Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  "I lacked that one ingredient, Mother. After thirty successful years when being sensitive was an important and valuable asset, I entered a profession where it is a vital necessity to be a thick-skinned, self-centered, hypocritical bastard. I used to listen to criticism because I wondered if there might be an element of truth in what was being said, but I know now that the criticism aimed at me was unfounded and that it was just the start of a vindictive campaign because I was starting to touch nerves.

  "Yes, I know Mother. I know I'm repeating myself—you've heard it all before, ad nauseum, but you must try to understand me. I'm sixty-six now and I can't escape it you see. I was accused of incompetence even though I was totally competent. I was accused of doing things that I never did. I was held up to public ridicule because of the way I am and the way I spoke and the way I dressed and… and…because I believe in stating facts and not blinding people with lies, bullshit and hypocrisy. I was blunt in my words. But I was still learning how they played their games. I learned it, but I learned it the hard way. At one point I wondered if I should also start telling lies, talking bullshit and being a bloody hypocrite. But because I couldn't and didn't and because I stuck to my principles, do you know what I have ended up with, Mother? Nothing."

  Jim Smith, eyes tightly closed, smiled. Nothing was OK. Having nothing, wanting nothing and being perfectly happy with nothing was the perfect argument against those driven to corruption for their own solution to happiness.

  "So how is your wife, Margaret, Mr. Smith? Seen her recently?" The reporter had returned.

  "I'm not too sure I've even got a wife anymore and that's probably your fault as much as mine."

  "Oh, we were only doing our job, Mr. Smith. Selling stories to attract advertising."

  "Precisely. And who was paying you?"

  "Don't take it so hard, Mr. Smith. That's the way of the world. But don't you miss your home, your garden, the washing machine and the nice big bed with clean sheets smelling of flowers of the forest conditioner, Mr. Smith?"

  "No I bloody don't. I manage on three hundred baht a day. That's six pounds or about eight dollars. It's enough."

  "Don't you miss dear old England, across the channel there? It's only a few minutes into Heathrow from here."

  "No, not much. And let me save you the need to think up more pathetic questions. Do I miss the way the world is now? No, not at all. Do I miss having responsibilities for anything or anyone other than for myself? Yes, a little."

  "So is there anything you miss, badly, Mr. Smith?"

  "I miss talking to people—sometimes."

  "So how the hell do you manage without anyone to talk to, Mr. Smith? You were always a bit of an oddity, what with the long hair, the beard, the messy tie you could never quite manage to fix, the sandals and the socks you once wore to a meeting."

  "There you go again… judgment by appearance. But how do I manage? I talk to myself. And I'm very self-critical so don't assume I can get away with saying anything blatantly wrong, untrue or offensive. It might be politically incorrect, but I can get quite heated with myself at times as my mother knows."

  There was a pause.

  "Is there anything you need, Jimmy?"

  "No, Mother, thanks for asking. …except I suppose I want to be listened to. But even then, I still remember your words, Mother. You remember what you said? Be patient with everyone but above all be patient with yourself. I'm being patient, Mother, and you were absolutely right—we're starting to show results. I knew it would take a while, but three years? That's at least two years longer than I thought. But do I care? No, not really. I live happily enough albeit with the increasingly desperate need to finish what I started."

  "Well, that's a blessing, Jimmy. So what else have you discovered about yourself since I passed away?"

  "That I am a man with only very simple and basic needs, Mother. That eastern practices of patience, tranquillity, self-analysis and contemplation suit my character rather well. I enjoy the simplest of daily tasks, although it didn’t used to be like that. I was once an absolute stickler for efficiency—they all said so—and they all suffered as a result. But if they downed tools in a fit of pique, I would, nevertheless, pick them up and say—here, carry on, just do your best."

  "That's my boy."

  "Please, Mother, don't embarrass me. Did you know, Mother, it was once said by an ancient Buddhist monk, ‘How wonderful, how miraculous—I fetch wood, I carry water.’ It is this basic simplicity of living a life that is all too short that pleases me, Mother. That is why I do not understand the ways of the corrupt who take more than their fair share from others."

