Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  "So you need to become more professional, Mr. Hamid and Mr. Farid. You are small players. You must learn to be big. You need to drop these old-fashioned ways of trying to make a few thousand dollars here and a few thousand there. It is a waste of everyone's fucking time, Mr. Hamid and Mr. Farid. I do not operate with small individuals. If you insist on staying small I suggest you fly back to Beirut or Lagos right now and forget about your plans to grow and diversify and make easy money from generous taxpayers. If you don't cooperate and do things my way you will find other problems arising for you because Guido may not be tall but his arms are long and they stretch a very long way."

  He raised a short, stubby first finger and tapped Hamid gently on the chin. "Agree to do things my way, Mr. Hamid," he said in his high-pitched voice. "If you don't, you and brother Farid may not even get out of Milan, let alone return to Beirut or Lagos. Understand?"

  Hamid was also now sweating. His face felt sticky as if Guido had been spraying him with spit. He wiped his cheeks and looked at Farid, but Farid was looking at the floor.

  "Or…" Guido paused as if for effect. "If you'd like to make more than a few thousand dollars out of this project in Sierra Leone and would prefer to make five million Euros instead then tell me about your Nigerian business."

  With that, he sat down next to Farid, picked up his glass of mineral water and downed it all.

  "Now," he said, wiping his mouth, "Are you going to sit down, Mr. Hamid, and be a nice friend to Guido or shall I walk out and leave you to pay the hotel bill."

  Guido was starting to lose more friends.

  Chapter Eighteen

  COLIN FOREMAN HAD returned to the UK and Jim to his old house in Kanchanaburi. The day after was the one that changed Lek's business forever—the day he first met the old 'farang' with the gray beard and long hair called Jim.

  "Why not turn your business into an internet cafe, Lek?" he'd suggested. "Get young people in playing online games after school and paying you for the time and for their Fanta, Coca Cola, crisps and their dried squid and seaweed snacks? I'll pay for a few second hand computers and for the internet connection, but please decide quickly because I want to be your first customer."

  Ten days later and with far greater efficiency than he imagined possible, Jim tested the new system out and it worked well. Lek's internet business was up and running and Jim was in contact with the world again. His first task, another email address and a message to Colin announcing he was in business, as agreed in Bangkok.

  The following morning came Colin's reply. "To JS. So quick! I've chatted to Walton Associates. Jonathan has tentatively agreed and wants to meet you. Any chance of you getting over here, or if you don't want to go through Heathrow Immigration and into London how about Paris or Amsterdam? Regards, CF"

  Jim's reply was by return. "I'll go for Amsterdam. Give me a date when JS is free and I'll be there waiting."

  Ten days later and Jim had spent a night of unaccustomed luxury at the Ibis Hotel near Schiphol Airport—a hot shower, dinner of beef steak and potatoes in the restaurant, a beer in the bar, a good night's sleep in a proper bed and no headache next morning. He changed from his shorts and tee shirt into long trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, tied his hair back with an elastic band, trimmed his beard just a little in the mirror and sat reading European newspapers in the foyer while he waited. By mid morning, Jonathan Walton of Walton Associates arrived and, introductions over and an agreement to call each other Jim and Jon, they sat outside overlooking the clear lake and beds of multi-colored tulips in warm spring sunshine.

  "I understand Colin has explained more about me and what went on," Jim began.

  "Yes, and I did some research of my own. You were given a hard time."

  "And you're still interested enough to want to meet me?"

  Jim was not prepared for the passion that poured from Jonathan. He listened.

  "Of course. You were always right, Jim. Someone has to ask awkward questions. Economic development support and international aid systems are flawed. Vast sums are wasted or go astray. I know, after all it's the business I'm in. Much of what you were saying at the time was absolutely correct. The only difference was you named names. Trouble is, like a lot of things, we tend to live with it. But why the bloody hell should taxpayer money have been used to build useless airports, motorways and suchlike in places like Spain? Why give European aid to regions like Cornwall in the UK? Have you seen any improvements there that would not have come from direct private investment? Vast sums of money go out, only a fraction comes back in real benefits. Does it really do anyone any good? Look at the state of countries where much of the so-called economic aid goes. Have they really benefited from interference in market forces? Rarely. Is some charitable assistance good for some countries? Yes, provided it's sensible, well-managed and it encourages self-sufficiency and not continued dependency.

