The Imam of Tawi-Tawi

by Ian Hamilton

  “He owns the land. He applied for the building permits,” he said. “Everything is in the city records. I feel silly that we didn’t think to look there ourselves.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, and he knows who we are.”

  “Does he know why we want to talk to him?”

  “He might have some suspicions, but we didn’t say anything specific.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t talk to him. Juhar did,” Wahab said. “We wanted to guarantee that he would be co-operative.”

  “He knows Juhar?”

  “Everyone in Mindanao who is anyone — or wants to be anyone — knows Juhar.”

  “That’s what I read. I just wanted to confirm it,” she said as she got into the car.

  They quickly reached the outskirts of the city and worked their way through light traffic, past the new shopping mall she’d read about online and into a district lined with three- and four-storey office buildings among restaurants and stores. The car came to a halt in front of a grey stucco building.

  “Stay close,” Wahab said to Saham. “I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”

  Ava followed Wahab into the building. There was no elevator, but he turned right as soon as they reached the lobby and walked towards a single wooden door. It had a brass plate with JAAFAR LAW OFFICES on it. He opened the door and stood to one side to let her pass. As soon as they stepped inside, a bulky man wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and grey slacks with red suspenders rushed towards them.

  “Mr. Wahab and Ms. Lee, so pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Thank you for shuffling around your schedule for us,” Ava said.

  “Mr. Juhar said it was an urgent matter, but he really didn’t have to. I would give any request from him the highest priority.”

  “Then shall we sit and talk?” Wahab said.

  “This way,” Jaafar said, motioning towards an open door that led into a small boardroom.

  They sat down at a round table. “Can I offer you something to drink? Soda, coffee, tea, water?”

  “Nothing for me,” Wahab said.

  “I’ll have a black coffee,” Ava said.

  Jaafar got up and went to the door. “Two black coffees,” he said loudly.

  When he sat down again, he placed his hands rather primly on the table, interlocking his fingers. “Now, what is this urgent matter that I can help you with?” he said.

  “The Zakat College of Tawi-Tawi,” Wahab said. “We have questions about it.”

  Ava saw Jaafar’s eyes flicker, and she detected a slight nervous twitch. “They are a client,” he said.

  “We know.”

  “I say that because there is the matter of lawyer–client confidentiality.”

  “Whatever you tell us won’t leave this room,” Ava said.

  Jaafar shifted in his chair and looked at Wahab, his discomfort increasing. Before he could speak, a young woman appeared in the doorway with a tray. He stood, went to her, and took the tray. Ava smiled; she knew he was using the distraction as a way to gather his composure. She was certain that he had information they would be able to use.

  He came back and fussed with putting the cup of coffee in front of her. “I’m quite confused about your objectives where the school is concerned.”

  “We’ll come to that later,” Ava said.

  “And I’m not privy to how it operates.”

  “That doesn’t matter. My immediate interest lies elsewhere.”

  Jaafar glanced at Wahab.

  “In case Juhar didn’t explain things clearly, Ms. Lee is acting on behalf of the Brotherhood and has our full support. We’d like you to answer her questions as if they were coming from us.”

  Jaafar sat down. “Well, I can’t make any promises until I know what she wants.”

  “As a start, who is Imam Tariq al-Bashir?” Ava asked briskly.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met him and I’ve been told nothing about him.”

  “He had nothing to do with construction of the school?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  Jaafar hesitated.

  “Don’t play games,” Wahab said.

  The lawyer tried to stare at Wahab but quickly backed off. “The Zakat Foundation of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia,” he said.

  “And who represented the Foundation?” Ava asked.

  “Two years ago I was approached by a man named Kassab. He said the Foundation was established to promote international community development and wanted to build a training centre on Tawi-Tawi. He told me they needed a large tract of land somewhere outside the city that could afford some privacy.”

  “Does Kassab have a first name?”

  “Ishak.”

  “Why did the college need to be outside the city, and why did they want privacy?”

  “He said they needed an environment that didn’t have any distractions for the students.”

  “And you believed that?”

  “I didn’t have any reason to question him. And he was very matter-of-fact and sincere.”

  “How generous was your fee? Was it more than you normally charge?”

  “A bit.”

  “Which undoubtedly made him seem more sincere.”

  “That comment wasn’t necessary,” Jaafar said.

  “No, it wasn’t, and I apologize,” Ava said. “So tell me, what did you do to earn your fee?”

  “I looked for sites. Kassab made a couple of trips to look at some I thought might suit the Foundation, and then told me to buy the one they now occupy. As soon as that deal was done, he asked me to get a building permit and to recommend a local construction firm.”

  “You bought the land and got the permit under your own name?”

  “I did.”

  “Who hired the construction firm?”

