Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  Katrine smiled and grabbed Jan's hands that had been thumping the table. "No need to apologize, Jan. Nice to hear you talk honesty. Inside that concrete block over there we are surrounded by fear. Fear to talk, fear to step out of line, fear to criticize, fear to argue, fear of losing our jobs—we're so afraid that we even read messages on our mobile phones on a Friday night knowing full well it's going to spoil our weekends."

  "I'm not afraid, Kat. I wouldn't even be afraid to break ranks and go public sometime. I wouldn't hesitate to be a mole—listen, watch, learn what goes on and then… But I need to get more involved. I'd love your job, Kat, but I'd prefer you stay at it and don't give up. Help get me a role on one of the main steering groups or something. And I want to chat to Eischmann—privately—soon."

  Jan achieved two objectives in quick succession that night and the following Saturday morning. First—Katrine stayed overnight at his apartment. Second—over breakfast on Saturday morning, Katrine said she would fix it for Jan to meet Dirk Eischmann for a private meeting to discuss a possible job move within the department.

  Achieving the third objective began at 9:30 a.m. on Monday morning as Katrine sat alongside Dirk Eichmann preparing papers and waiting to start the first meeting of the week. Eichmann was, as usual, getting impatient, looking at his watch.

  "We'll be without Alicia this morning, Mr. Eichmann," Katrine announced. "Don't forget she moved to Energy Policy last week. It'll leave a gap on the Steering Group."

  "Alicia? Alicia? Remind me."

  "She normally comes with Pierre. They work in the same office. Alicia Ferrera? Blonde?"

  "Oh yes."

  "We'll need to replace her quickly with the new allocation of funds and the fresh bids coming in. It's a busy time coming up."

  "Anyone in mind?" Eischmann was not showing much interest in the subject of staff but turning over the pages of the Bangladesh flood defences bid.

  "Jan Kerkman," Katrine suggested. "He'd be good. You've seen him in action on the Africa group. Outspoken, full of fresh ideas, critical but constructive…" she paused. "A bit impatient and ambitious but he's learned a lot very quickly."

  She glanced at Eischmann out of the corner of her eye. He had stopped turning pages for a moment, listening. "I spoke to him last week," she went on. "He was ready to put an application in there and then but I told him things didn't work like that. There was a process we needed to follow. But he was so keen he was ready to phone you direct. His weakness is he's impatient. He tries cutting too many corners."

  "What's his background?"

  "He planned to be a stock broker but was made redundant in the financial crisis. He then did a postgraduate course in England. He joined us here as a stop gap and he's still here. It's all in the HR files. But he's very good on IT and finance and we need someone with an eye for discrepancies."

  Eischmann continued to flick through the pages of the bid that appeared to interest him more than the others.

  "Would you like a chat with him or shall I approach him myself?" she asked, fully aware that what she was suggesting was against procedure. It didn't bother Eischmann.

  "I'll chat to him. Get him to call me at 4:00 p.m. I've got a meeting at six out of town."

  Katrine's short, verbal, curriculum vitae was accurate as far as it went. Jan's father had been a broker in Amsterdam and his postgraduate degree had been in Corporate and International Finance at Durham University in England. Jan and Katrine had agreed he could probably tie Eischmann up into knots with financial jargon once he got talking. And so he did.

  At 4:00 p.m. he was invited to Eischmann's plush corner office and found the DG sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, the suit jacket hanging next to a potted fern in the far corner. He did not get up or shake hands, but beckoned Jan to sit in the chair across his desk. "So, Mr. Kerkman, you want to progress your career?" He paused, still not looking up. "Why?"

  It did not take Jan long to get going, deliberately appearing brash and over-confident, an impatient guy, cynical and critical of the system. He had no worries if he came over as rude or harsh. If Eischmann didn't like it, so be it. But he was sure Eischmann would listen, maybe even take a liking to him.

