Whistle Blower (3 page)

MILAN, NORTHERN ITALY.

Inside a mezzanine office hidden inside an anonymous warehouse behind metal racking and an assortment of cardboard boxes, sat a short, round man in an open-necked white shirt that clung to him with sweat.

"Yah, of course it's me, Guido," he snapped impatiently in Italian into a mobile phone largely hidden in the fold between his chin and shoulder. The voice was high-pitched, like a boy whose voice had not yet broken.

"Yah, I've read it. It's written in the language of the professional bureaucrat. It is English but not like the English we learn at school or the English we speak. That, Toni, my flower, is why you don't understand it. But Guido does. Guido does not sleep all day or sit with his eyes shut listening to opera music playing in his ears. No, no, no. Guido sits reading shit like this—long words with many different meanings."

The squat figure was seated behind a gray metal desk, his head overwhelmed by the oversized, high-backed swivel chair, his short legs swinging, barely touching the floor. It was mid July and an electric fan wafted air, but it was not enough to stop beads of sweat running from his forehead. Awkwardly, he extracted a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, brushed back the greasy strands of black hair that had fallen over his forehead, slid the laptop computer that sat in front of him to one side and, swivelling slowly from side to side in the chair, picked up a small bundle of papers. The phone was still tucked in the damp fold of his chin.

"Check the second page, Toni. Where it says: 'to improve the delivery of aid through complimentary activities aimed at increasing effectiveness, quality, timeliness and visibility.' Yah, this is so beautiful. I love the English language. It is, Toni, like the Picasso painting. You ignore what Picasso said it was and you dream what it is to you. You let it say what you want it to say. So it is very good that it is written like this. It is useful for the business."

Guido paused, chuckled, flicked over a page. "But I see the money the poor taxpayers have been forced to give them to spend has gone up—a lot. If we are to benefit from all this I'll need to consider it and to do that I'll need some coffee before I read it again or my brain won't work. I also need a shit. I'll call you back."

The phone dropped from inside his chin but he caught it expertly in his hand and put it on the desk. "Mmm," he muttered, rolling out of the chair. "Yah, too big lunch, too much wine,
e troppo caro
, too expensive but
affare fatto
. It was a bargain, a good
investimento
."

T
he rounded stomach that protruded over the tight belt of his trousers had been hurting him for an hour. He stuffed the phone into the pocket of his well-filled shirt, felt the weight drag it down over his prominent left nipple and shrugged to loosen it. But the shirt was stuck with moisture and didn't move, so he ignored it. Still holding the papers, he waddled towards the door, opened it, clattered down the flight of metal stairs, turned at the bottom amongst the metal racking and went into the toilet. There was no one else in the building but he locked it, undid his belt, dropped his black trousers down to his ankles and sat down.

"
Che cazzo
," he swore as he started to read. "Fucking English euro speak."

"The measures provided for in this Decision are in accordance with the opinion of the Humanitarian Aid Committee established by Article 17(1) of the Humanitarian Aid Regulation. It is decided as follows:

Sole Article Decision C(2013)4789 is amended as follows: In Article 1, paragraphs (1) and (2) are replaced by the following:

"In accordance with the objectives and general principles of humanitarian aid, the Commission hereby approves a maximum amount of EUR 759,638,745 of which EUR 593,600,000 from budget article 31 08 09, EUR 337,700,000 from budget article 31 07 06 and EUR 46,237,746 from budget article 26 09 07, of the 2013 general budget of the European Union…"

It took five minutes to arrive at the last page. He tore a few sheets of tissue paper from a roll on the wall, wiped himself, stood, pulled up his trousers, tugged the big, shiny belt tight whilst holding the paperwork between his teeth. He flushed the toilet, backed out and, still carrying the papers in his teeth, clattered back up the metal stairs to the office.

At the top, he leaned over the metal banister, scanned the floor of the warehouse and chuckled to himself. The smooth concrete floor was visible only between the racks, the area littered with pallets piled with cardboard boxes covered in clear plastic film. A row of boxes with the blue and gold European Union logo, another showed "UNHCR"—the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. A third marked with Red Crosses and Red Crescents. A forklift truck stood idly between a set of double doors and a smaller metal door set into it that said "Exit." The warehouse was, but for Guido's high-pitched chuckling and an occasional loud, metallic, clicking sound from the hot tin roof, eerily quiet.

He returned to the office, sat in the chair, swivelled, sweated, flicked at a fly and re-read one sheet all over again. Then he pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket and pressed a button.