  "And then there are the billions spent on humanitarian and other international aid. Can we afford it? Is it for political influence? Is it for compassion? Is it to give them all a better life and if so why does everyone still think the grass is always greener somewhere else and migrate? Did anyone ask you if you agreed to your tax going to pay for public sector workers in Gaza who never go to work because there is nothing for them to do? Should we not be using the money in more efficient and more visible ways—like increasing the support for the growing numbers of our own old people who, in my opinion, get a very raw deal? Should we not spend it on improving education for our children, on our own economic development and infrastructure?

  "But because accountability is inadequate, where does a lot of your money end up instead? It ends up in the pockets of corrupt construction companies whose owners now sun themselves in the Caribbean or on the Costa Brava. It ends up in the pockets of small time politicians in town halls from Latvia to Romania and with African despots and terrorist organizations in the Middle East. And some of it ends up with bigger politicians and already well-paid bureaucrats.

  "Look at Africa, Jim. You know Africa well. Has Western aid money got us any extra business and influence there? No. In fact, we've lost it. They took our money and ran off to Paris to buy designer clothes, jewellery and new cars. And, instead, the Chinese are the new colonialists and Islamic extremists are the new missionaries. They didn't give aid, they just moved in with direct investment for their own benefit and started to employ locals.

  "And how much is wasted on the bureaucracy to give the money away. It's billions. It's bureaucratic monstrosities like the European Union trying desperately to keep thousands of people off the unemployment registers that embarrass all our politicians because of all their other short-term thinking. And those same politicians would like more and more of our tax to spend just to appear kind and generous. Why? So they get re-elected. But it's so much harder to cut the costs once you've already started it. It should never have been given in the first place.

  "But don't get me wrong, Jim, it's not just governments. Charities are just as bad. They have far too much going into bureaucracy, into management staff, executive salaries and expenses. What percentage of your kind donations actually gets to where you think it's going? Ten percent? Less?"

  Jonathan's passion was music to Jim's ears. He sat and listened as Jonathan, also sensing he was with someone who would agree with him, spilled it all—the opinion, the facts, the anger and the frustration. Finally, Jim got back to his proposal.

  "But Walton Associates, your company, the one you started, is in the business of offering advice to organizations wanting a bit of this free money isn't it, Jon?" It was meant to be provocative.

  "Yes, but don't forget, Jim, I started the business as a straightforward management consultancy. But we were constantly being asked if there were any government funds available—for staff training, apprenticeships, research or exporting—and for help in applying for it. We stuck it on the website and promoted it and were overwhelmed. It grew. But we got selective. We ditched the small stuff and foc
used on the bigger applications and funds—European regional aid, overseas aid and so on. And we learned a lot—how to bid successfully, whom our clients should lobby—and we got to understand the process from the beginning to the end. The end as far as we were concerned was getting the funds in. After that they were on their own."

  "However," Jonathan went on, "we've recently gone back and checked a few of the successful applicants we helped and one or two we rejected. And then we've found some very interesting things. We may well be being overly strict but we're talking about public money here—you have to be strict."

  "And what have you found?"

  "Weaknesses, gaps, flexibility not entirely in keeping with the original conditions, a willingness to turn blind eyes, short cutting of pre-qualification criteria, inadequate scrutiny of delivery, invoices that look, and are, dubious. You want me to go on?"

  Jim already knew it, but: "And how do you know this?"

  "Disgruntled ex-employees, disgruntled existing employees—nervous people but potential whistleblowers if you like the phrase. They are rare but we quickly got to recognize them."

  "Interesting," muttered Jim. "What happens to them?"