  Eischmann, the wide-framed spectacles on the end of his nose, was still not looking at him but reading something on his desk, but he was listening, taking it all in as Jan went on:

  "Sorry to say, Mr. Eischmann, but in my opinion the whole systems need tightening up. That's my view anyway. I've looked at some of the procedures and the accountability processes and I see gaps, especially on Economic Development Aid. I'd love to help out. I just wish we all worked on a commission basis here…just like my old career, hah…I reckon I could save the business a fortune in lost revenue and… sorry, sir, I didn't mean business as such but you get my point. But it's like a business, isn't it? And there has to be better accountability, otherwise it's more like a game of monopoly using tax payers’ money…"

  And so he went on as Eischmann stopped reading and swivelled around in his high-backed chair, facing one of the two wide windows overlooking the boulevard. Jan was still talking, seeing the back of Eischmann's sun-reddened bald head and watching the flash of gold from the cuff links on the long sleeves of his crisp white shirt.

  "You're out of place here, Mr. Kerkman," he said in his Austrian German accent. "You're wasted. Anyone who suggests being paid on a commission-only basis for saving money or spending it more efficiently has got the right approach, but the system won't allow it, you see. You should be in business."

  "But I'm sure I'm not the only one willing to work on a commission-only basis, Mr. Eischmann," Jan continued. "Save a million, earn half of one percent. Stop a million draining out of the system, earn another half of one percent. I always liked incentives." He laughed as if he might just be joking but continued. "Find a way to stop funds being wasted or getting into the hands of fraudsters, earn another half of one percent. I'd be a millionaire in a year. As my father used to say, life's too short. You got to make it while you can."

  Jan laughed again, deliberately looked at Eischmann as if he might not be joking, but he knew full well that Eischmann was no fool. There was no way the bureaucratic system could ever allow anyone to work on a commission basis. Salaried, pensionable posts were the only way. But that wasn't the point of Jan's humor and by 5:30 p.m., Jan knew Eischmann was listening and thinking.

  "Paying commissions is, of course, impossible, Mr. Kerkman, and I think you know that. But there are always other opportunities for those who think outside the box."

  Eischmann stood up and went to the large, picture window, looked down into the street below and then repeated the words as if needing to reassure himself that he was making a right decision. "Yes, there are always opportunities. I have a meeting in Eindhoven on Wednesday afternoon. Meet me at the Novotel at 5:30 p.m. Let's discuss things in more detail. We need individuals like you, Jan—point out weaknesses, identify opportunities. You said you like flexibility. So do I. Just don't tell anyone we've discussed anything, OK?"

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IT WAS RAINING in Milan and Guido didn't like rain, especially heavy, late summer thunderstorms. He had parked the black Mercedes as close to the door of the warehouse as he could but it was still too far to walk or run without getting wet. Every few seconds he looked up at the almost black sky to see if the storm might be passing but, whenever he did, there was a flash of lightening that made him blink, wince and wait for the next crash of thunder. Short, fat, impatient fingers tapped on the steering wheel. Then his mobile phone rang.

  "Allo? Yah—of course it's me," he snapped. "You think someone has stolen my phone and is answering my calls?"

  There was another flash of lightening, the rain hammering onto the roof of the car and he expected another loud crash of thunder at any second. "Yah, you need to speak up, Toni. I can't hear you. The world is coming to an end. God is throwing his furniture out of the window and my shoes will get wet."

  He
shifted in his seat, put a podgy hand over one ear to block out the crash of thunder and tried listening to Toni with the phone in his other hand. Then:

  "Yah, yah. Stop! Stop! Let us discuss this, Toni. Anything to do with America needs to be taken seriously. The USA is not Nigeria or Pakistan where everyone is expected to play little games. It is not even like Europe where it is so complicated and they are afraid to speak out. No, Toni, in the USA politics and business are linked together and we do not have anyone in place who is reliable enough. In the USA they ask questions about money that goes missing. And let me remind you that we have talked many times about finding a place for American AID in our business. But we are not yet ready. Like all things American this US Agency for International Development is crazy…yah, I know Toni, I know it's exciting but you must calm down, my flower. Do not twist your underwear. Guido has a long-term business strategy that must be followed and that strategy was, if you remember from our discussion a year ago, that we would steer clear of USAID until we had made better contacts. So no, Toni. No, no, no—do you hear me?"

