Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  "So be aware, those fraudsters sitting at the top will not look like fraudsters. As they go about their day to day lives, they will look and appear calm and normal because they feel totally untouchable.

  "And even if massive fraud was proven, would they automatically lose their jobs, status, pensions? No, not necessarily. Because the entire system is designed to automatically cover up such activity and if it ever came to public enquiries—which is unlikely—they would point fingers at each other and then hide without fear of prosecution behind the complexity of the organization. Things like that can take years, if ever, to come to Court.

  "So, in a way, we will probably show that the whole system is at fault here. Whether we can do anything about it in our own small way I really don't know, but I'm damned sure the millions of hard-working, honest, taxpayers out there would support us in anything we do. That is where our strength lies."

  After Jim had finished, both Jan and Jonathan understood exactly why Jim had gone into politics after a career in business and for Jonathan, who, until then, was still feeling slightly reluctant to get involved, it had been the turning point. He was in it, up to his neck in it and determined to see it through to whatever conclusion.

  In Brussels, still clutching the piece of paper, Jan gave up on his evening jog and walked back to his apartment.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "YOU ARE FROM the press aren't you? You found me. Deliberately."

  Tom Hanrahan had stopped, one foot still inside Jim's room, the other foot already in the corridor. A nurse passed by, another went the other way carrying a bundle of papers. They smiled at him.

  "Well?"

  Tom turned his head to see Jim sitting bolt upright in the bed looking as if he was about to get out. "Yes," he said. "But…but I'm not the sort of reporter you dislike, Jim."

  "And what sort of reporter do I dislike?"

  Tom turned fully around to face Jim but remained standing in the doorway. "Those who ruin good men by inventing stories to satisfy a public mood or are paid to find scandal where there is none. Those who wound and then rub salt in just to sell copy. Ones paid to find faults and weaknesses where none exist. Highly paid character assassins, liars, cheats, empty self-publicists, paparazzi… that sort."

  Jim listened intently. He had hardly blinked. "You're using some of my very own words, Mr. Hanrahan—words I used when I once spoke to Der Spiegel because I thought they'd like them and might translate well into German. Been checking my life history?"

  "Yes."

  "And so what sort of reporter are you?"

  Tom moved just inside the room. "One who wants to get to the truth. One who once hated what he was being asked to do so much that he gave it all up to run a feckin' paper shop in Dublin…and still does."

  Jim, one arm attached to the drip and monitor, the other dug into the pillow behind to support himself, raised a questioning eyebrow although Tom Hanrahan would not have seen it. Long strands of gray hair covered most of Jim's glistening forehead. "So what do you want?"

  Tom came another step closer, but the door to the corridor was still wide open. "I hated what was going on, Jim. I watched you on TV. I watched your wife give an interview under huge pressure from somewhere. I watched the reporters outside your London flat, stood, huddled, waiting like hungry lions by a waterhole…and I was supposed to be one of them… but I couldn't do it. I refused, got called in, got another disciplinary warning—I was beginning to collect them. But this one, I was told, was my last—official stuff, written down, refusal to obey instructions, employment law crap. I'd already said that what was going on was bloody wrong. I said we needed to find the real story, the story behind the hounding."

  "Answer the question, damn you. What do you want?"

  "I'd like to help, Jim."

  "And what else?"

  "I suppose I want a story."

  Jim seemed to relax slightly. "Bloody hell. Honesty from a sacked hack. What paper?"

  "I told you I don't work for one any longer. I run a feckin' paper shop—sweets, crisps, chewing gum, fizzy drinks, lollypops—high quality stuff for overweight kids." Even from a distance, Tom saw beads of sweat on Jim's forehead. In his condition, this was not a good time for a discussion like this, but he was still shocked by how quickly Jim had cottoned on.

  "So how did you know where to find me?"

  "Jim, listen to me." Tom edged even closer. "This is the God's truth. It was sheer chance I sat next to you yesterday morning in that bar. You didn't look at all well. Next minute you're on your feckin' back. I didn't plan that, for Jesus' sake."

