Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

"And the rake off?"

  "Share the takings, fifty-fifty."

  "I'll think about it," said Jonathan, moving to get up. "Listen, Lucas. I've got to go. I can't talk to Sierra Leone sitting here and I need to get to some paperwork. Why don't we stay in touch. How long are you in London? But, yes, I'm interested. You call me, OK? When you're ready with something on the ground, we'll talk."

  Then, probably because of the beer he'd drunk, he managed a joke. "And, as a true professional, I'd advise you to check this guy Guido out. Never make a decision to award a contract without getting at least two quotes from competitors."

  Valdez laughed, so it must have been a good joke.

  Jonathan was quite pleased with himself, felt he'd retained some initiative and he hadn't even slipped up and called Lucas Valdez Silvester. He left the King's Head, walked towards Piccadilly to look for a taxi to take him to where he'd left his car. But as he stood waiting by the curb, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Scott Evora pulled him into a dark doorway. "Great stuff, Jonathan. We got it all on tape. Now, who the fuck is this guy Guido?"

  Chapter Sixty

  SOME ELEVEN HOURS later, a dismal gray morning, and it was Jim's turn to meet Scott Evora in the Mayfair area of London. He was on the train when Jonathan phoned about his meeting the night before with Silvester Mendes.

  "Scott still knows nothing about what we're up to Jim. So, play it by ear. You decide what to tell him. And remember, Jan is meeting Guido tonight."

  "And Tom should already be there," Jim added. "The plan is he'll be lurking somewhere close by."

  "Do you think we are getting somewhere at last, Jim?" Jonathan sounded almost excited.

  "Yes," Jim said thoughtfully. "But we'll need something very special if we're to convince the powers that be to do something or even believe us. And somehow we'll need to find a way of extricating Jan before he gets hurt. And, as for your big muscular friend Silvester, how do you feel about him discovering you are a part-time FBI agent?"

  "Don't make me nervous, Jim. Let's just keep going for now. See where it all leads."

  Jim had always enjoyed a cup or two of good Italian espresso mid morning. He could now smell it as he rounded the corner. Despite the cold, gray drizzle, Alfredo's door was wide open and there was no mistaking Scott Evora. The blonde-haired six footer was already sitting at a small metal table out of reach of drips of water from the red, white and green striped canopy. He clearly recognized Jim.

  "Jim Smith?" He stood up, scraped the chair back on the stone pavement and held out a big hand. Jim shook it and sat down. "Coffee?" Jim nodded and Evora called inside the open door to order another espresso. "They know me. It's the best coffee within a mile of the Embassy."

  They looked at one another. Jim pushed his damp, straggling, gray hair back behind his ears, wiped rain drops from his face and then wiped his hand on his new brown jumper that was as wet as his hair. An umbrella, he had decided, was to be his next purchase.

  "Call me Scott," Evora said. "It's great to meet you. It was Jonathan's suggestion. It was also his suggestion that I do a bit of research before we met." He laughed. "A lot was written about you a few years back."

  Jim nodded once more.

  "You were sure riding low in the popularity stakes. Then all the mentions stopped just like you died or something."

  "Some wished I really had died."

  "You were very outspoken."

  Jim loved questions like that. "And why not? People do not want self-interested politicians who pussy foot around and keep their heads down just to ensure their re-election. They elect politicians who they hope are brave enough to face up to problems and solve them. I agree I was a bit rough around the edges at the start but I had a lot to learn in a very short time. I was a successful businessman, not a career politician who'd never had a proper job."

  Scott Evora laughed. "Jesus, you should come and live in the States—they'd love you. So why did they get so mad? Couldn't they take it?"

  Jim did not know where to start. "How long have you got?" A toothy smile appeared from somewhere inside the wet beard. "You've read the reports. I started out with a long list of subjects I wanted to address as a politician. Perhaps I started with the wrong one. I was reminded of another one on the London underground just now—overpopulation. Dear me, cattle trucks are less crowded. Cattle have minimum standards for their transportation that London Transport could do well to emulate for commuters. But please don't get me going on that."

