Frank’s phone buzzed briefly. A text had arrived from Fernando. Frank smiled as he read it. A world of new opportunities was opening up and Fernando deserved this break. Frank felt immensely proud of his protégé’s achievements. So much had happened since he first spotted the boy and his sister.
It was during the rainy season and it had been wet and cold for days at a stretch. Muddy pools flooded the low lying and badly drained slum areas of Bogotá. Rivulets of brown water poured off the hills and ran down the streets. Frank was kept busy. It was the perfect time to hand out food and entice homeless kids into the shelters. Their boltholes in the city’s drains and culverts were now raging rivers and most found it a struggle to stay dry. Like bees to jam they gravitated towards the aid stations.
Frank had seen the two kids hanging close. They were no different to the scores of other dirty, barefoot strays, two shifting shadows and yet he’d noticed them. Quite what made them memorable he couldn’t say. For several days they’d been watchful and wary, appearing then disappearing into the anonymity of the crowded streets, as chary as the deer he’d once stalked at home. The boy sussed out what was on offer looking for a trap, keeping his escape routes open. The girl stayed close, instinctively following his unspoken lead. As they learned to feel safe, they’d come closer, accepting food only to vanish into the crowds. Frank had spent time with them, slowly winning their trust and drawing them into the program. They never talked about their past or how they ended up on the streets, then one morning he learnt that they came from Mapiripan and suddenly he understood. Guessing that they had somehow escaped that massacre caused Frank to look at them with respect. They deserved a fresh chance and over the years he’d given them that. Now his investment into Fernando was about to pay off.
They had had many heart-to-heart conversations over recent times and Frank found Fernando’s curiosity refreshing. Yet there was a wide gulf between them. What seemed patently obvious to Frank seemed to confuse Fernando. Time and again he repeated the same questions, as if trying to understand his mentor’s motivations. Frank remembered their last conversation. It was less than a week ago, just before Fernando’s departure and still the same questions.
“Why did you come to Bogotá Frank? Don’t you miss America?”
“Well Fernando,” he answered, pleased for an opportunity to put his view forward. “I can’t stand what I call ‘fat cats’; people who are obsessed with money and status. I really have no patience with their materialistic attitudes. Most Westerners are like sheep. Without giving it any thought, they blindly follow trends and fashions. I can’t understand why they don’t see through these fads.”
“I really don’t understand Frank. How can you turn your back on your homeland? I could never do that. No matter how bad it is here, this is my home. I could never leave it for ever, yet you have left everything. It seems to me that you’ve swapped everything - riches, possessions, family, security - and for what? Nothing! You’re as poor as us, poorer than many of us in fact.”
Frank shook his head vigorously. “No Fernando you’re wrong, utterly wrong. I have everything I need,” he said firmly. “I don’t need a car or a house. In America they’re just status symbols. Folk judge you according to the things you have and not according to what kind of person you are.”
“Is it so different here? It seems to me that people get these things because they work hard to earn good money. It means they are successful. It’s their right reward. We respect people who were successful. Everyone I know wants to better themselves and become wealthy.”
“Can’t you see that it’s all false? The corporate world wants you to think like this. But who’s the winner? They are, not you. You’re being corrupted by this attitude.” Frank continued his argument. “You don’t really want to be rich, you just think you do. It won’t make you any happier. Listen to me Fernando. You have to find joy in everyday pleasures, the warm sun, people’s smiles, music, friendship, simple foods that nurture.” Fernando looked away. It was obvious that he didn’t want to listen. Frank continued. “In America ordinary folks are caught up in this soul-destroying delusion just as you are. If they don’t like what they see in the mirror, they throw their money at fraudsters promoting cures. Take a look around you. It’s real here. Life does not revolve around fashion or leisure. It’s a struggle and you have to fight for survival. I shouldn’t have to teach you this. Surely you haven’t forgotten how we met?”
Fernando shook his head. He hadn’t forgotten. “It’s a struggle. I agree with you there. But why does it have to be like that?”