  "I said how did you know where to find me? Are there any more like you on their way?"

  Jim coughed, a hand went to his chest. He coughed again and then slumped back onto the pillows, mumbling something. Tom went a few more steps closer wondering whether to call a doctor. He went right up to Jim, bent over him and touched his arm.

  "Jim—take it easy, OK? I'm sorry but I was going to tell you. But I didn't even know for certain it was you. Give me a chance. You've changed you know, I hardly recognized you."

  Jim turned his head away.

  "Listen, Jim. I want to help you. But only if you want me to. You don't know me but I feel I know you. I always admired you. I'll never forget some of the things you used to say—the election, your speeches, interviews, fantastic stuff. I found it so refreshing and I wasn't alone."

  Jim turned to face Tom who was now doing something to the duvet cover, drawing it up over his chest with fat hands. His big pink arms with the mass of thick, gingery hair looked enormous. He took a deep breath, his gray eyes blinking, watery, red. His voice was quieter now, sounded weaker. "What speeches? I hardly made any. I didn't get a chance."

  "You know what I mean."

  Jim shifted, tried to sit up again, failed.

  "Hanrahan," he muttered as if remembering something. "Tom Hanrahan. Are you the one who punched that photographer outside my flat?"

  "Yeh, sure. You remember that? I had a right brawl with that fucking prick after you left. Never upset a Paddy when he's already mad, OK? It was the start of my own problems. Another warning. Aggressive behaviour towards a colleague. You want to try sitting up again? There you go. You need some more rest, Jim. Why don't I go now. Come again to see you. I'm trying to help, Jim. Believe me. Can I come again tomorrow? Quiet chat. Would you like that?"

  Jim looked at the big Irishman. He remembered him now. At the time, he'd actually felt pleased that someone had done what he had been tempted to but daren't. Yes, he had once been grateful to Tom Hanrahan. He looked away and closed his eyes but behind the lids his mind was racing on everything that was important to him—the unfinished business, Jonathan, Jan, his house, his paintings, his garden—Margaret. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she well?

  But he knew that if he opened his eyes right now he'd see his predicament—tied to a hospital bed with a needle in his arm, a plastic tube, a drip and a bleeping monitor. And far too close, next to him, was an Irishman whom he could hear breathing heavily through his nose—a press reporter who had been there when he had finally decided to escape from the madness to get away, to think and to decide what to do—three years ago. Three years was a long time to still be trying to resolve the mess he had found himself in. And what had he achieved so far? Nothing yet.

  But what had he learned about himself in three years? A lot. That he was just as determined and opinionated as ever, but also a different person—calmer, despite what it may have just appeared—more sensitive, far more aware of his surroundings. He saw many things quite differently. Forgiving those that had tried to destroy him was hard and wrongs still needed to be put right, no one could argue with that. Perhaps he should at least make a start on forgiveness. Could he not bring himself to trust just one of those who had once pursued him—pursued him merely because it was what he was being paid to do.

  A quote suddenly came to him—he had read it somewhere—a saying similar to one about a small a
nt that he'd told Colin. 'Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.' That was it.

  Tom was watching Jim's lips moving. Then his eyes opened, he mumbled something and turned his head. "Mark Twain I think it was." Then a pause. "Just tell me something, Mr. Hanrahan. With the whole world to choose from, how did you know to come to this particular, far flung outpost?"

  "My daughter, Katherine," Tom said without hesitation. "She was on a gap year, traveling with an American friend of hers. Pure chance again. She recognized you and told me when she got home. She knew I liked you. I told her not to tell anyone. But I couldn't do anything at the time. My wife, Maeve, was sick—cancer you know… I'll get the nurse for you, Jim. You just lie there. Rest. Take it easy. Then, for sure you'll be up and running around in no time. I'll come back tomorrow. Would that be OK with you?"

  "Yes," Jim said. "I think so."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  "DELFT 1:00 P.M., DOMENICA."