  “Kassab did. When he met with them, he gave them a set of plans and asked how long it would take to build the complex. They said six to nine months. Kassab told them it had to be finished in six months and he was willing to pay a bonus if they met the deadline,” Jaafar said. “I attended all those meetings.”

  “Who supervised construction?”

  “Kassab. He visited the site every month until the job was done.”

  “How much money was involved in the purchase, the permit, and construction?”

  “About 150 million pesos.”

  “Three million U.S. dollars. I thought it might be more.”

  “This is the Philippines. And besides, the college wasn’t built to be a hotel.”

  “Mr. Jaafar, did you run any checks on Kassab or the Zakat Foundation?”

  “No. As I said, he was sincere, and the Foundation’s objective seemed laudable.”

  “Did he give you an advance on your fee at that first meeting?” Ava said, resisting the urge to jab him again about the value he put on Kassab’s sincerity.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Jaafar asked, looking at Wahab.

  “Well, if he did, how was it done? Did he give you cash? Arrange a bank wire?” Ava said.

  “Once I agreed to take them on as a client, money was wired to my account.”

  “Which bank?”

  “The Planters Co-operative Bank, here in Bongao.”

  “Do you know where the money originated?”

  “A bank in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Name?”

  “SAABD.”

  “Did the same bank send you the money for the land purchase?”

  “Yes, and they also paid the construction company through my account.”

  “Are you paying the expenses of running the college?”

  “No, and I don’t know who is. They asked me for a contact name at the Planters Bank. I
gave it to them and that’s the last time I was in touch with them. I believe they opened their own account there.”

  “So you don’t currently have contact with Kassab or the Foundation?”

  “They still pay me a monthly fee for maintaining ownership of the land in my name. It goes into my company account.”

  “Through this SAABD bank?”

  “No, that money comes through a different bank, in Jordan — the Amman Credit Corporation.”

  “Why did the bank change?”

  “I don’t know and I didn’t ask.”

  “What name is attached to the Jordanian bank account?”

  “The Zakat Foundation, just like the Saudi one.”

  “Do you have an address for the Amman Credit Corporation or the bank in Saudi Arabia?”

  “No, but the bank here should have them.”

  “Ava, the manager of the Planters Bank is another Brotherhood friend,” Wahab said. “We’ll call him when we leave here.”

  “Great,” she said. She leaned forward towards Jaafar. “What contact information do you have for Kassab? Phone number, address, email, anything?”

  “I had an email address, but after the college opened it was discontinued.”

  “So what do you do if you have a problem with your fee?”

  “I haven’t had one.”

  “But if you did?”

  “I’d probably go to the school and talk to the person in charge.”

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “No.”

  “His name is Tariq al-Bashir.”

  “I told you, I don’t know him.”

  Ava sat back and looked down at the cup of coffee, which she hadn’t touched. “I think we’re done here,” she said to Wahab. “Let’s go and call that bank manager.”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell him that I told you what I did,” Jaafar said.

  “And we don’t want you to say a word to anyone about this conversation,” Wahab said. “It never happened.”

  “You can count on me.”

  “It would be better for you to remember that Juhar is counting on you.”

  ( 14 )

  Wahab pulled his phone from his pocket as they walked into the office lobby. Ava thought he was calling for the car, but instead he said, “I have to speak to Mr. Mutilan. Tell him that Mr. Wahab is calling.”

  They left the building and stood outside in the shade. A moment later he said, “Mutilan, this is Wahab. Juhar has me working on a project and we might need some help from the bank. I’m a block away. Can I come over?” A few seconds later he said, “Thanks,” and then turned to Ava. “Let’s go. He’ll see us now.”

  “I’m impressed with your ability to open doors,” she said.

  “It isn’t unlimited. This is Bongao, not General Santos City or Manila.”

  “Well then, let’s maximize your influence here.”

  The bank was larger than Ava had anticipated. It dominated the middle of a city block and was the only brick building she had seen in Bongao. They walked through revolving glass doors into an airy marble-floored foyer that reminded her of old-style Canadian banks. There were ten counters, all of them staffed, and a long line of customers. At the rear of the bank was a row of offices, the occupants hidden by frosted glass windows and frosted glass doors with names painted on them. Mr. Mutilan had the middle office and what looked like a personal secretary sitting at a desk in front of it. She smiled at Wahab, stood and walked to the glass door, knocked, and opened it. As Ava followed Wahab through the wooden gate that separated the general banking floor from the offices, a small, neat-looking middle-aged man appeared in the office doorway.

  “Wahab, good to see you,” he said, walking towards them.

  “And you, my old friend,” Wahab said.

  Mutilan looked at Ava. “And this beautiful young woman is with you?” he said.

  “Her name is Ava Lee. She’s assisting the Brotherhood with the project I mentioned.”

  “A pleasure,” he said to her.

