Whistle Blower (26 page)

AS JIM, TOM, Jonathan and Jan continued their meeting in London, somewhere in Italy Guido was taking a bath. As he wallowed in deep, white foam listening to Pucchini's
Tosca
he heard his phone ringing. Turning the opera volume down with a remote, he leaned over to retrieve the phone. Then he lost his soap.

"Yah." There was a pause as Guido switched on the loudspeaker function and, still searching frantically for the lost soap with one hand, listened with the other short, white arm holding the phone above the thick layer of scented bubbles.

"So why has Mr. Moses phoned you, Toni? And why do you phone me when I am in the bath? It is very inconvenient. The soap gets into my phone and it echoes like the Duomo di Milano in here. I can sing opera here—Puccini, Tosca, La Boheme—because the acoustics are like La Scala, but I cannot always hear the bloody phone.

"OK, wait. I am getting out of the bath. I feel very naked when I am in the bath and speaking on the telephone. Where is my towel? And my bottle of Sassicaia? Yes, now I have it. Mmm. Now, what is the problem, my flower?"

Guido was sitting, wrapped in a vast white towel with his short legs crossed on a stool next to the bath and a white table with his bottle of wine. First he sipped but then he spat.

"This, Toni, is gross incompetence. We cannot upset customers like Mr. Moses. How has this happened? It was quite clear. Mr. Moses was to receive the boxes of water purifiers, valued at a mere 34,300 dollars as part of his much larger contract with us. It was just a small shipment. Easy. Simple.

"Why is it that we can successfully ship pharmaceuticals and baby foods worth over 365,000 dollars to him that have cost us nothing except the cost of an invoice and on which he will make at least thirty percent when he sells it to Liberia and yet a few boxes of water purifiers…fuck! It is a mess, Toni. And we must sort it quickly. I do not want to lose our water purifiers to bastard thieves at Freetown customs. The thieves are supposed to enjoy the fruits of their thieving by reading old copies of the
Corriere della Sera
. That was the plan. Someone is to blame, Toni. Mr. Moses does not want old newspapers."

There was a pause as he listened, his spare hand playing with bubbles.

"Yes, Toni. You must sort it. Immediately. But do not go away, Toni. I have something else to ask you. What has happened with Cherry Picking? I have heard nothing from you…They are still not answering your calls? This is very bad. We must not lose this Sierra Leone project you understand? Guido hates failing. There is a stigma attached to failure. It is as if we are foolish and incompetent. We must not fail on this one, OK? And another thing. Silvester the investor. Have we made contact?…Good. Well done, flower. Now fuck off and sort out Signor Moses."

Guido unraveled himself from the huge towel and stepped into the bath again. 

JAN WAS READY to leave the hotel to catch his flight back to Amsterdam but Jim was anxious to thank him once again for what he was doing.

"I'm suddenly becoming a rich man, Jim. But it's dirty money and I don't want it. And I still don't fully understand the loan system that Guido explained. It sounds more like a bribe with strings attached, like blackmail, a hidden threat. I don't know what to do with it. It's sitting there in my account and each time I look at it I wish I'd never offered to help. But then I think again and I know exactly why I'm doing it. Do you understand?"

Jim nodded.

Standing behind them, Jonathan's mobile rang. He excused himself but was straight back. "FBI—Scott Evora," he said. "He wants another chat. I said I was tied up at present but I'd call him back. And Jacob Johnson has left a message so I might need more excuses to give Claire for another night of debauchery with my Nigerian friend."

With that, Jan left in the taxi, the others returned to the lobby and Jonathan made his phone calls as Jim and Tom listened. First up was Jacob Johnson.

"You still in London, Jacob?…Yes, everything is OK. We've already submitted the Sierra Leone bid and we've had a formal acknowledgement. My contact there thinks we might be required to present more information but…yes, yes, this is quite normal…As for the bid for your Lebanese associates—the Education funds bid—this still needs some more work. Give me a week or so on that, OK? And please chase your letters of support from Beirut. We'll get nowhere without those."

Jonathan finished the call and nodded to Jim and Tom.

"He seems content enough. And Jan might get to see this Sierra Leone, Sulima Construction bid on Monday as he's on duty with the Economic Aid West Africa—EAWA—committee. But it's too early yet to decide how we might use it to prove anything fraudulent on the funds side. I admit, though, it's me who has misbehaved. I've submitted the bid knowing full well that documents are questionable."

Jonathan paused.

"The name of the unheard of consultant in Sierra Leone is Cherry Pick Investments," he went on. "But the documents they sent over look convincing enough. It's a Lebanese company, registered in Singapore, headquarters in Beirut, offices in Sierra Leone, Lagos and Holland. They've provided a list of projects already completed but I've not had time to check them out. My bet is they'll look feasible on paper but are actually fictitious. Documents show it's been trading for fifteen years but I think it's a start-up. The Minister's signature also looks convincing—so convincing it may be the only thing that's not forged."

