Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  "Yeh, I know. He's gone quiet. We thought Guido would turn up to see him at his hotel—that was the gist of one call we picked up but couldn't trace—but he didn't. After the call it looked like Mendes came down to look for someone in the lobby but he, too, was disappointed. Guido didn't show. Meanwhile, Mendes is still sitting in London, spending money from what we can tell. We lost him one night but caught up with him next morning back at the Intercontinental. A woman turned up, they were talking business, but all we really got was the woman's name—Tony."

  Jonathan flinched, his heart missed a beat and his imagination went into overdrive. Jan had mentioned someone called Tony—a phone call in the middle of his first meeting with Guido in Delft. "Oh Christ!"

  "What's up, Jon?"

  "Guido knows someone called Tony."

  "Fuck me. So did Guido send a deputy? A woman? Who the hell is she?"

  "No idea, Scott, and that's no bullshit. It's just a name we picked up once. But…you still got the recording of me and Silvester?"

  "Sure. Oh fuck! You think you said too much? Silvester might have mentioned you to this woman Tony?"

  Still sitting in the car on his own driveway, Jonathan felt heat spreading up from his neck.

  "How do I know? I mentioned a few genuine deals including…Oh God!…including the Sierra Leone one that Guido's so mad about losing. Will the FBI offer any protection if Guido turns up at my office?"

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  MONDAY MORNING AND Jan was at his desk early with the slip of paper in his hand. He had been given codes for two funds—the Central Asia Humanitarian Aid Fund and a fund for helping disabled and orphaned children in India—and two codes that triggered money transfers.

  At eight fifteen precisely he logged into the CAHA Fund, ran through the procedure and three minutes later it was done. Where the money had gone was a mystery. At eight thirty precisely, Jan did the same with the Rural India fund. By eight forty-five, when a colleague arrived, Jan had put a tiny hidden camera that was pinned to his shirt away and was already busy on something else.

  At eight fifteen in another building, less than a five-minute walk away from Jan, a member of the Treasury staff also logged into the CAHA two funds ostensibly as a routine check of the balance. At eight eighteen she noticed a sudden drop in the cash balance of 150,000 Euros. At eight nineteen, the balance restored itself.

  At eight thirty-three the same thing happened with the Indian fund. A sudden drop in the balance by 185,000 Euros, but one minute later it was restored. In both cases nothing had been authorized and all encrypted security coding related to the release of funds bypassed. At nine o'clock, the staff member re-ran the process that had been recorded on a separate computer. At nine thirty, Katrine made an excuse to her own staff, left the building and met her friend outside, on the street outside a Costa Coffee. There was no time for coffee, just a nervous hello and the handing over of a memory stick.

  By ten thirty, Jan walked passed Katrine's office, once to check she was there and had seen him, the second time to pick up the memory stick. At eleven, he left the office altogether, picked up his car from his apartment and drove to Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, parked his car in the long-term car park and took a flight to Zurich to meet Tom.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  JIM WAS ALREADY back in Windsor when Jonathan called with a summary of his conversation with Scott Evora. It was obvious that he was rattled, but Jim just listened.

  "Scott wants another chat with you, Jim. Do you want to talk to him?"

  "Yes. I could see him in London tomorrow. I'm trying to finalize the art exhibition."

  There was a long pause. "You think we'll have enough evidence for you to go public by then?" Jonathan sounded unconvinced.

  "I'm not sure," Jim replied thoughtfully. "Let's just keep going for now. But I can sense you're worried, Jonathan. What did you say to Silvester Mendes that he might then have told the woman called Tony?"

  "I mentioned the Sierra Leone project. And Eischmann will have seen Walton Associates as the bidder. Eischmann will have told Guido. Guido will have told the woman called Tony. Silvester Mendes might then have confirmed what he knows. He might even have told her he had met me. On the other hand, perhaps he didn't. I just don't know, but Guido and Eischmann certainly know about Walton Associates now."

