by Terry Morgan
He ordered some without getting up, drank three cupfuls whilst reading some depressing news about terrorists in the Middle East, but felt better. "Fresh air is what you need now—blow the cobwebs away, clear the sinuses."
He left the newspapers and went to the door, but had hardly gone a few paces when a gust of cold, October wind caught his unbuttoned suit jacket and penetrated through his shirt to his skin. "Dear me, I'd forgotten how darned cold it gets here. Perhaps I need to don my thick woolly jumper, Mother. Except I don't have one. And what's that noise?"
The ringing coming from his jacket pocket was a call from Jonathan.
"I'm meeting this American guy Silvester Mendes tonight—he phoned me, just like Scott Evora thought he might. Very brief call, nothing discussed, just a meeting fixed. But he's not calling himself Silvester Mendes, he's Lucas Valdez."
"Are you comfortable doing that, Jonathan?"
"No, but we're in this so deep now that I'm starting to believe that fraud is my real business. But I think you should now talk to Scott Evora, Jim. Think about it. He's not UK political class or establishment and I think he'd be very interested in what you've got to say. But he knows nothing about what we're up to, Jim—yet. Just remember that."
Jim had already decided. "Go ahead, Jonathan. Fix it."
"And another thing, Jim. Before meeting Mendes, Scott's fitting me up with what he calls, some security."
"What's that?"
"A device concealed upon my person. But it's given me an idea that might help Jan."
Still shivering, Jim turned and walked the few steps back to the hotel entrance where a London taxi was drawing up outside. It was Tom who was paying the driver. Seeing Jim, he grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
"Success, Jim," he announced. "Come inside…I've traced Pretty Polly, Jim."
"So quick?"
"Sure. I'm an investigative reporter, don't forget. With a wink and a nod from someone I used to know, it was so easy. I'm beginning to wish I'd gone solo years ago."
"Did they want to know why you wanted to find her?"
"I bullshitted, but my contact had spoken to Polly years ago. He told me there was a general view that it was a put-up job. After all, it is not unknown to lay traps for unwary politicians or others just for the story—a sex scandal or corruption. But this one, he said, looked more complicated and he agreed with me there was some muscle and big money behind it, not just someone on a tight budget. Let's have a beer, Jim, I've got more to tell you."
"I think a coffee would be far kinder on my stomach."
"Still suffering from last Sunday's breakfast, Jim? OK, let's sit… Polly has come up trumps, Jim, and she's a nice girl…And how was Margaret, Jim?"
There was a fired up look in Tom's eye that Jim had not seen before, but he wanted to avoid the subject of Margaret at all costs. "You actually met Polly, you Irish scoundrel?"
"Sure I did. She's twenty-four, married to a Swede who has his own fashion business, which she helps run. I met her at their shop. But as soon as I told her just the smallest bit about you, she cried, Jim. That's not to say I didn't rub it in a bit strong you understand. I told her you had been forced to leave UK, which she seemed to know. But she suddenly said to me she wanted to speak up now because things had prayed on her conscience for too long."
Jim listened but said nothing as Tom went on. "She made a thousand pounds, Jim, and all she had to say when asked was that the man she had entertained for a few nights was the one in a picture she was shown and then talk about her own life. She lied, Jim, lied for the sake of a thousand pounds."
Jim still said nothing. A waitress brought a tray of coffee and Tom was still talking.
"So last night, with her permission, I taped a full length interview with her and she has promised to confirm it all independently but only if anyone asks. It was voluntary, Jim, and I believe her when she said she felt ashamed of what she had done. But a thousand pounds to a young, aspiring and attractive nineteen year old with the usual ambitions for fame and popularity, is a temptation—particularly if you never consider the implications for others."
"Who gave her the money?"
"A woman, she said."
"Did you get a name?"
"Someone called Anne." Tom stopped, looked at Jim. "That's all she knew—Anne. Are you feeling OK, Jim?"
"Yes," Jim said, "I am now. I felt a little lightheaded earlier on."
"Do you know anyone called Anne?"
