by Terry Morgan
"Disorganized mess," said Mitchell to himself as he drove. "And that bloody man Tamba—people like him only make things worse—drinking poyo, fucking around when he have job to do."
Mitchell was right because he knew about warehouses. He visited them nearly every day. But the old warehouse at Lunghi was not secure. There was nothing for cold storage, dangerous goods or even weighing and many airlines refused to carry goods due to the lack of security checks. But, somehow, Mitchell's consignment of two hundred boxes had arrived and so, it would seem, had two hundred boxes containing Italian newspaper instead of water purifiers. He stopped his truck at exactly the same spot as that morning and saw Mr. Suleiman and Granville, the manager, sitting on chairs just inside the warehouse entrance.
"Ah, here is my driver," Suleiman said. "We will ask him… Now then Mitchell, please sit…OK, no more chair, then you must stand… Are you sure that all the boxes contained newspaper and not water purifiers?"
"I don't know, I didn't check all two hundred. Mr. Moses was still checking when I left."
"OK, listen. There is too much confusion here. Still sitting in the warehouse behind us are two hundred boxes. Granville and I just checked them. They all contain water purifiers. The paperwork says they are for Daisy Children's Charity and they come from Freeways Freight Forwarding in Milan. But there is no Daisy Children's Charity in Sierra Leone. And Mr. Granville cannot find Freeways Freight Forwarding in his book. That is why these boxes are still here.
"But Mr. Granville received a telex from Freeways Freight Forwarding admitting an error in the paperwork and asking that the boxes be released to Rocki General Supplies. Mr. Granville did not know what to do because Daisy Children's Charity is in Liberia not Sierra Leone. And also something was changed on the documents that were faxed. Mr. Granville said it smelled like old fish.
"Then the new consignment of two hundred boxes arrived by Swissair also addressed to Daisy Children's Charity with a Post Office Box address but with no consignee's name. Contents of boxes shown as water purifiers. Correct, Mr. Granville? I will now ask the warehouse manager, Mr. Granville, to explain."
Granville coughed. "This is very bad. I do not know what is happening here."
"Thank you, Mr. Granville. That is a very clear conclusion and very honest."
"Now then, Mitchell. Please tell Mr. Granville that I once told you that Moses from Rocki General Supplies is a fraudster and one big-time skimmer."
"Yes, sir." Mitchell then looked down to where Granville sat, shaking and scratching his head. "It is true. My boss warned me that Moses is a teef and a big-time skimmer, Mr. Granville."
"You see?" said Suleiman. "He is up to no good. It is well known in Freetown, but people are scared to say. They keep quiet because Moses has a big silver Mercedes and a driver with a gun and knows the Government and the Ministers and they think he has other big friends with important jobs. But I am not afraid."
Mitchell raised his hand as if wanting to offer something new. He did.
"Mr. Suleiman, sir. Please do not forget that I delivered fifty-six boxes that according to the paperwork contained three hundred second-hand laptop computers to Mr. Moses last week. These were for a charity called School Aid but I delivered them to Mr. Moses. Do you think you should also check if there is a charity called School Aid? And I also took many boxes from Mr. Moses all the way to Sulima. It took me four days. It was for a company called Sulima Construction but Sulima Construction was like an empty garage, Mr. Suleiman. And I saw labels with Daisy Charity on these boxes also."
"This is good thinking, Mitchell," he turned to Granville. "There is something going on here. I smell bad fish and dead rats. Mr. Mitchell is my best driver, Granville. He is the eyes and the ears of Mambolo Transport Enterprises. Maybe he will become a manager one day."
"So what will you do?" Granville asked.
Suleiman beckoned Granville to sit forward. "Mr. Moses pull a knife on me but I never pull a knife. I pull rugs. I pull carpet. Moses is not the only one with friends. I pull strings."
