by Terry Morgan
He waved his hand in the air like a magician with a wand. "Puff—the magic dragon, lives here," he giggled, "in Delft."
If it was because he found he could not laugh, Jan would never know. But the Italian's whole demeanour suddenly changed. He stood up and waddled across to the door of the apartment and gripped the door handle. Jan, sensing that the meeting might already be over or that Guido was leaving him alone, got up. But Guido stopped. He looked back and beckoned Jan to come to the door, leaving only enough space for Jan to squeeze past.
As he did so, Jan looked down onto Guido's round face and rose bud lips, at the strands of straight, greasy black hair that hung across his forehead. How old was Guido? Even at close quarters, Jan could not tell. The skin of his face was smooth, clean, pink and free of wrinkles. Was he forty, fifty, sixty even? But there was no laughter from the Italian now. Instead he looked up at Jan and frowned.
"Mr. Kerkman," he said as he opened the door, "a little gift of twenty thousand Euros was transferred into your private bank account today. For Belgian tax reasons and your bank you may need to invent an explanation for why it is there and where it came from. You have, as yet, done nothing, so it is just a small gift—a token. In the future you can expect a bigger share in our business but you will need to earn it. I understand you like earning commission. Well, you can become very rich by working with us. But, meanwhile, consider your position very carefully."
Guido was staring up, unblinking, at Jan.
"With your sheltered little life as a middle ranking bureaucrat who shuffles paper for a living," he said, "you should know that living in the world outside where one dog eats another dog is more difficult. Survival is hard. So, we will start how we will continue. If you tell anyone about me or this meeting or this place, you will find you and your family are in serious trouble. You will never find Guido because no one knows Guido. But we will find you.
"We already have a growing international team of what I call 'Members,’ but along with these Members and others not in our team, you are already implicated. You said you wanted to earn money. Well, you have already started. But you are already up to your fucking neck in deep mud, Mr. Kerkman. So go very carefully. Tell no one. Go back to work, do as you are told and wait to be contacted. But show the slightest sign of incompetence or make even the smallest mistake and you are finished. We are undetectable. But upset the system that we have perfected or even be tempted to upset it and you will be made to disappear. No warning given. Understand?"
Chapter Twenty-Eight
JIM USUALLY LEFT his motorcycle amongst an untidy row of others near the shops and market where a minibus of tourists sometimes stopped on its way to some poorly maintained archaeological remains—some stone buildings, a crumbling temple and a few skeletons—the town’s only tourist attraction. They never stayed long and usually left, looking disappointed, to head back towards Kanchanaburi and the river Kwai. The archaeological site was another of Jim's ideas: "Tidy it up, make people feel as if the visit was worth it," he had told Lek.
There was no bus today but the small market was where he occasionally saw backpackers and might reluctantly engage in short conversations—usually directions to somewhere. He never understood why they sometimes asked more personal questions but he thought it was probably his appearance and voice.
It had been a young, bronzed American girl in shorts and her red haired Irish friend who had, some months before, convinced him of his appeal to that generation. He had been talking Thai to a man off-loading pineapples from the back of a truck and, as the Irish girl stood shyly in the background, the American asked for directions to a local guesthouse that was mentioned in her travel guide.
"Yes," he told her, "the Pong Phen Guest House. It is located over the bridge, on the left. You can't miss it."
His further explanation had been pure, clear and precise Queen’s English and he knew she hadn't been listening, just staring at him—an aging, long-haired, hippy-like Englishman hiding behind a beard and heavily tanned and wrinkled skin. She had asked him where he lived, how long he had lived there and what he did. Jim reluctantly gave his usual short explanations, but watched the much shyer Irish girl as she tried to pull her friend away.
Jim, too, had edged away with his plastic bags, a live fish and some vegetables, but the American girl followed and strung together more questions spoken in enthusiastic wonderment as though it was so much better to be living like he was.