  The coffee arrived. Evora moved cups around. "But it was international aid that got you fired up," he said, spooning sugar into his cup.

  "Yes. I started with the billions of Dollars and Euros given for international aid projects—the public's money, let's not forget—vast sums are lost through fraud and corruption and I wanted it recognized that the leading perpetrators are often the very people who decide where it should be spent and who are then entrusted to spend it. Is it not right to ask for action to investigate it and then find ways to stop it?"

  "Yeh, I would have thought so," said Evora.

  Jim took a breath, sipped his coffee, looked around at the wet and dreary London scene but didn't see it. There was so much he could say but, he reminded himself, he was sitting with a man from the American establishment—the FBI. He changed tack. "But you're only interested in American aid money."

  "Not necessarily, Jim. Fraudsters stealing USAID money also steal other countries’ aid money. One of my jobs is to put a finger on these people and bring them to justice. It ain't easy and it ain’t made any easier by official attitudes as you've noticed. But at least in the USA there's a debate going about how fraud and corruption undermines well meaning projects. Here? I'm not so sure. You tried and they came gunning for you. No wonder people run scared shit of asking questions."

  Jim already sensed he might enjoy this conversation. "But even in the USA little is actually done about it," he said. "Estimates are that twenty percent of aid is lost to corruption and mismanagement. In Europe it's probably more. Huge amounts are lost to fraud within Europe itself. Billions are utterly wasted. Why, for instance, even think about giving aid to a country for improving the skills of unemployed youths when that country doesn't have any jobs to offer. Surely you solve the first problem first—create some jobs."

  "Politics?" suggested Evora. "Influence? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?"

  "Correct. And re-election of course. Ensuring re-election takes absolute priority over solving problems. Here's some money, now go and vote for me. In a different situation they'd call it bribery, but it's not nice for politicians to have to admit that they've collectively managed to create deep-seated problems that'll take more than money to solve.

  "And much of the problem comes back to my other argument about overpopulation. Thousands of poverty-stricken, unemployed migrants pour into Europe and the USA from Africa and elsewhere every day. They come looking for jobs that don't exist. Result? Increased pressure and social tensions on economies already in trouble. Fundamental cause? Overpopulation. Too many people, too few jobs. So face up to the fundamental cause, don’t pussy foot around the edges for fear of upsetting people. Surely that's what leadership is. It's all so blindingly obvious."

  "Jim," said Evora. "You're already making me depressed. No wonder nobody liked you."

  "Ah, but depression can be a constructive emotion, Scott," said Jim.

  "Really? I've never looked on it like that."

  "Then think about it. Living alone as I do and feeling a little fed up now and again is not uncommon. The solution is not to sit and mope, but to sit and decide precisely why you're feeling that way. Then you define the exact cause in the clearest possible terms and then sit and work on a solution. It requires nothing more than quiet solitude and a decent brain. If the brain has undergone some decent scientific training in the past it helps."

  "Then I fear I'm lost. Jim."

  Jim sighed. "So, if you're lost, how can I help?"

  "Reading abou
t you helped with the background. Jonathan has also been a big help and so, but I need a…"

  Jim interrupted. "Listen, Scott, I asked you just now, how long you've got? I didn't expect an answer that time, so I'll ask you again and this time you can answer it? How long have you got?"

  Evora glanced at his watch and grinned. "You got a lot, Jim? I wondered if you had. If so I'll stick around a bit. I'm all ears."

  Jim hadn't noticed that the rain outside Alfredo's was now steady and heavy. He talked. At the end of it, Scott Evora knew about Jim's link with Jonathan and, without mention of their names, about Jan and Tom. Jim explained why he was back in England and what he wanted to do.

  "This is all totally confidential, Scott. If the media gets to know, I'm finished yet again. So would Jonathan be, so would our mole be and so would our plan. And your own efforts might well be scuppered as well. We've got to keep it quiet."

