Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 36

  "Mr Evora has arrived, Jonathan."

  Jonathan had never met a FBI agent before, but Scott Evora was a perfect match to his preconception of one - a six foot, thick-necked, fair-haired and muscular man who looked as if he spent most of his spare time working out in a gym somewhere. Probably, Jonathan decided, they had one at the Embassy. Formalities over, cups of black coffee served by Sarah and Jonathan decided he'd try out Evora's method and cut to the chase.

  "So, how can we help?"

  "We need some eyes and ears, Jonathan. These are difficult times for ordinary US citizens with ever rising costs of living, unemployment, cuts to services - you got it here In UK. I watch the BBC news. And American taxpayers especially hate the thought of their hard earned taxes going into the pockets of a bunch of already wealthy despots in Africa and elsewhere. US politicians are getting their ears burned so we get ours burned. There's pressure to be stricter, to track down villains, bring them to justice. Some argue to stop aid altogether, but it's fucking politics isn't it - handing out aid is supposed to win friends and influence people."

  "So what are you looking for?"

  "First off. Tell me about your business. How long have you been going?"

  Jonathan stood up. "Twelve years. But come, see for yourself. I'll introduce you to some of the staff. No problem."

  A walk around tour Walton Associate's office could have taken all of three minutes. Handshakes with six staff - David, Lizzie, Carol, Mark, Steve and one receptionist cum PA, Sarah - but it took an hour. Jonathan showed him bids they'd submitted, a wall map showing flags with the bigger projects in Bangladesh, Pakistan, Bulgaria, Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Libya.

  They stopped to look at Carol's computer screen where she was using a template to write a bid for some money for the UK - a rural economy project. Scott Evora just followed Jonathan around, shook hands, nodded and listened. Then they returned to Jonathan's office and sat in the two arm chairs across the coffee table. As Scott Evora took over again, Jonathan filled the coffee cups.

  "We just stopped a racket in Pakistan, Jonathan. Twenty million dollars for Christ's sake. Awarded for an educational project near Islamabad. Money's gone. Vanished. Where? Fuck knows. We got a couple of local guys but just can't nail their US partner. There must be one somewhere, but in Islamabad they clam up, shrug, say they know nothing. Trouble is they're probably right. We can't put our finger on the top local guys.

  "We also just sentenced a US sub contractor for four years for issuing false invoices. And you will have heard about the $295 million contract with the Afghan Ministry of Public Health. Money came from USAID. But where did a lot of that $295 million go? Fucking Talban and Islamic extremists of course. We think some went to Iran, some just disappeared into local pockets. The rest? God knows. And why don't we know? Because there aren't any proper controls that's why. We just hand it over with smiles on our face and hope it'll be spent wisely. Hope doesn't work, Jonathan. We just gotta get tougher."

  Evora stopped, took a gulp of his coffee. Then, without moving his eyes from the bottom of his cup: "You ever dealt with USAID, Jonathan?"

  "No, never," Jonathan said, remembering that Evora had asked him that before. Was Walton Associates suspected of something? "We leave anything to do with USAID to American consultants or contractors," he added.

  Evora nodded, seemingly believing what Jonathan had said. He looked up from his cup.

  "But that's why we need the feedback, the snippets of intelligence that come the way of businesses like yours on this side of the pond. We especially need to know one hell of a lot more about the contractors involved, the agents, the sub agents, the consultants. We need to start spot checks. Walk into their offices off the street. But first we need to know who to spot check. It's a moving target. They come, they go. They appear, they disappear - deliberately of course. A few names crop up, then they crop up again somewhere else and then they disappear. And how many fucking people do you know called Mohamed? We need stricter controls but the bureaucracy is bad enough already."

  Evora was sitting back, totally relaxed in the arm chair, his long legs spread wide, the half empty coffee cup hovering in his hand over the arm of the chair. He took a deep breath.

