Whistle Blower (37 page)

KATRINE RECEIVED THE phone call from Dirk Eischmann at her morning coffee break.

"I have been called for another meeting. Please give my apologies and chair the EAWA steering group meeting this afternoon."

He had made the phone call from his office but left immediately and headed to Brussels Airport and the Sheraton Hotel. Once inside, he walked direct to a corner. Already sitting on a sofa beneath a large, contemporary print with white cups of coffee on the glass-topped table in front of them, was a smart, graying, middle-aged man in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. Alongside him sat a much younger woman with long, blonde hair, red lipstick, a white blouse and a short, flower-printed skirt. Around her neck was a gold necklace and, on her fingers, rings with several large stones. As she leaned towards the man, talked quietly and straightened his already immaculate tie, her skirt rose up to expose long, tanned legs and thighs. 

As Eischmann approached the man placed a finger to his lips to put an end to the woman's attentions and stood up. The woman straightened her skirt, uncurled her legs and stayed sitting down, looking at her red nails. There was no handshake. Instead Eischmann beckoned him return to the sofa and then nodded at the woman who smiled. He then took the black, patterned upright chair opposite and leaned forward. But whatever their meeting was to be about, it was immediately interrupted.

Eischmann had barely opened his mouth when two men, both wearing dark suits and ties walked towards their corner. The woman saw them coming first, her partner then looked up and Eischmann turned around.

"Sorry to interrupt your meeting," said one of the suits. "Inspector Hendrickx, Belgian Federal Police. This is Inspector Verstraeten."

Eischmann stood up. "What is this?" The other man also stood.

"Sorry, sir, but we're just checking identities. Could I have your names, please? Are you staying at the hotel?"

"No. Why? What is this?" Eischmann asked again, his face turning red. "What is the problem?"

"No need to worry, sir. Do you have any ID? A passport? A driving license?"

Eischmann just stood.

"You sir? You madam? Do you have any ID?"

The woman crossed her legs once again and fumbled in a tiny, brown leather handbag. Her partner touched her hand. "There is no need,
mi amor
. What do you want? This is my wife. We arrived here this morning from Nice," he said. The accent was Spanish.

"So you will have your passports with you," said Inspector Hendrickx and he nodded to Verstraeten. Verstraeten moved forward, his hand outstretched. Eischmann moved back behind his chair, his hands rubbing his face nervously.

"I am Dirk Eischmann," he announced. "I am Director General at the Commission. There is no need for this fuss."

Hendrickx raised an eyebrow. "You have some proof of ID, sir?" he asked. "Just your driving license will do. We're just doing our duty."

Eischmann fumbled in an inside pocket, removed a wallet then a credit card sized driving license and handed it over. Hendrickx glanced at it. "Thank you. No problem, sir." He handed it back.

"You sir?" he looked at the one with the Spanish accent. 

"My passport." He handed it to Verstraeten. Verstraeten glanced at it. "Mr. Daniel Acosta—Spanish passport. Thank you." He handed it back. "You madam?"

The woman fumbled in her bag once more, handed over a maroon passport. "Thank you. Anne Acosta—British passport. Thank you."

Both Verstraeten and Hendrickx stood back.

"Thank you Messieurs, madam. That is all. Sorry to interrupt your meeting. Have a nice day."

It was Eischmann who spoke next. "I don't see you asking other guests for their ID. Why us?"

"Instructions, sir. We obey instructions," Hendrickx replied. He saluted casually and started to walk away with Verstraeten, but Eischmann followed.

"Instructions from where? In my position I have a right to know."

Hendrickx turned, looked at him straight in the eye. "In your position, sir, then you can know that it is part of a cross-border, international fraud investigation. Money laundering, that sort of thing, sir." Then he walked away.

***

In London, Scott Evora got the message that three more names on his list had been found and a small dent made in their normally untouchable self-confidence. Jim's stone was being lifted.

***

In Milan, Guido was standing naked in front of one of the four mirrors in the bathroom when he heard the phone vibrating on the shelf beside a vase of purple orchids. With white foam around his mouth and running down his arms, he continued brushing his teeth with one hand and picked the phone up.

"Ya. Toni?" he gurgled through the foam. Then he stopped brushing, ran to the white sink, rinsed his mouth from a glass of mineral water, gargled, spat, sat on the stool beside the bath and put his hand to his mouth. His eyes widened.

"It's that asshole, that piece of shit, that
faccia di merda
, Toni," he shouted, the shrill sound enhanced by the mirrors and white ceramic floor and walls. "How do you know this?"

There was a pause.

"Two people?…Who was the second one? How do you know it was the asshole?… Who said he was tall and handsome?…A girl in the office?…And the other man?…Big? Red hair? What man can have such a color?…There is no one called Richard Muller. It is only a name…he is the
impostore
. And what did the crazy people in the office tell him?…A bank? The Milan address?
Mio Dio!
"

The scream was almost enough to shatter the bathroom mirrors.

SCOTT EVORA PHONED Jonathan and Jonathan then phoned Jim.

