Whistle Blower (27 page)

“I'M GOING TO Bristol tomorrow morning.”

"Margaret?" Tom asked, hesitantly.

Jim nodded. They were having breakfast and, on advice from Tom that he needed to put on weight, Jim had tried a full English breakfast for the first time for years. The eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and fried tomatoes were already lying heavily.

"What about the paintings, Jim? Any thoughts?"

"Leave it with me." Jim grimaced.

"So," said Tom, getting up, "I'm off to Stockholm."

"And I'm off to be sick," said Jim, but he managed a faint smile.

"Go into Windsor," Tom suggested. "Buy some iced coconut juice and fresh bananas from the side of the road, Jim."

***

In north London, Jonathan was trying to be helpful around the house. He had a long list—fix a plug, replace a light bulb, sweep the dead leaves. He was sorting trash for recycling when he felt his mobile vibrating in his back pocket. It was Scott Evora.

"My apologies for calling so soon and on a Sunday, Jonathan, but we've got movement on what I spoke to you about yesterday. Can you talk?"

"Sure." Jonathan dumped the trash on the kitchen floor and leaned against the refrigerator as Claire washed dishes from the night before.

"Silvester Mendes. Yeh, him again. Our man got him talking last night. They were in a nightclub somewhere—don't ask, OK. Anyway, our man starts talking European aid money again. Mendes had clearly been giving the subject some thought because he brought the subject up. He then starts asking questions—the who, how, what, where and when. Our man does what he can but he's no expert, right? Admits it. 'Anyway,' he says to Mendes, 'I know a guy who knows this stuff inside out.' He mentions no names, but Mendes is all ears again. His first question, 'Is this guy official or is he loose?' Know what that means, Jonathan?"

"I suppose he was asking if I'm really a crook," offered Jonathan, feeling Claire's eyes.

"Yep, that's right—means is he as honest as the day is long, is he already a clever, white collar crook like Mendes himself or, if not, could he be tempted to become one. Our man probably shrugs and smiles, says nothing. Lets the smile work. Mendes starts asking more questions—where's all this aid money go, what for, who decides, et cetera. Our man mentions Afghanistan, Pakistan, West Africa 'cus he already knows that's just the sort of places Mendes likes.

"Anyway, cut to the chase, Mendes starts getting excited. We already know he's running a bit scared of the US at present—he knows we've been watching him, he's no fool. So, what should he do, he asks himself. Why not shelve the US operation for a while and start up over here, he thinks. After all, London looks OK from his perspective, nice hotels, good clubs, he speaks the language, there's plenty of life going on with people coming and going, immigration controls allow a bit of flexibility, lots of cash being given away to far off places. And it's all nice and complicated, too, 'cus it's not just London, it's the whole of Europe and the bureaucracy is just one big beautiful mess—and that's his favorite scene. The messier it is, the better. Mendes works by hiding within a messy system because he uses others, you see. He breaks cover sometimes—but only if necessary, because he generally tries operating through others—like when he was spotted in Islamabad.

"You still following me, Jonathan? Good man. Now, listen up. How about it if we give Mendes your phone number? We're not sure how long he's planning to stick around. If he phones you, see what you can do, give him all the shit about the boring daily routine of business advice and consultancy just to appear fully compliant et cetera, but then rub in the tastier side, the positives, the side that gets you excited—you know—the alternative ways and means to make a decent living. Suggest a few best places he could start. Give a few examples. Make them up if necessary. Just go with the flow. Go fishing, Jonathan. Help us hook him. Meet him if you feel comfortable but play him along. Keep us posted and we'll try fixing him up good and proper. And don't worry. I'll make sure your name is logged here as one of our team of local cooperatives. How's it sound?"

Jonathan thought about Jan, Jim and Tom and took a deep breath. If they could show the FBI was getting interested, might it help their case? Yes, probably, he decided. And he was sure Jim would agree. And what might Scott Evora think if he got to meet Jim and so know the extent of their own investigations? That part might need thinking about but they were in this thing up to their necks already. Yes, give it a day or so, he thought, and he'd fix it for Jim to get introduced to the FBI Legal Attache's office.

"OK," Jonathan said. "Let's give it a go. I hate greed, fraud and corruption. We'd all be a lot better off if we could stamp at least some of it out." Jonathan saw Claire shake her head and take off her rubber gloves.

"Good man. OK, we'll do the rest. Let us know if he phones. Oh and by the way—very important—if you talk to him or go along to meet him, he's Lucas Valdez, OK? We and you know he's actually Silvester Mendes but to you he's Lucas, OK? So don't start calling him Silvester or we're all fucked." And then he laughed.