Chapter Twenty
AT HIS NORTH London office, Jonathan Walton was working late. Seven thirty wasn't unusual but he'd been sitting at his computer since morning. It was Friday, he was tired, his eyes were losing focus and he had the makings of a bad headache. Thinking enough was enough, he rubbed his eyes and sat back. As he did so, the main office phone rang. With a sigh, he leaned over and picked it up. The caller was male, the voice deep and strong and with an accent that Jonathan put down as African, but he had never been good enough at accents to pin it down any further.
"Ah, is that Walton Associates?" asked the voice.
"Yes," repeated Jonathan, "I'm Jonathan Walton, the managing director."
"Yes, I see. Your website says you help charities to bid for money."
"Yes," said Jonathan and because he was tired, he was tempted to reel off the exact words on the company's website that the caller had just mentioned. But he thought better of it and shortened it. "Yes, we offer various types of help to businesses and charities and that includes bidding for funds."
"Yes, I see. We would like some help."
Mm, Jonathan thought. This looks like it might take a while. He said, "Can I ask your name, sir?"
"I am Mr. Johnson."
"And where are you from, Mr. Johnson?"
"Ah, Lagos, Nigeria, but I am in London."
A red light flashed somewhere inside Jonathan's aching head. Scams and other illegal practices were too common from that part of the world and this, even at this stage, had all the right signs. "And the charity's name?" he asked.
"Well, sir, it is called African Young Business."
"And what does it do?"
"It helps young Africans start businesses."
"I see. So do you know if there are sources of international funding for that sort of thing?"
"I was hoping you might know about that."
"Yes, we can sometimes help there."
"So what else can you do?"
Jonathan took a deep breath. His headache was suddenly getting worse. Unable to come up with anything fresh, he started to quote from the website. "We can assess your project. We can help you find suitable partners and provide legal advice for partnership working. We can develop and draft international grant applications where there are suitable funds. We can help lobby for your organization. We can offer project management training. There is a lot we can do—but it all depends on your organization and what you need."
The last bit was a polite way of warning Mr. Johnson. We're a busy company, we are selective about whom we work with and I do not want to be messed about, OK? Jonathan hoped he had got the message. Perhaps he had, perhaps not. Either way it didn't matter. Even if this turned out to be commercial fraud on an international scale, Jonathan had been wanting to find something like that since meeting Jim Smith. He had told Jim it might not take too long to come across something suspicious. His suspicions were now immediately re-enforced
"OK, sir. Well, perhaps I'll leave it for now."
Jonathan heard the phone click, touched the red button on his own receiver and pressed his hands around his throbbing head. Ah, well, thought Jonathan and went home. More than likely, he'll phone again.
He did. The second call from Mr. Johnson came on Monday morning. The call was taken by Sarah, the receptionist and Jonathan's PA. As Mr. Johnson already said he'd spoken to Mr. Walton on Friday, Sarah put the call through to Jonathan.
"Good morning, Mr. Johnson."
"Yes, good morning. We spoke on Friday."
"Indeed. Have you thought about how we might help you?"
"Yes. Can we meet?"
"Before we do, can you tell me a little more about your project—a brief summary perhaps?"
"Ah, it's for Sierra Leone."
"I see. A little more information, perhaps?"
"Yes, sir. It is an eco-tourism project. My associates are building a 50-million-dollar tourist complex—hotel, apartments, restaura
nts and shops. It is to attract more foreign tourists."
"Mm, very interesting. But I thought it was called African Young Business.
"Ah, yes, that is another project."
"So we now have two projects. Who is leading on the Sierra Leone one?"
"It is what we call a joint venture."
"Yes, I have heard about joint ventures," Jonathan said. "Who are the main partners?"
"Ah, yes. Ah, the main partner is Sulima Construction. The other is Vacation Afrique. It is a French company."
"So why do you need funds?" asked Jonathan. "These partners sound big enough."
"Ah, no. It is for the extra work—work not included in the main contract."
"And what is that extra work?"
"It is for the, uh, solar water heaters, waste water recovery systems, insulated walls and roofs, double glazed windows—other energy-saving systems…and, uh, so on." Jonathan felt sure Mr. Johnson was reading from something lying in front of him. No matter, he often did that himself.
