Whistle Blower (32 page)

DRIVER MITCHELL HAD been knocking on the metal door of Rocki General Supplies warehouse for so long that his knuckles hurt.

"Shit, shit," he muttered, increasingly worried he'd have to return having failed to accomplish his mission. In his pocket was the little black box with a wire hanging from it and he knew exactly where he was going to stick it if he got inside. Then he shouted, "Mr. Moses!" through the gap by the hinges.

"You looking for big boss Moses, my man?"

The voice came from behind—from a tall, thin man in jeans and tee shirt, a ring hanging from his left ear, a colorful, close fitting, hand-knitted hat and a burning cigarette fixed between his thumb and first finger. The dense blue smoke was blowing in Mitchell's direction. The man, it seemed, had just arrived in a rusting old Peugeot car, its passenger door hanging open, loud music blaring from inside. Another man was in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers and shaking his head in time with the heavy beat.

"Ah, yes," said Mitchell. "I have an urgent delivery."

"Moses, he's gone away, man."

"When is he coming back?"

The man shrugged and looked at Mitchell through the smoke but said nothing. Mitchell scratched his head and muttered half to himself. "I cannot leave these boxes outside. Come back later? Tomorrow?"

"You wanna open the door, my man? Go inside?"

Mitchell looked at the man who was now smiling broadly. He was also dangling a big bunch of keys. They rang like church bells in front of his beaming face and white teeth.

"You work here?" Mitchell enquired.

"That's so, my man. Today anyway. You wanna go in or you wanna stand outside all day? What the fuck's your business?"

"A delivery of water purifiers," said Mitchell.

"Them paid for already?"

Mitchell nodded.

"That's OK then. Let's do the business man." He jangled the keys once more, pulled a shiny one out, showed it to Mitchell. "That your truck?"

"Sure, mon," said Mitchell, thinking he recognized a Nigerian and deciding to try speaking like one. "You like Fela Kuti, my mon?" Mitchell added and he nodded towards the blaring noise coming from the dilapidated car.

"Wotsa Leoni doing liking Fela?" The thin man laughed and puffed on his cigarette. "Unload your boxes my friend while I open this fucking old tin shop."

As the man in the hat disappeared inside the warehouse in a cloud of smoke, Mitchell went to his truck, piled up four boxes, carried them in, put them down and went back for the rest. Then he recovered the paperwork from where he'd stuffed it behind the steering wheel. "I need a signature," he shouted into the dusty darkness of the warehouse.

"I'ze in the office, driver."

The Nigerian was sitting in Mr. Moses' chair, surrounded by the usual piles of files, paperwork and boxes and rifling through the contents of a drawer. The air conditioning was on full. "So what's to sign, my man? Give." He beckoned with his hand.

Mitchell handed over the paperwork. "Sign there please," he said and, as he did so, he felt in his back pocket for the little black box. Standing, looking around as if admiring the luxury, Mitchell stuck the device exactly where he'd intended if Mr. Moses had been sitting there. Slid in the crack between the two halves of the desk and covered in files, it was already invisible.

The Nigerian didn't look up from whatever it was he was pulling from the drawer, but he scribbled something and handed it back to Mitchell.

"Is Mr. Moses on holiday?" Mitchell asked as he stuffed the useless paper in his pocket.

"Yeh, long one."

"Coming back soon?"

"Nope."

"Aww. So you the new boss?"

"Nope." He now looked straight at Mitchell with red, watery eyes but still puffed out more clouds of pungent smoke. "Moses is gone, my man. We took over his business."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"To visit the fucking angels."

"Waaah! Was he so sick?"

"No, someone shot him."

"Waaaah jeez," said Mitchell again, holding his hand to his mouth. "So sad. I liked Mr. Moses. Would you like to negotiate a contract with Mambolo Transport Enterprises?"

"What's your terms, my man?"

"Anything, anywhere, anyhow," said Mitchell rubbing his eyes because of the smoke.

"Come back tomorrow. I gotta go—my driver's outside."

"So is it still called Rocki General Supplies?" asked Mitchell.

"No, no. It's now Freeways Investments."

