Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  Tom shook his head in amazement. Jim looked unfazed.

  "Let's now phone the FBI—Scott Evora. Listen in," said Jonathan. He pressed the numbers, waited until the American accent came on and turned on the loudspeaker.

  "Ever come across a guy called Silvester Mendes, Jonathan?" Evora began.

  "No."

  "He's never called you any time?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. The staff also takes calls."

  "Ever advised on overseas aid for Pakistan?"

  "Yes, once."

  " Afghanistan? Bangladesh?"

  "Bangladesh, once or twice."

  "Was it European money?"

  "Yes."

  "And you told me you've never had anything to do with USAID, right?"

  "Correct."

  "OK, listen up. I'm about to tell you some things that are a bit, what shall I say, unusual. OK? I don't normally say things like this on a phone but we're a bit concerned about this guy, Silvester Mendes—have been for some time. He's black, probably runs around on a couple of US passports that look legit, nice and clean, so he comes and goes as he pleases. He actually runs a private detective agency with a few staff who check hundred percent clean—he's an ex New York cop, by the way, so he knows a few tricks.

  "But he was in Islamabad a few times a year or so back—our guys got wind. He met up with a Mullah or two, the CIA were watching. He also met a few Pakistani government members and Central Bank officials. No names, OK—but it was about the time some USAID poured in. Our friend Mendes was posing as someone he wasn't. No names again. But he now seems to know the system well. He's learned a lot by rubbing shoulders with influence in some very foreign places. Not nice influence, get my drift?

  "Anyway, then there was another load of USAID money went in, none of it ended up where it was supposed to. Mendes goes to Islamabad again. We watched him quite recently but still got nothing that'll stick. Mendes then gets on a plane for Dubai and disappears from the radar for a while, six months or so. Turns up back in New York. Says he was on a case down in Miami for nearly six months, undercover—problems with a drug syndicate that involved Afghan and Pakistani taxi drivers—that was the excuse he gave for going to Islamabad when asked. A plausible story as it turned out so, yet again, nothing gets pinned on him. I could tell you more, Jonathan, but I've already said more than I should.

  "Now—reason for call. We know he's in London. Right now he's staying at the Intercontinental Hotel, Park Lane—been there three days already but not doing a lot—spending money, eating, drinking, womanizing a bit. But we're planning a few tricks of our own. One of our team is getting close to him. Feedback we're getting is vague—he's clever, wary, keeps cards close to his chest. He's still just an innocent, private investigator on his holidays, or that's his line. But we've tempted him with a few thoughts about international aid funds being available—thrown in mentions of huge sums like 75 million Euros and he's starting to realize that Euros are bigger than dollars and that over here they don't seem so bothered about money going astray." Scott Evora paused. "Are you getting the picture, Jonathan?"

  "Yes," Jonathan said, nodding for the benefit of Tom and Jim.

  "OK. Will you help us?"

  "What on earth can I do?"

  "You know this business better than anyone, Jonathan. If you're willing, what we'll do is try fix a meeting for you with him to explain what you do. Suggest in a roundabout way you are very flexible in the way you work—get my meaning, Jonathan?"

  "Yes," Jonathan replied, thinking he was becoming well used to flexibility since meeting Jacob Johnson. He winked at Jim and Tom.

  "You sure you're OK with this, Jonathan? Any problems for you and we'd back you up. OK?"

  "Yes, I understand, but, uh, how…"

  "But what?" Evora asked.

  "Don't you feel you're tinkering a bit with the official role of a Legal Attache, Scott? I thought the role was coordination with host countries not pro-active investigation and intelligence gathering."

  "Hmm. Been reading us up?"

  "I always research my clients."

  "What? I'm now a fucking client of yours?"

  "Not a normal one."

  "So what are you saying, Jonathan?"

  "I suppose I'll turn a blind eye to your methods in the interests of continuing to build relationships between our two great nations."

  "Now who was it said that? So you're still on?"

  "Yes. I help you. You help us."

