Whistle Blower (21 page)

DEPUTY LEGAL ATTACHE, FBI agent Scott Evora, had only been gone an hour when:

"It's Mr. Johnson for you, Jonathan."

It's just as well he didn't phone an hour ago,
thought Jonathan. "Good afternoon, Jacob," he said aloud.

"Good afternoon, Jon. It is so pleasant to hear your voice again. Have you, uh…?"

"Yes, all is in hand. Everything is in my briefcase right here. But I'm still waiting for certain documents from you."

"Yes, that is why I am calling you. I now have them. They arrived by courier this morning. It is efficient, eh?"

"Yes, very good. And the, uh, Minister's signature on the, uh…?"

"Yes."

"The confirmation of the ten percent contribution from the Ministry?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Then it shouldn't take long for me to complete everything. Will you send them to me or…?"

"You will need the originals or will copies do?

"We will need to submit originals with the bid but, of course, we will keep copies."

"Ah, so we must meet. I will hand them over in person."

They agreed. 7:00 p.m., same venue as last time. "And there's one more thing." Johnson added. "We…we have another project. This one is in the Middle East. My Lebanese associates."

"I see. Can I assume you will also want to discuss that this evening?"

"That is very good of you."

This time, Jacob Johnson was waiting when Jonathan arrived just before 7:00 p.m. Documents handed over, quick clarification of next steps done and it was obvious that Johnson was keen to move on to his new project.

"Ah, we have another company now. It is called Cherry Pick Investments," he began. "My Lebanese partners asked for our advice concerning a funding bid. Naturally I was able to tell them that we have a new partner—of course that is you, Jonathan—and we advised them to utilize your very detailed knowledge of these things. Of course, I did not mention your name. That is not the way to retain strict confidences. But I told them we were already at an advanced stage in one big project."

"I would hardly call it an advanced stage, Jacob, but never mind, these things take time. I would say we are making good progress."

"Yes, that is what I told them."

"So, Cherry Pick Investments?"

"Yes, that is it. There is, ah, in the Middle East that is—an organization that supports young people who want to see a peaceful outcome to the problems in the Middle East."

"I see. What is it called?"

"Ah yes, let me see." Johnson fumbled in the inside pocket of his oversized suit and pulled out a wallet, a passport, a dirty credit card and a torn off scrap of paper. He laid it all on the coffee table besides their empty cups. "Yes, it is here. It is called the, uh, Coalition for Arab Youth. It is also called CAY."

"CAY—that would be an acronym," said Jonathan.

"Yes, that is it, a…yes."

"And CAY needs funding, is that it?"

"Yes, but it is our Lebanese friends who want the funds."

"Of course, how stupid of me. So what do you want me to do?"

"To prepare a bid for this money, of course, just like the…like the other one"

"The other one being the Sierra Leone bid?"

"Yes, that is it."

"How much money is needed?"

"At least two million dollars."

Slowly, laboriously, Jonathan extracted details. Jonathan's Lebanese partners were called Farid and Hamid and were linked somehow by wives and family and a University in Beirut and something to do with Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Tel Aviv.

"So why can't the wife of Hamid bid direct? She sounds very professional—a professor, in fact, did you not say—at the University?"

"Ha ha ha. Yes, that is true but as I said they are, uh, wanting to, uh, ensure that they can, uh, handle the money themselves—you cannot trust anyone. There is too much, uh, interfering. You know?"

"So have they already tried to bid for funds?"

"Ah no, not yet. I said I would speak to you. They are not very, what shall I say, happy with another arrangement they have tried."

"They were not successful with a previous bid?"

"Oh no, no. They talked to another, ah, consultant. They were not happy with the, uh…they were not confident—that is it—not confident. They were not confident that the arrangement would be good for them. They, uh…yes."

Jonathan listened, learning nothing, as Jacob Johnson continued for a while. Then: "So you can help on this one, Jon?"

Inwardly, Jonathan shrugged—he was in for a penny so it might just as well be a pound. "There is an international education fund we could try for this one," he said. "It might fit perfectly. Provided we receive the usual support, good and timely information and all the right paperwork from your side."

"Good, good. That is exactly what I told Farid and Hamid. I said I knew a much better person than the Italian man they were talking to."