“That’s the question AOL is trying to set right.”
Fernando nodded. “We are all glad you are here, but why is it like this? Believe me, mere survival gives no joy. Why isn’t Columbia more like America? It seems to me that everyone has choices and the means to make them. Despite what you say, I don’t think there is anything spiritually uplifting about poverty.”
Frank knew that Fernando was determined to escape, determined to be successful and become wealthy. He realised that his words went over Fernando’s head yet he still continued hoping that one day they would make sense. “Listen Fernando, medicine here is about healing and wholeness not about cosmetics. Here life is a battle pitched between birth and death. What matters is the time we each have between those events and what we do with that time. That’s why I’m here and not in America, to make those moments worthwhile. Do you understand?” That question hung in the air unanswered. He hoped that a few years living in New Zealand would expose the illusion at the empty heart of Western culture. He thought it was a pity that Fernando’s sister was not a member of The Chosen Way. She was his Achilles' heel. He pushed away his doubts, reassuring himself that while Fernando was safely isolated in New Zealand, immersed in a new job, she would have less influence, besides Fernando was fully aware that his sister’s safety depended on his ready compliance.
Frank looked again at the postcard he was about to mail to Brady. It was a cheap card, garishly coloured, a classic tourist’s choice. Sprawled across the palm fringed beach were the words ‘This is the life’. He disliked the sentiment but that was part of the smokescreen. He turned it over and checked his message. ‘The trip preparations were flawless. Work’s going well and our package has arrived safely in NZ. Keep in touch. Frank. ’ It was perfect. It said everything and it said nothing. As he signed, he wondered briefly if using his real name was safe. It wasn’t a terribly common name, but at least Brady would know who’d sent it. He dropped it into his out tray where it joined a miscellaneous collection of other letters, bills and correspondence.
CHAPTER 7
Hanna sighed as she stepped out of Wesley’s office. Her crisp brightly coloured skirt crackled as the glass door brushed against it. She’d just delivered the daily bundle of mail and Wesley’s eyes never left the computer screen, leaving her feeling as transparent as the reflection she glimpsed of herself on the door. It was the same at the end of every month. This trancelike concentration spooked her. She glanced back at the man almost hidden behind the large LCD computer screen and at the letters she’d abandoned on the glossy desktop. At that moment the phone rang and Hanna hurried to answer it, her doubts smothered yet again under a flurry of tasks.
An hour later Wesley looked away from his screen, stretched his arms behind his head, flexed his neck and shoulder muscles and became aware again of his surroundings. He noticed the untidy heap of mail and, welcoming the distraction, he flicked through it arranging the letters into regimented piles. There were bills, donation cheques, requests for aid and invitations. Occasionally he scribbled instructions for Hanna on a yellow post-it note which he stuck onto the envelope. She would handle the response letters for him and update their diaries.
He paid particular attention to the conference invitations. He and Brady were popular keynote speakers and he welcomed the opportunities this opened for them to promote ESAP. It was satisfying to be in such demand. He might be involved in God’s work, h
e warned himself, but he was not God. Despite his inner warnings, sometimes he felt very God-like. He leaned back on his chair, remembering that not so long ago things had been very different. It was important not to forget.
He had joined APW full of enthusiasm, determined to make a difference and at first it seemed possible. He shook his head as he marvelled at how naïve he had been, how ripe for the inevitable disappointments. One by one the setbacks had piled up and with them came disillusionment. Again and again his best efforts produced only the dry taste of dust. He shook his head sadly, recalling the ever diminishing circles of futility in which he’d been trapped and the cynicism which had replaced his youthful idealism. He was forced to concede that people in the West were predominantly selfish, self-centred and greedy. It had cut him to the quick when he realised that few cared as deeply as he did. Life lost all its joy and the burdens of being CEO snuffed out the last of his hopeful dreams. He’d even contemplated visiting a psychoanalyst. Then 9/11 happened. It turned everything upside down.