"And who is supplying and fitting the energy-saving systems?"
"Ah, it will be subcontracted."
"Can I ask, to whom?"
"This will depend on funding, sir. Without funding there will be no energy-saving systems."
"That would be a big pity I agree. Do you work for Sulima Construction or Vacation Afrique, Mr. Johnson?"
"Ah, neither, sir. We are acting as consultants to the project."
Well, there was nothing better than a consultancy to hide behind, Jonathan thought, smiling to himself. "And the name of your company—the consultants?" he asked.
"Ah, perhaps we should meet?"
The meeting was fixed for 8:00 p.m. on Monday night. The venue, a small, cheap place that called itself a hotel but was, more aptly, a bed and breakfast joint off the Cromwell Road in west London. In his mind and in the current jargon of the business, Jonathan had labeled the meeting as 'exploratory' and so arrived with nothing except a business card and his laptop. But this was far more than Mr. Johnson had when he arrived, late, at 8:45. Jonathan had sat, his patience almost expired, in an uncomfortable, sagging armchair next to a table stained with coffee cup rings and a wilting, potted plant.
When Mr. Johnson arrived Jonathan shook a large, sweaty palm and Mr. Johnson dragged up a hard, upright chair. Then they eyed each other across the table and spoke in barely audible whispers. The Nigerian was big and heavy but well dressed—newish looking suit, whitish shirt, cuff links, big gold ring with a red stone—but the entire effect was spoiled by a badly tied, off-center tie and a pair of black, lace-up shoes that were in desperate need of some polish. When he finally shook the Nigerian's big hand again at 10:00 p.m., Jonathan's instinct told him that something was definitely going on here that had little to do with youth start-up businesses or leisure complexes. Getting even that far, though, had been hard work.
"I checked Sulima Construction, Mr. Johnson. Sulima is in Sierra Leone but there is a very small company with that name based in Ghana. But I could not find any trading history or names of directors."
"Yes, but it is growing very fast."
"And I checked Vacation Afrique. The only company I could find with that name was a travel agent in Paris."
"It is not that travel agent."
"And you mentioned you represent a consultancy."
"Yes."
"So, can you explain more about this consultancy, Mr. Johnson? You see, I am struggling a little to get my head around your business."
Mr. Johnson looked around the so-called TV lounge as if he had no wish to be overheard. This was unlikely. The TV was on—a film of something, but with the sound off—and there was only one other guest, a man who might have been a plumber on a short-term contract. He was fast asleep, grunting occasionally, a crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror slipping from his lap.
"Ah, yes," the Nigerian scratched the side of his nose and then pulled on his ear lobe. "But I thought Walton Associates specialized in this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing would that be, Mr. Johnson?"
"Well, I was told that you have experience in finding funds for projects in Africa…especially if it is to do with the environment."
"Yes, a little. Go on."
"And, uh, my Lebanese associates spoke highly of you."
"Your Lebanese associates?"
"Yes. They recommended you."
Jonathan said nothing. He had no recollection of meeting any Lebanese, but almost six years of trying to fathom out what the hell was going on in certain business and political circles had already meant rubbing shoulders with some unusual people. Within the last few weeks, though, since meeting Jim and Jan Kerkman, sections of circles were starting to join up. He had made a promise to help look into certain matters and knew it might be fraught with risk, not least to the reputation of Walton Associates. But the promise had been made and he had no wish to suddenly walk away.
Seconds of silence passed as he considered his position but, finally, he smiled at the Nigerian. It was a deliberate smile, as honest a smile as he could summon. It was a smile aimed at communicating a desire, however repugnant, to do business in a way that would ignore the straightjacket of regulation. The Nigerian smiled back, similarly.
"Then it might be best, Mr. Johnson, if, for this venture we use another company with which I am involved. Walton Associates, you see, mostly deals with rather ordinary business advice to UK companies and charities and I normally delegate that sort of thing to my staff. I suspect that, in this case, we may need the use of my other company. It is a much more outward-looking and flexible business. Is this what your Lebanese friends are referring to?"