Tom shook his head in amazement. Jim looked unfazed.

"Let's now phone the FBI—Scott Evora. Listen in," said Jonathan. He pressed the numbers, waited until the American accent came on and turned on the loudspeaker.

"Ever come across a guy called Silvester Mendes, Jonathan?" Evora began.

"No."

"He's never called you any time?"

"Not that I'm aware of. The staff also takes calls."

"Ever advised on overseas aid for Pakistan?"

"Yes, once."

" Afghanistan? Bangladesh?"

"Bangladesh, once or twice."

"Was it European money?"

"Yes."

"And you told me you've never had anything to do with USAID, right?"

"Correct."

"OK, listen up. I'm about to tell you some things that are a bit, what shall I say, unusual. OK? I don't normally say things like this on a phone but we're a bit concerned about this guy, Silvester Mendes—have been for some time. He's black, probably runs around on a couple of US passports that look legit, nice and clean, so he comes and goes as he pleases. He actually runs a private detective agency with a few staff who check hundred percent clean—he's an ex New York cop, by the way, so he knows a few tricks.

"But he was in Islamabad a few times a year or so back—our guys got wind. He met up with a Mullah or two, the CIA were watching. He also met a few Pakistani government members and Central Bank officials. No names, OK—but it was about the time some USAID poured in. Our friend Mendes was posing as someone he wasn't. No names again. But he now seems to know the system well. He's learned a lot by rubbing shoulders with influence in some very foreign places. Not nice influence, get my drift?

"Anyway, then there was another load of USAID money went in, none of it ended up where it was supposed to. Mendes goes to Islamabad again. We watched him quite recently but still got nothing that'll stick. Mendes then gets on a plane for Dubai and disappears from the radar for a while, six months or so. Turns up back in New York. Says he was on a case down in Miami for nearly six months, undercover—problems with a drug syndicate that involved Afghan and Pakistani taxi drivers—that was the excuse he gave for going to Islamabad when asked. A plausible story as it turned out so, yet again, nothing gets pinned on him. I could tell you more, Jonathan, but I've already said more than I should.

"Now—reason for call. We know he's in London. Right now he's staying at the Intercontinental Hotel, Park Lane—been there three days already but not doing a lot—spending money, eating, drinking, womanizing a bit. But we're planning a few tricks of our own. One of our team is getting close to him. Feedback we're getting is vague—he's clever, wary, keeps cards close to his chest. He's still just an innocent, private investigator on his holidays, or that's his line. But we've tempted him with a few thoughts about international aid funds being available—thrown in mentions of huge sums like 75 million Euros and he's starting to realize that Euros are bigger than dollars and that over here they don't seem so bothered about money going astray." Scott Evora paused. "Are you getting the picture, Jonathan?"

"Yes," Jonathan said, nodding for the benefit of Tom and Jim.

"OK. Will you help us?"

"What on earth can I do?"

"You know this business better than anyone, Jonathan. If you're willing, what we'll do is try fix a meeting for you with him to explain what you do. Suggest in a roundabout way you are very flexible in the way you work—get my meaning, Jonathan?"

"Yes," Jonathan replied, thinking he was becoming well used to flexibility since meeting Jacob Johnson. He winked at Jim and Tom.

"You sure you're OK with this, Jonathan? Any problems for you and we'd back you up. OK?"

"Yes, I understand, but, uh, how…"

"But what?" Evora asked.

"Don't you feel you're tinkering a bit with the official role of a Legal Attache, Scott? I thought the role was coordination with host countries not pro-active investigation and intelligence gathering."

"Hmm. Been reading us up?"

"I always research my clients."

"What? I'm now a fucking client of yours?"

"Not a normal one."

"So what are you saying, Jonathan?"

"I suppose I'll turn a blind eye to your methods in the interests of continuing to build relationships between our two great nations."

"Now who was it said that? So you're still on?"

"Yes. I help you. You help us."

"Good man. OK, listen. Thanks a million. Sorry to mess your weekend. Where are you? With the family? I'll call you back soon, OK?"

FREETOWN, SIERRA LEONE.

Mitchell's boss, Mr. Suleiman, having said he smelled bad fish and dead rats, was now pulling strings by calling upon friends and acquaintances. He started with a manager at Standard Chartered Bank.

"There is no Daisy Children's Charity in Sierra Leone," said the manager. "Neither is there a charity called Schools Aid, but we checked and there is a charity called Schools Aid for Africa in England. They send secondhand laptops to Africa."