"Toni. Yah. This is the part. Let me read it to you and because I know you can't understand the fucking language I'll put it in nice simple Italian for you. OK? Where is it? Yah, here it is. Now, got a pencil in your little hand? Good. Sitting down? Now listen to papa.

"It's the last part where it talks about—and excuse the fucking jargon—'supporting existing strategies that enable local communities and institutions to better prepare for, mitigate and respond to natural disasters,' blah blah. See it? Now we know what they are because we've dealt with them before. See it now? Yah. Now look at what countries are covered. That's it—Caribbean, Africa, South Asia. Right—and that'll be Pakistan or Bangladesh. The bureaucrats won't worry about money going to ISIS, Al Shabab, the Taliban or Boko Haram—or any other of their like-minded friends."

There was a pause during which the strange chuckle gurgled somewhere deep inside his throat. The pink lips of his round mouth puckered as if he were tasting something delicious and all the time, he chatted to himself.

"So we must lick some of the cream off the top before it goes sour, Toni. It is like recycling—it's good for the environment…it is a lot of money…the more there is the more will be lost in the accounts…but no one will lose their job…and there will be more bureaucrats after than before…it is good for the heart to know we create jobs." And then he giggled.

IN A RENTED room off a long corridor in a gray office block in Amsterdam, a young Belgian man stared at the screen of a laptop computer on a coffee table in front of him. His visitors, two Lebanese men, relaxed and watched, legs apart, from low backed chairs opposite. One was playing with a string of brown beads.

"OK. It's set up," the Belgian said. "You want the details?"

"Not so many," replied one of the Lebanese, sitting forward.

"I have a trustworthy friend in the Isle of Man who specializes in this type of arrangement. We recommend incorporating the company in Singapore. That way you get what is known as a 'mid-shore' financial center. You'll get a good package with flexibility for a lot of offshore activity. No tax. You can move money wherever you want.

"And for five hundred dollars a month," he continued, "You get an office address here in Amsterdam—probably this room where we're sitting now—and a call center. The call center will appear big to callers but be just one person trained by me. She'll operate from wherever she happens to be by call transfer to a mobile phone. It works fine. We're doing it for others right now. No questions asked, just messages taken. Everything will be referred to you in Beirut or wherever you are. As for accounts and auditing, everything will be done through the Isle of Man. It's all nice and safe. For all intents and purposes your company will appear sound, well run, secure and, above all, respectful of international law. Where necessary we can also provide evidence of a good trading history. Just tell us what you want."

He sat back from his laptop, smiled and looked at the two men opposite. "So, are you happy with my recommendations?"

The one who had remained sitting back playing with the beads now leaned forward. "How much?"

"Set up, two thousand dollars, office and call center, five hundred a month irrespective of how much use you make of it. Auditing? That'll depend on how complicated you make your financial affairs, Mr. Farid, so I cannot say. Like any business, keep it simple with little paperwork and keep your overheads low. That is why I am giving you just one sheet of paper to take away and why I only take cash for today's advice and set-up charges—as you already know." He smiled again and placed the single A4 sheet on the table.

"Why not use Luxemburg like I suggested?" the one called Farid asked as he picked up the paper.

"Take my advice, Farid. It's getting too expensive. The industry is being hit by all sorts of regulation and bad publicity. None of us want that. As part of my fee I'm trying to save you money and any future complications." He paused. "Anything else?"

The two Lebanese looked at one another. "No," they said, shaking their heads in unison.

"Well, I wish you well with your venture," the Belgian said, closing the laptop as they all stood up. "Are you returning to Beirut now?"

"No, we have a meeting in Milan," Farid said.

The Belgian nodded, said nothing but noted it. Milan had been the next destination of his last client. He smiled and changed the subject. "I like your company name," he said. "I wish I'd thought of it myself. Cherry Pick Investments sounds so—how shall I say—like white lambs in springtime. So innocent."

With that the three men laughed, the Lebanese handed over some dollars, they shook hands, and parted.

TRUCK DRIVER MITCHELL'S first job at seven in the morning had been to collect fifty-six boxes from the sea port so some hassle was to be expected. But Mitchell never thought too much about hassle either before, during or after. Life was hassle. Life was about coping with hassle.

As a truck driver visiting the port of Freetown, Sierra Leone, hassle meant sitting in a sweltering queue of other trucks. It meant arguments over paperwork. It meant coping with deliberate obstruction from self-important officials and, if things got really bogged down, it meant using a few spare Leone notes that Mr. Suleiman, his boss at Mambolo Transport Enterprises, gave him to keep safely in his back pocket ready and waiting for whenever there was a need to oil the bureaucratic wheels. Mitchell coped well with hassle and Mr. Suleiman liked Mitchell because of that. Mitchell was future management material.

