem at the airport. They gave me the wrong boxes."

  "Ffff…ahh," said Mr. Moses. "I will open the main doors. Bring them inside. There should be two hundred and fifteen boxes."

  "Ah, no sir, two hundred boxes. It is two hundred. The papers show two hundred. I will show you."

  Desperately hoping nothing else was wrong, Mitchell returned to his cab, retrieved the paperwork from the dashboard and showed it to Mr. Moses.

  "Two hundred boxes, Mr. Moses. You see? From Italy. Swissair. And they have blue writing just like last time. It says UNICEF."

  "OK, I will check everything when you have finished."