  "They either resign, find a new job, or they stick it out—take it all as part and parcel of the way the system operates. Apathy if you like. They shrug—that's the way of the world. And, of course, they are afraid. Afraid of losing their jobs, the income, the pensions."

  "And what about the organizations you refused to work with?" Jim asked.

  "Yes, I was always insistent we stuck to advising legitimate companies and organizations, ones we've checked thoroughly. I think we have become very good at identifying rogues just after free hand outs. They always ask the same questions—how much detail do they need to give for successful bids, how much paper accounting for their spend or for audit trails, for instance. So," Jonathan concluded. "I think we're good at what we do, Jim. Colin thinks we are and Colin also seemed to know that you and I might see very much eye to eye on things. Am I right?"

  "Yes," Jim replied. Then he leaned over, shook Jonathan's hand once again and smiled. "OK, let's discuss an idea for a way forward over lunch and you can then tell me if you're up for it. If not, we'll just forget our discussion. You can go back to London and I'll go back to where I came from."

  It was after lunch. They had moved to a quiet corner of the hotel lobby for more coffee when Jim asked about, what Jonathan had called, potential whistleblowers.

  Jonathan described how to recognize them but how much harder it was to recognize anyone who might actually go through with it. He mentioned three—who they were, where they had worked, where they still worked, what they did day to day, their ages.

  "OK," Jim said, surprisingly quickly. "One of them looks a possibility for what I'm thinking of. Let's see if he's up for it and if we can start pulling a few strings."

  ***

  That had been Jim's first meeting with Jonathan Walton. His second was a month later—another eighteen-hour one-stop flight via Dubai and another evening of comparative luxury. Jonathan arrived from London next day at midmorning. Jonathan's whistleblower arrived at midday.

  Jan Kerkman was Dutch and had assumed he was being poached for a job with Walton Associates—an informal 'get to know each other' session, English style. Jim introduced himself as a senior partner in Walton Associates. They let Kerkman talk for a while, encouraging him to be frank. Over six feet tall, athletic looking, with short cropped, fair hair, his idea of informality was a dark gray suit and open-necked white shirt. He was thirty-five years old, single, bored and frustrated with his job. He wanted some action back in the private sector from where he'd come—financial services. He was, he said, so frustrated that he had been tempted to join the Dutch police or go abroad or anything just to get out of the job he'd been doing for almost six years.

  "Yes," Kerkman said in his Dutch accent. "It was OK to start and I was good at it. I got promoted a few times. I could probably ask for another move if I felt like it."

  The more Jim listened, the more he grew to like him and after lunch and after a short private chat with Jonathan while Kerkman sat alone with a beer, Jim described to Jan what he wanted.

  "You know the English saying, Jan? If you can't beat them, join them. Well, I've got my own version of that. If they are winning, learn their tricks and beat them at their game."

  Kerkman smiled politely and nodded, unsure where all this was heading. "Have you ever seen me before?" Jim asked.

  "No. But you don't look like a senior partner in Walton Associates," Jan replied. "That tan doesn't come from sitting in the next office to Jonathan." He saw the faint smile inside the gray beard. The teeth were big and yellowish as if they needed a good clean and some dentistry.

  "I'm an outcast from the British political system, Jan. I was a Member of Parliament for a very short time but didn't fit in. And you're right, I don't work for Jonathan."

  He took a slow, deep breath. "I didn't fit in because I had some rather unwelcome opinions about the workings of government. For instance, I said there was evidence of serious corruption over the use of international aid and economic development funding—internal fraud and corruption—and I had the audacity to speak out about it. But I spoke too loudly and I was too blunt and the system didn't like it because I also mentioned a few names and pointed a few fingers. All I wanted was an independent investigation into what was going on. Instead, I was hounded out, so I went abroad to decide what to do."

  Jan Kerkman had nodded and listened intently.

  "From what you said before lunch and what you've said to Jonathan in private it seems you, too, don't like what's going on," Jim went on.

