Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  "Your name is Melissa, am I right?"

  "That is amazing. How did you remember that?"

  Jim looked at her and tried to smile. "I have always been grateful to you, you see. You started me on a long process of readjustment in my life. It is still going on, but I am grateful for the small, perhaps unwitting, part you played."

  "I am afraid I don't remember what I said, but if it was useful then I am very pleased."

  Jim smiled at her, his poor teeth showing through the beard.

  "So, do you have a business card or something, Mister uh?" she asked as if trying to change the subject.

  "No. I am so sorry. My name is Jim Smith. Hugh's wife Anne worked for me once—for a short time. That is how we know each other."

  "Oh, I see. You knew Anne?"

  Jim did not answer this time. Instead he bent down to the plastic laundry bag and carefully withdrew a small bundle of his paintings. "I'm afraid I don't look after them too well."

  He held one out to her. It was his old lady with the basket of eggs and fried bananas, a water color of the woman's shoulders, the wooden yoke and her face looking directly out, the deep lines on her face drawn in sharp black ink, the wispy, gray hair falling across her dry and sunburned cheeks. But it was her eyes that mesmerized. The deepest brown and shining with an almost wicked twinkle. And her mouth—open and toothless—it smiled back. He handed it to Melissa. She took it to the window. "It’s so good," she smiled.

  He handed her another. A lizard. Black and red. Its crested head aloft, its eyes looking sideways and its tail curved around towards its front legs, claws and scales drawn and painted in meticulous detail. He pulled out another. A large fruit, yellow, greenish, its surface pitted and rough. It lay on the ground apparently in bright sunlight casting a dark shadow, its thick stalk angled towards the viewer. "Jackfruit," said Melissa.

  The fighting cock. Its head down, its feathers fluffed, its vicious eye glinting. "Amazing. Very good."

  Jim watched her as she looked closely and then held each one out before her or went to the window for a better look. "Your colors are incredible," she said. "Feathers, scales, texture, the skin, wrinkles, the eyes. Especially the eyes."

  Jim waited, quite happy to look at Melissa anyway. Then the door buzzer sounded and Melissa looked up. "It’s Hugh, Mr. McAllister," she said.

  Hugh McAllister, now in his early forties, looked much the same as Jim remembered. He was slim, short and casually but smartly dressed in a blue denim shirt, but his hair was now visibly receding at the front. He came in carrying a brown bag and a flat box of pizza.

  "This is Mr. Smith, Mr. McAllister. He came specially to see you." Hugh McAllister put everything down and came over. He looked at Jim, up and down.

  "Well I'm damned. If I'm not seriously mistaken this is no simple Mr. Smith, Melissa. This is James Smith, my favorite politician of all time, short and sweet though it was. Jim, how good to see you. It is you, isn't it?" He held out his hand.

  "How are you, Hugh?"

  "Well, thank you. And you're looking—what shall we say? Bronzed. Yes, bronzed—bronzed and bearded. What brings you here? Long time."

  "Yes, it's been a while, Hugh. How's business?"

  "Fine, fine. You know how it is, Jim. Up and down. We've gone into more abstract work these days. Seems more of a demand. It's the expensive, contemporary, riverside apartments. Not that they ever want to pay very much."

  "How's Anne?" It was an unusual question for Jim. It was private and private questions were normally alien to him. He usually avoided them altogether. But this one had some significance. It was asked early on and it was deliberate.

  "Anne? Divorced, Jim. It's ancient history."

  "I'm sorry. I had no idea." But Jim was not surprised.

  "You've been away. Why should you? Where've you been?"

  "Thailand"

  "Nice. Live there, do you?"

  "Yes."

  "Alone, Jim?"

  "Yes. Are you and Anne hitched up again, Hugh?" Again, it was unusually personal and he never normally used the word hitched, but Jim got the answer he was seeking.

  "Anne is. She married one of those high ranking bureaucrats working out of Brussels and is living a life of luxury that I could never have afforded. Speaking of luxury—would you care to join us for a slice of pizza around the back? It's a very late lunch or early dinner, I'm not sure which. But when I smelled it along the road I couldn't resist it."