"So, you the big boss of Freeways Investments?" laughed Mitchell, edging towards the door.

"No, man, they are in Switzerland. Big shots, big power, no nonsense. One big, white Dutchman arrive—make commands like big soldier—point finger here, point finger there—they took over everything—all the business and all the boats by the river—one same day. Same day someone shot Moses. Coincidence huh? I work for Freeways in Nigeria. Freeways don't stand no messin' about, man. Know what I mean?"

KATRINE WAS PRESENTING the third bid of the afternoon to the EAWA steering group. Dirk Eischmann was on her right, Jan across the table.

"We now come to the resubmission of the Sierra Leone Tourism bid which you will recall was returned for further information," she said. "As you will see from sheet one, the changes and further information we requested have been received."

She paused during some paper shuffling and caught the eye of Jan. Eischmann was apparently engrossed in reading the changes.

"First," Katrine said, "Sulima Construction yesterday advised us of a change of consultant. The new company is Freeway Consultants in Zurich. We are all very familiar with Freeways. They have been consultants for several economic development projects over the last few years, but their details are attached if we need to refer to them."

Oh yes, Jan remembered Freeways. The name cropped up regularly—Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Somalia. But no one had ever questioned them, least of all Eischmann. It was just paperwork. If the paperwork looked OK, then Freeways must be OK. Even Katrine appeared confident with them. Freeways were Swiss, so that made them automatically legitimate, viable, heavily resourced, experienced and with an enviable track record of delivery. But had anyone ever visited them, checked them out, delved into their resources and capability? Probably not. Everyone assumed someone else had.

And even if anyone had gone to Zurich to check, then they could probably expect a warm welcome at Zurich Airport by someone in a suit before being whisked off to a plush office rented for a few days with a few Freeways logos and pictures stuck around. With their resources, anything could be made ready and waiting in the event of excuses being needed. Jan could imagine the dialogue now. "This is just the economic development consultancy office—our other offices are in Luxemburg, London, Frankfurt and Madrid.” There would be a lot of bullshit, a long lunch with wine and a small or large gift would be offered if the visitors were suitable candidates. No wonder there were so many members in Guido's club. And if Guido was behind Freeways then so was Eischmann.

Jan watched Eischmann. There was not a flicker.

"We also asked for more information about Cherry Pick Investments," Katrine went on. "Fresh information from Freeway Consultants confirms that Cherry Pick Investments are in the process of being bought out by an unnamed company…"

It was then that Eischmann jumped in. "That is exactly why I suspected something was wrong here. Go on, Katrine."

"So," Katrine continued, "Freeways’ advice is that the bid be put on hold until the takeover is complete and the situation clarified. This should not take long and then they will resubmit the bid."

That was it—stamped on, permanently, or at least until Guido and Eischmann had decided on a solution that suited them.

The meeting ended, Jan went outside into the street and phoned Jonathan with the news.

"No need for us to engineer something to prove our suspicions, then," Jonathan said. "I'm just wondering how to break the news to Jacob Johnson."

"I'll leave that decision with you, Jon. But I've had another idea. Listen."

"AH, JACOB, I'M glad you've called," Jonathan was in his office.

"Big problem, Jon. You know already?"

"Yes, I heard last night, but I thought you were in Nigeria."

"Yeh, I'm in Lagos. What the fuck's going on, Jon? Any idea? My Lebanese associates phoned me last night. Cherry Pick and Cherry Trading have been attacked."

"What do you mean attacked?"

"Attacked by someone. They even shot our Sierra Leone man."

"Shot him?"

"Yes, we think they persuaded him to sign his business over to them and then they shot him."

"Slow down, Jacob, I'm losing it. Who is your Sierra Leone man?"

"Messiah Moses. His business was Rocki General Supplies in Freetown, but he also ran Sulima Construction, Cherry Trading and Cherry Pick."

"Rocki General Supplies? Who are they? And I thought Cherry Picking was Lebanese. I am very confused, Jacob. It sounds complicated."

"Me too, Jonathan. But since Farid and Hamid decided not to work with that Italian fella things have been complicated."