Mr. Johnson's smile grew into a wide grin. "Yes, I expect so, Mr. Walton. Like you, we have to be sure that the partners we choose are fit for purpose."
Chapter Twenty-One
IT WAS JIM'S third visit to Amsterdam.
He had taken a hot shower, added blackcurrant cheesecake to his evening meal of steak and potatoes and was lying naked on the bed on freshly laundered white sheets and staring at the ceiling.
"I've always said, Mother, that to fully appreciate luxury, it must be an occasional experience. Luxury that is commonplace goes unappreciated and the mind quickly resets a higher level for its definition of what counts as luxurious." He paused.
"The same cannot be said about routine, however. No routine, or a constant change of routine, is a quick route to a disorganized mind and a dysfunctional lifestyle." He paused again. "Yes, Mother, I know, don't keep on. I may appear untidy, but untidiness is a matter of opinion. It is routine untidiness and so I know where everything is."
He sat up, cross-legged, dragged fingers through his beard, tucked the long strands of hair behind his ears.
"So how would you describe yourself, Mr. Smith?"
The imaginary voice was from someone with a microphone and recording equipment, though whether a he or a she or from the press, radio or TV was unimportant.
"Patient," Jim answered aloud to the ceiling in the Amsterdam hotel room.
"You've been on your own a long time, Mr. Smith."
"Yes." Jim had learned the hard way. He would stick to simple answers when it came to questions from the media.
"Aren't you lonely?"
"I find my own company perfectly satisfying."
"But it's rather basic here if you don't mind me saying so, Mr. Smith. You are a little cut off from civilization and the house itself looks in need of some, what shall I say, refurbishment."
"Yes."
"Is there anything you miss?"
Jim stroked his beard. That was a leading question. "No comment."
"So how do you manage?"
"Self-discipline."
Jim, sitting on the hotel bed with his eyes closed, could hear planes taking off at Schipol Airport. He opened his eyes, reached for a bottle of mineral water on the bedside cabinet and took a mouthful. "What time is it? Ten thirty. Jonathan and Jan at ten in the morning. Oh, well, no
one's listening. My mother's fault all this talking to yourself…fifty years ago…eating cottage pie."
As a boy, he could distinctly remember his mother telling him—over that cottage pie one lunch-time—that he must, at all costs and at all times, adhere to a set of priorities, standards and rules. A man’s character she told him, would be judged on taking full responsibility for your actions and on delivery of positive results.
Over the years, he had to admit that he had gradually adapted his mother’s rules, codes, priorities and standards to fit his ever-changing situation, but he had always remembered them and never wavered too far from the course she had set him on. That he had ended up where he was now could probably be related back to his upbringing. But he was content enough with that. He closed his eyes again.
"Your core principle of judgment on results has remained a constant, Mother. Even now, at the ripe old age of sixty-six, I still feel it necessary to be judged on doing something tangible. But who is there to judge me now? …myself, I suppose…doing something tangible is precisely what I've been doing… even from out there. It's a small world now, Mother. What with the internet and airline travel. It's not like it was when you were young. We've all had to adjust and adapt…quickly. But…I've never really stopped, Mother. I've hit a few bloody snags on the way—personal and otherwise. But I'm still going at sixty-six. You should be pleased. Are you? No, I thought not."
He paused.
"Painting is my creative side, Mother. The other stuff is work in progress—problem solving, putting right the wrong, proving something to myself as much as to others. What would you say, Mother, if I told you that after I sold the business I got involved with the international criminal fraternity? You'd be a bit cross I expect. You'd certainly wag your finger at me then, wouldn't you? Quite right too.
"But you never pointed out one thing, Mother. It's all very well working hard, showing commitment, taking responsibility and delivering results but what if someone points out there is a fourth requirement. Do you know what that fourth missing requirement is, Mother—the one that you missed from the lesson over the cottage pie? It's the need to grow a thick skin, to be insensitive—to be so bloody insensitive that you are immune to criticism even if the criticism comes from someone who would fail every one of your first three tests.