Jonathan's ears almost moved, but he let it go for the moment. "So what sort of financial arrangement are we talking about here, Jacob? Same as Sierra Leone?"

"Yes, of course. No problem."

"So what exactly?"

"It is the same as before."

Jonathan took a deep breath. "Yes, but the value of this bid would be less. I do not want to appear greedy. How about 50,000 Euros when the bid goes in and 100,000 Euros when the money is granted and transferred?"

"Yes, of course. That is not a problem."

"That's agreed then," said Jonathan, as amazed as last time about the way Johnson operated.

But would the Nigerian honor anything? Probably not. And why? Because Jacob Johnson was just a small cog in a bigger wheel—a message boy. Because, when the time came, Jacob Johnson would think of himself first and foremost but mostly would be under pressure from others not to give away anything at all. And so what might happen in a few weeks’ or months’ time when two lucrative commissions could be expected to be paid to Jonathan? Well, Jacob Johnson would probably disappear back to Nigeria or somewhere. Jonathan would, most likely, never see him again.

But did Jonathan care? Not a jot. Despite what was running through his mind, he managed a smile. "So I'll just wait for more information," he said. "Exactly like last time—names, addresses, letters of support, preferably from a government Minister, et cetera. And we'll go for the Education fund I mentioned. Is that correct?"

"Yes, yes and I'm moving to live here in London so we can handle more projects like this."

News of a move to London was a surprise but Jonathan kept smiling. "Oh, that is good news. More coffee? A beer? Something stronger? I feel our partnership is already flourishing, Jacob."

"Yes, yes. It is. It is definitely, uh…flurrying."

Jonathan went in search of the man who had brought them their coffee earlier. Once found—he was reading the paper in the kitchen—he asked for two beers. Then he returned to join Jacob Johnson to wait. "Two beers are coming—eventually," Jonathan said. Then: "Tell me, Jacob, who is the Italian you mentioned?"

"Oh, crazy man. I don't know him. Hamid told me. They met him in Milan. Not a nice man, Jon. Not trustworthy. I said it is better to deal with English. But Italians? Pffff… probably mafia and they don't speak English. It is not suitable to deal with the Italians. They know nothing."

"Yes, I know what you mean," said Jonathan. "But I had no idea there was an Italian consultant competing with us? What is the Italian company's name?"

"I only know his name. He is called Guido."

"Never heard of him," said Jonathan. "Ah here comes our beer."

IT WAS JAN Kerkman's second encounter with the man and the dog. This time the man stayed sitting down, but the big Labrador stood up, and plodded towards Jan wagging its tail. There was no leash.

Jan stopped running and stood still as the dog sat down at his feet, barked up at him and then continued to sit with its tongue hanging out. It was then that Jan saw the piece of paper under the dog's leather collar. As if to say, "Go ahead, it's for you," the dog barked once more. Jan glanced at his owner with the white prayer cap. He was staring ahead as if nothing was happening. Jan bent down, patted the dog's head, pulled out the paper and watched the dog walk away to sit once again by the man on the bench. Had anyone been watching what happened, they would have assumed it was just a friendly dog and that the jogger liked dogs.

Jan pushed the paper into the back pocket of his track suit and started to run again. But with the pressure of wanting to read the note getting the better of him, he turned and ran back to his flat, past where the man and dog had been sitting. They were both gone.

"Fund: EAWA. Ref No: RSFF 312A. Code: rs$5198701@rs1. Transfer USD 35,000.”

"Fund. CAHA. Ref No: CAHA 418F. Code mx$5198701@kp9. Transfer Euros 260,175.”

Jan lay back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and stared at the paper. It was so simple. Was that all he had to do? But by doing it, he knew he would be party to fraud. There was no way he could do this. Could he? Transferring money to his own account was bad enough. But over a quarter of a million Euros to someone else? Who was it? Would he find out if he went through the process that Guido had demonstrated?

This entire, massive, fraudulent scheme needed to be exposed but to whom? But Guido had said, with some justification, that not only was he undetectable but so was the fraud itself. And Guido had known about Jan's private life—about the one night with Katrine who he had not seen, even socially, for three weeks because he felt it was too risky. Was he being watched? Followed? Bugged even?

