Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 17

  Guido had decided his two Lebanese guests should stay at the expensive Park Hyatt Hotel in Milan. Had they been interested and had it not been past ten in the evening a short stroll would have enabled them to shop in the celebrated fashion houses and boutiques of Via Montenapoleone and Via della Spiga. But after leading them on foot from the restaurant, Guido ushered them into the hotel lobby and, as he left them to gaze at the opulence perhaps wondering who was paying for this, he walked to the reception area.

  "Your rooms are booked," he said as he returned, "But I am very busy so you can check in later. Please leave your bags with Marcel. Marcel will take care of them while we talk. Marcel - per piacere - do your job. These are important guests - all the way from Amsterdam." Then he giggled.

  As Hamid and Farid watched their two bags disappear once more, Guido walked quickly on, shoes clicking on the tiles, arms marching in unison with his short legs. "Follow me. We will sit and talk You will take an Italian beer, yes?"

  Still walking, he beckoned a passing waiter carrying a tray. "Birra Moretti - due - two. For me, acqua minerale frizzante - San Benedetto."

  In the far corner of the lobby he gestured towards a long sofa set against a glass topped coffee table. He made straight for the sofa, sat down in the middle and lay back with his feet barely touching the floor, his trousers riding up to expose bright yellow socks and white legs. Holding his arms out, he then beckoned them to sit either side of him. "Yah. This is comfortable. Here we can talk."

  He looked to his left at Hamid and then to his right at Farid, both perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa.

  "Milan is a very nice city, yes?," he continued from where his head lay on the back of the sofa. "It is much better than Beirut and I expect it is much better than Lagos. But I have not yet been to Nigeria. I have my own managers in Lagos. One is called Frederico because he looks like my dead uncle who was called Frederico. Lagos Frederico is of course as black as the night. Uncle Frederico was as white as snow. The other manager is still learning the business. He is called Dada because his hair is long and curly."

  Again, he looked to his left and then to his right as if waiting for a round of applause at his humour. "So," he said, spreading his arms on the settee behind his guests' backs. "Tell me about your Nigerian company."

  There was another silence as the two Lebanese looked at one another across the space that Guido occupied. "Come. You must not be shy. If we are to be partners we must be open."

  Hamid looked particularly uncomfortable and he moved as if he might get up and go, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with a tray. "Ah, here is your Birra Moretti and my San Benedetto,"

  As the waiter prepared the table with three delicate white doilies, placed chilled glasses for the beer and filled Guido's glass with his mineral water, the silence continued. But Guido was now beaming broadly as the waiter bowed his head and went away.

  "Sante," he said lifting his glass of water and beckoning them to try their beer. "You must not be shy with Guido," he said, from virtually inside his glass of water. "You must relax. Now - tell me about your Nigerian business."

  His tone was changing, almost to a command, but the silence from the other two continued as neither of them seemed inclined to try their beer or to speak.

  Then: "How is Mr Johnson? Is he well?"

  Hamid visibly jumped. "You know Mr Johnson?"

  Guido tapped his nose with a stubby finger. "Of course. So tell me about your Nigerian business." The tone was now even more serious.

  "It is fine," said Farid, bravely, and he lifted his glass of beer to his lips.

  "Fine? Fine? Do you understand your business? It is not fine. I have checked. It is weak. It is struggling. It needs fresh ideas. It needs what the Americans call 'an injection of expertise'. How can you even think of a project in Sierra Leone without an injection of the right expertise? And as for Sulima Construction, it is not structured properly to attract funds. And yet........and yet.....you are sending Mr Johnson to London to ask for help with a funding bid? It is ridiculous. Tu sei stupido."

  Hamid stood up. Farid edged even further forward on the settee.

  "How do you know about Johnson?" Hamid, visibly insulted now, hissed the question from his standing position.