  "I understand, Jim, and, if it'll make you feel good, Jonathan was fantastic. We got everything on tape. He was like a pro. I couldn't have done it better myself—but, then I couldn't have done it anyway." He paused. "But who's your mole?"

  "No names, Scott, because he's in a tricky enough spot already."

  "And the other guy?"

  "My health adviser and nurse? He's currently in Holland chasing the one called Guido."

  "Hmm. So you're not saying. And what's your feedback on this guy, Guido? Is he based in Holland?"

  "Our mole knows him. He's Italian. We might know more in the next day or so."

  "You must know more, Jim. Come on, spill the beans."

  Jim took another deep breath.

  "Scott. Listen. Nearly four years ago I asked for an official investigation. But, in retrospect, I think I was wrong. Why? Because even if one had been started, there would have been an elaborate cover up, it would have dragged on for years and years, the public would have lost interest and the prime suspects would have been long gone, retired or living it up overseas. An investigation might have found a few small issues but because of the high profile, all the big fish would have dived deeper leaving only a few small fry caught in the net. No, the only way to catch these people is to catch them with their hands in the till. And how do you do that? Undercover is the answer, but we'd still need evidence that would stand up in court. With four of us, all volunteers, how would you rate our chances?"

  Scott Evora grunted. "We might have enough on Silvester Mendes. We've only just got wind of this guy, Guido. But we know almost nothing, Jim, and I'm running for the US Government, not Europe or anywhere else. So what can we do together? How can we help?"

  "Dear me," Jim grinned behind the beard. "I never thought I'd hear that from a FBI agent. You really want to help? If so, here is the first way. Go back to the US Government. Demand that these massive frauds move up the political agenda. Start to frighten these characters. Make the public more aware of where their taxes are going. Get the public angry. And…" Jim paused. He pulled on his beard, scratched the back of his head and felt the new elastic band snap.

  "And?" prompted Scott Evora.

  "Give us some help and advice on technical surveillance. Even a few devices like you lent Jonathan."

  Scott Evora grinned. "No problem," he said. "But…" It was his turn to pause.

  "But what?"

  "Keep us involved?" It was a question with a plea.

  "You are already involved, Scott. Why am I here? But we need help to get some international arrest warrants—Interpol, that sort of thing."

  "Yep, that's something we can do, but only when we've got something to go on."

  "And that is exactly what we're trying to get, so help us."

  Shortly after that, they shook hands and Jim walked off into the pouring rain to buy an umbrella.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  JAN APPROACHED THE shiny black door in the side street of Delft, pressed the buzzer, waited and looked around in case he was, as last time, prodded with the point of an umbrella.

  He had no idea whether Tom Hanrahan was somewhere close by, but the very thought that he might be somewhere near gave him a much more comfortable feeling than the last time he'd stood there. A streetlight cast shadows on the cobbled street and reflected off the door, but other than casual walkers, a few boys on bicycles and a tall woman in a dark coat standing at the railings overlooking the canal, he had seen no one that resembled Guido.

  Jan pressed the buzzer again, put his ear to the speaker. Nothing. Then he checked his watch. He was precisely on time and, by now, it was almost dark. He tried the buzzer again and, just as he did so, his mobile phone rang in his jacket pocket.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "Ah, Mr. Kerkman." The voice was unmistakable. "I am not at home today. Instead, we will deal with matters by telephone. Please return to the canal, find a seat and make yourself comfortable. The seat will be wet after the rain so you may want to dry it first. I will call you in two minutes."

  Jan did as he was told. He found an empty bench seat beneath a streetlight and next to the railings where he'd once stood to admire water lilies in the canal and the short skirts of summer. A bicycle was chained to the fence next to him, the tall woman he had seen was now gone, a couple, arm in arm, strolled by laughing and two boys went noisily past on skateboards. On the other side of the canal it was busier and, at the Cafe de Oude Hans, people were checking menus at the window and a waiter was outside clearing wet tables beneath wet umbrellas. Then his phone rang again.

  "Ah, Mr. Kerkman. Are you sitting comfortably?"

  "Yes, thank you," said Jan.