  "Now." he paused. "What, in your opinion, is the UK government doing, Jonathan? What is the EU doing? Are they concerned? The outward signs are they don't care a fuck. Am I right? But from what I understand, the figures are just the same as the US's - massive losses, huge discrepancies. Don't taxpayers over here care? Why don't they say something? Don't your politicians get it in the neck like ours do? Why give billions of dollars in aid for the teeming millions of poor in Africa, the Middle East and Asia only to find some tin pot dictator or despot has just stolen it? Why not spend the billions at home on your own poor - after all, it is these very same home grown poor who have paid the tax in the first place. That's what US citizens are asking.

  "You've been in the business a while, Jonathan, you must have your opinions and suspicions?" he concluded.

  Jonathan sighed, seriously wondering whether to say 'just look what had happened to Jim Smith'. And then, of course, there was Jan, sat at his desk behind a computer right at the heart of the system. Should he even mention the mysterious Guido or the suspicion that the system itself tolerated, wittingly or not, the antics of top bureaucrats like Dirk Eischmann.

  And there was another worry. Did Evora suspect that Walton Associates might, itself, be involved somewhere? Had Evora come with another agenda? If so, he needed to proceed very carefully. Did the FBI already know about Jacob Johnson, for instance? Were they so on the ball that Johnson was being watched? If so then was Walton Associates also being watched. He stood up, wandered over to the window and looked down into the car park where he could see what he thought must be Evora's car - a Ford Mondeo - parked next to his.

  "Yes," he said still looking down. "We have a lot of suspicions and so we are, as I mentioned earlier, very selective who we work for. But you are right, Scott, the international aid business - if we can call it that - is huge, it is massive, it is bureaucratic, the world is a very big place and the money handed out is vast. But the attitude seems to be that you have to allow for discrepancies - twenty percent is a figure that often gets mentioned - because it's just not practical to tighten things up enough to stop it. It's probably a lot more than twenty percent but can you imagine a private business accepting even a twenty percent loss?"

  "No fucking way they would," Evora said. "So they turn a blind eye, is that what you're saying?"

  "Yes." Jonathan hesitated, enough to be noticed. "They turn a blind eye, but there's more to it than that." He walked back to the coffee table. "Because if someone suggests something's wrong, that huge losses are unacceptable and that massive international fraud and political corruption is suspected, they close ranks." Jonathan hesitated again but then went for it.

  "I remember," he said, "A few years back. A UK politician, Jim Smith, asked questions in Parliament. In fact, he even went as far as to make allegations, named names. Unfortunately it didn't do him a lot of good. You should check it out - a good man was Jim Smith."

  "What happened?"

  "He was hounded out."

  "So who the fuck did he name? The Prime Minister?"

  "Perhaps you should ask him."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He went abroad."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know," said Jonathan honestly. "But I suggest you do a bit of research on the trouble Jim Smith encountered. The only thing he managed to prove was that it's not at all clever to point fingers at, and ask questions about, certain people in power."

  Scott Evora sat forward. "It sounds to me, Jonathan, that what you're saying is that over here the corruption begins closer to home. Would I be right?"

  Jonathan nodded. "Yes, I think you can say that."

  "Jesus. Listen. Thanks Jonathan." Evora had apparently heard enough. He stood up, held out his big hand. "You've been a
real big help. Can we stay in touch? You've got my card. Anything crop up you just call me, OK? Anything - suspicions, evidence that'll stand up - anything. It's the US side that the FBI is tasked with but I suspect we might find some cross-over somewhere. And what was that English politician's name again?"

  "Jim Smith."

  "Jim Smith. That's easy enough to remember. I'll check him out."

  "Yes," thought Jonathan, "But you'll draw a complete blank from the day Jim boarded that plane to wherever he went."

  For the first time for weeks, Jonathan began to think there might, just might, be a way forward here. If they needed a law enforcement agency to sit up and take an interest, why not the FBI. For now he desperately needed to talk to Jim.