  Guido himself then sat forward. He quickly took off his jacket and tucked it behind him on the settee as if preparing for a fight. Hamid appeared to almost laugh at such an apparent show of aggression from such a little man, but he was distracted by the damp sweat marks at Guido's arm pits and the shirt that stuck to his round chest. And, instead of raising a fist, Guido stood up - to the height of Hamid's own shirt collar - and held out his arms.

  "It is my business to know everything," he hissed quite clearly and deliberately copying Hamid, even with a touch of the Arabic accent. "Why do you come to see me, if not for help, Mr Hamid?"

  With that, using the tips of his toes, he raised himself two more inches but still only looked into the black stubble on Hamid's chin. His tone was menacing but in the confines of the Park Hyatt, Hamid, tempted though he was to punch the little creature in the face, looked around and thought better of it.

  Guido continued to hiss, quietly but very clearly in English with only a slight Italian accent. He was less than twelve inches from Hamid's face.

  "You were advised to see me, Mr Hamid and I know who advised you. And you will fucking well know from the person who recommended me that you were asked to treat this meeting with total secrecy and extreme confidentiality. That is what you were told and that is what made you so excited, Mr Hamid. You smelled big money and a big opportunity and you talked to Farid about it and you both agreed it was worth a little more investigating because, like so many others, you are greedy. You run a backstreet business that no-one has heard of, you have a family to feed and you want to prove something to your wife or to yourself that you are very clever and can make big money."

  Guido's rosy lips curled into a snarl.

  "So I have a right to know about your Nigerian business and your Cherry Picking and your ideas for this so-called Coalition for Arab Youth. If you want funds from international aid organisation and you think you can make a few dollars out of it for your own pockets then the only person who can help you is Guido. Guido has the systems in place. He has the technology. He has the contacts and he is very, very clever, Mr Hamid. You cannot come here to Milano and treat Guido as if he was an Egyptian selling cheap bronze teapots in a backstreet of Beirut or an illegal Burmese immigrant selling coloured stones from a plastic bag in Bangkok.

  "You must raise your game, Mr Hamid. If you want to play in the big league then you will need a big partner who costs money and who expects to be treated with respect. Because if you don't treat him with respect you will find you get stung, very badly and very painfully - and so will your family. This is a dangerous game you are trying to play Mr Hamid. You need insurance."

  Briefly he stopped, dropped down from his tip-toes and offered a twisted smile. "There are many benefits of working with Guido, Mr Hamid. You get a package deal that includes free insurance. But the insurance is quickly invalidated because I am also the underwriter."

  With the smile gone, his small eyes bored into Hamid's but then he turned to face Farid who was still sitting down

  "So you need to become more professional, Mr Hamid and Mr Farid. You are small players. You must learn to be big. You need to drop these old fashioned ways of trying to make a few thousand dollars here and a few thousand there. It is a waste of everyone's fucking time, Mr Hamid and Mr Farid. I do not operate with small individuals. But if you insist on staying small I suggest you fly back to Beirut or Lagos right now and forget about your plans to grow and diversify and make easy money from generous taxpayers. If you don't co-operate and do things my way you will find other problems arising for you because Guido may not be tall but his arms are long and they stretch a very long way."

  He raised a short, stubby firs
t finger and tapped Hamid gently on the chin. "Agree to do things my way, Mr Hamid," he said in his high pitched voice. "If you don't, you and brother Farid may not even get out of Milan, let alone return to Beirut or Lagos. Understand?"

  Hamid was also now sweating. His face felt sticky as if Guido had been spraying him with spit. He wiped his cheeks and looked at Farid, but Farid was looking at the floor.

  "Or..........." Guido paused as if for effect. "If you'd like to make more than a few thousand dollars out of this project in Sierra Leone and would prefer to make five million Euros instead then tell me about your Nigerian business."

  With that, he sat down next to Farid, picked up his glass of mineral water and downed it all.

  "Now," he said, wiping his mouth, "Are you going to sit down Mr Hamid and be a nice friend to Guido or shall I walk out and leave you to pay the hotel bill."

  Guido was starting to lose more friends.