"Say, I wish I lived like that. I'm Karen from Boston and this is my friend Katherine. She's from Dublin—Ireland, you know? Boston is so cosmopolitan. You really live in the jungle? What sort of art? Do you exhibit anywhere? Ever get back to England? Did you know the Beatles when you were young? You look real cool. You ever get to bathe out there?"
And, all the time, the attractive Irish girl with the red hair had watched and listened but said nothing.
Jim, remembering this encounter for no good reason but more concerned with the weakness in his legs, propped the motorcycle and walked shakily to an ATM, withdrew some money, stuffed the few notes into the back pocket of his shorts and walked slowly towards Lek's internet cafe carrying his duffle bag with the laptop over his shoulder. When he got there, it was unusually busy. Lek's wife's speciality of boiled chicken with rice, a thick and spicy ginger sauce and clear chicken soup—kamun gai—was becoming very popular. It was another of Jim's suggestions because he himself liked it, but today, even his corner table was taken. Lek apologized, beckoned to a front table nearer the road and went to get his beer and lime juice.
Jim didn't like this table. He didn't even take out the laptop. Instead he sat resting his head in his hands and muttering to himself. "I won't stay long—try again tomorrow. Such a waste of time carrying the computer. I can't use it here…far too exposed. I'll go back home, finish the painting… try again tomorrow…still feeling dizzy."
Lek brought his drinks. "You say something, Jim?"
Jim looked up. "Only to myself."
And then he saw the thick set man with white skin, wearing white shorts, white tee shirt, white socks and white trainers. It was as if he had arrived straight from a northern European winter. He walked past Lek's cafe, a few yards from Jim, looking around as if unsure where he was going. Then he turned, his uncertainty evaporated. He brushed past Jim's elbow into the cafe but then returned, pulled up a red plastic stool that was too small for his rump and sat at the next table to Jim, just two yards away.
Jim's feeling of over-exposure soared. "Bloody hell." He looked out of the corner of his eye at the man and, as bad luck would have it, the man saw him. He nodded. Jim ignored him. Lek brought a beer for the stranger and stopped to ask Jim if he'd like another beer and lime juice. Jim said yes and waited, staring into the street with the unopened duffel bag between his legs.
The fresh drinks arrived, but because of the unwelcome arrival of the stranger and a sudden desire to go home, Jim swallowed half the bottle in one go feeling the gas rising into his throat. He couldn't help it and his mother would have been disgusted, but he burped. Tears came to his eyes and a mouthful of beer rose in his throat, but he swallowed it again. He remembered that. He also remembered wiping a few drops of beer from his beard, but after that, things were far from clear.
He put the bottle down, checked in his back pocket for some change to pay, slid his chair back and got up. Then the dizziness hit him again—and the pain in his chest. He sat down again, heavily, jarring his spine. He remembered glancing towards the white stranger and their eyes met. He remembered light brown eyes, close together, deeply set and peering sharply at him from beneath a receding line of auburn hair. And he remembered a freckled face with a touch of fresh sunburn on the nose. But then Jim slid from the chair and collapsed for the second time that day. Everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"IT'S THE AMERICAN Embassy, Jonathan."
It was an ordinary Wednesday morning when Jonathan took the phone call from the US Embassy in London.
He had spent the previous evening at home finalizing the draft bid to the European Aid West Africa (EAWA) fund for Jacob Johnson. There were large gaps that needed filling and no word from Johnson for two weeks. Jonathan, though, was still feeling confident enough with his performance of a few weeks ago to expect the Nigerian to emerge again in the next few days. He wanted to be ready.
"I have the deputy Legal Attache, Scott Evora, for you Mr. Johnson," said the female American accent. "Are you able to take the call?"
Jonathan raised an eyebrow to himself but said yes.
"Mr. Walton?"
"Yes."
"Scott Evora, deputy legal attache, US Embassy. Not sure if you're familiar with the US's worldwide legal attache offices, Mr. Walton, but basically we're FBI. In my case, we're FBI's office in London. Heard about the FBI?"