  Kerkman nodded. "I'm damn sure there is a lot wrong and I've already told Jon that I was unhappy with it. But, as you found out, you can't just make claims. You need proof. And even with proof, the system is likely to close ranks because there is too much at stake for certain people."

  Jim had then looked at Jonathan seeking permission to take it a stage further. He got a nod. "Go ahead, Jim."

  "Do you want to help expose what's going on?" Jim had asked. "Stay working inside the system. Dig a bit more. Find out what you can? Pass anything you get to Jon? Meet up with us both from time to time? Help us form a sound case?"

  Jan Kerkman sat and thought, his eyes flicking from Jim to Jonathan and back. "You're serious are you? Don't fuck me about, OK."

  "Jan," said Jim. "I'm serious. I've already been fucked about as you call it. I know what it's like. When I've gone Jon can tell you some more about me. But I'm deadly serious. This is an offer to act as a kind of spy inside the system, a mole or a whistleblower if you prefer. There are risks, yes. But I think you could handle it."

  "And what happens if I get caught? What protection will there be?"

  Jim's reply was immediate. "There would be no protection. We'd need to face that when and if it arose. But you're looking for a bit of a challenge—excitement if you like. You'd just have to keep looking over your shoulder—just as I still do. We'll just see how things develop."

  Jim had paused as Jan Kerkman looked down, clearly unsure what he would be getting involved in. His eventual reply was, again, music to Jim's ears. Kerkman was someone refreshingly motivated by something far greater than money.

  "I would 'whistle-blow,’ as you call it, right now if I was sure it would do any good and someone might listen and act. But I wouldn't want to be arrested or have to fly to Moscow or South America or somewhere to be untouchable. I'd need your support and I'd want to meet up with you regularly—in secret. But yes, I'll help."

  Jim had then returned to Thailand, Jonathan to London and Jan to Brussels.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MITCHELL WAS PLEASED he had finished his work for the day. It had started badly with Mr. Moses and the boxes full of nothing but newspapers, but the delivery of the live chickens had gone without a hitch with only one chicken found dead on arrival. As usual he reversed the truck into
his allocated space next to the concrete block headquarters of Mambolo Transport Enterprises and jumped out.

  In a line next to his truck were the three small vans that made up the rest of the fleet, but he was surprised to find the three van drivers, Samson, Big Saidu and George, sat together on a pile of wooden pallets outside. With the exception of Mr. Suleiman himself, Mitchell was normally the last to leave.

  "What's up my man," he said to the three.

  "You must go to airport," said George.

  "Why? I was there this morning."

  They looked at one another. It was Big Saidu who spoke. "Big problem. Mr. Moses from Rocki Supplies came here this afternoon. Sampson saw him."

  "Yah," said Sampson. "Big argue-ation. Moses very vexed. Suleiman come out, seem very gladdy and say to him, 'Ow du boddy?'—polite like—but Moses ala man, he stat to shout too much. Say Suleiman is big teef. Say cost him fifty tousin dollah. No much fun, Mitchell. I see every ting with mine eye. Then Moses he show big knife and come to Suleiman, but Suleiman brave man. He stop, say let me alone, I not big teef. Suleiman stand tall. Say come in office, sid dan, tock man to man."

  "Yah. I warned Mr. Suleiman," Mitchell said. "Mr. Moses is trouble. Suleiman says Moses is a big teef and a skimmer. But Moses thinks I, Mitchell, am the big teef. I told Mr. Suleiman. Where is Mr. Suleiman?"

  "He went to airport," said George. "He want you go there. Check things out. See what happen."

  "OK, I'll go now. But you got any watta, man?" Mitchell asked, resigning himself to an extension to his day. "I gave all my watta to chicken but bastad still die."

  Mitchell then raced to Lunghi Airport, hoping Mr. Suleiman was still there and thinking all the while about the old cargo warehouse he'd been to that morning. It was small, too small and many pallets and boxes were often left standing outside, even in the rain. No wonder they made mistakes.