by P J Skinner
‘This is a very serious matter, Sam. It’s a firing offence. We can’t risk our reputation in Lumbono.’ Morné Van Rooyen placed both of his hands on the table, fingers splayed
‘I’ll say it’s serious. I’ve got government ministers calling me asking me for an explanation. We must act. Sam has to go.’ Charlie Okito’s voice crackled across the room.
Dirk Goosen was sweating; big patches appeared on the armpits of his shirt. He shot a worried glance at Sam. She winked at him too. His face showed confusion, amazement even.
‘Sam, you must speak. How do you explain this article? These accusations from Philippe Mutombo? We need to decide,’ said Van Rooyen.
‘The decision is a foregone conclusion. She hasn’t got a leg to stand on,’ said Ryan.
‘Actually, I’ve got plenty of legs,’ said Sam. ‘The journalist who wrote this article must have an axe to grind against the company. Or whoever fed him the story.’
The line from Goro crackled but Charlie Okito didn’t comment. They could hear him lighting a cigarette.
‘Prove it,’ hissed Hogan.
‘My pleasure,’ said Sam, her heart rate returning to normal as the facts became clearer in her mind. ‘As you may know, circumstances have forced me to move the Masaibu budget around to finance pressing matters of health and security in camp. For instance, when I arrived there, the cooking was being done outside over fires with no regard for hygiene or safety. I ordered the refurbishment of an empty building to house the kitchen…’
‘You’ve already told us this,’ said Hogan.
‘Now then, Paul. Let her speak. She has a right to defend herself,’ said Morné.
‘Thanks,’ said Sam, gaining confidence. ‘When the building was ready, we scheduled the changeover for a Saturday morning as being the least disruptive time for it. The local staff only work a half day on Saturday and are not entitled to a midday meal but they’ve got in the habit of being fed. It’s not expensive and creates goodwill.’
‘What relevance does this have to the article?’ said Dirk.
‘I met with Ngoma Itoua, the head of the Union and alerted him that it wouldn’t be possible to feed the local men their lunch because of the move. He agreed to tell them and asked me if we needed help with the move which I accepted. We planned an agreement to pay overtime and provide snacks instead of lunch and we shook hands.’
‘That’s it?’ said Van Rooyen.
‘That’s all,’ said Sam. ‘No one starved. The new kitchen is now functioning perfectly.’
‘So, how did a journalist based in Goro get his hands on this story?’
‘Ah, that I can’t help you with,’ said Sam, and smiled at Ryan, who shrank back in his seat.
‘What about the HR complaints?’ said Hogan. ‘Are they invented too?’ He was pink with indignation and his cheeks wobbled like jelly on a spring.
‘The first is my fault,’ said Sam. ‘While Alain, the chief geologist, was on holiday, I sent the decorators into his room because it was shabby and run down. He is an excellent technician, and I wanted to reward him for his good work on the project. He came back a day early and found his stuff moved to the junior quarters. I was busy all day, cleaning the hospital with the rest of the workforce, so he couldn’t find me.
He’s a good geologist, but he’s a hot head. He must have gone to HR and filed a complaint without waiting for an explanation. I have to admit that I haven’t won HR over yet so I guess that Philippe, the manager, sent it straight to headquarters without informing me.’
‘Why would he do that?’ said Morné.
‘I’m sure he had his reasons,’ said Sam. ‘I’m not flavour of the month with a few of the staff. I am disrupting their money-making schemes and imposing order. Push back is a normal reaction.’
‘And the kitchen manager?’ said Dirk.
‘Ah, Mama Sonia. I found out she was diverting the food bought in Uganda into her own restaurant and replacing it with the local, inferior quality produce. So, I rang up Stoddard, the suppliers in Uganda and talked to the owner, a Mr Singh, about shipping our supplies to the project. Since they already have a delivery route passing near our project, it was simple to organise. And Mr Singh is not white, he’s a Hindu.’