"I am aware," said Jonathan.
"Good. Cut to the chase, Mr. Walton—Jonathan is it? Been checking your website. Management consultancy specializing in helping businesses bid for grants and international aid. Would I be right?"
"Spot on," said Jonathan.
"Good business, Jonathan?"
"We keep busy."
"Come across any Nigerians in your line?"
Talk about cutting to the chase, thought Jonathan. Was it just a coincidence? "Sometimes," he answered.
"Anything shady?"
"Always," joked Jonathan, wondering where this was leading. In the briefcase at his feet was the draft bid for Jacob Johnson.
"Sure, you bet. Done anything for organizations wanting USAID? United States Aid?"
"No, never," said Jonathan honestly.
"Might they ever cross your path?"
"Certainly, not so far, but I'm fully aware of USAID. Have to be in this business."
"Sure, I understand. West Africa, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Jonathan. Done anything there?"
"Yes, but only using EU aid money."
"Ghana? Sierra Leone?"
"Yes."
"Sound? Honest? Above board? Anything ring alarm bells?"
"Always, but we only help writing the bids, perhaps give some advice on lobbying et cetera. We don't deliver on the ground. If it's fraud you're referring to, then that's where it usually happens—the delivery end." Jonathan tried to laugh.
"Dead right. And not getting any better, huh?"
"We are very selective who we take on," Jonathan added.
"OK, sure you are." There was a brief pause from the man called Scott Evora—a clicking sound as if he was tapping a pen on his teeth. "Now, listen up. It might be useful to meet. Any chance? Get down here to the Embassy, Jonathan? Me take a ride up to you? What do you think?"
"What have you got in mind?"
"Broaden our discussion out a bit. Frankly we need some eyes and ears. Anyone with an eye for fraud, theft or money laundering linked to aid funding would be useful. Sounds like you're just what we're looking for."
"Sure," said Jonathan, suddenly seeing a glimmer of light. If things got more difficult for either himself and especially for Jan, who better than to have a friend from the FBI on board. They agreed. Jonathan invited Scott Evora to visit him on the Friday afternoon.
Meanwhile, Jonathan decided to widen his bedtime reading about aid fraud in the USA. Some of it was well known, other parts less so. Nigerian criminals, he noted, were the most widespread fraudsters. No wonder Evora had mentioned them at the start. They were costing the US alone an estimated one to two billion dollars each year and most of it went undetected or unsolved. There were the arrests and prosecutions like the nearly two million dollars of USAID fraud by two aid workers in Liberia, but it was only a fraction of what was going astray.
The US government was well aware of huge losses that were undermining its aid programs. As with Europe and as Jim had found through his bitter experience, there was a political culture around foreign aid that stifled criticism or any serious investigations. Meanwhile, millions of dollars were finding their way onto back streets just from money given for anti-malaria drugs. Once granted, USAID was unable to track the money properly and there were hundreds of examples of it being funnelled, mismanaged and used in unintended ways. 'The surprise is that anyone is surprised. Twenty percent of aid is lost. If that happened in the private sector then USAID would have been shut down.' One quote said.
"Yes," thought Jonathan as he yawned and checked the time. "But it's mainly the private sector that's creative enough to invent the new fraud schemes. The private sector will always stay a step ahead—which meant there were probably dozens of people like Jan's new friend Guido out there."
Chapter Thirty
JIM WOKE UP gradually but kept his eyes firmly shut, not wanting to know where he was. His head was the first thing he felt. It hurt. He had fallen backwards, first hit it on his chair and then on the concrete floor. Then he felt his chest. It was as if someone was sitting on his rib cage, and his arm ached. At last he opened his eyes and saw four faces looking down at him. Three were brown, the other was very pale. Beyond the faces, the ceiling fan still turned as if nothing had happened.