  Jan, with the small slip of paper on the front passenger seat, parked in the same place in Delft as last time. It was only 12:30, overcast with a light rain keeping the road and walkways damp, but the car park was full and the city busy with bicycles, families, shoppers, day trippers and sightseers. Normality was all around him. He sat in the car until 12:45 and then walked towards the canal, past the Cafe de Oude Hans—this time with posies of damp looking carnations on the wet tables—left into the narrow cobbled street to the bakery and the gift shop and stood outside the glossy, black painted door. He checked the brass plate of shiny buttons, pressed number 2 and waited. Nothing happened.

  He pressed it again and stood with his ear to the grid in case he had missed hearing something, Still there was nothing.

  In light-colored chinos, a blue shirt and navy blue jacket and, wondering what to do, Jan stood in front of the cluttered window of the gift shop next door and, barely without thinking, looked at his own reflection. But what he also saw, standing close behind him, was a familiar shape—that of a small, squat man in a white shirt and dark suit. But before he could turn, he was prodded in the middle of his back with something hard and sharp.

  Jan turned. Guido was standing there, smiling broadly, his pale, moon-like face looking up at him with a flowery umbrella, its shiny stiletto tip now pointing straight at Jan's forehead.

  "Mr. Kerkman. We meet again. A cool and rainy day, but I've brought some flowers with me," he said, indicating the umbrella covered in giant red poppies that sparkled with a scattering of rain drops. He folded the umbrella, shook off drips of water and then pointed it straight at Jan's head again. "You have come to Guido's special Sunday School for innocent children. Did you remember to bring your bible? Your hymn book? Your coloring book? Your box of crayons?"

  Jan tried smiling and held out his hand but Guido merely pushed the spike of the umbrella at it. "Let us go in. The lesson is already prepared."

  Jan followed as Guido went up the stairs—sideways, as before, like a crab. At the door of Flat 2, he stopped, unlocked it, pushed it open and beckoned for Jan to enter ahead of him. "Go in, go in."

  Jan stepped into the room and then heard the door shut behind him. Guido was on the outside. Already nervous, Jan found himself in the same room as before but it had been transformed by a wide TV screen that filled half of the wall next to vertical blinds that covered the window. An open laptop computer sat on the small coffee table, but, immediately, the wide, wall screen lit up and Guido's round, smiling face appeared.

  "Mr. Kerkman. Do not look so nervous," the high-pitched, boyish voice said. "Please take a seat so that you can use the keyboard of the computer on the table. Your training course will now begin."

  Guido's face, with the beady eyes looking directly at him, stayed on the big screen. "Press enter."

  Jan sat down, pressed 'Enter' and waited. In front of him and also on the wall screen was the first page that Jan saw every morning on the computer in his office—with one notable exception. It was the page he saw after he'd keyed in his password.

  "Does it look familiar?" The boyish voice asked from somewhere. Jan was unsure whether to speak or not, after all it was an empty room. "I said, is it familiar? Have you lost your tongue?"

  "Yes," said Jan.

  "Go into the file covering the recent award of 12,480,000 Euros to Romania for its regional development program. The internal reference number is EDPEU 36A.”

  Jan knew the file well. It took him less than ten seconds.

  "Now, go into the section concerning payments. And, please, Mr. Kerkman, at each command from me just say 'yes' or 'no,’ will you? For one thing, it helps me to know whether you are still alive in there."

  "Yes," said Jan.

  "Now," Guido chirped, "as you know, because it is your job to know, this section gives details of where payments are to be made once funding is approved…Yes?"

  "Yes," said Jan.

  "Graci. Now, find the bank details of the Romanian consultancy company that submitted the bid."

  Jan was puzzled. "Ah, it is not shown. We never show it."

  "Well done, Mr. Kerkman. I was just testing you. Instead, go into the section showing who will receive the funding once it is approved and where the funding is to be sent."

  "Yes."

  "Now. This is the clever part, Mr. Kerkman. Listen carefully. Click on where it shows the name of the bank."

  "Yes."