‘Why hasn’t she been fired then?’ said Van Rooyen with his hands on his hips.
‘I believe she’s Philippe’s cousin,’ said Sam.
‘Is there any hope for the project? It sounds like a cesspool,’ said Ryan, who had undergone a complete change in attitude.
‘We’ve made progress, but it’s not a quick process,’ said Sam, ‘I’m trying to reward good behaviour and change the culture without firing anyone. There are people who would be fired anywhere else but the labour laws make firing almost impossible. I’m doing a work-around to avoid legal repercussions. I want the board to trust me and give me more time.’
It had been fascinating to watch the reactions of the directors as they realized the article in the newspaper was planted by someone in Goro. It didn’t take much imagination to guess who was responsible. Even Devin Ryan sat there with his mouth open like a surprised hamster when Charlie Okito swore to find out who was behind this outrage in Goro, before slamming down the phone in disgust, leaving them all listening to the dial tone emerging from the phone hub in the centre of the table.
When it became clear that the other charges were also without foundation some directors became contrite. Paul Hogan stunned her by muttering a few apologetic phrases.
‘Damn bad show that article. Should’ve known it was a set up. Didn’t agree with you going out there, but I have to admit, you’ve surprised us all.’
And Devin agreeing. She couldn’t decide which was more amazing.
But Dirk said nothing. It hurt her feelings and raised her suspicions about him, especially when he put his arm around her cradling her breast at the side in full view of the board. She wanted to pull away, but it was difficult to do without making it obvious and making a fuss was not an option in that company. She gritted her teeth.
‘Okay, Sam, thanks. We need to discuss this.’
Morné opened the door for her and as she passed him, he whispered ‘good show’ in her ear. The door shut behind her and she could hear shouting. She hid in the toilet cubicle at the end of the row, trying to calm down. Her heart hammered in her chest and her shirt was wet with sweat. She tried to slow it down by controlling her breathing. As she was on the way out, two women entered the toilet, one of them was swearing.
‘For fucks sake, that filthy man just copped a feel in the board room.’
‘In the board room? He has no shame.’
‘He grabbed my bottom. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth with his nicey, nicey character.’
‘Dirty Dirk. Yuck.’
Sam suppressed a squeak of horror. So, it wasn’t just her. But he had been so supportive. She waited until they had gone and then washed her hands and sat on the seats outside the toilets trying to collect her feelings.
Her horrendous experience in the boardroom had overturned her conviction she was doing a good job. The bile directed at her had been shocking. Had she been racist? Were her preconceptions of Lumbono colouring her decisions? Her hands shook with shock and she dropped her shoulder bag on the floor. A pair of feet appeared in front of her. Sam looked up to see Miriam pursing her lips.
‘You’re as pale as a ghost,’ she said. ‘Come and have lunch with me.’
Lunch. Nice fresh fish appealed to her and made her acknowledge just how hungry she was. Sam needed food to help her process the morning’s proceedings.
‘Yes, please. I’m starving,’ said Sam.
Chapter XXI
They walked to a French bistro around the corner from the company building. Sam glanced around looking for anyone she recognised before sliding into one booth. They ordered their food and sipped a soft drink. A strong gin and tonic would have gone down better but Sam needed to stay sh
arp.
‘Dirk says you dodged a bullet today. It horrified me that they attacked you like that with no warning,’ said Miriam.
Sam tried to speak but her voice stuck in her throat. Tears filled her eyes, and she shook her head in embarrassment.
‘It was awful,’ she said, choking over her sobs. ‘They called me a racist.’
Miriam passed her a tissue and waiting until the storm subsided.
‘And are you?’ she said.
‘No, of course not,’ said Sam.
‘There are various agendas at play here. I’m not surprised they tried to throw you out. Masaibu is a cash cow for someone who doesn’t want you to find out,’ said Miriam avoiding Sam’s inquiring glance.