  ***

  Jim slept soundly that night. There were no dreams and no headache and at just after ten next morning he was with Jonathan Walton, just flown in from London and Jan Kerman, just driven up from Brussels where he lived. They were in the bar with a tray of coffee.

  "I've just become 'Project Manager—Economic Development—Africa.’" Jan announced and raised a celebratory fist in the air. "Ten days ago."

  All three looked at one another as Jan's fist waving stopped. "Yeh, I know," Jan went on, looking embarrassed. "I've stepped up the ladder again and I'm living the high life. But don't laugh, OK? It's so fucking unexciting I find it hard to get up some mornings."

  "Your reluctant enthusiasm brightens the day, Jan. You are about as stubbornly patient as I am. So what does the Project Manager—Economic Development—Africa do?"

  Jim was leaning back in the chair, his hair longer now than it had ever been but he had, as was now usual for these meetings, tied it back with an elastic band in a vain attempt to appear business-like. Regular emailed updates from Jonathan were useful but there was nothing better than these face-to-face meetings despite the forty-eight-hour round trips. But it had been hard to keep Jan motivated and Jim and Jonathan both knew he had become increasingly frustrated by the seemingly never-ending routine of meetings, reports and nine to five. He might have been slowly edging in the right direction but it had been six months since their first meeting and he had, at times, seemed almost ready to give up.

  "I still move paper around and attend meetings," he said, dismally. "But I'm starting to see funding bids when they come in and I sit in on policy meetings and I'm starting to rub shoulders with politicians and…" he paused.

  "This might not be important but I've now met the DG—that's the Director General—several times—he's rude, he's short-tempered, he's…" he paused yet again. "I don't like him. His manner, his attitude, his commitment—it all seems wrong for the position he's in. His personal assistant—her name is Katrine—told me she doesn't trust him either. Saying that to a work colleague is potential career suicide. She wants to move out. But—anyway—Katrine and I have become friends."

  Jim and Jonathan looked at one another. Was something personal being said in a roundabout way? But Jan went on, "I suggested that if Katrine wanted a move then she should ask for one, just like I've been doing and, if she did, could she recommend me to take over from her. Now, things don't happen like that in the system. We have to keep to proper procedure, job advertisements, decisions on internal applicants, vetting, assessing experience, equal opportunities, et cetera—you know how it is.

  "But Katrine and I had lunch one day and she told me something she thought I should know—that the DG spends most of his time away. He rarely ever attends routine meetings these days. When he does it's usually ones where funding bids are discussed. He has to sign them off so I suppose he has good reason to be there. I think Katrine has suspicions about him. We've not yet talked like that, you understand. If she knew what I was doing with you…well…I just don't know."

  Jim stood up, wandered away a few steps. "How long has he been in the job—this Director General—the DG?" he asked, leaning on the back of Jan's chair, almost whispering into his ear.

  "Several years." Jan turned his head to face Jim. "It's unusual. The President himself has discretion on appointments like that and there is a
sort of reshuffle occasionally, but it's all a compromise—if you appear to be doing the job OK and are not getting any flak from anywhere you keep your job."

  Jim was still crouched behind Jan's chair. "The man you are referring to as the DG is Dirk Eischmann, is it?"

  "Yes."

  "And he was once in Environmental Policy?”

  "Yes, before this job."

  Jim returned to his own chair and Jonathan and Jan looked at him, expectantly. "OK," said Jim. "Now you want to know something? Naming this man in the wrong place was what started my troubles. I know all about Dirk Eischmann. He's Austrian. He grew up in Linz. He was a member of Die Grunen—the Green Party. He moved to Vienna. He used to push an anti-corporate, anti-business line until he suddenly started to make money himself. He was made a director of an Austrian renewable energy company. That got taken over by a German company and suddenly Eischmann finds corporate life much more to his liking. He changes…does a complete U-turn…joins the Social Democrats…again does well for himself and rises up the ladder of influence outside Austria. Then he gets given Environmental Policy—it was his green credentials you see. And that was, coincidentally, just the time my own business, Smith Technology, started to lose business to unknown contractors who failed to deliver—I could time it—almost to the month, certainly to the year.