  "Good man. OK, listen. Thanks a million. Sorry to mess your weekend. Where are you? With the family? I'll call you back soon, OK?"

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  FREETOWN, SIERRA LEONE.

  Mitchell's boss, Mr. Suleiman, having said he smelled bad fish and dead rats, was now pulling strings by calling upon friends and acquaintances. He started with a manager at Standard Chartered Bank.

  "There is no Daisy Children's Charity in Sierra Leone," said the manager. "Neither is there a charity called Schools Aid, but we checked and there is a charity called Schools Aid for Africa in England. They send secondhand laptops to Africa."

  Suleiman noted it and went on his way. His next stop was his old school friend Seymour at the Pyramid Bank because he knew they had a branch in Sulima.

  "Sulima Construction?" Seymour scratched his head. "I'll phone Wesley in Sulima."

  Suleiman sat and waited until: "Wesley says there is no company called Sulima Construction and he has lived in Sulima since he was born."

  "Let me speak to Wesley," said Suleiman and took over Seymour's telephone. "My driver has been there so there must be a Sulima Construction. It is by the river, across from the boatyard, a concrete building with a tin roof."

  "Ah, no sir, I know that building. It is owned by Cherry Enterprises. It is a warehouse for storing goods before they are put on the boats."

  "And who owns Cherry Enterprises, Mr. Wesley?" asked Suleiman.

  "It is a man called Mr. Moses."

  "Aha," said Suleiman, smiling and nodding towards Seymour. "And the office of Cherry Enterprises is also in the concrete building?"

  "Oh, no, no, sir. Cherry Enterprises has an office in the town. There is Cherry Trading, Cherry Transport, Cherry Industries, Cherry this and Cherry that, sir. So many cherries I cannot remember."

  "And Mr. Moses owns these companies?"

  "Ah well, sir, that I cannot say. Maybe he owns all of them or just some of them, but all of the Cherry companies trade in Liberia and Nigeria and they own many boats by the river."

  Suleiman thanked Seymour and Wesley, returned to his office and checked his watch. It was late morning in London—a good time to phone his cousin, Cole.

  Cole Harding, distant cousin to Suleiman, a lawyer and senior partner in Fitzgerald, Waterman & Harding was, just as Suleiman imagined, at his desk in his smart office in Brighton, England. Born in Sierra Leone but educated since the age of seven in the UK, Harding had made money for his practice by becoming known amongst the West African community. But he had long ago ditched immigration problems in favor of commercial advice to the increasing numbers of West Africans with businesses. But Harding was selective. He had a nose for a rogue and deeply disliked the fraud and corruption that was rife across West Africa. He had been outspoken about it. "It is the hard working poor who create the wealth," he had once written in a commercial law magazine. "So why should they be the ones who then suffer from greedy politicians, thieves and corrupt big businesses?"

  The keen sense of smell, especially of bad fish and dead rats, ran in the extended Suleiman family and if anything made Cole Harding drop everything for a day or so it was when he smelled something rotten. He quickly understood what Suleiman was saying and noted names, companies and charities. By mid-afternoon he had also spoken to the Charity Commission and the National Fraud Authority about the level of charity fraud. The information, as he had expected, was shocking with the National Fraud Authority estimating that fraud against the charity sector cost over one billion pounds a year.


  He spoke to Schools Aid Africa, a small English charity in East Anglia that took free gifts of old laptop computers from the public, made them fit to use, boxed them up and sent them to places like Sierra Leone. "Do they reach their destination?" Harding asked. They didn't know. They hoped so.

  "If I told you a consignment you recently sent to Sierra Leone was stolen and resold in Liberia and Nigeria for tens of thousands of dollars what would you say?" They were shocked.