  "OK," Jim said after another pause. "I think, perhaps, we need to start dropping a few names again. Let's see who runs for cover or crawls out from under a stone this time. Firstly, can you fix it for me to meet Scott tomorrow afternoon? And another point. Did you make contact with the International Chamber of Commerce, Commercial Crime Services—the CCS?"

  "I'm a member."

  "Good. Does our mutual friend Colin Foreman have involvement with the CCS through his Federation of European Small Enterprises?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it might be worth us talking to Colin again—it's a while since he put us together. Certainly I suggest approaching the CCS. Then, with Scott Evora and the FBI, we could get the UK Home Office interested and, who knows, some recognition and action at last."

  "OK," agreed Jonathan. "Drawing a few friends around Walton Associates would make me feel a lot more comfortable. I'd hate to see a black Mercedes with Italian plates suddenly turn up in the office car park. You still want to stay hidden, Jim?"

  "Yes, for a while, but I'd be happy to meet Colin and the CCS with you."

  "I'll fix that. And Jan and Tom?"

  "They are together in Zurich, checking on Freeways Investments and anything else called Freeways registered in Zurich, Luxemburg or elsewhere. Then, they'll probably head to Milan. Meanwhile I'm about to check my mail. Jan is uploading everything on the memory stick to a site he uses. How we'll use it is another question."

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  KATRINE'S PHONE RANG just as she sat down at her desk. It was Dirk Eischmann.

  "Katrine—come to my office."

  "But…" she began.

  "Now." It was a command. There was no please and no thank you and an invitation to come to Eischmann's office was rare. As she walked to the lift she recalled it had only happened once before. Three other senior staff members had been present then and the problem had been about the competency of another. Katrine took a deep breath, walked along the carpeted corridor and tapped on the door at the end. "Come."

  Dirk Eischmann had a long, dark coat on that was still wet from the rain outside. He was standing by the window looking down into the concourse below. He turned and beckoned to the chair opposite his big desk. "Sit."

  Katrine, in her usual gray trouser suit, sat down, crossed her legs and put her hands together in her lap. Eischman turned to the window again. "Do you know where Jan Kerkman is?"

  So, it was about Jan. She needed to play it very carefully. "Is he not at his desk?"

  "No. He left the building on Monday morning. He's not been seen since."

  "Is he sick?"

  Eischmann turned and, as he did so, pulled off his wet overcoat. He tried slinging it over the back of his chair, but it slid to the ground. Katrine watched but then looked at his face. Eischmann was such an ordinary-looking middle-aged man. He was someone who, as Jan had once said, you'd walk past in the street as if he was out on a shopping errand for his wife wearing a suit. She could see drops of rain on his wide brimmed glasses and watched him take them off, wipe them on a white handkerchief he took from his pocket and replace them on his nose. He sniffed.

  "He is not sick." He paused. "You know him well."

  It was a statement that demanded an answer. Katrine, thinking, trying not to panic, found she was the one who now sniffed involuntarily.

  "Yes, we sometimes meet socially with work colleagues."

  "You see him alone?"

  "We have met once or twice for a drink." She paused. "Is there anything wrong, Mr. Eischmann?"

  "We need to be careful," he said, turning back towards the window. "We deal with sensitive matters. All staff are warned about
mixing with people who think they can be influenced."

  What was he playing at, thought Katrine. Eischmann, probably the worst offender, looked worried. She decided to say nothing and Eischmann turned again.

  "If Kerkman contacts you, ask him where he is and let me know."

  "Do you think he's left his job, Mr. Eischmann? Just walked out without giving notice?"

  Eischmann wasn't looking at her, just standing, stroking his chin. Then: "If that is so, then it is not good to just walk away, Miss Nielsen. It is unprofessional. Matters of a confidential nature may be put at risk. We need to find him. It is very urgent."

  Precisely what matters of a confidential nature he was referring to were uncertain, but an unnatural sign of panic sounded in Eischmann's voice. It quivered. "We need to resolve outstanding matters, uh, relating to his employment. You will tell me immediately if he contacts you. That is all." He turned his back.

