by Terry Morgan
"Good idea. I'll open it."
"Go ahead. And if you need to empty your bladder at any time, use the undergrowth. There is a toilet of sorts over there,” Jim pointed. “I have a torch but you'd need to be familiar with the positioning of the hole. I would also warn you about the scorpions, not to mention the frogs, which are probably using the same facility at this time of night. Don't, for goodness sake, use my art studio by the mango tree, but feel free to utilize the area by the two banana trees, instead…I think I will if you won't."
As Tom started on the whiskey in the flickering candlelight, Jim got up, clambered front first down the steps and disappeared into the blackness. When he returned he began talking from the bottom of the steps with his elbows on the platform where Tom was sitting.
"We're beginning to make progress in proving what I accused certain people of doing three years ago—corruption, fraud, that sort of thing. Fraudulent use of international aid on the scale I described is rife."
Tom tried seeing Jim's face as he continued. "In Europe they will want to deny it. Accusations of that sort, especially with evidence, are not compatible with their need to conceal the truth from the people, you see. There is a massive democratic deficit. But there is a story developing. Do you want it?"
Tom, shocked by the change of topic, gulped down another half cupful of water mixed with Irish whiskey. "Sure. It would be interesting." It didn't sound convincing but he was barely concentrating. Something was biting his neck.
"I need to show that the accusations I made about fraud and corruption are true—with evidence this time."
"So you've got the evidence, now? If I recall that's why they got a bit mad with you at the time."
"It's coming together."
"Enough to raise the matter all over again?"
There was a definite pause of uncertainty from the darkness as a yellow candle that Jim had lit flickered in a breeze that had suddenly picked up. The flame almost went out, but it was enough for Tom to see Jim's teeth and strands of his long gray hair flapping in the breeze. "I hope so," he muttered.
"Enough to warrant going back? You'd need to be sure this time, Jim."
"Yes, I know. I understand the risks. But I need to go back. There is work to be done to prove what I said and I need to clear my name. I need to show that what I said was right, that I was right to speak out, that I'm not an incompetent fool and that it was worth electing me for speaking my mind, my experience in business, my honesty."
The breeze became fresher, stronger and Tom heard what he thought was a rumble of distant thunder. "Would anyone listen to you?" he asked.
"We'd need something to get them to sit up and take notice."
"Like what?"
A flash of distant lightening brightened the sky, Jim's so-called garden and his face. A long rumble of thunder followed from somewhere behind the house and a few large spots of rain fell on the tin roof above Tom's head. The trees rustled and a clump of tall bamboo to his left creaked and swayed. But it was as if Jim had seen or heard nothing.
"As well as pursuing my case," he went on, "I will lecture on materialism, discuss the merits of Buddhism in a Godless society, speak on issues that the Church is afraid to discuss—death, family values, self-dependency, population control, individual responsibility…"
Tom was considering how much interest these subjects might attract and was grateful for another long flash of lightening followed by a deafening crash of thunder that seemed to split the sky.
"I think I will join you up there," Jim said. "It will rain now—heavily, perhaps for ten or fifteen minutes. But, first, excuse me while I move the guttering around to fill the second pot. Rainwater is so much nicer to drink."
As Jim disappeared once again into the darkness Tom filled his cup having now resigned himself to staying the night. The whiskey was good but it was making him feel a little lightheaded and he still felt a sort of responsibility for Jim's health. The man had only just come out of hospital yet he was behaving as if nothing had happened.
Jim reappeared as the rain began falling in torrents. Another flash, another loud crack of thunder, the lightning already showing up puddles and water streaming off the roof onto the ground below, driven by a breeze that had become a cool wind. As water splashed onto his feet, Tom got up holding onto his cup of water and whiskey and made for the door that had swung half shut. Behind him, Jim settled into a crouching position with his back to the wall of the house out of reach of the water falling from the overhanging roof. The struggling flame on the orange candle only just hung onto the wick.