  "So who do you deal with in Sierra Leone?" he asked. That was easy. It was Daisy Children's Charity who were not just in Sierra Leone but had branches in Liberia, Nigeria and Ghana. Had they checked Daisy Children's Charity out? Well, no, not thoroughly, after all it was a name given to them by the British Embassy and so was bound to be legitimate. And had they ever meet anyone from Daisy Children's Charity? Oh yes. A nice man called Mr. Moses had met them in London two years ago to explain how his charity worked. And how did they send their computers to Sierra Leone when the airport was well known to be a little unreliable? That was easy, also. They had been told to use an Italian freight forwarder who worked with Swissair. All they had to do was send the computers to Freeways Freight Forwarding in Milan and the company did the rest. Schools Aid Africa was, after all, a charity, so couldn't be expected to check everything. Resources were thin on the ground.

  Being Friday, Cole Harding decided to leave it over the weekend to decide what to do next. By two in the morning on Saturday, though, his thoughts had already moved onto theft of international aid. One report stuck in his mind because, for once, it had been properly investigated—Cambodia and millions of dollars of funds for mosquito nets. The kickback had been fifteen percent with two officials pocketing $500,000 each and the director responsible getting $351,000. In the end, the nets were useless because they had not been treated with insecticide.

  But fraud like that was widespread and organized. He had seen it himself—double invoicing, false accounting, fictitious trading histories, tenders submitted before they were officially released. By three in the morning he had concluded that the businesses run by the man Moses—Rocki General Supplies, Sulima Construction and a whole list using the name Cherry had all the hallmarks of professional scam organizations. By four in the morning, Harding was at his computer researching fraud in charities and international aid and by Sunday morning he had found a company that, according to their website, specialized in advice on international aid—Walton Associates.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “I'M GOING TO Bristol tomorrow morning.”

  "Margaret?" Tom asked, hesitantly.

  Jim nodded. They were having breakfast and, on advice from Tom that he needed to put on weight, Jim had tried a full English breakfast for the first time for years. The eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and fried tomatoes were already lying heavily.

  "What about the paintings, Jim? Any thoughts?"

  "Leave it with me." Jim grimaced.

  "So," said Tom, getting up, "I'm off to Stockholm."

  "And I'm off to be sick," said Jim, but he managed a faint smile.

  "Go into Windsor," Tom suggested. "Buy some iced coconut juice and fresh bananas from the side of the road, Jim."

  ***

  In north London, Jonathan was trying to be helpful around the house. He had a long list—fix a plug, replace a light bulb, sweep the dead leaves. He was sorting trash for recycling when he felt his mobile vibrating in his back pocket. It was Scott Evora.

  "My apologies for calling so soon and on a Sunday, Jonathan, but we've got movement on what I spoke to you about yesterday. Can you talk?"

  "Sure." Jonathan dumped the trash on the kitchen floor and leaned against the refrigerator as Claire washed dishes from the night before.

  "Silvester Mendes. Yeh, him again. Our man got him talking last night. They were in a nightclub somewhere—don't ask, OK. Anyway, our man starts talking European aid money again. Mendes had clearly been giving the subject some thought because he brought the subject up. He then starts asking questions—the who, how, what, where and when. Our man does what he can but he's no expert, right? Admits it. 'Anyway,' he says to Mendes, 'I know a guy who knows this stuff inside out.' He mentions no names, but Mendes is all ears again. His first question, 'Is this guy official or is he loose?' Know what that means, Jonathan?"

  "I suppose he was asking if I'm really a crook," offered Jonathan, feeling Claire's eyes.

  "Yep, that's right—means is he as honest as the day is long, is he already a clever, white collar crook like Mendes himself or, if not, could he be tempted to become one. Our man probably shrugs and smiles, says nothing. Lets the smile work. Mendes starts asking more questions—where's all this aid money go, what for, who decides, et cetera. Our man mentions Afghanistan, Pakistan, West Africa 'cus he already knows that's just the sort of places Mendes likes.

  "Anyway, cut to the chase, Mendes starts getting excited. We already know he's running a bit scared of the US at present—he knows we've been watching him, he's no fool. So, what should he do, he asks himself. Why not shelve the US operation for a while and start up over here, he thinks. After all, London looks OK from his perspective, nice hotels, good clubs, he speaks the language, there's plenty of life going on with people coming and going, immigration controls allow a bit of flexibility, lots of cash being given away to far off places. And it's all nice and complicated, too, 'cus it's not just London, it's the whole of Europe and the bureaucracy is just one big beautiful mess—and that's his favorite scene. The messier it is, the better. Mendes works by hiding within a messy system because he uses others, you see. He breaks cover sometimes—but only if necessary, because he generally tries operating through others—like when he was spotted in Islamabad.