  "Yes, thank you."

  "Bring the box, Melissa, and there's a nice Italian white in the fridge. Let's celebrate."

  So Jim joined them in eating pizza and drinking wine. Conversation was amiable enough. Hugh, never one for deep conversation, chatted superficially about London, art, business. Jim steered clear of mentioning Anne again but planned to come back to it. At last Hugh appeared to wonder why Jim was paying him a visit. Melissa jumped in. "Mr. Smith has brought some very good paintings. His own work."

  Hugh looked at her and then at Jim. "You've taken up painting, Jim? Then let's have a look."

  Melissa laid them on a table, switched on a desk lamp and stood back. Hugh looked over the top of his spectacles, silent for a while, picking them up, one by one. "Do you have more, Jim?"

  "Just a few more are in there." Jim pointed to the plastic laundry bag. "Do you want to see them?"

  Hugh nodded but continued to look at what was already laid out. He was now holding the one of the old lady. "I like it, Jim. Good. In fact it's very good." He put it down and went to peer inside the bag. "You always keep them in a hotel laundry bag?"

  He pulled them out, one by one, lay them on the table and took one of Jim's morning sky paintings—abstract, lines of orange, pink, purple and gray with a black silhouette of a coconut palm—to the window

  "They’re good, Jim. But this one." Hugh moved to one he had put down separately. "This one is brilliant." Jim stood up to see. It was Noy and Oy. They both looked back at him, Noy's mischievous eyes peering through Oy's black hair.

  "That one would not be for sale, Hugh. It is rather special to me. I included it to show the type of thing I've been doing."

  "So how many have you done, Jim?"

  "There are about three hundred at home. I brought about fifty."

  Hugh looked again at Noy and Oy. "You are good, Jim. I had no idea. More satisfying than bloody politics, eh? So what do you want to do, Jim?"

  "If you think they're good enough, I'd like to organize a quick exhibition—before I return. Can you arrange it?"

  Hugh looked at him over his glasses again. "Where? How? Why? How much do you want to spend, et cetera, my dear friend? And how quickly is quick?"

  "Within a month?"

  "That's very quick. Why so urgent? When are you going home?"

  "In a month."

  "Not sticking around to test reaction?"

  "Can you do it, Hugh? A hotel? Somewhere central? Organize a few people to come along? Press? Publicity?"

  "Why the urgency, Jim? I've never heard anything quite like it."

  "I want to make some public comments about what happened three years ago. I guarantee some interest if you can get it organized."

  "Are you serious, Jim?"

  "Of course. I'll pay for a venue. But I'm open to suggestions. It’s up to you to have a quick think on venue, promotion, organizing it. Can you do it, Hugh?"

  "I suppose it's possible, but you really mean one month?"

  "Or earlier. I would be very grateful. You can take all the proceeds from sales or give it to charity. I'm really not interested in the money."

  Hugh McAllister looked at him. "So what's biting you, Jim? After all this time."

  "I just want to prove something. It's very simple. Do you recall the nonsense that surrounded me before I went away? It was wrong, malicious, deliberate, but I need to prove I was right in asking questions and demanding action. Someone tried to silence me—no, more than that, to destroy me."

  "I remember, Jim. After all," he paused
, "I had to listen to Anne every night." He looked away but then quickly back at Jim. Jim waited—waited for something he had suspected for four years. Melissa, obviously sensitive to something, walked away.

  "You know something? I can say it now after so long because Anne has gone. Anne was involved somehow, Jim. I don't know how but I think she had something to do with your problems. I could only see the best in her at the time, but I now see things in a different light. I was not good enough for her. I was just a struggling, small gallery owner. She was ten years younger and thought I was something far bigger in the art world than I was. It was probably my fault, but offering a small showroom for unknown artists in a side street is quite different than dealing in art masterpieces. I didn't exactly come up to her expectations with a life of exotic holidays, skiing, yachts moored off somewhere fancy, of rubbing shoulders with royalty and men of power and influence at dinner parties and suchlike. I'm a takeaway pizza man who doesn't even own a car let alone a yacht. It just didn't work. I can't say much more and I have no evidence except some comments she made, but I have certain nagging suspicions about her nowadays. She had her mind set on something—something that meant she'd do anything to get it. She was already having an affair with the guy she eventually went off with—all long before I got to know."