Mitchell dealt with the hassle of waiting by leaning out of the open window of his truck shouting to fellow drivers and smoking cigarettes that he rolled himself with a few leaves of something he bought on the road out towards the port. And, in between, he would gulp water from a two-liter plastic bottle that stood amongst the clutter of yellowing old newspapers, scraps of paper, empty cans of Coke and the dirty old tee shirt that he used to wipe his wing mirror when it rained.

Mitchell had finally driven out of the port at eleven fifteen with his fifty-six boxes that, according to the paperwork, contained three hundred second-hand laptop computers for a charity called School Aid, Freetown, Sierra Leone and that they had come all the way from the port of Felixstowe in England.

Mitchell's destination now, according to the instructions Mr. Suleiman had given him in the office, was Rocki General Supplies in Sani Abacha Street, Freetown. And ready waiting at Rocki General Supplies would be another one hundred and fifteen boxes waiting for him. But Mitchell never asked too many questions. Mitchell just drove his truck to wherever he was told and put up with whatever hassle came his way.

In the heat of the late morning market chaos in Sani Abacha Street, Mitchell was carefully reversing his tarpaulin-covered truck into a small overcrowded space between boxes of tee shirts and crates of yams and surrounded by people walking by on all sides with bundles on their heads. The heat and noise was intense. Mitchell's simple plan was to get the rear of his truck as close as possible to the rusted front door of Rocki General Supplies. But an argument had erupted because the tail end had struck an umbrella being set up to shade on-street transactions over the sale of a high stack of cans of lime green paint and caused it to topple onto the yams. Mitchell, himself, leaning from the open window, beads of sweat running from his forehead, was the target of the abuse. But, still smoking and still smiling, he made it, reversed the last few feet up to the doors, rattled on a handle and waited for someone to open it.

The man who opened it was in a suit, albeit a dusty, ill-fitting one, with a tie and off-white shirt. A puff of cool, air-conditioned air wafted towards Mitchell as the door was scraped open and he stood for a second to appreciate it as the man in the suit wrapped a chain around the door.

"Good day, Mr. Moses," said Mitchell, politely. "It is very hot today. I have fifty-six boxes of computers. They are for Daisy Charity. I think that is you, Mr. Moses."

Mr. Moses was a man of few words. "Over there."

Mitchell sweated for half an hour carrying the heavy boxes one by one into the dark recesses of the Rocki General Supplies warehouse. As Mr. Moses watched, Mitchell piled them as neatly as he could, but not too high in case they toppled. When he had finished, Mitchell went to the truck, swallowed the last drops from his water bottle and returned with his clipboard for Mr. Moses to sign the paperwork.

"You has one hundred and fifty boxes for me to collect, Mr. Moses?"

"Yes. Be seated."

As there was nowhere else to sit, Mitchell did as he was told and sat on a wooden crate.

Five minutes passed before Mr. Moses reappeared. "Take your truck to the rear entrance. There you will find one hundred and fifty boxes."

"Is they big, big or small, small, Mr. Moses?"

"It does not matter. You must take them all."

So began Mitchell's next hassle—driving away, finding the first, turning left, left again and reversing up to the rear entrance of Rocki General Supplies where Mr. Moses was waiting for him. Behind Mr. Moses were the one hundred and fifty boxes that Mitchell thought might just fit inside his truck .He removed his shirt and started work. It took him an hour. Satisfied the boxes were stacked safely and soundly, Mitchell stood, wiped his sweating brow and then went inside to look for Mr. Moses. "They is all loaded, Mr. Moses. Is there something to sign?"

"No, nothing."

"So where is you want them delivered, Mr. Moses?"

Mr. Moses handed him a piece of paper with an address and Mitchell looked at it. "Ayyya! Sulima Construction, Mr. Moses. Sulima is a long way. It is nearly in Liberia. Maybe I do not arrive today or tomorrow but the next day."

It took Mitchell two days to reach Sulima after a punctured tire somewhere between Moyamba and Mano and trouble with his engine outside Sumbuya that he fixed himself with a piece of wire. But, resourceful as he was, he found Sulima Construction. It was a rectangular concrete block building with a corrugated roof in a litter-filled side street by the river that smelled of used engine oil and sea breezes. But it was not until he started unloading the one hundred and fifty boxes that he noticed labels on some of the boxes. 'Daisy Children's Charity,’ they said.