  Hailstones now pounded onto the roof of the Mercedes and tiny lumps of melting ice slid down the windscreen. There was another flash, another huge crash and Guido shut his eyes. Wherever Toni was, the weather did not seem to be a factor because the excited voice was still coming through the phone. But suddenly Guido opened his eyes and his mouth, the pink lips formed a perfect circle and he let out an excited squeal like a wounded rat.

  "Weeeee! Well done my flower…yes, I remember him. Silvester was his name, right? Once a New York cop, then a private investigator, right? But not a private investigator but more of an investor. Silvester the investor who met our very own Tahir in Islamabad offering to invest his time on anything to do with USAID. Silvester the imposter who was not in Pakistan representing the US government at all but was in Pakistan representing Silvester the investor. And Silvester the friend of our friend, the Deputy Prime Minister Kabodi who oversees the USAID malaria projects and the other big money. You mean that Silvester?"

  The response was clearly yes.

  "Weeee! Yes! Toni. Get him over. We can use him. Buy him a first class air ticket. Fly him to Paris—no, fly him to London. Book him at the Dorchester, Park Lane. Our expense. Anything."

  As Guido stopped talking, the rain also stopped and a patch of bright blue sky showed somewhere over Linate Airport to the east. He gingerly opened the door of the dripping car, thought about taking an umbrella that lay on the rear shelf of the car but, instead, tiptoed his way through puddles towards the warehouse door holding up the bottoms of his trousers. Once inside, he stood, took off his wet shoes and walked in his socks past rows of boxes to the spiral staircase leading up to his office, made straight for the laptop computer, logged on and then onto the USAID website.

  There it was, exactly as he remembered:

  "USAID Central Africa Regional Program for the Environment." And on another page the sentence he had been reciting to himself almost word for word for over a year. "USAID welcomes individuals and organizations to share their ideas on how we can do development differently. New ideas and innovations for addressing global development challenges can come from anywhere—a start-up entrepreneur, a university research institute, a corporation, or a grassroots community organization."

  It had always fit like a glove and suitable local people were already in place, ready and waiting. The missing part with USAID had always been having the right man on the ground in the USA. Silvester the investor and imposter had always looked a good investment.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  MIDNIGHT IN LONDON and Jonathan Walton had been reminding himself for an hour that he had a home to go to an hour's drive away and a wife who was prone to get upset if he stayed out late. The later it was the more upset she got. But getting away from the Nigerian, Mr. Johnson, was proving difficult. The man had changed dramatically from the vague, uncertain individual of their first phone conversation into a talkative, enthusiastic man with only one real interest in life—fraud.

  Jonathan's private thoughts as the Nigerian talked on and on were that, during the preceding hour he had done far too good a job on Mr. Johnson. Two minutes of a story, invented as he went along, had seemingly convinced the Nigerian that Walton Associates—or a secretive, somewhat unofficial subsidiary of it that had its registered address somewhere offshore like the Cayman Islands—was the key to successfully defrauding the international development aid system. But it had been his deliberate use of jargon that had been so convincing.

  "We'll need to describe frameworks that clearly explain our goals and ambitions," Jonathan had said with all seriousness. "We'll need to demonstrate the economic outcomes and economic drivers…show the benefits to the community at large…provide evidence of our past experience of achieving alignments with the overall strategy…we'll need to demonstrate coordinated approaches using cross cutting themes…"

  It all smacked of just the sort of public sector bureaucracy that he, Jim Smith and Jan Kerkman had discussed—language written by officials that, it was argued, reduced the likelihood of fraud but only succeeded in making genuinely sophisticated fraud far more difficult to detect. Sophisticated fraud, Jonathan decided, was precisely what Mr. Johnson seemed to have in mind.