Jim had been sitting cross-legged in his underwear on the bed in his room at the Windsor hotel for almost two hours. It had starting with his routine meditation—thinking, imagining he was sitting high on the rocks of the hill behind his house and watching the sun rise but Margaret had been on his mind again. Was it all his fault as she had claimed? Probably. Had she survived to make the best of the situation? Definitely. Jim had wondered if he should tell Tom. Tom would, he felt, understand. But Tom was in Zurich or on his way to Milan. It had to wait.

And Jim's chest hurt. Not constantly, but intermittently. It had hurt when, after his meager breakfast, he had taken the hotel stairs rather than the lift. That's why he had decided to sit and calm himself. But, unlike at home in Thailand, a lot was happening. He wanted to paint again. Painting was, he now realized, not just a hobby but a release, a treatment for loneliness and probably his heart problem. But he had no materials and Tom, Jan and Jonathan were all out there busily dealing with the matter that was his responsibility. In a way he was beginning to feel superfluous.

The night before, he had spoken to Hugh McAlister about the exhibition. The venue, a hotel in the West End had been booked and Hugh and Melissa were busy framing selected pictures to show. Hugh still needed to know about the promotional side—who to invite et cetera—the exhibition was, after all, for only one single day, but Jim was still very uncertain about what to do.

He opened his eyes, realized where he was, heard the phone ringing and leaned over to grab it.

"Jim. Scott wants to meet again—urgently. There's some movement. The UK Government—the Home Office especially—are sitting up. Nothing's been said publicly but European and other police forces have been briefed about possible joint action if enough evidence can be provided. The pressure's mounting, Jim. Senator Stafford has also been busy. He's in Brussels this morning. And they've arrested Silvester Mendes in New York initially on charges of money laundering."

Jonathan paused, waiting. "Jim? Are you there?"

"Yes," said Jim. "Sorry. I was miles away when you phoned. Good news. When does he want to meet?"

"This afternoon. The three of us. Alfredo's."

"OK," said Jim. "Anything from Tom or Jan?"

"They'd phone you first, Jim, not me. Where are they now?"

"They should be arriving in Milan soon." Jim paused. "I've been thinking, Jonathan. I think it's time to come clean with Scott about Jan and Tom. They now need us as much as we need them. We could certainly use their Legal Attache offices and if we are to get Interpol involved then the FBI will be crucial.

"And let's now meet the UK Serious Fraud Office. I was reluctant to talk to the SFO till now for obvious reasons, but I think we're gathering enough evidence to make a move. It's time for me to show my face once again, Jonathan."

"Jim—you've said it. Fantastic. Meet later?"

"Yes," said Jim and he immediately felt better.

WHEN KATRINE ARRIVED for work, an office rumor was rife. She had now chaired three meetings that Eischmann normally chaired and was actually enjoying it. Preparing herself for a fourth, she was sitting at her computer when her phone rang.

"Kat?"

"Jan? Is that you?"

"Yes, listen. Can you do something for me? Please ask your friend in Treasury to continue to monitor all the international aid fund movements from now on. Tell her to do exactly what she did last time. It worked, Kat. We've been able to see what happens, where the money goes and to whom."

"Where are you?"

"I can't tell you, Kat. Not yet, anyway."

"Something's happened here, also," Katrine said. "Dirk Eischmann's disappeared. He has not been seen for three days and no one knows where he is. The press, too, has got wind of something."

"Stay in there, Kat. I sense some career progression for you very soon." Jan laughed and rung off. He was sitting in Tom's room at the Holiday Inn Hotel near Linate Airport, Milan. Tom was on the laptop checking maps.

"Via Como, Civesio," he said. “It's not far away. It looks industrial. Shall we take a look?"

"Yes. Then, we'll head into central Milan and check the restaurants around the Park Hyatt Hotel. And can we print off the photo you took of the back of Guido in Antwerp? I can describe him very well from the front, but any photo might help."

They hired a car through hotel reception and after it was delivered set off with a more detailed hard copy road map. It was a cool, overcast early afternoon with no wind. Their car was a small, blue Fiat 500 that Jan drove as Tom sat hunched in the undersized passenger seat with the map on his lap. Via Como was, as he had noted, in the Civesio Industrial area, a triangular patch of older warehousing, small industrial units and repair shops. They drove around the triangle, noting a few names.

"How's your Italian?" Tom asked.

"
Parlo un po' di Italiano
," said Jan.

"I'm impressed," said Tom.

"Don't be. That's all there is. Stop a minute and I'll ask my mobile phone for help. We'll start with the Italian for 'do you know this man?'"

It took half an hour of driving, stopping and then walking around the area until Jan finally stopped a man on a forklift truck. "
Mi scusi. Parla inglese?
"

"A little," said the driver.

Jan showed him the photo. "You know this man? It is not his face but he is a very small man."

"
Si, certamente
. I see him sometimes. He drive big Mercedes.
Ometto
."

"
Ometto
?"

"
Si
, very small."