"Farid and Hamid are your Lebanese partners, right?" queried Jonathan.

"Yes, yes. They had the bad experience in Milan. Since then…now I can't fucking think straight."

"I know the feeling, Jacob. And what is this about the man called Messiah being shot?"

"Messiah Moses, Jon. Moses was Cherry Pick's key man. He signed his business over to a company called Freeways Investments and an hour later he was shot—found floating in the river down near Sulima."

"Freeways Investments, Jacob?" Jonathan was double-checking.

"Yes, you know them? They're consultants like you. Far away in Zurich, I heard. You're not linked to them are you, Jon? If so I warn you…"

"Calm it, Jacob. I only heard about them yesterday, believe me. But I suspect a link with that Italian guy you keep telling me about. What's his name?"

"Guido."

"That's it. He hates to be seen as a loser, Jacob. He lost the Cherry Picking business and he's as mad as hell. He's just trying to pick up pieces. This can be a dirty business sometimes."

"Thanks, Jonathan. I'll do some more investigation and let you know."

"And where is this Guido guy based?"

"Italy."

"Big place, Jacob. Any idea where?"

"I'll find out. I'll ask Farid and Hamid. They met him."

Jacob Johnson rang off. Jonathan phoned Cole Harding in Brighton. Cole Harding rang Suleiman in Freetown. Suleiman was in the middle of talking to Mitchell.

"So he's dead, Mr. Suleiman. Moses has gone to visit the fucking angels."

"Do not speak of the dead like that, Mitchell. You must not listen to Nigerians. They are not all good Christians. Language like that is unhealthy. But there is something sinister going on. Did I not tell you?"

Suleiman's phone rang.

"Ah, Cole. I was just thinking of calling you…You know already?…What is going on here?…Yes, Mitchell planted the special device but it is not that bastad Moses we will be listening to but a fucking Nigerian wearing a hat and smoking weeds."

Mitchell shook his head at the bad language.

"Is there anything more we can do, Cole?…OK, Mitchell will still listen to the voices. Meanwhile, you are taking the matter further with others…Good."

"So, Mitchell, you must sit outside Mr. Moses' door and listen to the voices."

"For how long must I sit, Mr. Suleiman."

Suleiman paused, thinking. "Between deliveries," he said.

JAN WAS HEADING home, walking as usual. It was six thirty and dark. As he arrived at the entrance to the apartment block his mobile rang. It was Katrine. Twenty minutes later they were in the corner of the tapas bar.

"It's about that Sierra Leone bid, Jan. I think something's wrong."

Jan was already prepared. "Not just wrong, Kat, it's a well-organized stitch up."

Katrine stared at him. "You know something?"

"I know the company who lodged the first bid, Walton Associates. Walton was testing the whole bidding system for any signs of corruption. Did they find any? Sure, they did. You witnessed it this afternoon."

"Jan, for God's sake, what's going on."

"I told you a while back what I thought about the whole stinking system and that I'd be willing to whistle-blow. Well, the evidence is gathering. The whole system, Kat, is open to abuse and fraud if certain people with the know-how and authority are put in charge and there is a sophisticated, well-organized and corrupt organization behind it. How many people work there, Kat?"

"Twenty-five thousand?" It was clearly a guess.

"Some say thirty-five thousand, Kat. But if you look deeper and add in part-timers you'll find it's nearer forty-five thousand. And then there are those who are, so called 'off the balance sheet.’ I reckon it's around fifty-five thousand people. Do you think they’re all totally honest, Kat? How many have access to confidential data, log in and log out every day using passwords and how many think they are underpaid and couldn't care a fuck about the fact that it's taxpayers who pay their salaries and pensions? How many of those do you think might be tempted to take a small bribe or two if they knew how?" Jan waited for Kat's reaction.

"Plenty I suppose," she said, looking down at her glass of wine. 

"And what might happen if, once hooked, they can't stop because they're threatened with repercussions if they say or do anything?"

Katrine shook her head. Jan took a breath, tried to stay calm. "So what do you think happened today with that Sierra Leone bid?"

"We received an email confirming some changes. Then…" she paused.

"Then?"