Jonathan joined in knowing he was bad at remembering names but it was a warning he'd not thought of. He retrieved the bag of recyclable trash and took it outside.

"Who was that, Jon?" Claire asked, following him.

"FBI," said Jonathan.

"Don't be stupid. Did you change that light bulb?"

Jonathan's mind, though, was not on light bulbs but on Jim. From behind the trash bins, he phoned him with another quick update.

ON MONDAY MORNING Jim took a taxi, a train to Bristol and another taxi to the hotel overlooking the Avon Gorge. Taking a seat by the window, he ordered coffee and told staff he was expecting to be joined by someone for lunch. Then he waited, looking at his watch and occasionally walking to the lobby and back. He felt nervous. But at ten minutes past one he looked, yet again, towards the doorway.

An elderly lady entered carrying a small handbag and wearing a navy blue skirt, cream-colored blouse and a matching blue silk scarf tied neatly at her neck. She wore low, heeled shoes, her hair was gray and she stood motionless in the doorway. Jim was sure it was Margaret. It was her height and slim build. So he got up from his seat, knocking the glass tabletop and spilling his coffee as he did so. Then he walked towards her holding out his hands.

Margaret saw the movement but stayed where she was as Jim did his best to smile. And as he drew nearer he saw that her eyes stared at him as though she was not sure who it was. There was no recognition, no sign of a welcome and no hint that she might at least walk, just a step forward, to greet him.

Jim's voice that spoke her name was far smaller and quieter than he wanted it to be, but his eyes stung and his throat hurt. It was still hurting when he arrived back in Windsor.

TUESDAY MORNING AND Jim didn't feel well.

He put it down to the effect of seeing Margaret, but the morning headache had returned and when he left his room to find a newspaper to read, he felt dizzy. Worried that he was about to collapse again, he found a seat in the lobby and slumped into it. "Don't collapse here, you old fool, not now, not yet. Why don't you just try some strong sweet coffee?"

He ordered some without getting up, drank three cupfuls whilst reading some depressing news about terrorists in the Middle East, but felt better. "Fresh air is what you need now—blow the cobwebs away, clear the sinuses."

He left the newspapers and went to the door, but had hardly gone a few paces when a gust of cold, October wind caught his unbuttoned suit jacket and penetrated through his shirt to his skin. "Dear me, I'd forgotten how darned cold it gets here. Perhaps I need to don my thick woolly jumper, Mother. Except I don't have one. And what's that noise?"

The ringing coming from his jacket pocket was a call from Jonathan.

"I'm meeting this American guy Silvester Mendes tonight—he phoned me, just like Scott Evora thought he might. Very brief call, nothing discussed, just a meeting fixed. But he's not calling himself Silvester Mendes, he's Lucas Valdez."

"Are you comfortable doing that, Jonathan?"

"No, but we're in this so deep now that I'm starting to believe that fraud is my real business. But I think you should now talk to Scott Evora, Jim. Think about it. He's not UK political class or establishment and I think he'd be very interested in what you've got to say. But he knows nothing about what we're up to, Jim—yet. Just remember that."

Jim had already decided. "Go ahead, Jonathan. Fix it."

"And another thing, Jim. Before meeting Mendes, Scott's fitting me up with what he calls, some security."

"What's that?"

"A device concealed upon my person. But it's given me an idea that might help Jan."

Still shivering, Jim turned and walked the few steps back to the hotel entrance where a London taxi was drawing up outside. It was Tom who was paying the driver. Seeing Jim, he grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.

"Success, Jim," he announced. "Come inside…I've traced Pretty Polly, Jim."

"So quick?"

"Sure. I'm an investigative reporter, don't forget. With a wink and a nod from someone I used to know, it was so easy. I'm beginning to wish I'd gone solo years ago."

"Did they want to know why you wanted to find her?"

"I bullshitted, but my contact had spoken to Polly years ago. He told me there was a general view that it was a put-up job. After all, it is not unknown to lay traps for unwary politicians or others just for the story—a sex scandal or corruption. But this one, he said, looked more complicated and he agreed with me there was some muscle and big money behind it, not just someone on a tight budget. Let's have a beer, Jim, I've got more to tell you."

"I think a coffee would be far kinder on my stomach."

"Still suffering from last Sunday's breakfast, Jim? OK, let's sit… Polly has come up trumps, Jim, and she's a nice girl…And how was Margaret, Jim?"