"You know his office? Is it near here?"

"
Si
. I think so." He pointed to a narrow driveway between two buildings.

"Do you know his name?"

The man shrugged. "He comes and he goes."

Jan thanked him and, with Tom now talking to someone else, walked along the narrow road between two empty-looking warehouse buildings. The road ended in a small, untidy concrete parking area littered with weeds and lumps of concrete, but no black Mercedes. In the far corner, though, was a double door with a smaller metal door cut into it that looked as if it was used regularly. The weeds were flattened down, the door itself freshly painted in black. Jan walked up to it, listened. There was silence, but the door handle was smooth, worn. He tried it. It was locked. There were no windows and no way of seeing inside. He retraced his steps to find Tom now talking to the same forklift driver.

"I think this is it, Tom. He comes here sometimes."

The forklift driver listened. "The guy is crazy," he said. "One time I see him on car phone crying. Next minute he laughing."

"That sounds like him," said Jan.

"You
polizia?
"

"No," replied Tom, "but we need to find him. You know where he lives?"

"I think maybe in Como
beside the lake on the road to Blevio and Torno. My boss, on
vacanza
, see him one time. See Mercedes. Tell me.
"

"He saw him driving the car?"

"No, no. Mercedes behind the
cancello
, the
porta
. It is a big villa with
albero
, many trees."

"And this is Via Como, Civesio," said Tom, "Does he like the name Como?"

The forklift driver shrugged and grinned, "Maybe." Then he started to reverse his truck. "Small man, big money," he said and drove away.

Jan looked at Tom. "What do we do now? Drive to Como?"

"What would we do if we saw him? What might he do if he sees you? And maybe he's not in Como at all. And don't forget we still need to check out restaurants around the Park Hyatt in Milan—and the hotel itself. Let's first update Jim and then head into the center of Milan.”

Jim was on the train to London to meet Jonathan and Scott Evora when Tom phoned with the latest news and it only re-enforced Jim's conviction that the time was now right to explain in detail what they were doing. He told Tom.

"But Jan's getting very nervous—and quite understandably," Tom warned him.

"Just try to keep out of harm's way until we know how we're going to deal with it. By all means go up to Como but don't do anything silly and just keep me posted."

"And there's another interesting development," Tom went on. "Eischmann's disappeared."

There was a momentary silence from Jim. "Are you sure? We knew where he was two days ago. He was in Brussels with Daniel Acosta and Acosta's wife Anne."

"Née Anne McAllister, Jim?"

"Correct. And looking very well cared for apparently."

***

Tom and Jim headed into central Milan, found a place to drop the car and then walked to the Park Hyatt hotel.

"Well this is a fine place for the spending of money," was Tom's first comment as they went inside. "Do you think Guido also lives here?"

Showing the photograph and trying to describe Guido to reception, however, got nowhere.

"I am sorry. It is possible he is here but we have many guests, sir. But it is against our policy to divulge information on our guests. Are you police?…No, you see sir, it is not possible. I am very sorry. But if you think your friend is staying here you can perhaps wait for him, take a coffee or something in the Cupola Lounge…yes, that is it, sir, beneath the glass dome, the cupola…perhaps some afternoon tea, a glass of champagne?"

Tom thanked the receptionist. "Perhaps another day"

Jan's mobile phone showed over fifty restaurants nearby. "We can miss out McDonalds and Burger King," said Tom. It looked a hopeless task but they started walking and an hour later at the expensive Le Nuit they got something.

"A table for two, sir," suggested the black suited man behind the desk inside already grabbing menus.

"No thank you. We're just looking for someone. His name is Guido. He looks like this." Tom produced the photo. The man stared, his eyes opened perhaps a little wide. "You know him?" pursued Tom.

"Ah, no sir, it is, ah, very small photo. It is not possible."

"Does he come here?" Tom pushed.

"Ah," the man looked away as if looking for support from somewhere. "Ah, no sir, I do not think so. Ah, let me think… ah…
si
…maybe."

"He comes here?"

"Yes, I think so. Sometimes. You are police?"

"Yes, Interpol," Tom said to Jan's shock.

"Interpol? Ah, let me see, maybe you should speak to Giuseppe, but Giuseppe he is not here. He will arrive later. Is, ah, this, ah Signor Guido, is he a problem? "

Tom, with nothing official on his person to confirm he was working for Interpol replied, "Perhaps, sir, but thank you. We will return later."

Once outside, they both agreed, Guido was probably known there. If nothing else, if the real Interpol was asked to intervene at any stage, it might be a good lead. For now, they'd head towards Lake Como.

***

In London, Jim was the first to arrive at Alfredo's. It was cold and raining again, but he ordered coffee and sat at the usual outside table. Then his phone rang. This time it was Jonathan.

"Change of plan, Jim. We're to meet, instead, at the US Embassy. Scott wants us to meet someone who's just got back from Brussels."

"Senator Stafford?"

"This is it, Jim. Let's give it to them."

Jim drained his coffee cup, put down a note as payment and left.