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘I have my suspicions but no proof. Even if I was sure, I couldn’t tell you. I need this job. They’d fire me if I blew the whistle. That’s why they hired you.’
‘If I find out, they fire me, and if I don’t, they still fire me?’ said Sam.
‘That’s about it. Why do you think they hired a consultant? Everyone knows how toxic Masaibu is. Take the money while they are paying.’ Miriam patted Sam’s arm.
The food arrived, and they ate with gusto. Sam had ordered crispy French fries and a piece of poached salmon with a fresh salad. The food was so delicious the women stopped talking altogether. When they had finished, Sam wiped the dressing off her plate with a piece of crusty bread.
‘Mm. That was great,’ said Sam. ‘Saved my life.’
‘They always do great food in here. I’ll ask for the bill. Dirk will wonder where we got to,’ said Miriam.
They sipped their coffees.
‘Are you any closer to the truth out there?’ said Miriam.
‘Maybe. There are so many moving parts. I’ve dealt with some minor instances of fraud without too much hassle. I try not to draw attention to the culprit while I’m targeting him. It’s like pining a butterfly to a board without killing it first,’ said Sam, frowning.
‘I don’t envy you. It must be hard knowing that almost everyone wants you to fail.’
‘In a way it makes it easier. I trust no one.’
‘Good girl.’
That surprised Sam. What about Dirk? But she didn’t ask. Her knowledge of his behaviour had already clarified the origin of the graffiti in the toilet. He was no longer the perfect boss. Was there was more to his dark side?
The bill arrived and Sam snatched it before Miriam could pick it up.
‘You don’t have to do that, Sam. I’ll put it on expenses.’
‘That’s okay. I owe you lunch after all your support.’
Sam skimmed the bill to see if they included service.
‘Did you order some asparagus?’ she said.
‘No. I can’t eat it.’ Miriam patted her stomach.
‘There’s a portion of asparagus on the bill.’ She swivelled around and caught the eye of the waiter who was loitering in anticipation of payment.
‘Excuse me, waiter, we didn’t order this asparagus. You need to remove it from the total.’
The waiter raised an eyebrow and prepared to refute her claim. Sam held his eyes with a glassy stare. He reconsidered and stomped off to the till with bad grace.
‘You got him there,’ said Miriam. ‘They’re always doing that.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Billing you for things you don’t get. I’m afraid it’s a national hobby.’
A blinding flash filled in Sam’s head. Her hand shot to her mouth stifling a gasp.
‘What is it?’ said Miriam.
‘Oh nothing. I’m just shocked.
Trust no one. Not even Miriam? Better to have no exceptions.
By the time they got back to the office, Sam’s whole outlook had changed with the revelation she had in the restaurant. The scam was sucking the life out of Masaibu, but she could nip it in the bud. She needed proof and there was a simple way of finding out if she was right; she needed to see the Masaibu accounts and get a copy to review. That should confirm her suspicions.
She left Miriam in her office and headed for the lifts.
‘Hi Sam, where are you going? We should have a talk,’ said Dirk.
Damn, Dirk had seen her. She tried to be nonchalant.
‘Um, I’m just going to accounts. They have some sort of issue with my bank details.’
‘Accounts are in the opposite direction.’
‘Oh, are they? I get so confused in here. Is it okay if I come and see you after I talk to them?’
‘Sure, I’ll be in my office.’
Sam set off towards accounts walking at speed towards the lifts where she pressed the up button. The lift came almost immediately, and she jumped in, selecting the button for the third floor. Dirk waited until the doors close and returned to his office.
***
Joseph Kaba supervised his men as they shouldered the oily, black AK 47s leaving smears on their camouflage jackets. Some of them had axes with dull metal blades which they had stuffed down the gap between their belts and trousers. They grinned at each other, their teeth white against their black skins, and slapped each other on the back.
Excitement grew as the moment for leaving came closer. A large army truck bombed into the yard, smoke issuing from its exhaust.