There was a fired up look in Tom's eye that Jim had not seen before, but he wanted to avoid the subject of Margaret at all costs. "You actually met Polly, you Irish scoundrel?"

"Sure I did. She's twenty-four, married to a Swede who has his own fashion business, which she helps run. I met her at their shop. But as soon as I told her just the smallest bit about you, she cried, Jim. That's not to say I didn't rub it in a bit strong you understand. I told her you had been forced to leave UK, which she seemed to know. But she suddenly said to me she wanted to speak up now because things had prayed on her conscience for too long."

Jim listened but said nothing as Tom went on. "She made a thousand pounds, Jim, and all she had to say when asked was that the man she had entertained for a few nights was the one in a picture she was shown and then talk about her own life. She lied, Jim, lied for the sake of a thousand pounds."

Jim still said nothing. A waitress brought a tray of coffee and Tom was still talking.

"So last night, with her permission, I taped a full length interview with her and she has promised to confirm it all independently but only if anyone asks. It was voluntary, Jim, and I believe her when she said she felt ashamed of what she had done. But a thousand pounds to a young, aspiring and attractive nineteen year old with the usual ambitions for fame and popularity, is a temptation—particularly if you never consider the implications for others."

"Who gave her the money?"

"A woman, she said."

"Did you get a name?"

"Someone called Anne." Tom stopped, looked at Jim. "That's all she knew—Anne. Are you feeling OK, Jim?"

"Yes," Jim said, "I am now. I felt a little lightheaded earlier on."

"Do you know anyone called Anne?"

"Oh, yes. It just confirms my suspicions." Jim made a deep, audible sigh and shivered.

"You feeling the cold, Jim?"

"I took a stroll to clear my head but the damned wind nearly ripped the jacket from my shoulders and I see it's raining now. I hate this damned suit, Tom. I think I'll buy myself what my mother used to call a nice woolly jumper."

"Then we must go shopping again. But you must take it easy, Jim. Can't have you collapsing again just as we're getting somewhere."

"But we now need to fly to Brussels. I haven't been to Delft for years. Let's see what we can find out about Guido."

"Jim, why not leave that to me. I'll fly over this afternoon. You stay here and continue to act as head of whistle-blowing— the whistleblowers coordinator-in-chief."

Jim smiled, scratched his head and felt the elastic band that held the long gray hair together at the back, snap. Hair fell around his shoulders.

"We'd better add elastic bands to the woolly jumper, Tom. I had no idea traveling abroad would be so expensive." He almost smiled. "OK, decision made. You go. I'm going to talk to the FBI. And that's my phone ringing if I'm not mistaken. It can only be Jonathan."

It was.

"Jim, more developments in the last half hour. I've had a phone call from a lawyer in Brighton—Cole Harding. He was fishing for views on fraud and corruption related to charities and international aid. What could I do but give him a few statistics, percentages going astray et cetera. My part done, I ask why his interest. He then mentions his West African links—he was born in Sierra Leone—and has some very strong views on fraud and corruption. He asked me how it all works and I thought I'd better not miss an opportunity to tell him about Walton Associates.

"Do you ever come across attempts at fraud, he asks. Sure, I say, but we're selective in who we work for. Then I said, listen, I'm a bit busy right now but do you want to chat further? I'd never said that to a lawyer before—it's usually them telling me to call back or make an appointment because they're tied up. He agreed but then, clever lawyer tactics, he asks if I've ever dealt with Sierra Leone or Liberia. I say, yes—as it happens I'm dealing with one right now.

"Then Jim, he really throws one at me. Ever heard of a company called Cherry Investments or Sulima Construction, he asks. I think for a second then say yes. And are they perfectly law-abiding would you say, he asks me. That, Mr. Harding, I said, is not something I could possibly discuss on the phone because they have just become a client, but if you have any reasons to suspect them of anything then perhaps you'd like to enlighten me. Then he suggests we meet. I've agreed."

"Interesting," Jim said.

"And I've also fixed it for you to meet Scott Evora," Jonathan continued. "I didn't say much to him except to suggest he check politics of a few years ago and Googles James Edward Smith, MP. Jim Smith is a friend of mine, I said."

Jim glanced at Tom sitting across the table. "So when is my appointment with the FBI?"

"Tomorrow morning, 11:00 a.m., Alfredo's Cafe Bar, Brook Street, just off Grosvenor Square."

"Fine, I'll be there. And Tom's just got back from Stockholm, Jonathan, with some good news. I'll brief him. He's sitting here finishing a cup of coffee. Then he's going straight back to Heathrow Airport, getting a flight to Amsterdam or Brussels and then driving to Delft."