Suleiman noted it and went on his way. His next stop was his old school friend Seymour at the Pyramid Bank because he knew they had a branch in Sulima.

"Sulima Construction?" Seymour scratched his head. "I'll phone Wesley in Sulima."

Suleiman sat and waited until: "Wesley says there is no company called Sulima Construction and he has lived in Sulima since he was born."

"Let me speak to Wesley," said Suleiman and took over Seymour's telephone. "My driver has been there so there must be a Sulima Construction. It is by the river, across from the boatyard, a concrete building with a tin roof."

"Ah, no sir, I know that building. It is owned by Cherry Enterprises. It is a warehouse for storing goods before they are put on the boats."

"And who owns Cherry Enterprises, Mr. Wesley?" asked Suleiman.

"It is a man called Mr. Moses."

"Aha," said Suleiman, smiling and nodding towards Seymour. "And the office of Cherry Enterprises is also in the concrete building?"

"Oh, no, no, sir. Cherry Enterprises has an office in the town. There is Cherry Trading, Cherry Transport, Cherry Industries, Cherry this and Cherry that, sir. So many cherries I cannot remember."

"And Mr. Moses owns these companies?"

"Ah well, sir, that I cannot say. Maybe he owns all of them or just some of them, but all of the Cherry companies trade in Liberia and Nigeria and they own many boats by the river."

Suleiman thanked Seymour and Wesley, returned to his office and checked his watch. It was late morning in London—a good time to phone his cousin, Cole.

Cole Harding, distant cousin to Suleiman, a lawyer and senior partner in Fitzgerald, Waterman & Harding was, just as Suleiman imagined, at his desk in his smart office in Brighton, England. Born in Sierra Leone but educated since the age of seven in the UK, Harding had made money for his practice by becoming known amongst the West African community. But he had long ago ditched immigration problems in favor of commercial advice to the increasing numbers of West Africans with businesses. But Harding was selective. He had a nose for a rogue and deeply disliked the fraud and corruption that was rife across West Africa. He had been outspoken about it. "It is the hard working poor who create the wealth," he had once written in a commercial law magazine. "So why should they be the ones who then suffer from greedy politicians, thieves and corrupt big businesses?"

The keen sense of smell, especially of bad fish and dead rats, ran in the extended Suleiman family and if anything made Cole Harding drop everything for a day or so it was when he smelled something rotten. He quickly understood what Suleiman was saying and noted names, companies and charities. By mid-afternoon he had also spoken to the Charity Commission and the National Fraud Authority about the level of charity fraud. The information, as he had expected, was shocking with the National Fraud Authority estimating that fraud against the charity sector cost over one billion pounds a year.

He spoke to Schools Aid Africa, a small English charity in East Anglia that took free gifts of old laptop computers from the public, made them fit to use, boxed them up and sent them to places like Sierra Leone. "Do they reach their destination?" Harding asked. They didn't know. They hoped so.

"If I told you a consignment you recently sent to Sierra Leone was stolen and resold in Liberia and Nigeria for tens of thousands of dollars what would you say?" They were shocked.

"So who do you deal with in Sierra Leone?" he asked. That was easy. It was Daisy Children's Charity who were not just in Sierra Leone but had branches in Liberia, Nigeria and Ghana. Had they checked Daisy Children's Charity out? Well, no, not thoroughly, after all it was a name given to them by the British Embassy and so was bound to be legitimate. And had they ever meet anyone from Daisy Children's Charity? Oh yes. A nice man called Mr. Moses had met them in London two years ago to explain how his charity worked. And how did they send their computers to Sierra Leone when the airport was well known to be a little unreliable? That was easy, also. They had been told to use an Italian freight forwarder who worked with Swissair. All they had to do was send the computers to
Freeways Freight Forwarding in Milan and the company did the rest. Schools Aid Africa was, after all, a charity, so couldn't be expected to check everything. Resources were thin on the ground.

Being Friday, Cole Harding decided to leave it over the weekend to decide what to do next. By two in the morning on Saturday, though, his thoughts had already moved onto theft of international aid. One report stuck in his mind because, for once, it had been properly investigated—Cambodia and millions of dollars of funds for mosquito nets. The kickback had been fifteen percent with two officials pocketing $500,000 each and the director responsible getting $351,000. In the end, the nets were useless because they had not been treated with insecticide.

But fraud like that was widespread and organized. He had seen it himself—double invoicing, false accounting, fictitious trading histories, tenders submitted before they were officially released. By three in the morning he had concluded that the businesses run by the man Moses—Rocki General Supplies, Sulima Construction and a whole list using the name Cherry had all the hallmarks of professional scam organizations. By four in the morning, Harding was at his computer researching fraud in charities and international aid and by Sunday morning he had found a company that, according to their website, specialized in advice on international aid—Walton Associates.