  "So, when I started asking myself why we were suddenly losing contracts when we knew all along that we were almost uniquely placed, Dirk Eischman's name cropped up. Let's not say how I knew this for certain now but someone was instrumental in changing technical specifications and a bundle of other conditions that were almost impossible for any business to match. As you know, Jan, it's all done by committee—committees of gray people who know nothing about the technology or the business but are influenced by politicians with their own agendas, by outside lobbying or by other factors.

  "Let's be frank. Money talks. Small businesses that do not have resources or influence are deliberately put at a disadvantage—even put out of business—by big corporations with money to buy the influence and the contacts. It's all denied of course and denying is easy because proof is impossible to gather. It's like a big club. The way politicians and bureaucrats move up the ladder is done in exactly the same way—and it starts with parents, upbringing, schooling, wealth. Even those who fight to get somewhere from a so-called working class background without the silver spoon in their mouths at birth are often spoiled by money and status later—again we can name names—at least, I could."

  Jim knew he was already on a roll on a completely different subject now. It was what had got him into trouble before. He took a breath, forced himself back to the subject.

  "But, returning to my experience. Instead of Smith Technology winning the contracts as we hoped, unknown start-up companies—and one in particular—started getting the business. Sometimes they still came to us to buy equipment because it wasn't available from anywhere else, but what they bought was just a small fraction of what we would have supplied if we had the contract. So where did the rest of the funding go—the money that was supposed to be for more equipment, training, technical help and so on? That is still the great mystery."

  "You reckon he's our man, Jim?" said Jonathan.

  "I suspect he is one of them," said Jim. "There are others, but he's been at it for seven years. That's time enough to secure his position and build the security bubble around him. It's probably in several people's interests to keep him there—at the top of the tree. But then, I have a suspicious nature."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  JAN HAD GROWN to like Katrine Nielsen, Eischmann's assistant, and he was well aware that the feeling was mutual.

  They had met socially with other work colleagues around, but soon it became just the two of them, first for a glass of wine after work, then for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Their third date was Katrine's invitation to Jan to join her at a film club she belonged to. Perhaps she had planned it, perhaps not, but the film was the 1987 classic Wall Street, starring Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko, an unscrupulous corporate raider.

  Afterwards, they walked to a noisy, Brussels bar and Jan found himself putting his arm around her shoulders. She had looked up at him in a way he recognized as encouraging, but it was a Friday night, the bar was busy and crowded. Katrine was a career girl at heart—ambitious, work-orientated, serious. They moved out, found a quieter tapas bar and the discussion got far more interesting. Katrine was Danish and they spoke in English. Triggered by the film they had just watched, their shouted discussion in the first bar had been about corporate fraud and why the film had encouraged a lot of young, American graduates to go into banking, financial services and big business. In the quieter tapas bar, it turned back to work.

  Jan was ordering wine at the bar and, while he waited, glanced over to where Katrine was sitting at their corner table. Her short blonde hair was covering her face but he could see she was checking something on her phone. He took the two glasses over and sat down.

  "We've now got six bids to assess on Monday," Katrine said, still playing with her phone. If Jan had thought this was going to turn into a romantic evening ending back at his apartment, then it was quite clear he needed to alter his plans or, at least, take things via a different route. "Seven if we include the Bangladesh one," Katrine went on, sipping at her wine without a thank you or even looking up.

  "Can't get away from the office even on a Friday night, Kat?" Jan said. He was now calling her Kat as he'd heard some of her other friends do.

  "Dirk Eischmann," Katrine said. "He takes it home at weekends and expects everyone else to as well."

  "That was Eischmann?"

  "Sure. He wanted me to remind him of the value of the bid from Bangladesh that he now wants added to the agenda on Monday."

  "And how much is it?"

  "Over three and a half million Euros."