  Katrine stood up. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Eischmann." Five minutes later she was back at her desk.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  JIM WAS SITTING upright, cross-legged on his bed in the Windsor hotel staring at the screen of his old laptop. "Where the hell do we take this? Who the hell will listen and who the hell will then do something? Sorry for the language, Mother."

  He fell back with his head on the pillow and spoke to the ceiling. "Should I have tried to forget about it? Let them carry on milking the system? Stayed where I was to paint just for the satisfaction and enjoyment? Moved somewhere else, a bit closer to civilization perhaps?" He paused and his thoughts jumped. "I thought I was seeing blue sky for the very last time during that bicycle ride, Mother."

  He sniffed, tugged on his beard, shook his head and then, with his eyes closed, muttered aloud.

  "Police stated that the unidentified elderly man, whose body was found on the moors of the Derbyshire Peak District, has been identified as former Independent Member of Parliament, James William Smith. Despite severe criticism over his political naivety and the accusations he made of corruption in the corridors of power, Smith was well known for unrelenting stubbornness and his apparent disregard for personal hygiene and dress sense. Having been hounded from office and deserting his long-suffering wife, Margaret, Smith's body was found next to a rusting bicycle not far from where he is thought to have been living like a recluse in a cave. The coroner has been informed."

  Jim's quick flight of fantasy was deliberate. It was a ploy to distract himself, just briefly, from what he thought he had just seen on Jan's video recordings. He had needed to look again. And, when he re-ran it, there it was again—an almost unnoticeable flash on the screen in the half second it took for the money transfer to happen.

  He sat up again, ready to check it once more.

  He'd first seen the screen flicker as Jan dealt with the CAHA Fund and ignored it. But it had happened again minutes later with the Rural India fund—a black flash that would not have bothered anyone without a suspicious mind. What was it? He ran it through again and saw it once more.

  "My eyes rarely deceive me, Mother. I'm very observant. It's the artist in me. Other parts might be breaking down but the eyes still work. There it is. What did they used to call single pictures on a video—a frame? There it is, as if the computer suddenly went into safe mode. Black screen, white lettering."

  He watched it yet again. What's more, if he stopped the video at the right frame he could actually read it. It was bank account details. The bank—the Dubai Asia Investment Bank, an account number, a few other letters, numbers and codes, an amount—150,000 Euros—and then a name—Acosta Freeway Investment Holdings.

  He tried the second transaction, the Rural India fund. Moving the video forward second by second, frame by frame, he again found one, perhaps two, frames showing a black background and white lettering. The bank—Banco de Credito de Milano, Panama, an account number, more letters, numbers and codes, an amount 185,000 Euros and then a name—P.U. Eischmann.

  Jim left the screen on just at that frame, picked up his mobile and rang Jan at the hotel in Zurich where it was past midnight.

  "Jan, sorry for the late call. When you researched Dirk Eischmann's background, what was his wife's name?"

  "Paula. Why?"

  "And her second name?"

  "Ursula. Why?"

  "Your video shows where the money went."

  In Zurich, Jan was now wide awake. "How, the hell…?"

  Jim explained. Then: "Guido's newest version of Puff and Slush has an error, Jan. But it is only visible on the screen on the treasury computer, not on your computer. You might like to warn Guido when you catch up with him."

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  "YAH, TONI. IT is…Ah, it is not Toni. Guten tag, Mr. Eischmann. Wie geht es dir?"

  Guido was in his Milan warehouse when Dirk Eischmann phoned. He listened, then stood up from his chair, a look on his face that would have curdled fresh milk.

  "Verdammte Scheiye! When did that fucking blonde prick go? Where did he go?"

  He listened again. "Yah, the money was transferred. It is in Panama. I checked…There is no problem. Guido's new version of Puff and Slush works perfectly and the blonde prick Kerkman did his job on Monday morning as instructed. So why has he gone?"

  A pause.

  "Yah, yah. Of course. It is possible to check if he takes money from his account, but we will empty it first. He will have nothing. But it is not the money, it is whether he has decided to talk. I never liked that prick ever since you found him…very sorry Mr. E, but… Yah, he was too… too serious… too big… too much muscle, like a policeman. But do not panic, Mr. E, we will find him…How?…I'm not sure, Mr. E. I will need to think."