  Jim listened. Hugh's preference for a simple life was something Jim understood and Hugh's description of Anne also fit. The evidence was in a brown envelope—the one he'd picked up from the solicitors on his way to meet Douglas Creighton at the Cumberland Hotel. But he changed the subject.

  "So, can I leave you to organize matters? I have a mobile number you can call me on. I will leave you the paintings in the bag—all except the one that belongs to me, that is—and bring more before the exhibition." He picked the special one up and slipped it back into the empty laundry bag. "And one last thing, Hugh. Only one or two people know I'm back in UK. I don't want every man and his dog finding out just yet."

  As they shook hands, Melissa reappeared. "I remember you now, Mr. Smith. You ate grilled red snapper and drank Tiger beer."

  Jim just smiled and nodded.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  "OH YES, MR. Walton. Mr. Valdez left a message for you, sir. Would you meet him in the basement bar at the King's Head."

  Jonathan was standing at the reception desk at the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane. "The King's Head?" he checked.

  "Yes, sir, it's just a few minutes' walk—Stafford Street, just up Piccadilly. You can't miss it."

  Jonathan, now with a tiny, electronic device stuck by tape beneath his shirt, wondered if someone from the FBI was watching. He walked out slightly self-consciously, wondering if he was being followed.

  The basement bar at the King's Head was dimly lit alcoves, archways, leather armchairs and sofas and Jonathan stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light. It was full and noisy with a hum of conversation and laughter and no place to sit. He glanced around but no one even looked at him. Unsure whether to order himself a drink and stand and wait, he turned. "You Jonathan?" Peering down at him was a big man with a round face and muscular arms with a neck and chest that filled a plain white tee shirt.

  "Yes," said Jonathan. "You Lucas?"

  "That's me. Bit busy here, eh? Wanna go upstairs?" He turned. "I found a quiet corner." He sidled up the narrow stairs, "You eaten, yet?"

  "No."

  "Nor me. You wanna eat something, Jonathan? I like London Shepherd's pie."

  "Sounds good to me. I'll join you."

  "Take a seat, I'll order. And a cold beer?" Jonathan, still settling himself, nodded. "Thanks."

  Lucas Valdez aka Silvester Mendes fit Scott Evora's description perfectly. Big, black and muscular with a strong New York accent. He returned carrying two full pint glasses, pulled up the small chair across the round wooden table where he'd clearly left a half empty glass and sat down heavily. "Beer," he said. "London pie coming." He held out his big hand. Jonathan took it and felt his own being shaken.

  "You like London?" was Jonathan's opener as if on a first date.

  "Sure, great place. Cosmopolitan, busy, multinational and you all speak American. Yeh, it's cozy here. I like it." Valdez downed the last of the first, half empty glass and pushed it aside. "You travel much, Jonathan?"

  "No, used to, but no longer. I find I'm busy enough here."

  "Business OK?"

  "Could always cope with some more."

  "I understand you do a lot with international aid." Valdez looked at Jonathan across the top of his full glass and took a mouthful. His eyes were big, black and serious but with an intelligent glint. There was a day or two's growth of black stubble on his cheeks as he wiped his mouth.

  "Yes, there's not much I don't know about the way the system works—or doesn't work." Jonathan deliberately raised an eyebrow, smiled, took a swig of beer, tried hard to appear what he had been made out to be—a man with an eye for an opportunity or two.

  "Lucrative is it?"

  "Can be."

  "What are we talking?"

  "Figures?" Jonathan checked.

  Valdez nodded. "Sure—give me a feel for this English game you play."