  Mutilan couldn’t have been taller than five feet five inches. He wore a white silk shirt, a tightly knotted blue Hermès tie, and black leather wingtip shoes. His slicked-back hair curled halfway down his neck.

  “Shall we go inside?” Wahab said.

  “By all means,” Mutilan said. “Before we do, would you like my assistant to get you something to drink?” Both Wahab and Ava shook their heads.

  The office was large enough for a massive wooden desk, a couple of credenzas, and an oval conference table in the corner. Mutilan led them to the table.

  “This is going to be a confidential discussion,” Wahab said as he took a seat.

  “I expected as much.”

  “And I’m going to let Ava ask the questions.”

  Mutilan looked surprised. He turned his attention to her and his manner suddenly became businesslike. “Ask away.”

  “Everything we want to know is related to the Zakat College of Tawi-Tawi.”

  “Ah, the mysterious college.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t have any other customers I’ve never met putting millions of pesos through their account.”

  “We just left Mr. Jaafar. I promised him we wouldn’t bring his name into this conversation, but I don’t see how we can keep it out. I’m sure you can keep a confidence,” she said pointedly.

  “Of course. What did Jaafar say that he doesn’t want repeated?”

  “He told us the money to buy the land and build the college went through his account.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But now he believes that the college or some other organization attached to it has opened its own account here at the bank, and he says that he has nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “In whose name is the new bank account?”

  “The Zakat College of Tawi-Tawi.”

  “What individual names are attached to it?” Ava asked.

  “The money comes through the Amman Credit Corporation in Amman, Jordan, from an account held by the Zakat Foundation. The signing authority is a Fileeb al-Touma and the instructions we receive are in his name. I’ve never met or spoken to him. He communicates with us by email, and only when changes are to be made to the payroll.”

  “I’m surprised you can remember all that.”

  “I take pride in being thorough and on top of things. This arrangement is out of the ordinary for us, and I’ve kept myself briefed.”

  “So you find it strange?”

  “A bit odd, perhaps, but we’re not lending them money and we don’t think they’re laundering money. So, as long as the bank isn’t at risk and nothing illegal is apparent, they can conduct their business any way they want.”

  “What is the account used for?”

  “Payroll and expenses.”

  “How many people on the payroll?”

  “I’d have to check, but I think it’s somewhere around thirty.”

  “Do you know them all?”

  “Not personally, but I do know they all seem to be local, because we make direct deposits for them.”

  “So no foreign employees?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said. “But we’re only paying the kitchen, security, and maintenance staff. I don’t know about anyone else who’s working there.”

  “We were told that some of the security people aren’t local,” Ava said.

  “That may be the case, but if they aren’t, I don’t think we’re paying them. As I said, I can connect every name on that list to a local source.”

  Ava paused and then said, “Jaafar claimed he is also being paid through this bank in Jordan.”

  “He receives a monthly payment from the Foundation, but nothing even close to what
he was getting when he was buying the land and paying construction companies.”

  “And the money for the land and construction came from Saudi Arabia, not Jordan?”

  “Correct.”

  “But all the payments originated with this Zakat Foundation?”

  “Yes.”

  “So they have bank accounts in Jordan and Saudia Arabia.”

  “That seems to be the case.”

  “Can I have the bank addresses and other contact information?”

  “I’ll get them before you leave.”

  “How much money goes through the Zakat account on a monthly basis?”

  “A million pesos, give or take, and I know that Jaafar is getting about two hundred thousand.”

  “Have you ever seen the name Tariq al-Bashir on any payroll?”

  “I’d have to check, but I can’t remember it offhand.”

  “Could I get a copy of the payroll?” Ava said.

  He glanced at Wahab, who gave him a slight nod. “Sure,” Mutilan said.

  “Now, you said that the money was being used for payroll. Is that all?”

  “No, we also make the necessary disbursements for taxes and various supplies like food.”

  “How about for travel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m told that after students finish their courses at the college, they are sent to the U.S. and other countries to complete their training. That’s an expensive undertaking. When you factor in the money they’d need to get visas, it would have to cost at least a thousand U.S. dollars for each of about 150 students,” Ava said, stressing the last number.

  “We’ve never paid out money to any travel company, airline, or visa consultant that I’m aware of.”

  “Could you double-check?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we wait here while you get that and the other information I requested?” Ava said.

  “Of course you can,” he said. “It won’t take long to pull together.”

  As soon as he left the office, Ava reached for her phone and found Miguel Ramirez’s number. His phone rang three times and went to voicemail. “Senator, this is Ava Lee,” she said. “I need to talk to you. I’m in Bongao with Wahab. I’ll be here overnight but I expect I’ll be flying back to Manila tomorrow. In the meantime, there’s something I need you to do, so please call me.”