Wesley pulled himself out of his reverie. Good overcame evil, he told himself. These days he saw the hand of God in even the most brutilizing situations. Nothing happened by chance. Again he thanked God for 9/11. It was terrible that so many had died but their deaths had made the paradigm shift possible. Sometimes that was what it took for God to get our attention. He put the last envelope onto a pile and turned his attention back to his computer screen.
Almost from the beginning Wesley had been concerned about the organisation’s increasing costs. Things moved quickly as their aid work in the African continent had expanded. As the scope of their plans swelled and they were stretched by new challenges, he and Brady sought the advice and direction of specialists and consultants. They scrutinized every aspect of their work convinced that everything could be improved and engineered to produce better results. Their support staff doubled as the paperwork became more complicated.
The burden of these increasing costs was nothing compared to their rapidly rising balance sheet however supporter perception was vital, or so Wesley told himself. Donors expected their gifts to go to the projects, not to administration costs and yet these had to be funded, so Wesley had devised a parallel accounting structure, a fiscal slight-of-hand which tailored ESAP’s public finances for public scrutiny. His system proved very useful and slowly it evolved as their need for secret funds grew.
Numbers filled the screen in front of him, the cursor blinked hypnotically and Wesley became oblivious to everything else. As if alive, digits danced before his eyes as he rearranged them. The month’s donations looked healthy giving him added satisfaction. Still experience warned him that donors could be fickle, that their donations could easily falter and as if to add emphasis, every zero appeared to expand and contract as he deliberated. It was important to be visible, vital to be ready for every promotional opportunity and crucial to leverage off every calamity. They must continue to pressure influential individuals, key political figures, reporters and philanthropists. Persuade them to dig out their cheque books and sign pledge cards. Brady, he thought gratefully, was in a class of his own when it came to changing a five dollar intention into a ten dollar bill.
For the final time Wesley rechecked each entry for consistency. When he reached the LLB debit entry he paused, glancing back to the donations credit and the numbers in his private ledger book. He felt no guilt. He poked the numbers into his calculator and grunted in satisfaction. Few asked what LLB meant but when they did, he explained with a rueful smile and a shrug of his shoulders, that it meant Loss, Leakage and Bribery, the regrettable cost of working in the third world. LLB stood at roughly 25% of aid money raised and this apparent transparency bolstered their implicit claim to honestly and integrity and reassured donors, who remained ignorant of the truth. LLB funds, together with cash from untraceable sources, found its way into secret accounts intended to finance their long term goals. The abbreviation secretly amused him with its ambiguity.
Finally, confident there were no mistakes, Wesley saved his amendments and sent the file to the accountant. He leaned back feeling invincible, satisfied that all was progressing as planned. A moment later, ready for the next task, he bent forward to speak into the intercom.
“Hanna, I’ve some correspondence ready for you. Will you pop into my office please?” He smiled, wrapping his words in a friendly glow. “Oh and I’d love a cup of coffee.”
He sat back and scanned his calendar for upcoming appointments. Already the first month of 2010 was past. How time was flying by. The soulful black eyes of the solemn February child reminded him that he had to attend a strategic conference in Africa and before the page would flip to reveal the March child he had a meeting with the inner circle.
CHAPTER 8
The biscuits were butter-crisp, sweet and crumbly. Hanna, responsible for these morning and afternoon teas, catered to Wesley’s sweet tooth, knowing it also rewarded their intense concentration and gave them an energy burst for the next brainstorming session. Replenished, the steady murmur of their voices stilled and abandoning their drained cups amongst the leftovers, the Inner Circle returned to their seats.
Wesley stood facing them, waiting for their attention. He was not a tall man and the extra few inches of the concealed platform gave him confidence. When deep in thought, his face became a study of shadows and his deep-set eyes seemed to retreat giving him an austere appearance. Wesley’s eyes were impelling; blue irises encircled by a pale ring. Depending on his mood, they reminded you of the clear sun-bright waters of a sheltered sandy bay or the icy glitter of an Arctic Lake. At last the hum died down and he spoke.