  "And you can do all this, Jon?"

  Johnson was smiling enthusiastically at Jonathan's explanation that evidence of delivering other similar projects would be required, but not to worry as a set of falsified company trading accounts and other fictitious or forged pieces of paper were easily the quickest solution. "Of course, that is our business," Jonathan replied, embarrassed but smiling nevertheless.

  Mr. Johnson—Jacob as he was now required to call him—was still smiling and interrupting throughout. "And we can do all this as well—anything—with your help, of course…We can ensure many cutting schemes…The benefits to the community are very clear…the people can use the facilities…"

  "So are you really going to build this energy-efficient leisure complex in Sierra Leone? I was under the impression that…"

  "Ha, ha, ha…no, probably not. But it is up to you to help us and together, well…you know…this is West Africa. We are used to this sort of thing. Ha ha."

  At that point Jonathan had had his knee loudly slapped by the Nigerian who was, it seemed, enthusiastic enough to sign up with Walton Associates before the night was finished. But he was still talking and Jonathan was still looking at his watch.

  "So you will deal with the bid, the paperwork…the English are so good at this…my friends will deal with the local situation…the letters of support from the Ministry signed by the Minister…that sort of thing…no problem…the architects plans, the technical things, anything you need to go with the bid…we will see to that…we are very good at that…just ask. Yessah, my brother is a close friend to a big chief in Sokoto. The chief has a wife in Sierra Leone—it is his fourth wife but he is willing to help us. His wife, the one from Sierra Leone, is a Minister and she can pull strings. We may need some cash to start it off … just a bit of dash here and there you know… but my other brother will have a small stake in the project… my other brother will pay some money to oil the wheels…we need the bank involved…but this is also already sorted…the manager is a friend of…"

  Jonathan had already lost the plot, but finally Mr. Johnson edged his bulk to the back of his chair and sighed. Is that it? Jonathan thought. Has he finished at last? If so, it was his, Jonathan's, turn again and he'd now have to perform even better. Jonathan needed to show he was not a pushover and that the mysterious subsidiary of Walton Associates would not be taken for a ride by a bunch of African rogues. There had to be a show of toughness to suggest there was, despite everything, a need for at least an ounce of respect.

  "So," Jonathan said before Johnson had time to start again. "Shall we wrap this up, Mr. Johnson—Jacob? I need to get home or my wife will think I've been out in Soho not sitting in Gloucester Road…"

  He was
interrupted almost before he had begun. "Ha, ha. Yes, there will be time for that Jonathan." His knee was slapped again. "We'll have a good time when it is finished. It is my promise. My girlfriend in Brixton…"

  "Yes, of course," Jonathan interrupted, but intrigued by the word promise. "So to summarize. You will provide me with the details of your consultant in Freetown and the other details I asked for. We have agreed to bid for thirty-five million Euros under the so-called EAWA Economic Aid funding which I am familiar with. Don't forget that this must include a written promise of three point five million Euros from your friends in the Ministry to demonstrate the Ministry's own commitment to the project. No money will ever need to be transferred of course—it is just for the paperwork, you understand—to demonstrate the project has received official Government recognition and support."

  "Yes, yes, good, good," said Jacob Johnson, smiling broadly.

  It was no surprise to Jonathan that he was not asked for details of the fictitious subsidiary that he was proposing to use as part of the fraud, but he was pleased with the name he had invented on the spur of the moment. He might sort that out first thing in the morning but only after he'd slept on the night's events.

  "My subsidiary, JWS Projects," Jonathan went on, "will act as your advisers, prepare the bid and deal with all the questions and requests for further information that are bound to arise. They always do. For this, you have agreed to pay JWS Projects two hundred thousand Euros when the bid goes in and a further two hundred thousand Euros when the funds are transferred and are in safe hands in Sierra Leone. These amounts can be added to the total bid—it is quite legitimate to show these sorts of expenses, although we may disguise them a little. Are we both agreed?"