"Oh, yes. It just confirms my suspicions." Jim made a deep, audible sigh and shivered.
"You feeling the cold, Jim?"
"I took a stroll to clear my head but the damned wind nearly ripped the jacket from my shoulders and I see it's raining now. I hate this damned suit, Tom. I think I'll buy myself what my mother used to call a nice woolly jumper."
"Then we must go shopping again. But you must take it easy, Jim. Can't have you collapsing again just as we're getting somewhere."
"But we now need to fly to Brussels. I haven't been to Delft for years. Let's see what we can find out about Guido."
"Jim, why not leave that to me. I'll fly over this afternoon. You stay here and continue to act as head of whistle-blowing— the whistleblowers coordinator-in-chief."
Jim smiled, scratched his head and felt the elastic band that held the long gray hair together at the back, snap. Hair fell around his shoulders.
"We'd better add elastic bands to the woolly jumper, Tom. I had no idea traveling abroad would be so expensive." He almost smiled. "OK, decision made. You go. I'm going to talk to the FBI. And that's my phone ringing if I'm not mistaken. It can only be Jonathan."
It was.
"Jim, more developments in the last half hour. I've had a phone call from a lawyer in Brighton—Cole Harding. He was fishing for views on fraud and corruption related to charities and international aid. What could I do but give him a few statistics, percentages going astray et cetera. My part done, I ask why his interest. He then mentions his West African links—he was born in Sierra Leone—and has some very strong views on fraud and corruption. He asked me how it all works and I thought I'd better not miss an opportunity to tell him about Walton Associates.
"Do you ever come across attempts at fraud, he asks. Sure, I say, but we're selective in who we work for. Then I said, listen, I'm a bit busy right now but do you want to chat further? I'd never said that to a lawyer before—it's usually them telling me to call back or make an appointment because they're tied up. He agreed but then, clever lawyer tactics, he asks if I've ever dealt with Sierra Leone or Liberia. I say, yes—as it happens I'm dealing with one right now.
"Then Jim, he really throws one at me. Ever heard of a company called Cherry Investments or Sulima Construction, he asks. I think for a second then say yes. And are they perfectly law-abiding would you say, he asks me. That, Mr. Harding, I said, is not something I could possibly discuss on the phone because they have just become a client, but if you have any reasons to suspect them of anything then perhaps you'd like to enlighten me. Then he suggests we meet. I've agreed."
"Interesting," Jim said.
"And I've also fixed it for you to meet Scott Evora," Jonathan continued. "I didn't say much to him except to suggest he check politics of a few years ago and Googles James Edward Smith, MP. Jim Smith is a friend of mine, I said."
Jim glanced at Tom sitting across the table. "So when is my appointment with the FBI?"
"Tomorrow morning, 11:00 a.m., Alfredo's Cafe Bar, Brook Street, just off Grosvenor Square."
"Fine, I'll be there. And Tom's just got back from Stockholm, Jonathan, with some good news. I'll brief him. He's sitting here finishing a cup of coffee. Then he's going straight back to Heathrow Airport, getting a flight to Amsterdam or Brussels and then driving to Delft."
Chapter Fifty-Six
"YES, OF COURSE I spoke to Mr. Eischmann. And I didn't like what he told me."
Guido, rotating his big office chair and chewing on a pen seemed ready to sob. He sniffed, swallow
ed hard, then mumbled like a child.
"Those Cherry Picking bastards ignored us, Toni," he said between sniffs. "Even after I bought them pizza and paid for them to stay at the Park Hyatt Hotel—two single rooms with breakfast—they have gone behind our backs. But they were so naive, Toni. They knew nothing. And after I told them to be more ambitious, what do they do? They stab us in the back by talking to a fucking Nigerian and now they've put in a bid for 35 million Euros. Imagine, Toni. 35 million Euros. That almost beats our record.
"And Mr. Moses is very mad. He thinks it was me who caused him to receive two hundred boxes containing old copies of Corriere della Sera instead of his water purifiers."
He took a deep, audible breath as if trying to pull himself together. "So Guido is very upset and angry this morning because he could not sleep last night. His head, it hurts. He is very stressed."