  "That is good. Now listen to me. There is a small problem with Puff and Slush. It seems it is not quick enough and someone has become suspicious. It is not your problem, but we want to test our new, bigger, better, faster and more secure version of Puff and Slush. What is very clever is that it does not need the use of an internal computer, but can be done from a laptop. As you do not have one, someone will deliver one to you in approximately—ah—twenty seconds. Wait. Do not switch your mobile phone off. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," said Jan.

  With Guido, nothing surprised Jan any more. As if participating in some form of street magic he waited until someone tapped his shoulder. The tall, long-coated woman he had seen earlier was now standing right behind him. A laptop computer was placed on the seat beside him as Jan caught a fleeting whiff of perfume. Then the tall woman in the knee-length raincoat with a dark scarf covering her head walked away towards the bridge. Jan was sure it was the same one who had given him the package in the car park in Brussels.

  "Now," said Guido's voice from the phone. "Open it and switch it on…There is an icon on the left that says Puff and Slush Version 2. Click it…What you now see is the start up screen…Yes?

  "Yes."

  "Enter the EAWA file and then the file covering the recent Tourism Project bid from Sierra Leone. This may take a few seconds. The speed is not Guido's fault but the equipment and server used by your employers. I will wait until you say yes."

  Jan, sweating, did as he was told. Finally: "Yes," he said.

  "Good. Now enter the file to show the details of the consultants who submitted the bid."

  Fingers shaking because he knew this was Walton Associates, Jan clicked. "Yes."

  “Now, delete that file.”

  "Delete it?"

  "Do not argue, Mr. Kerkman. Delete it. It is easy. Just hit ctrl plus A as you normally would. Then hit delete."

  Jonathan's covering letter for the Sierra Leone bid on behalf of Jacob Johnson disappeared.

  "Now return to the main menu. Under documents you will find a file marked EAWA Consultant."

  Jan quickly found the file—three pages with an introductory letter from a company called Freeway Consultants with an address in Luxemburg.

  "Yes."

  "Cut and paste it into the online EAWA file."

  There was just time for Jan to read the introductory sentence of the document. "Freeway Consultants are the new
agents appointed by the main contractors, Sulima Construction, for the Eco Tourism Project, Sulima, Sierra Leone.”

  Jan, shocked, breathed out heavily. Guido clearly heard.

  "You are surprised, Mr. Kerkman? Thank you for remotely testing Puff and Slush Version 2 for us. Your bank balance has just been credited with five thousand Euros and a present of two thousand Euros sent to your father's bank account in Amsterdam with a note saying, 'Happy Birthday, Father.'”

  "But…"

  "No buts, Mr. Kerkman, Just say thank you very much Guido and then go very carefully. We keep digitalized records of all that you do for us in case of any repercussions. The system for recording such matters and member's bank credits is called Flush because we use it for all our members who are flush with money. Puff, Slush and Flush—you see? It is very easy to remember."

  On Jan's mobile, there was a squeal of high-pitched laughter. "Oh yes, Flush will show it was you who changed this bid from Sierra Leone. Why did you do it? I cannot imagine. Now shut down the computer in the proper way, close the lid and put it beside you on the seat. And please, Mr. Kerkman, be polite and phone your father to check if he has received his present. Your father was a broker in Amsterdam, wasn't he? He will be so pleased that you are following in his footsteps by making money and not wasting your degree in Corporate and International Finance."

  Sweating heavily, Jan did as he was told, looking straight ahead towards the Cafe de Oude Hans on the other side of the canal. He might have heard something, but when he looked the laptop was gone and the tall woman was walking away.

  But Jan was now learning tricks of his own.

  After Jonathan had phoned earlier to tell him about his meeting with Scott Evora and that he had been given a listening device, Jan had used his lunch break to buy himself a mini voice recorder that he taped just inside his shirt. It was a huge risk that had depended on Guido not turning up in person and not inviting him into the apartment. But having switched on the loudspeaker function on his mobile, Jan was now desperate to get back to Brussels to listen to whatever it had picked up. But where was Tom?