‘Right you lot, listen up,’ said Kaba.
The ex-rebel troops gathered around their leader bristling with intent.
‘Be careful in there. Stay together and shoot anyone who turns up. We don’t want any witnesses.’
‘What do we do with the booty sir?’
‘Pile it up near the roadside and cover it with vegetation. Then, move off and wait for the truck at the rendezvous. Questions?’
‘When will you pay us?’
‘When they pay me.’
A roar of laugher shook through the troop and they turned to clamber aboard the truck sitting along the sides and on the wheel hubs. The driver pulled a canvas cover over the metal frame above their heads provoking a storm of protest. Kaba put up his hand to silence them.
‘No one must see you going in or coming out. Secrecy is essential for success. Keep your heads down and no opening the back until you arrive.’
He waved off the truck and entered his headquarters shaking with excitement. This was quite a coup. If they succeeded, he could leave the country and buy a house in the south of France.
He had no intention of paying the men more than the minimum but they did not understand the value of the pink ivory, and got as much thrill from the kill as from the payment afterwards. That was what war did to men. They missed the murder and mayhem of guerrilla war. He was doing them a favour.
***
The wooden floor in the accounts department vibrated under her footsteps and echoed around the cavernous room. Someone had painted the blank walls in a shade of magnolia that threw a yellow pallor on the faces of the row upon row of people with their heads bent low over computer keyboards and ledger books. Piles of receipts teetered on desks too small for them.
Sam gave thanks that she was not chained to a desk in the same company for years. The events in the meeting still shook her but there was no time to dwell on the result. It was unlikely they would fire her now, and she had to do some digging while she got the chance.
A tiny woman, who appeared to be a relation of the raisin, peered over her desk at the noisy visitor. An ancient cardigan with moth holes almost swamped her and two scrawny legs appeared at the bottom as if by magic balancing in a pair of high heels with a charity shop air about them.
‘Yes?’ she said with an unmistakable air of impatience, glaring at Sam over the top of a pair of spectacles held together at the nose with tape.
‘What a lovely brooch,’ said Sam, having searched in desperation for something nice to say about this dried old fruit.
The raisin blushed and put her hand on the brooch in a tender gesture. Her closed face o
pened like a grubby flower blooming.
‘Oh, thank you. It was my mother’s. My name’s Doris Magana. What can I do for you?’
‘Nice to meet you, Doris. My name is Sam Harris. I’m the general manager at the Masaibu project. I need to see the annual accounts for the last couple of years.’
‘The project accounts? Oh, I don’t know. This is most irregular.’ The petals closed again. Sam didn’t panic.
‘I won’t take them away, I promise. I want to check some orders so that I know how much I need to budget for next year. Please help me. I’m new this.’
The old lady put her head on one side and narrowed her eyes.
‘Okay, but you must sit opposite me in that desk over there so I can keep an eye on you.’
In no time at all, the woman had found the files and placed them on the desk in front of Sam. They were organised into sections which made it simple to find what she was looking for. She skimmed the pages and found the items under the maintenance tab, an order for spares for the heavy machinery identical to the ones that Frik had given her. The amount was a hefty eighty-five thousand dollars and change.
Sam couldn’t take in in. Frik had told her that the machinery had never arrived. Either the money was being siphoned off somehow in the capital or the spares were purchased and then resold. Either way, the size of the fraud was staggering, and this was only one order out of hundreds. The local scams being run in Masaibu were small beer compare to this.
‘How do I know if these were orders were filled?’ she said.
‘Any orders in those files were authorised at head office, and the money sent out to the account in Goro. The manager in Goro pays for all the goods used in the country so they pass through the accounts of the country office and are written off against tax on any future exploitation we carry out,’ said Doris.
‘Who has copies of those accounts?’
‘The originals are in the Goro office, and they send us a summary report at the end of every tax year.’