Then he felt the pale faced stranger, the red nosed man with the freckles, doing something to his tee shirt, twisting it, trying to loosen it. He felt the man touch his neck with hot, fat fingers and then the same hand went to his wrist. Jim was sweating and uncomfortable, but it was the pain in his chest that worried him. He could feel his heart beating, or trying to. He could hear it pounding and his ears were throbbing, like earlier that morning. Everything hurt, and he felt so hot and sweaty.
He tried to move, to speak, but the same pink hand with the short ginger hairs and blotches came on to his forehead and pressed him back down. So he lay there waiting, wincing, sweating and frowning. Then the red-tipped nose came closer and the fat lips, inches from his face, said something. "Are you OK, now? To be sure, you just gave me a fright. Just lie there, don't even try to move just now. Take it easy. Sure you'll be OK."
Through all the dizziness and disorientation, Jim recognized an Irish accent.
The three brown faces still looked down from a much longer way up. One of them was Lek, holding his hand to his mouth. He moved away, then came back. Lek seemed worried about his best customer and business adviser and Jim, through all the discomfort, wondered whether he might have taught Lek too much about quality assurance, profits and investment.
"Just take it easy. Let's put this under your head, OK? Sure it made a loud thud when it hit the ground. You'll have a mighty bruise there by tomorrow I expect."
Jim did as instructed. Something soft was pushed behind his head like the luxury pillow at the hotel in Amsterdam and slowly the rest of the pain started to ease and the world stopped turning round, although the fan above wasn't helping. Meanwhile the Irish one seemed to be giving instructions to Lek because Lek disappeared. He ran and there was a loud clatter as if he too had collided with something. Someone was using a mobile phone though whether to summon medical help or to gather more spectators was not clear. And Jim could do nothing. For the second time that day he felt old, helpless and very vulnerable.
The Irish one fussed a bit more, adjusted whatever softness was now under his head and neck and Jim wanted to speak to say sorry for the inconvenience, that he would be OK in a moment and would be on his way, thank you very much. But he had a feeling that there was a bit more in store for him just yet before he could go back to the peace and comfort of his studio, the house, the veranda and the garden.
So he closed his eyes, tried to forget where he was and listened to the sounds of the world he thought he might be leaving. He heard incoherent muttering, a motorcycle outside, a tractor chugging past on the road, a dog barking, the ceiling fan's rhythmic squeaking above and then he remembered he had once decided he would like to die lying in a summer meadow in England, surrounded by fresh green grass and buttercups whilst looking up at a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds and filled with swifts and swallows. That his passing might happen on a rough concrete floor in Thailand
had never occurred to him.
It took twenty minutes for the cream and green ambulance to arrive. By that time a small crowd of fascinated onlookers had formed outside Lek's cafe, some sitting astride motorcycles as if a quick getaway might be necessary They watched as a brown-skinned, rough-looking, bearded old 'farang' was first attended to on the ground by a young man in a loose green shirt and white trousers and then put on a stretcher and loaded into the vehicle which then sped off, a red light flashing on its roof. They then dispersed, their morbid and short-term interest in witnessing what, for all they knew, may have been the final minutes of suffering of a fellow human being well-satisfied.
It was a day later that Jim opened his eyes and started to come to terms with his situation again. His room looked clean, organized, efficient and quiet except for the hum of air conditioning, bleeps from machines and the soft, squeaking shoes of staff on a polished floor.
He was wired up to a machine with flashing lights and a plastic tube that ran from a fluid bag above to disappear beneath a dressing on his wrist. An oxygen mask covered his face, but the air was good and cool and he felt relaxed. He also appeared to have been undressed by someone and re-dressed in a sort of blue nightshirt. But the real shock came when a nurse came in, removed the mask and said something to him in Thai. As he raised his only free hand to scratch his face, he discovered that much of his beard had gone. From six inches or more it now felt little more than two. Perhaps it had been necessary but he had lived with it for a long time and the discovery was like waking to an amputation.
It was on the second day, sometime in the afternoon, that Jim's visitor arrived.
