by Terry Morgan
"A woman?"
"You heard. Guido's not the fat, round little man you've been describing for the past weeks. He's a fat, round little woman and I think Toni is his husband…or her husband. But then maybe Toni is a man because he talks like one and maybe they're both cross dressers. Just get back here."
Tom stood in the roadway and phoned Jim.
As he waited for Jim to answer, he heard a car approaching fast. He turned. It was a black Alfa Romeo. It pulled up yards from him just as Jim answered.
He just had time to say, "Guido's a woman, Jim." Then, "I'll call you back. The Italian police have arrived."
Two men in dark blue uniform with silver braid and a touch of scarlet jumped out of the Alfa and looked around. Tom went up to them.
"They've just left," he said pointing to the iron gate and hoping they understood English.
"Signor Kerkman?" one asked.
"No, I'm Tom Hanrahan."
"OK. ROS—Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale," one said as introduction and then looked at his colleague who was walking towards the iron gate.
Chapter Ninety-Four
WITH TOM AND Jan flying back from Milan on Sunday morning, it was Scott Evora who had organized the Sunday afternoon get together.
"A wrap up of the last few days before Senator Stafford flies home, Jim. And to discuss where we go with all this. It was Stafford's suggestion. He'd like to meet Tom and Jan, of course, and then we'll have dinner together afterwards."
Jim accepted, then asked that Jonathan be able to bring his wife, Claire, along. "His long-suffering wife, Scott," he explained. "She might then believe his stories about the FBI."
In the end, Claire joined Stafford's wife, Beth, for a tour of Windsor Castle, leaving Jim, Jan, Jonathan, Tom, Scott Evora, Stephen Lockhart and Senator Stafford for a round table meeting at the hotel.
"So, the deal is on, Jim. I'm not one to dishonor a promise. We've got Guido and his—or is it her—girlfriend, Toni. So where's your exhibition next Saturday?"
Jim explained. "But your agreement required some movement on Dirk Eischmann as well," he added. "Where are we with that?"
Stephen Lockhart explained. "He may not know it yet but we know exactly where he is. He was followed after the Belgian police put the fear on him at Brussels Airport. He was with Acosta and we know they're at Acosta's big place in the south of France—probably deciding on their next moves. But we'll find a way to stop him. We're gathering evidence right now and that's why Jan is key. We need you, Jan. Stick around with us, full protection guaranteed. Senator Stafford and I spoke to the SFO and the UK Home Office about this and we've also had it confirmed by the Dutch and Belgians. We'll do whatever is needed."
"But my bank account has been emptied," Jan said dismally.
Lockhart waved it away. "Yeh, we know," he said to Jan's surprise. "But we'll sort something. You've done us proud, Jan. We've had too many of the wrong sort of whistleblower recently. I wish we could find a few more moles like you."
Lockhart went on: "As for Acosta himself—and his wife—we're waiting on Interpol notices, arrest warrants for suspected money laundering. Once we open up details of where the money's come from, the bigger fraud investigation will then start to roll."
"So who is Guido?" asked Tom. "Any idea yet?"
"We're waiting on the Italian police. They're searching the Como villa and they raided the Milan warehouse yesterday. It was full of boxes marked with charity names, the Red Cross and even UNHCR."
"And the other names on my list?" Jim asked Scott Evora.
"We've asked the Commission to look into matters."
Jim shook his head. "That will take forever, Scott."
Scott shrugged and nodded, but Jan then interrupted. "Who was on your list, Jim?"
Jim started, but Jan immediately interrupted.
"OK. Here's something that's not yet public knowledge," he said. "Everything will be done to keep this quiet. If it becomes more widely known you can expect excuses, cover ups and dubious explanations to follow. But I spoke to Katrine this morning. Several others besides Eischmann have disappeared in the last few days. I don't know who was on Jim's list, but here's mine: Philip Eijsackers, Pierre Augustin, Joseph Santos and Kamal Mahmoud from Central Asia Policy and now Dimitri Castellanos. Castellanos, for your information, is a guy with huge responsibility in the treasury. He was also the one who decided to do nothing when the hacking was detected."
Jan waited to allow the information to sink in. Then: "So what do we do about a system that I guarantee will now close ranks and deny everything? Sick leave, personal circumstances, early retirement—anything will be used to explain absences and deter further questions being asked. In other words a cover up is already being planned."
Jim nodded and looked at Senator Stafford.
"Jan's right," he said. "You can do so much, but the system is too big and surrounds itself in a bubble of self-protection. Eischmann's arrest might be brushed aside as an aberration. A naughty boy sorely tempted. He might even be sacrificed. Guido's use of Puff and Slush might be a thing of the past but they'll try anything to ensure everything's forgotten. Sadly, they could well succeed. And why? Because the system they've created is now bigger than democracy itself. It runs itself, monitors itself and protects itself."
Jonathan then spoke. "Do you remember what you said when we first met, Jim? I will never forget it and neither, I know, will Jan."
"Remind me."