“Our next topic is the issue of risk management. I personally have a growing unease around the technology we use in-house and I’d like your input into resolving some of the security issues we might face.” He looked around and noticed one raised hand. “Yes?”
“Do you really think we have security issues? Not in our industry ... surely?”
“Who can say till it’s happened? Hindsight is always a wonderful teacher. At least we should consider the issue. Brady raised the subject recently and he’s fully aware of the technological risks-”
“But who would be interested? Everything we do is open and public.”
Wesley frowned at the continued interjection, his eyes glittered coldly. An assertive tone crept into his voice.
“Maybe. But we still have our secrets. Our register of sponsors and their donations, for example are encrypted and their privacy protected.” Heads nodded. This was undoubtedly true. Wesley continued. “We are a large and financially successful organisation. This alone exposes us to opposition and envy. It only takes one slip-up and in one blow we can lose our ranking and our supporters. Now as Brady pointed out to me, we are increasingly exposed to potentially undesirable surveillance and possibly malicious disruption. These people are not like you and me. They have no conscience. While we have nothing to hide, as our esteemed colleague reminded us earlier, our actions and motivations may easily be distorted or taken out of context and used against us. It’s all about identifying risk and there are a thousand risks, some big and some small.
“Our emails and phone calls can be intercepted, data can be extracted from hard-drives and, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, one day we may have a mole in our midst. All organisations need to be aware that the greatest risk often comes from within. Consider how easily one of us can send an email to the wrong person or forget to use ‘BCC’ and suddenly ... well, you can imagine the implications. Consider computer or data theft; add in a hacker or a virus. Some of these things may be easily contained but some may have the potential to do significant damage to our people or our organisation. I believe that we need to proactively manage risk. We need a foolproof system and we need to stay one step ahead of the internet savvy criminal. Any ideas?”
Wesley turned to Brady, smile lines forming at the corner of liquid blue eyes. The room was silent as he sank into his chair and Brady stoo
d. The others waited. They knew that he probably had a strategy for their consideration and their buy-in was expected. Brady cleared his throat.
“As you’ve heard I’ve been concerned for some time about these issues. I’ve given them considerable thought and would like to hear your views on my recommendations. Do we all recognise the risks?” He glanced around the table and was met with nodding heads. At least there was agreement. “We should talk to some risk management specialists. Listen to what they say and act on their advice but there are things we can do ourselves. Let’s start with the easy stuff. Am I right in saying that we’re agreed that ideally our conversations and emails, all our communications remain private?” He paused. All around him people made encouraging noises. “I think less is more and that we should rein in our reliance on technology and use it judiciously. The world is now so sophisticated that security is failing to keep ahead of advances. This exposes us all so let’s step back for a moment. Let’s discourage emails and avoid phones which can be easily tapped especially for sensitive matters. None of our computers should be linked into a central server or use the cloud system. It may mean duplication but that’s a small price to pay for security. At all times we need to use the best encryption software available, and implement regularly scheduled upgrades.”
Brady could see their eyes glaze over as he talked of servers, clouds and encryption. This was technical stuff and he might as well have been speaking Welsh or Greek. He grinned to himself. Soon they would be struggling to keep their eyes open and happy to approve any motion he raised. A fly buzzed lethargically against a window. The room was warm and the effects of caffeine were wearing off. Deliberately he made his voice more bland and even.
“Our people could text using cheap cell phones and send postcards. Sure I know that’s old technology; snail’s mail, but tourists still send postcards and there are millions of texts flying around the world so sheer volume should protect us. If we use different SIM cards and only use them briefly then it will be harder for our senders to be located. SIM cards are cheap and easily disposed. None of our mobiles should be registered. I propose that at prearranged times, agents in the field send brief texts to their controllers, who in turn pass the information up the chain on postcards. We could supply controllers with tourist cards from their postal areas and codify them in some way. Our agents write some innocuous coded message. For example if a cell has been exposed they use a postcard which says ‘Wish you were here’ and the message mentions bad weather. The combination of these two codes would alert us.”
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