  "Why's he so interested?"

  "Hmm," Katrine said, still looking at her phone.

  "What do you mean, hmm?"

  "Probably someone in Dacca is lobbying him for a favorable decision."

  "Not allowed, that sort of thing, is it?"

  "Of course not."

  "So why?"

  Katrine shrugged, slipped the phone back into her small handbag but said nothing. Instead she took another mouthful of wine and picked at a dish of olives.

  "Come on, Kat. Why phone you on a Friday night about something that could wait until Monday? What is it about this guy?" Katrine looked away, sniffed and then sighed, audibly. Still she said nothing. "What is it Kat?"

  "Sorry, I think I need to go now."

  "Why, we've only just got here. What's up with this guy? He upsets you, I can see that. You've told me before you want a move. What's going on?"

  The corner of the bar where they were sitting was dimly lit but it was bright enough for Jan to see that Katrine's eyes were watering. She was still holding her wine glass as she looked away, sniffed again, picked a tissue from the table, wiped her nose and then her eyes. Jan's protective instincts took over. He touched the hand that was still holding the glass of wine. ""What's going on, Kat?"

  Katrine took a deep breath and wiped her eyes once again but she didn't move the hand he was holding. "I don't know what to say, Jan, but you know I'm looking for a new job right now."

  "Why, Kat? You've got a good job. And if it's Eischmann that troubles you, he can't last forever."

  Katrine looked up, the tears disappearing as quickly as they came, but she still didn't move the hand that Jan was holding, tighter now. "Of course, he'll be around," she said. "He likes the job and he feels secure."

  "No one is secure."

  "Hmm. Eischmann is. Eischmann is secure because Dirk Eischmann has friends…I shouldn't say it, but it's true. You need to realize how things operate here, Jan. Friends get elected. No one gets voted in or voted out anymore. It keeps the status quo. Competence is old fashioned. A total incompetent can get a job and then stay in it if they've got e
nough friends. It's networking. It's rubbing shoulders as the Brits say. Dirk Eischmann rubs shoulders. Dirk Eischmann has good friends and Dirk Eischmann may get lobbied by others, but Dirk Eischmann is the biggest lobbyist of all."

  Katrine pulled her hand away, the one that Jan had been holding. "I need to go, Jan. Sorry for spoiling the evening but I've had a tough week and tonight's text from that shit arse has ruined my weekend again. Sorry, but even my language is not good tonight."

  Jan had no wish to lose this opportunity, in more ways than one. He liked Katrine enough to have taken things a lot further tonight, but the personal challenge he had agreed to with Jim and Jonathan was just as strong.

  "Listen, Katrine. Please don't go. I've always believed that if something is wrong then you should stay and fight, not run away." He paused briefly, unsure how to continue. "I met someone once who publicly accused Eischmann of fraud and taking bribes," he said, eyeing Katrine. "It was denied of course, but you know Eischmann well enough. Could he be taking bribes, earning commissions or something?"

  It was a risk to ask Eischmann's personal assistant, but after weeks of slow, plodding progress, Jan was desperate to move things quicker now and Katrine seemed, by far, the best route. He saw Katrine shrug. "Yes, I remember that—he was a British politician."

  "There seemed to be some strong evidence at the time, but Eischmann is still there. You yourself said he has powerful friends, he rubs shoulders with people, he has money, contacts and he travels a lot and you told me once he visited Italy a lot—Milan I think you told me—not that that may be relevant."

  "Exactly—it proves nothing."

  "No, but…" Jan paused. Something was building inside him and it needed to come out. "Listen. I hate people like Eischmann, Kat. How can you work with that fucking slob? His type are just selfish, money-grabbing, status-chasing bastards with no thought for the poor people out there who pay their fucking big salaries and pensions—and yet they tout their compassionate, socialist messages all the time. Wasn't Eischmann a green politician once, Kat? Didn't he suddenly change his politics and become a share-holding, fee-earning, money-grabbing capitalist?" He paused again. "Sorry, Kat. You've got me using bad language now."