  "Mmm," Jonathan paused as if unfazed by large amounts of money. "I've just finished one bid for 35 million Euros." It was true. "Another one is going in for a bit less." That was also true. "I like to spread it around a bit—one in West Africa, next one in the Middle East. So, yes, if we only make two percent it's worth it. Obviously there are expenses that come out of it and that can vary—politicians, bureaucrats, paper shufflers especially—they need their palms greased. And we lobby the right people. It's hard work."

  Valdez was staring at him. "Yeh, I know." He took another drink. "Ever make more than two percent?"

  "Of course. That's the aim. But it depends how you deal with it and the value of the funds you bid for. Sometimes we bid on behalf of others—that way we make anything from two to ten percent. Other times we fix things and bid ourselves. That way we make more."

  "You put in bids yourself?"

  "Of course—it's now routine. We set up some sort a local organization—a company or something—with partners. That way we have some control." Jonathan had never liked lying so he explained this particular lie away as just outlandish bullshit of the sort he'd recently practiced on Jacob Johnson.

  "Is it in English pounds or Euros or whatever they are?"

  "It depends—mostly Euros."

  "Ever dealt with USAID?"

  "No, never."

  "Charities?"

  "Not directly."

  "Meaning what, Jonathan?" There was an edge to his voice, but he didn't give Jonathan time to reply. "Never mind. I checked your business." Perhaps he was hoping this would unnerve Jonathan.

  "You mean you checked out Walton Associates?" Jonathan smiled the sort of smile used for suggesting Walton Associates was just a front, a front for more profitable ventures run from somewhere foreign, hidden from the Inland Revenue. "I hope you found what you were looking for."

  "Sure, I did. Looks a nice, honest business, accounts submitted timely, taxes paid, decent profits, dividends paid to the three directors, staff pension payments—nice. Ah, here's the London pie or whatever you call it. Tuck in. Let's talk." Valdez grabbed a fork and stuck it into the brown crust of the steaming hot pie.

  By ten thirty Jonathan had drunk several pints of real ale. He was not used to it. Neither was he familiar with nightclubs with exotic dancers that Valdez was now suggesting. "Listen, Lucas, I can't," he said. "Not tonight anyway. I've got a call coming in from Sierra Leone later. I need to be ready."

  "Sure, I understand. Sierra Leone a good place?"

  Jonathan laughed. Laughing was becoming easier as the ale took effect but he was having to concentrate more. "Depends what you mean by a good place, Lucas. I wouldn't want to live there if you get my meaning. But the business is looking good. That's where this 35 million Euros bid is from."

  "Tell me. How's that on
e working?"

  Jonathan gave a quick summary—a tourism project, good for the economy, it hit all the right buttons for getting official support, a Nigerian was his main contact with a few Lebanese involved somewhere.

  But Jonathan was sober enough to know he hadn't been getting much back from Valdez. If Scott Evora was listening in he might be getting anxious. The pie was gone and Valdez had mentioned USAID a few times and Pakistan and Afghanistan. He'd rattled off a large sum of money to impress—two and a half million dollars in one hit—he'd mentioned links in Dubai, friends with Ministers, connections at a Central Bank. But it was mostly all one way—Jonathan telling things, not learning much. Suddenly it changed.

  "You and me alone in this business, Jonathan?"

  "Come on, Lucas. You know the answer to that. There are plenty of small time crooks out there," Jonathan said with the confidence the beer was giving. "Local politicians who get bright eyed at the sight of a few funds coming their way, a lot of greedy bureaucrats, some small businesses who usually get spotted before they get anywhere. But, if you're meaning big time professionals, then we're a rare breed."

  Valdez grinned. "Ever met an Italian guy, name of Guido?"

  Jonathan, inwardly alarmed, showed no signs. "No."

  "Claims to be the best in our business."

  "Well he's bloody stupid," said Jonathan who didn't normally swear, but it was the beer. "He needs to keep quiet about his very existence. Who's he bragging to?"

  Valdez grinned again. "Me. Should I meet him, Jonathan? Or can you and me do something together? East Africa's appeals right now. Got a bit going in Somalia. Interested?"

  "Depends what I'm required to do and the arrangements."

  "I set up the local organization. You do the bids. I grease the palms as you call it—I like that phrase—easy shit."