Tom made for the far corner next to the boxes feeling drops of water falling on his head from nail holes in the roof. Another flash outside, another crack of thunder.
The boxes were loosely covered in plastic bags and a small pool of rainwater had already formed on the top one. Above it, on a wooden shelf, sat rows of small jars containing paint brushes, different color paints and dirty water. A square, plywood sheet, stained with paint and with bulldog clips fastened along the top, was propped against the back wall. Tom stood, looking around but not daring to touch. But as more water dripped onto the top box, he opened it and drew out a flat, plastic bag containing what looked like sheets of thick paper. Pulling out the top sheet, he carried it towards the strip light, held it up and stared at it.
At first he thought it was a large color photograph or print. He felt it. The surface was rough, and at the edges he could see smudges of color. He strained to look at it. If it was a painting, then, to his untrained eye, it was brilliant. He turned it around trying to detect imperfections but the nearer to the light he got, the more perfect it looked. It was like a color portrait taken by a skilled photographer—a second in time caught with absolute perfection.
It showed a smiling, young, oriental woman with just the top of her bare breasts exposed. She was kneeling down and leaning forward, trying to get closer as though she wanted or expected to be kissed. Her smile was perfect, her eyes dark, wide and full of life. Her hair was long, black and fell in a dense curve over one shoulder. But it was what Tom could see within that flowing, dark hair that made the picture an absolute masterpiece of artistry. A young girl’s face, mischievously but purposely forcing itself into the picture, her face a perfect, miniature version of the young woman. Her black eyes smiled and looked directly at him like her mother's, but their appearance suggested they might at any moment look away, perhaps up towards her mother either for a hug or a reprimand. The child's own jet-black hair merged with her mother's but the straight, short fringe of black hair was painted to perfection. Tom stared at it.
He had admired photographs and paintings over the years but nothing had had the same affect on him as this. "Incredible," he mumbled it to himself. “It’s brilliant."
Tom continued to look at it, turning it around, still barely able to believe that he was not looking at a photograph. But this was better than any photograph he had ever seen. Another flash of lightening pierced the interior. The rain was heavy, noisy on the tin roof above his head. He took another sheet out, holding it up to the light again. The paper, this time, was dark, perhaps green—he could not tell in the poor light—but the center of the paper was dominated by an orchid, purple and mauve with a yellow center and mottled with irregular patches of purple and white. The light green stem was bent in such a way that it showed one other orchid, a less mature one just showing signs of opening, tucked away behind the main flower as if seeking the same opportunity to participate as the child in the first picture. As he stared at it, the heavy rain stopped, the next crash of thunder was further away, the lightning just a prolonged, flickering flash.
"Brilliant," he said aloud, but a voice behind him made him jump.
"Not so brilliant." Jim said. He was standing just inside the doorway, silhouetted by another flash of lightening.
"Jesus, you made me jump. I hope you don't mind me looking at these."
Jim turned, moved away, said nothing. Tom replaced the
paper in the bag, put the bag back in the box and covered it with plastic sheeting. Then he went to the door. "The rain was dripping onto the boxes," he said. "I'm not an expert, but what I saw looks very, very good. The one of the mother and child is incredible, Jim. You should take more care."
"Why bother?"
"Because they are good, Jim."
"Who says they are good?"
"I say. I am not an expert but I think they are good."
"So, what did you see and what brought you to that profoundly unprofessional conclusion?"
"The mother and daughter, the orchids. I just liked them. It's not a professional opinion—just a personal one."
"Noy and Oy," Jim said. "Painted from memory about a year ago. The orchid, on the other hand, grows up there." He pointed into the darkness.
"Has no one else seen them, Jim?"
"No."
"You should take more care of them."
"Why? Give me a good reason."
Tom thought for a while. "Because, if I had a rare talent like that, which unfortunately God has not blessed me with, then I think other people should be able to see it, to appreciate it, to respect it."
"And what good would that do?"
"If I felt that I had absolutely nothing else to offer, other than a talent as an artist, then I would want to finish my life feeling that I had at least been able to contribute something, however small."