The sniffing stopped abruptly. Instead, he started to giggle.
"But I like being stressed," he chirped as if a lost toy had suddenly been returned. "Whenever a little failure looms, Guido strikes back. Guido will never allow a mark of disgrace to be written on his forehead. So, you too, my flower, must wash away the dirty stain left by a tiny loss and together we will now show that it is not we who are the incompetent fools. It is others who have made a serious error of judgment.
"Stress, my precious flower, led to another new idea and another clever solution. So, when I spoke to Mr. Eischmann I proposed a very simple solution to the problem of the fucking Cherry Pick bastards. You will see. A big revenge is the cure for a little failure."
Chapter Fifty-Seven
THE TUESDAY MEETING of the Economic Aid to West Africa (EAWA) committee was in Room 4/116 and, as always, Dirk Eischmann had settled himself alongside Katrine.
"I hope it's not a long agenda, Katrine. I have a flight booked at 6:00 p.m., so let's not encourage too much discussion."
"We have three new bids for stage one assessment, Mr. Eischmann," Katrine said. "These have already been circulated and, as you know, committee members are required to be fully au fait with them before attending this meeting. So, minimal discussion followed by a straight vote I would think."
"Good, and how's the new committee member, Jan Kirkman, doing now? Showing promise?"
"Yes, Mr. Eischmann. He seems very knowledgeable."
"Seeing him socially?"
Katrine didn't look up, but she knew Eischmann was looking at her. "Our paths cross sometimes," she said, trying to hide her shock at the question. What, she wondered, was going on here?
"So," Eischmann said, now turning his attention to the pile of papers. "We'll be signing off the Ghana, Mali and Congo bids. That is what? Almost twenty-six million Euros. Then we'll move onto the three new ones."
It took an hour to come to the new bid written by Jonathan. Katrine, as usual, summarized it before opening it up for discussion. Jan, from his seat around the table, listened.
"This last project—it's the one titled 'Eco Tourism Project, Sulima, Sierra Leone'—you will all have seen it—is seeking some thirty-five million Euros. This has been submitted by Walton Associates in the UK. It looks ambitious, but they have provided three full pages of statistics ending with projections for tourist numbers—again you might consider the numbers ambitious—but they've also submitted estimates for the future value to the country's economy, evidence of local construction capability—a company called Sulima Construction—and three separate letters of official support from local and national government including two letters signed by the Minister for Tourism and the Minister for Trade. These letters confirm the Sierra Leone Government's contribution of 3.5 million Euros. So we have what looks like sound government support and a commitment to contribute. The project is to be managed by a company called Cherry Pick Investments, Freetown, Sierra Leone." She stopped. "Anyone have any initial questions or comments?"
It was Eischmann himself who jumped.
"Yes," he said without looking up. "Cherry Pick Investments. I've never heard of them. What do they do?"
"It's in the documentation, Mr. Eischmann. Construction projects, consultants, advisers especially to hotels and the leisure industry. And, according to the references shown, they are well known to the Chinese Embassy. The information also shows they have offices in Lebanon, Lagos and Holland as well as Sierra Leone. We have names of the Lebanese directors."
"Yes, yes, but it's not enough. And Sulima Construction? Who are they? We need to ask for more information. The Chinese letter also needs translating. I would like to put this project on hold until we have more. Does everyone agree?"
As usual when Eischmann was the first to express an opinion, there were nods and murmurs of agreement. Jan, unwilling to stand out, also nodded his assent. But he already sensed that Eischmann was taking steps to stifle this one. Similar questions could have been asked of the previous two bids. So why this one? Jan couldn't help it. He looked at Katrine and caught her eye.
At five thirty, from outside in the street and on the designated mobile phone, Jan called Jonathan about Eischmann's decision on the Sierra Leone bid.
"For some reason, Jonathan, he took a dislike to the bid. No doubt you'll hear formally in due course, but you can expect a request for more information on both Cherry Pick Investments and Sulima Construction. There were two other bids prior to that one and neither of them got any questions—both were passed. So why?"