"You said that even if massive fraud was proven, they would not automatically lose their jobs, their status or their pensions. You said the entire system is designed in such a way that it will automatically cover up fraud. Even if it ever got as far as public enquiries—they would point fingers at those lower down the line and then hide without fear of prosecution behind the complexity of the organization. You said that things could take years, if ever, to come to Court because the whole system is at fault."
Stafford looked shocked and Scott Evora shook his head, but Stephen Lockhart nodded.
"I think Jim's right," Stephen said. "I've been here six years now. I've watched and learned a thing or two." Then his phone rang, he excused himself and went to a corner.
Jan then: "I agree. Jim's right. All we can do is prove the existence of the corruption and show the extent of it and the cost of it. Criminals like Guido can only operate where there are gross weaknesses and existing corruption in the public sector. We can only hope it's the public who pay their salaries who demand action."
"It's what I tried to do before and failed," Jim said. "Let's hope the evidence is better now. Without Acosta and all his money and media connections, it might well be easier this time. Someone able to stop proper criminal investigation by using their wealth to distort facts and make false accusations is an entirely different matter. It's one, I know, Tom wants to address. In fact, Tom might well be the answer to ensuring this topic is not allowed to be ignored. You will recall the politicians’ expenses scandals here? Publicity and thorough investigation dealt with that one. Well, corruption, fraud and incompetence is costing taxpayers far more than the fiddling of expenses."
Stephen Lockhart returned from the phone call, smiling.
"Here's something," he said. "The Italian police have found a whole load of computer hardware in a room at the house in Torno. Could this be where Guido or Toni or, perhaps even someone else, developed the technology? We'll just have to wait and see, but the fact is we're uncovering something highly sophisticated here."
"Looks like you were right about everything, Jim," said Jan. "Fraud, you said, was not just widespread but using more and more technology."
Jim just nodded.
"So what sort of message do you want me to deliver at your exhibition, Jim?" Senator Stafford asked.
"I don't want to influence you, Senator. You must say exactly what you want to say. All I want is a few minutes to say something about the distribution of wealth and the worship of money as the answer to happiness. Money has never
meant much to me other than as a measure of my contribution to society. It is just wrong that people in positions of trust and already highly paid still feel it necessary to steal from the public's purse."
"And who have you invited?"
"No one, Senator. I've had nothing to do with the arrangements. My presence in the UK is known only to a very few people and I have left all of the organization to my old friend Hugh McAllister. Hugh, by the way, was once married to Anne Acosta, but that's another story."
"So who should I target my introduction at?"
"Hugh will have invited some media people along, mostly artsy types I suspect, but he now knows you'll be there so you can be sure he's rethought a few things. But feel free, Senator. I'm just grateful for your involvement."
"And your art, Jim?" Stafford asked.
"On that I will say nothing. Painting is a hobby. It has helped pass the time whilst I found a way to prove I was right all along. It is for others to judge and say if it is good or not."
The Senator smiled and nodded. "And do you intend to stay in the UK or return to Thailand?"
Tom looked intently at Jim, uncertain what he might now say. There was only the slightest pause. "I will return to Thailand," Jim said. "There is not a lot left here now and my heart is telling me I should go home."
Only Tom knew what that might mean.
Chapter Ninety-Five
JIM SLIPPED AWAY unnoticed from his exhibition. He knew it had been a success not only because of Hugh McAllister's skill but also because of Senator Stafford's involvement, his introductory speech, for getting the US Ambassador along and for persuading several government Ministers to attend.
Back at his Windsor hotel, Jim went straight to the bar and ordered himself a draft Guinness. Then he sat in the corner to think. He was sure that his hotel location would become known within hours and he had no stomach to face a hungry mob of media people trying to extract from him things that he had no wish to say. In fact, there was no more left that he wanted to do or say. His ambition and determination seemed to have disappeared overnight. His reputation as a businessman had been long and hard to establish, but so quick and easy to lose. Today it was as if he had rediscovered something he thought he had lost forever. Certainly, the feeling of failure and incompetence had gone to be replaced, thanks to what Senator Colin Stafford had said, by respect and admiration.
Jim felt relaxed, but he had no wish to bask in any sort of glory.
So what should he do now?
Sometimes he felt he had been driven to solitude as a result of his own perception of the public’s opinion of him. But at other times, in his deeper, perhaps clearer and more honest moments, he felt that he had gravitated towards it, naturally, because he was, in so many ways, more comfortable that way. He wondered if he should have taken the route earlier, deliberately and at the peak of his career and perhaps taken with him the one person whom he missed and for whom things had come too late. But Margaret had gone. He knew that. He had watched her walk away, more confident, more at ease with herself than he could possibly have imagined. It had saddened him at the time. But now?
Well—Margaret had changed. But then, so had he. He had once lived on a mix of confidence, bluntness, enthusiasm, determination and energy and would steamroller things through in spite of rather than because of others. Perhaps Margaret had been right with what she had said. She had certainly been right with her warnings of going into politics.