  Another pause.

  "We are checking on this Walton company, but they have a website so the world knows about them. They cannot be serious competitors." Guido now chuckled like a child. "I was upset with their Sierra Leone bid but that was because they were tempted by a Nigerian. They can do nothing, Mr. E. We have stuffed them one hundred percent because you did your part and we bought the Cherry Picking business. Those two Lebanese bastards are also stuffed because… what shall we say… their local management is gone."

  Guido, strutting in circles around his desk, continued to listen to Dirk Eischmann talking, but he hated listening to anyone and Eischmann was talking far more than he had ever done before. It was continuous, without a break. With the phone tucked beneath his soft chin, Guido's strutting became heavier and heavier until he was stamping his feet. His hands flapped around his head desperately trying to cover his ears. And still Eischmann talked. Guido marched to his chair like a scolded boy, sat down heavily, sniffed, his hands trembling, now playing with the cap from the old can of blue spray paint on the desk. Finally, he took a deep breath.

  "Si, si. I am still here," he said. "Mi scusi, Herr Eischmann, but why do you speak to Guido like that? It is not normal. We are amico del cuore, good friends. These little problems they come and they go. Problems are normal in business and we have good news as well, Herr Eischmann…Yah, very good news…Silvester the Investor." Guido tried to giggle again. "He is on our side now, you will see. The expansion plans are in place…"

  But Eischmann interrupted again and Guido's pig-like eyes widened. He bit his trembling lower lip and was forced to listen for another half minute.

  "Yah, I am here. How so many people, Herr Eischmann… Mr. Dirk? I did not know there were so many…Ahhh, that is many too many… too many staff are now Members of our club. How can we keep control over that many? Who pays them? It is not through Puff and Slush…So it is cash from senior Members…But that is very bad management, Herr Dirk…not to say it is your bad management, but someone else, I cannot think who. But a good business is a simple business, Mr. E…Yah, very sorry, Herr Dirk."

  Guido stood up again, listening, pounding noisily across the steel floor of his mezzanine office, the sound echoing through the warehouse. "The politicians? Yah, Guido deals with some of those, but in your organi
zation, how many are members?…Wah! You don't know? How is this so? Why you not tell me so before. This is also not so good, Herr Dirk. "

  He circled once, twice, still listening, his free hands clenched into tight little fists. Then he stopped, perfectly still and took a deep breath. "We must find Kerkman before he talks, Mr. E, but…but I do not know where to start."

  Guido only just withstood another two minutes of Eischmann's voice. When he finally stopped, he slid the phone across his desk and screamed like a spoiled child. But then he retrieved it and pressed a single key.

  "Yah, Toni. We have some problems, my flower. Where are you?…Why are you still in London?…Has Silvester agreed yet?…Why not?…Why don't you like him?…This is not a time for childish stupidity, but if you don't like him, leave him and come here immediately. We need to talk."

  Guido was losing control.

  Chapter Eighty

  THE DOOR OF Ashton Art Gallery was opened as Jim was still standing outside, shaking rain drops from his new umbrella. Melissa had seen him coming. She smiled. "Hello Mr. Smith, Hugh is waiting for you. It is cold today, yes? Not at all like home."

  "I'll be glad to get back to the sun, Melissa," Jim replied as he wiped his shoes on the mat.

  Hugh McAllister was sitting in the small office where they had, on Jim's last visit, examined his paintings, eaten pizza and drank white wine. "Hello, Jim," he said, standing up. "You know, the more I look at your work, the more I like it."

  Jim smiled, pushed the long, damp strands of gray hair away from his forehead and nodded. "So how are the arrangements going?"

  "Everything is booked. We now need to decide where and how to promote it. You must advise me."

  "No name, Hugh. That's the first advice. They'll find out soon enough. For a while I'll just be the unknown artist. There's nothing like creating a bit of mystery. "