  "You still following me, Jonathan? Good man. Now, listen up. How about it if we give Mendes your phone number? We're not sure how long he's planning to stick around. If he phones you, see what you can do, give him all the shit about the boring daily routine of business advice and consultancy just to appear fully compliant et cetera, but then rub in the tastier side, the positives, the side that gets you excited—you know—the alternative ways and means to make a decent living. Suggest a few best places he could start. Give a few examples. Make them up if necessary. Just go with the flow. Go fishing, Jonathan. Help us hook him. Meet him if you feel comfortable but play him along. Keep us posted and we'll try fixing him up good and proper. And don't worry. I'll make sure your name is logged here as one of our team of local cooperatives. How's it sound?"

  Jonathan thought about Jan, Jim and Tom and took a deep breath. If they could show the FBI was getting interested, might it help their case? Yes, probably, he decided. And he was sure Jim would agree. And what might Scott Evora think if he got to meet Jim and so know the extent of their own investigations? That part might need thinking about but they were in this thing up to their necks already. Yes, give it a day or so, he thought, and he'd fix it for Jim to get introduced to the FBI Legal Attache's office.

  "OK," Jonathan said. "Let's give it a go. I hate greed, fraud and corruption. We'd all be a lot better off if we could stamp at least some of it out." Jonathan saw Claire shake her head and take off her rubber gloves.

  "Good man. OK, we'll do the rest. Let us know if he phones. Oh and by the way—very important—if you talk to him or go along to meet him, he's Lucas Valdez, OK? We and you know he's actually Silvester Mendes but to you he's Lucas, OK? So don't start calling him Silvester or we're all fucked." And then he laughed.

  Jonathan joined in knowing he was bad at remembering names but it was a warning he'd not thought of. He retrieved the bag of recyclable trash and took it outside.

  "Who was that, Jon?" Claire asked, following him.

  "FBI," said Jonathan.

  "Don't be stupid. Did you change that light bulb?"

  Jonathan's mind, though, was not on light bulbs but on Jim. From behind the trash bins, he phoned him with another quick update.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

&
nbsp; ON MONDAY MORNING Jim took a taxi, a train to Bristol and another taxi to the hotel overlooking the Avon Gorge. Taking a seat by the window, he ordered coffee and told staff he was expecting to be joined by someone for lunch. Then he waited, looking at his watch and occasionally walking to the lobby and back. He felt nervous. But at ten minutes past one he looked, yet again, towards the doorway.

  An elderly lady entered carrying a small handbag and wearing a navy blue skirt, cream-colored blouse and a matching blue silk scarf tied neatly at her neck. She wore low, heeled shoes, her hair was gray and she stood motionless in the doorway. Jim was sure it was Margaret. It was her height and slim build. So he got up from his seat, knocking the glass tabletop and spilling his coffee as he did so. Then he walked towards her holding out his hands.

  Margaret saw the movement but stayed where she was as Jim did his best to smile. And as he drew nearer he saw that her eyes stared at him as though she was not sure who it was. There was no recognition, no sign of a welcome and no hint that she might at least walk, just a step forward, to greet him.

  Jim's voice that spoke her name was far smaller and quieter than he wanted it to be, but his eyes stung and his throat hurt. It was still hurting when he arrived back in Windsor.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  TUESDAY MORNING AND Jim didn't feel well.

  He put it down to the effect of seeing Margaret, but the morning headache had returned and when he left his room to find a newspaper to read, he felt dizzy. Worried that he was about to collapse again, he found a seat in the lobby and slumped into it. "Don't collapse here, you old fool, not now, not yet. Why don't you just try some strong sweet coffee?"