"Someone logged into the system and changed the bidder details."

Jan was past caring. "It was me," he said.

"You, Jan? What the hell…?"

"Evidence gathering, Kat. I've been working with Walton Associates." It was mostly true. That he had performed the act on a laptop whilst sitting on a wet seat in a street in Delft with instructions from an invisible Italian midget called Guido did not seem important at the moment.

"Oh God. You Jan? You're abusing the system just to prove a point? I can't…How can…?"

"Kat, listen. There is a hell of a lot going on that I could tell you, including that Eischmann is involved."

"Eischmann himself?"

"Surprised, Kat?"

"No, I suppose not."

"So do you want to help?"

"I don't know. How far does it go? How widespread? How much is being lost? Are you sure? There are hundreds of questions."

"Eischmann recruited me."

"What do you mean, recruited?"

"My interview, remember? You fixed it. I bullshitted too well and he was so impressed I got invited to join the party. It was what I wanted all along but now I'm up to my neck and want out, but there are things still to be done—the proof, the evidence. If there's not enough evidence, they'll deny it, ignore it, blame others, pass the buck, do anything that'll stop the truth coming out. We need to keep going a while longer."

"We? Who's we."

"You remember a scandal three or four years ago when a British politician tried to raise the matter?"

"Jim Smith? He accused Eischmann. "

"You see?" Jan said, "You remember. Well, he went abroad to escape the threats and pressure. The story died down, the scandal was forgotten. But he's still trying to prove what he said was true and I'm helping. We've already got a lot, but not enough."

"My God, Jan. How deep does it go?"

"It's deep and it’s well organized."

"So who else is involved? Walton Associates? Who else?"

"One other guy, an ex newspaper man."

"Only four of you? You don't stand a chance."

"Yes we do. All we need is some proof to instigate official investigations and a few arrests."

"You'll never arrest Eischmann."

"Don't be so sure, but it might be easier to get an arrest warrant for his main accomplice."

"And who's that?"

"The guy who runs Freeways."

"Freeways? But we've used them for years."

"Exactly. Did anyone ever check them out? Properly?"

"We did research. We've got the paperwork."

"Katrine. Listen. Did anyone actually go to Zurich? What do you know about them? Do you know the names of directors, for instance?

"It's a group of companies."

"So you, and everyone else, think it's a company like some of the big name international consultants and auditors."

"It's not my job to deal with that."

"So whose job is it?"

Katrine looked uncertain. "I assumed they were once checked as part of due diligence. The pre-qualification process then avoids the necessity to do it every time."

"Due diligence failed, Kat. The system is cracked and now it's being hacked. What about the suspicions of interference in the money transfer process? Has anything more been said or done about that?"

"No."

"Another case of shrug and carry on? Sweep it under the carpet? Don't make a big scene in case the auditors notice? It's not my job. It's not my money. Why should I care? We are all guilty, Kat. You are at fault just as much as anyone else because you won't or you can't act. Why? Is it fear? What is it?"

Katrine nodded and a long silence followed.

Then: "We'd better not stay too long, Kat. Someone's watching us."

"Where? Who?"

"I don't know, but someone warned me not to see you. I'm under threat, you see, Kat. If I step out of line or don't do as I'm told, I actually fear for my life, just like Jim Smith did."

"Oh my God, Jan! Who are these people?"

"Eischmann is one. There are probably many others we don't know about and paid eyes and ears are everywhere. Someone, besides Eischmann, might be sitting around that EAWA steering group for all you and I know. But there is that key figure we need to catch—the guy whose organization creams off millions of Euros and dollars from international aid money and pays bribes to keep people sweet and too afraid to say anything. The guy who runs Freeways is Eischmann's partner."

"You know who he is?"

"We know his name, but it might not be his real name."

"Have you met him?"

"Yes, twice, once after I was recruited by Eischmann. And they are paying me. That's how serious it is. Money goes into my private account and…" Jan stopped, unsure how much more to say. "There's more, Kat, much more. I can even explain your treasury computer glitch."

"I had no idea you were so serious when you said you'd go undercover. How will you get out?"

"That, Kat, is the million Euro question."