"Could this be Guido's doing?" Jonathan surmised. "We know from Jacob Johnson that Guido was deliberately bypassed by the two Lebanese. They thought he was crazy. So, has Guido decided to get his own back, to get even, to take revenge by telling Eischmann to put the boot in and clobber the bid?"
"That's exactly my thinking," replied Jan. "And I've had another message from the dog in the park. It seems my training in the art of hacking the treasury is not complete. I've got an evening rendezvous in Delft on Thursday."
"In that case, Tom needs to know," Jonathan suggested. "He's on his way to Delft right now. Perhaps he might get a look at Guido himself."
Chapter Fifty-Eight
TOM HAD TAKEN a taxi straight back to Heathrow Airport, this time for Amsterdam. Jim walked into the town, purchased a thick brown sweater, a packet of elastic bands and returned to his room. But he couldn't settle. For a while he sat thinking, but then went to his bag of paintings, transferred some into a plastic laundry bag he found in a drawer, pulled the sweater on, took a taxi to the station, a train to London and another taxi to an address in Kensington.
It was late afternoon when he arrived at the Ashton Art Gallery.
He remembered it with green window frames and green door, but everything was now white. He pushed the door and a buzzer sounded as he went inside, up two steps and on to a plush royal blue carpet. The pure white walls were covered, tastefully, with abstract oil paintings, one corner dominated by a large potted fern and another by a table with white, porcelain figures of ballet dancers. As he stood for a moment, the buzzing still in his ears, a woman appeared from a desk behind a screen at the rear. She had long black hair, light brown skin and wore a long, yellow silk skirt with a wide, black belt and black. Malaysian or Thai, Jim thought.
"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?"
Jim looked at her and could not help but remember Noy. It was as if it were Noy standing there. Noy wearing expensive clothes.
"Good afternoon." He looked at her, up and down, and then glanced around the walls. "I used to know Hugh McAllister quite well," he said. "I was wondering if he would see me."
"Mr. McAllister will be back very soon, sir. May I help you in the meantime?"
Jim's eyes were still roving around the walls. Abstracts. Big and small. Wall decorations. He walked over to examine one more closely as the woman watched him, nervously. Perhaps it was his beard and long hair, Jim thought, although he himself also felt a little apprehensive as if he was a poor and struggling artist desperate for someone to enthuse about his work as though his livelihood and the survival o
f a young family might depend upon a favorable response.
"Yes, perhaps," he said. "I have brought along a few pieces of my work for Hugh to see. Perhaps I can show them to you while we await his return."
"It would probably be best if you show Mr. McAllister rather than me."
Jim couldn't help looking at her big brown eyes, long lashes and thick, black eyebrows, and he recognized the accent. She saw him looking at her and looked away. Her lips were full and pink and then he remembered her. "You are from Malaysia?"
"Yes," she said and looked back at him, smiling, pleased.
"But you have lived here for some time now?"
"Yes, my husband is English. He works in the city."
"Are you from Penang?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Did you once work at the Ambassador Hotel?"
"Yes. How do you know?"
"I stayed there once."
"Ah," she said, smiling. "I once worked in the restaurant."
"I remember," he said.
"You have a good memory."
"For some things."
"May I ask how long did you stay in Malaysia?" she said.
"In the hotel for just two days but I stayed in the area for longer. I returned on Thursday. I have been away since then."
Jim could remember her even more clearly now. It had been during the days of a Sunday newspaper interview given by Margaret. He had lain on his hotel bed reading it, over and over again. Then he had gone down to dinner.
In the restaurant, this woman was the waitress and he had ordered grilled fish. He was amazed at how clearly he could remember all this despite the effects of Tiger beer. He remembered looking at the fish, then at the tablecloth and trying to find his bottle, which was six inches from his plate. He had been fully aware of his condition and had looked at her, up and down, just like now. It was this same girl who had started him thinking about the point of continued faithfulness. He had not made any advances towards her, although he remembered, just, amidst the alcoholic haze, being sorely tempted. But it was she who had set his thoughts in motion. He could also remember something else.