Then there was his disinterest in the acquisition of possessions. Margaret was not like that. His definition of value was, it seemed, not the same as everyone else’s. He had no real need or interest in the thick pile carpet on the floor, the cushions on the chairs, the elaborate drapes and sashes at the windows. He had no interest in popular television and the programs, which seemed to generate such devoted and passionate following amongst others. He respected technology and used a mobile phone and computer because it made things quicker and more efficient but had no desire to acquire gadgets to provide music, videos or simple directions from A to B.
"Just be content with what you've got, James." From his corner table, he said it aloud to the busy bar and someone looked at him. But it was his mother speaking to him. "Yes, Mother. I am, but it doesn't make me easy to get on with."
Indeed, Jim was perfectly able to understand Margaret's frustration with him because she did not share his ways. She had borne them, stoically—for as long as was necessary.
“Get a haircut, Jim. When you were stood in the wind on the bridge I could 'ardly see yer face fer lookin'."
That's what Margaret had said in her Bristol accent after they had walked a few yards across Brunel's Suspension Bridge in Clifton on the day they'd met.
Jim took a deep breath and downed the final dregs of the Guinness. Then he went up to his room, packed his small bag, making sure that the one painting he had kept back, the one of Noy and Oy, was better protected this time. Then he sat down to write a note to Tom who, with Jonathan and Jan, was still at the exhibition.
It took him a while but, that done, he picked up his things, went downstairs, checked out, left the note for Tom and ordered a taxi.
"Yes sir?" The taxi driver said, "Where do you want to go?"
"Holiday Inn, Heathrow Airport," replied Jim.
"Going away, sir?
"Yes."
Jim looked out of the taxi window, still deep in thought. It was a short drive but at the hotel he checked in and went to his room. It was just eight o'clock. Then he sat cross-legged on the bed and unwrapped his painting of Noy and Oy.
He remembered Noy so well. He could also still see Oy in his mind. Perhaps Margaret and he should have had children. Life would, undoubtedly, have taken a completely different route. He remembered one hot, sunny morning in the local market with Oy and Noy. They had taken the motorcycle to buy fish and walked around, trying to stay in the shade of the plastic sheeting spread across the wooden tables where traders swished at flies. The sun was very bright and Oy had wanted a pair of sunglasses because she had seen another little girl with a pair – just child’s, inexpensive, multi-colored plastic ones. They found a stall selling plastic toys and Oy had made up her mind very clearly which pair of glasses she wanted.
Jim had paid the small, crippled vendor and given the glasses to Oy. She had put them on, staring around in delighted amazement at how dark everything now looked. It had pleased him to see how happiness came for the cost of just a small value note. He had put the change in his pocket without checking and then looked at Noy. Noy was ignoring her daughter. He watched her go back to the vendor. She spoke to him and gave him some money, just a few coins. He had asked her why.
"Man very poor. He blind and he give you wrong money. You not see. You not check. You must check. You blind also I think." In a very short time, Noy had helped him to see many other things he might otherwise have missed.
Jim suddenly felt very drowsy. He quickly rewrapped the painting, slid it into his bag, fell back with his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
"Are you keeping well, Jimmy? You've lost weight but you look fit and tanned. Plenty of exercise, I hope."
It was Margaret in the Bristol hotel where he had planned the lunch that never happened. Jim's eyes flickered behind the closed lids.
He could see Margaret as he held out his hands to her in the hotel. "Margaret, my love."
She had put forward just one hand—a delicate white one, lined with veins, bony and, when he held it with his own hot hand, dry and cold to the touch. He had led her towards his table clumsily holding her hand, seeing the thin, gray hair and smelling a delicate and flowery perfume. At the table where he had just spilt some coffee when getting up to greet her, she had crossed her legs and placed her handbag carefully on the next chair. He knew she had seen the coffee he had spilled, but she had said nothing, just looked out the window.
"Margaret. I don't know what to say," were his first real words.
"Then why did you suggest a meeting?" she
had said and looked at him for the first time.
"I needed to see you."
"Why?"
"Because…"
He had been unable to say it. Instead, he was the one who now looked out of the window towards Brunel's famous suspension bridge with eyes that were hot and sore.
"You look terribly old, Jim. And why the long beard? It looks dreadful."
"I know," he had said, "I need a haircut."
"Then why don't you have one?" It was a good question and he had no answer.
"It doesn't seem important."
"So what is important these days, Jim?"
He had felt strangely unsure and desperately sought the safety of self-confidence and composure. "It was important that I see you. I want to try to understand why things went so wrong. Don't you understand?"
"No—not anymore."
He had looked out of the window again and then back at Margaret. "Would you like to have lunch?" he asked as if they had been sitting there for an hour instead of less than five minutes.
"I don't want to keep you."
"That's a little unfair, Margaret."
"I'm sorry, Jim, but after all this time it's a bit difficult to know what the heck you want."
"But it was not me who decided that we should break up."
Jim now realized, in this half dream he was having, how childish that must have sounded—like a teenager, a tiff after a weeklong affair. But those were the words that had come to him.
"But it was you and your damned career and politics that made us grow apart, Jim. That, and your blindness towards me. Dragging me here there and everywhere. Trailing after you like a little dog. How you can fail to realize that after having so many years to ponder about it I cannot, for the life of me, understand."
"But Margaret…"