There was just the briefest pause. "You are not answering my question. My question was what good would it do?"
"But I am answering your question, Jim. You ask me what good it will do? Well, whatever else, if it does me some good by showing people what I had done, however small, then it would be good for me. Sometimes you have to be selfish. Do things for yourself not others."
"And if they mocked it, denigrated it, drew cartoons depicting a self-possessed, publicity-seeking old man devoid of talent?"
"If it's good enough there will always be praise from those that recognize true talent. Where has your confidence gone, Jim? Stone age cave paintings done with one finger are simple. Are they not respected? And, anyway, if you were a talentless, self-possessed, publicity-seeking old fool then you'd be joining a very large club, Jim. You'd be lost in the crowd."
Tom saw him nod and perhaps he smiled, but Tom took advantage. "If you are really serious about getting people to sit up and take notice of you and what you believe in, then I suggest you show them what you've been doing while you've been away. If I like your art, Jim, I'm sure others will too.
"The world has changed," Tom went on. "There have been too many mediocre, talentless politicians over the last few years for people to sit up and cheer yet another one spouting off about something they are not the slightest bit interested in. No longer do they bother to listen to fine words from a man or woman in a suit with a party rosette stuck in their button hole. But if there is something interesting and visual to look at—something to take their minds off the stupid old fart's rhetoric—then they might actually also start to listen to the words being spoken—especially if those words strike a chord with people. And especially if they think they're getting a raw deal while others selfishly exploit the system. People still like politicians who stand out from the rest. But it's all about presentation. Have you ever considered that perhaps presentation was your biggest weakness, Jim?"
Jim looked at the Irishman stooped inside the low doorway to his house—his first ever visitor. "Mmm," he said, apparently considering Tom's words. Then he nodded again. "Then, if you liked just two I'll show you a hundred or so more in the morning," he said. "The first public viewing of the work of an unknown artist. How about that?"
"For sure, I’d be very honored, Jim."
"Then I suggest you get some sleep. You can bed down anywhere. I think I'll stay here. But I suppose I'd better take my medication. Doctor's orders must be obeyed."
Chapter Thirty-Six
"MR. EVORA HAS arrived, Jonathan."
Jonathan had never met an FBI agent before, but Scott Evora was a perfect match to his preconception of one—a six foot, thick-necked, fair-haired and muscular man who looked as if he spent most of his spare time working out in a gym somewhere. Probably, Jonathan decided, they had one at the Embassy. Formalities over, cups of black coffee served by Sarah and Jonathan decided he'd try out Evora's method and cut to the chase.
"So, how can we help?"
"We need some eyes and ears, Jonathan. These are difficult times for ordinary US citizens with ever-rising costs of living, unemployment, cuts to services—you got it here in the UK. I watch the BBC news. And American taxpayers especially hate the thought of their hard-earned taxes going into the pockets of a bunch of already wealthy despots in Africa and elsewhere. US politicians are getting their ears burned so we get ours burned. There's pressure to be stricter, to track down villains, bring them to justice. Some argue to stop aid altogether, but it's fucking politics isn't it—handing out aid is supposed to win friends and influence people."
"So what are you looking for?"
"First off. Tell me about your business. How long have you been going?"
Jonathan stood up. "Twelve years. But come, see for yourself. I'll introduce you to some of the staff. No problem."
A walk-around tour Walton Associate's office could have taken all of three minutes. Handshakes with six staff—David, Lizzie, Carol, Mark, Steve and one receptionist cum PA, Sarah—but it took an hour. Jonathan showed him bids they'd submitted, a wall map showing flags with the bigger projects in Bangladesh, Pakistan, Bulgaria, Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Libya.
They stopped to look at Carol's computer screen where she was using a template to write a bid for some money for the UK—a rural economy project. Scott Evora followed Jonathan around, shook hands, nodded and listened. Then they returned to Jonathan's office and sat in the two arm chairs across the coffee table. As Scott Evora took over again, Jonathan filled the coffee cups.