  "What do you see?"

  "The request for the code. But I do not have the code. It is confidential.

  "And why is it confidential?"

  "Because… because it can only be done by a special instruction to the bank from the Treasury. It is all encrypted—security checks before transfers of funds are finally authorized."

  "Correct. But you see, it is not secure because we have created a special authorization code, Mr. Kerkman. Listen to me very carefully. Key into the laptop exactly what will now appear on the big screen."

  Looking up, Jan saw @ (j k) 2112 $ kerkman in large font size on the big screen. He keyed it in on the laptop. But what the hell was going on. Why was his name shown?

  "Have you done that? Not a single dot missed?"

  "Yes."

  "Press enter and now what do you see?"

  "My private bank account details—everything—name, bank code, account number."

  "Yes, you see it is a very clever system, Mr. Kerkman. But now it becomes even more clever. You can now enter your private bank account, which, as we can see, is with ABN AMRO in Utrecht. Do this by clicking on the box that says 'transfer to this account,’ Mr. Kerkman. There is no need for numbers and codes and suchlike because this is Guido's express service. OK click now…click now…very good…Now you will see another little box on the right. Do you see it?"

  "Yes."

  "What does it say?"

  "Amount."

  "Correct. Now key in the amount of 12,480 Euros. That is good. Well done…" There was a slight pause.

  "Aha," Guido giggled. "You see? My little friend 'Puff The Magic Dragon' has performed a magic trick again. Congratulations. It has worked. You, Mr. Kerkman, are now richer to the sum of 12,480 Euros. You have just earned yourself an exact but small percentage of the Romanian Regional Development Fund. It is so simple. Yes? Soon you will be even richer. It is a good system, yes? The important thing is to remember your key code: @ ( j k ) 2112 $ kerkman. Are you there, Mr. Kerkman?"

  "Yes," said Jan, thankful he was not expected to say anything more. He was speechless. Instead, he continued to stare at the screen as it automatically flicked through some unrecognizable pages until…suddenly, he found himself looking at his ABN AMRO online account page as if he had just logged on in the normal, secure way from home. But he had not. He had just bypassed everything and, what was more, he could see that his account balance had just increased by 12,480 Euros.

  The big screen suddenly went blank but Guido's voice came from somewhere inside it.

  "Mr. Kerkman. Guido's Special Su
nday School is now finished—nearly. Are you still there?"

  "Yes."

  "Now listen very carefully to me. This is our new system—I call it 'Puff' because it is magic and it makes money disappear like a puff of smoke.

  "But we have another system called 'Slush' that replaces what has been taken out electronically. It makes things look as if nothing has happened. It is not your job to understand the workings of 'Puff' or 'Slush' so I will not bore you with the technical wizardry. Neither will I explain to you how the accounts finally get cooked to avoid having to explain mysterious losses and discrepancies which, even under normal circumstances, can amount to many millions of Dollars or Euros. These are often picked up by the auditors as we know but the auditors are, of course, ignored by our leaders because everything is too embarrassing for them to have to explain.

  "Your job, Mr. Kerkman, is to make friends with Puff. But do not think you can type in your key code and transfer more money to your account every time you are short of cash. We can turn Puff on and we can turn Puff off—on and off—just as we wish. If someone logs on without permission then…woosh…what is it the English say? A ton of bricks will fall on their head. Your job is to use Puff to transfer money to whoever and wherever Guido says. Understand? New versions of Puff and Slush have just been re-launched but without a fanfare of trumpets of the sort that Mr. Gates used to use."

  Jan had felt cold and damp on arrival. He was now feeling hot, sticky and very nervous. He was being spoken to by a screen and yet the man himself was probably sat outside somewhere, presumably with his own computer. But the deeply troubling scenario was the fraud he had just perpetrated by pressing a few keys on the laptop. The other concern was the scale of what was possible and what he was involved with. Just as Jim had suggested, it was technology that was making this possible. But he was also sure that at any minute, Guido would start the threats and blackmail. He was right.