Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 63

  "Ah. This is Guido, Signore Mendes. Guido from Italy. I am in London."

  "How the fuck...........?" The mobile phone of Silvester Mendes, aka Lucas Valdez had just rung. Lounging in his underwear in his room at the Intercontinental Hotel in London, he hit the TV remote, switched off the Jeremy Kyle show and stood up.

  "How the fuck, Signor Mendes? It was very easy. Is the Intercontinental Hotel a good hotel, Signore Mendes? Nice food? Nice bed?

  "What the fuck..........?"

  "What the fuck, Signore Mendes? It is about Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, West Africa, East Africa, Central Africa. You cannot hide from Guido. You were in Dubai and you spoke to one of my friends who told my managing director who told me. So, welcome now to London, Mr Mendes. I think we should meet again."

  "Why the fuck..........?"

  "Why the fuck? Because you are looking to expand your business and there is only one partner good enough."

  "And who the fuck is that?"

  "Who the fuck? Why, me, Guido of course."

  "And what if I don't want to see you, you little prick."

  "Waaaah," Guido's soprano voice shrilled. "That's not nice. Of course you do. Think about it, Silvester. Don't be so hasty. Think like a businessman not an ex New York cop. We are professionals on this side of the big pond. Things are sophisticated. Without sophistication, you might as well go back to America. Americans couldn't even point to Somalia on a map let alone make money out of it."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "Work with me, Silvester. Invest in me and start living up to your name - Silvester the Investor."

  "Why the fuck.......?"

  "Meet me before I tell someone about your account with Dubai Asia Investment Bank and about Akram and Tahir and our mutual friend the Finance Minister. No-one will find me but everyone knows where to find you. I found you. You are in room 320 and you were at the Highwayman Club last night and if I was you I'd watch your back. The FBI are on your tail."

  "The fucking FBI have been on my tail for years."

  "Meet me, Silvester. I'm in the lobby right now."

  Silvester Mendes heard the phone click. This was his third mobile phone and SIM card since his arrival in London, so how the hell did that little bastard, who he'd only met once before in a hotel lobby in Karachi, know his number. He stood, walked around the room, pulled on some clothes, picked up his key and took the lift downstairs.

  The lobby was frantically busy with coming and going. All seats were taken, luggage was being wheeled about, an Arab with entourage - children, women clad from head to toe in black sat waiting but Mendes wandered around. There was no sign of the squat little man in a dark suit he'd met in Pakistan, but he knew if he talked he'd hear him.

  "Fucking, lying little prick." He turned to go back to the lifts where a tall, dark haired woman was peering into a brown leather handbag on a gilt chain hung off her shoulder. He pressed the button, waited and when the lift arrived and the door opened he and the woman went inside. The woman stood behind him. He pressed for floor three, the woman for floor four. On the third floor Mendes got out. In his room he felt something in his pocket. It was a sheet of pink paper.

  "My dear Silvester. We should be partners. Together we could exploit USAID's flaws because we have the technology. But we need someone on the ground. Invest in a professional partner, Silvester, or be doomed to detection and arrest. The choice is yours."