"We just stopped a racket in Pakistan, Jonathan. Twenty million dollars for Christ's sake. Awarded for an educational project near Islamabad. Money's gone. Vanished. Where? Fuck knows. We got a couple of local guys but just can't nail their US partner. There must be one somewhere, but in Islamabad they clam up, shrug, say they know nothing. Trouble is they're probably right. We can't put our finger on the top local guys.
"We also just sentenced a US sub-contractor for four years for issuing false invoices. And you will have heard about the $295 million contract with the Afghan Ministry of Public Health. Money came from USAID. But where did a lot of that $295 million go? Fucking Talban and Islamic extremists of course. We think some went to Iran, some just disappeared into local pockets. The rest? God knows. And why don't we know? Because there aren't any proper controls that's why. We just hand it over with smiles on our faces and hope it'll be spent wisely. Hope doesn't work, Jonathan. We just gotta get tougher."
Evora stopped, took a gulp of his coffee. Then, without moving his eyes from the bottom of his cup: "You ever dealt with USAID, Jonathan?"
"No, never," Jonathan said, remembering that Evora had asked him that before. Was Walton Associates suspected of something? "We leave anything to do with USAID to American consultants or contractors," he added.
Evora nodded, seemingly believing what Jonathan had said. He looked up from his cup.
"But that's why we need the feedback, the snippets of intelligence that come the way of businesses like yours on this side of the pond. We especially need to know one hell of a lot more about the contractors involved, the agents, the sub-agents, the consultants. We need to start spot checks. Walk into their offices off the street. But first we need to know who to spot check. It's a moving target. They come, they go. They appear, they disappear—deliberately of course. A few names crop up, then they crop up again somewhere else and then they disappear. And how many fucking people do you know called Mohamed? We need stricter controls but the bureaucracy is bad enough already."
Evora was sitting back, totally relaxed in
the arm chair, his long legs spread wide, the half empty coffee cup hovering in his hand over the arm of the chair. He took a deep breath.
"Now," he paused. "What, in your opinion, is the UK government doing, Jonathan? What is the EU doing? Are they concerned? The outward signs are they don't give a fuck. Am I right? But from what I understand, the figures are just the same as the US's—massive losses, huge discrepancies. Don't taxpayers over here care? Why don't they say something? Don't your politicians get it in the neck like ours do? Why give billions of dollars in aid for the teeming millions of poor in Africa, the Middle East and Asia only to find some tin pot dictator or despot has just stolen it? Why not spend the billions at home on your own poor—after all, it is these very same home-grown poor who have paid the tax in the first place. That's what US citizens are asking.
"You've been in the business a while, Jonathan, you must have your opinions and suspicions?" he concluded.
Jonathan sighed, seriously wondering whether to say 'just look what had happened to Jim Smith.’ And then, of course, there was Jan, sitting at his desk behind a computer right at the heart of the system. Should he even mention the mysterious Guido or the suspicion that the system itself tolerated, wittingly or not, the antics of top bureaucrats like Dirk Eischmann?
And there was another worry. Did Evora suspect that Walton Associates might, itself, be involved somewhere? Had Evora come with another agenda? If so, he needed to proceed very carefully. Did the FBI already know about Jacob Johnson, for instance? Were they so on the ball that Johnson was being watched? If so then was Walton Associates also being watched? He stood up, wandered over to the window and looked down into the car park where he could see what he thought must be Evora's car—a Ford Mondeo—parked next to his.
"Yes," he said still looking down. "We have a lot of suspicions and so we are, as I mentioned earlier, very selective who we work for. But you are right, Scott, the international aid business—if we can call it that—is huge, it is massive, it is bureaucratic, the world is a very big place and the money handed out is vast. But the attitude seems to be that you have to allow for discrepancies—twenty percent is a figure that often gets mentioned—because it's just not practical to tighten things up enough to stop it. It's probably a lot more than twenty percent but can you imagine a private business accepting even a twenty percent loss?"