He picked up his spare mobile phone, the one he used to speak to Jonathan, left the apartment still in his track suit and tee shirt and started on another long jog, this time through Grande Place, towards Rue Neuve and the vast City 2 Shopping Mall. He walked fast in, through and around the Mall, then exited and, feeling like a fugitive on the run, turned into a side street. Here, still in his track suit, he found a bar, ordered himself a beer and sat watching other customers come and go. Satisfied at last, he phoned Jonathan to report.

"And I had an interesting meeting last night as well," Jonathan said. "It seems my new Nigerian friend, Jacob Johnson, has friends who have friends who have recently met Guido. Seems they ran scared of him. But if Guido ever finds out he's lost a client to Walton Associates then I'm also worried." 

"And what about Jim?" asked Jan. "Where is he? It's now urgent. What do I do, Jon? Do I log on tomorrow morning and transfer over a quarter of a million Euros to the bank accounts of people I don't know? What should we do? Go to the police? The press? But if we did, then I'm not going to hang around here waiting for them to decide I'm not a whistleblower at all but a total crank—just like Jim."

"WHAT ARE YOU saying, Toni? This is the second time you have come to me saying there is another Guido out there?"

Guido was plodding around his office in his yellow socks, holding the mobile phone in one hand, a spray can of blue paint in the other and wearing a pair of oversized decorator's overalls. "I am too busy to be bothered with this sort of shit. I told you to sort it out, find out more. Did you give Tahir his bottle of whiskey?"

He listened. Then: "Tahir is no good, Toni. You must kick him. Yah, I know he has an important job in the bank. That does not make him useful. He got his job on the Central Bank Board because we and our big friend fixed it, but he will lose the job just as quickly. There are plenty of others who'd like to earn a million dollars—it's so easy now with Puff and Slush Version Two."

Guido, listening, still walking in circles, still shaking the rattling can of spray paint, looked at the ceiling and held the phone away from his ear as if the one called Toni should speak to the wall instead. His pink, bud-like lips twisted and there was a piecing scream.

"Yaaaahh! Enough, enough. Your voice, Toni. It reminds me of a talking, fucking parrot—on, on, on, problems, problems, problems. Where is your good news?" He paused, put the can of spray paint on his desk and sat in his swivel chair.

"Do you want some parrot seed? A mirror to see your red, blue and yellow face with the long hooked beak? Pretty Polly, pretty Polly. You want to speak some more parrot talk? Now you listen to me. Guido is going to ask you a question. If you get the answer wrong Guido will visit you, drag you out of your cage and wring your fucking scrawny parrot neck. OK? Are you hearing me?…Good. Now here is my question. Get it wrong and you know what will happen. Are you ready…? I don't fucking care, Toni parrot. You are either well informed on this business or you are as about as fucking useless as baby Tahir…Are you ready now?…Good. Here is the question. What is the name of Hamid and Farid's company set up to deal with that Lebanese business?"

He sat back, reached for the spray can, turned it around and around and looked at the ceiling, rolling his eyes, waiting.

"I'm waiting, Toni. Did you hear the question? Because if you don't fucking know the answer, how can you check why they have not been in touch, where they are and what the fuck they are doing instead of doing business with us. In other words, Toni, what the fuck is going on? So…come on…I'm still waiting… Yes, you are right. It has something to do with picking fruit. What fucking fruit?…OK…enough. I will come and wring your neck, but only half a turn because you got it half right. It's Cherry Picking Investments, you stupid parrot. What is it called, Toni?…That's it. And what are their names, Toni?…Correct…And what are you going to do right now, Toni?…That's right. Find out what the fuck is going on and let me know. Guido has a very busy day today. It is a hands-on day, not a looking-at-computer day. And I have another two hundred boxes full of old newspapers that I have to spray with nice blue marks for Daisy Children's Charity and …Why? Because Mr. Moses in Sierra Leone will buy the two hundred boxes of water purification equipment still sitting in the airport in Freetown. So how else can we satisfy our buyer and not attract attention if we don't replace them all with identical boxes. Our boxes will fly out tonight on Swissair. But I've got blue paint all over my overalls and in my hair."