Whistle Blower (42 page)

"No. But I know Bristol a little."

"Changed a lot, 't ave. Not like 't were. But round yer it don't seem to change." The small dog now moved to sniff Jim's shiny new shoes. "Bin on yer 'olidays?"

"Excuse me?"

"Bin on yer 'olidays? Only you look like you seen a bit o' sun like."

"No. But I suppose you might call my visit here a holiday of sorts."

"Wer you cum from?"

"I live in Thailand."

"By golly. Long way from 'ome you might say."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Lived ther long 'ave 'ee?"

"A few years."

"By golly. Sor’ of settled ther 'ave 'ee?"

"Yes. I like it."

"Peaceful ther now is it?"

"Yes."

"Wife ther too is she?"

"No. I regret that I am divorced. A divorcee I think is what I'm called."

"Oh, dear me. My wife passed away twenty years ago. I'm ninety-three now." The dog pulled on the lead and the old man coughed, heartily. "Well, I'll be getting along. Got to get back fer me tea."

Jim had nodded. "Yes. Thank you. Good bye."

The old man had slowly walked away, held upright by his stick and pulled along by his dog. But, after a few yards, he turned around.

"I knew Malaya, Singapore and Thailand, once upon a time," he called back. "That bridge in Kanchanaburi. The River Kwai. Prisoner o' war. Bloody Japs." Then he, too, had walked away and out of Jim's life.

JIM WOKE UP thirsty. He took a bottle of mineral water from the mini fridge and drank it all. Then he lay back on the bed again, checked the time and wondered if Tom had got the note yet. Tom, he knew, would be surprised, maybe even saddened but, by leaving for home, he knew he was doing the right thing. His mission was accomplished.

His thirst changed to hunger as he remembered he'd not eaten since breakfast the day before, so he went downstairs, took a quick coffee shop breakfast and returned to his room His flight was at midday, so he checked out of the hotel, took the courtesy bus to the terminal and queued to check in. It was just as he was receiving his boarding pass that someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Tom.

"Jim, I'm so sorry, but I had to see you before you went. I got your note last night. It was a bit of a shock to say the least, but I could not let you go without seeing you again. I guessed you might fly out this morning."

Tom looked flustered and stressed. "A shock you say?" Jim asked.

"Yes Jim. Your note. The bit about Margaret. You never told me what happened when you met her."

"Two add two, Tom. It adds up to four."

"But how do you know for certain? Are you sure now?”

"I guessed. But I had no idea she had actually divorced me until I arrived."

"But for God’s sake why, Tom?"

"I have to face the possibility that perhaps she became bored with me for the way I was. Anyway, I suspect my problems provided the excuse she needed."

"So who was it, Jim?"

"None other than my old friend Douglas Creighton. It seems they had to keep it quiet for years. His wife was a problem for him. I was a problem for Margaret. Douglas's wife then suffered cancer for several years and eventually she died. Since then?… I don't profess to understand."

"And how did you find out, Bill?"

"Douglas failed to turn up for the exhibition yesterday. He was the only person I'd invited. All the others were invited by Hugh or Senator Stafford. As he didn't come, I phoned him and asked why."

The two men walked slowly towards the departure gate but Jim stopped and took Tom's arm.

"Tom, may I ask another favor? Would you come out to see me again soon? I would be extremely grateful if you would collect the rest of my paintings and take them back with you. By then I should also have finished my book."

"A book, Jim?"

"Yes, it concerns the transience of life and the evil of accumulating vast personal wealth at the expense of others. I can finish it now I know the outcome, though I'm still not quite sure what to say or write about Guido. We still don't know enough about who he is—she is—yet."

Tom smiled, the stressful look gone. "I'd be delighted to come out, Jim. But…" he paused. "Did you get to see a doctor, a proper hospital, for a check up? Like I told you?"

"No. I know what's wrong. Why spend money just to delay the inevitable. You'll need to read my book, Tom. But you'll come to see me? Soon?"

Tom took a deep breath. He already knew Jim well enough to know it would be pointless to argue with him. "Yes, I'll come," he said. "I could do some fishing this time."

"You could teach me."

"And we could watch the sun rise and set up on your hill."

"It's pink every morning and every evening, Tom."

"And I'll bring some cans of bloody fly spray this time."

"We can have a few beers at Lek's internet cafe."

"And drink fresh coconut juice."

"But don't tell anyone where I live, is that agreed? Otherwise we'll get hordes of reporters and visitors."

"Of course, Jim. In about a month’s time? I've got a bit of writing to do for a while. I've just signed a contract."

"Good man."

"And Hugh gave me this for you."

Tom handed him an envelope and Jim opened it and read the note aloud.

My Dear Jim,

I heard with some regret from Tom that you had decided to leave before we had a chance to discuss the hugely successful exhibition. Senator Stafford was a superb choice and the US Ambassador wants one of your paintings for the Embassy.

Tom will confirm that it is too early to judge the effects of Senator Stafford's talk about fraud and corruption—the subject you once, so valiantly, fought on—but that is not my real interest (politics leaves me quite cold as you know).

The exhibition was very well received. I truly believe your art will be recognized in due course for its considerable skill. If I can pick on just one feature, it is your talent for depicting certain feelings through absolute mastery of the study of eyes. It may seem a small point, but you seem able to achieve something, which many artists find impossible. Your old lady, the cockerel, the hen and chicks, the old man with the beer bottle, the young girl with the black hair, etc. I could list them. I also remember still with some clarity, despite only seeing it once, your special painting of the mother and child. It was extremely good.              

Suffice it to say, Jim, that I feel extremely honored that you asked me to show your work. As we were unable to talk again before you departed I wanted to inform you that, with your permission, and because you said you wanted nothing for them, I would like to donate the paintings to a charitable foundation so that the proceeds will benefit others. My gallery will hold back just a nominal handling charge for the time and work we put in to the exhibition.

My suggestion is that we donate them to the British Heart Foundation of which I have been an active fund raiser since my father died of a heart attack some years ago. Perhaps you could indicate your agreement to this suggestion in some way so that we can proceed.

Best wishes and kindest regards,

Hugh McAllister."

"Thank Hugh for me will you, Tom," Jim said. "He laid on an excellent exhibition and the choice of charity is perfect."

The two men shook hands warmly and Jim started to move away. But then he turned.

“Come as soon as you can Tom," he said. "If I'm not there, I'll leave everything with Lek. Time has a habit of running out rather more quickly than one might wish.”

Then Jim Smith was gone.

DRIVER MITCHELL'S REWARD from Mr. Suleiman for the new business he had acquired with the two Nigerians who had taken over Rocki General Supplies was a bigger truck. But Mitchell's popularity with Dada and Sunday might have been soured if they knew that he often sat in the truck outside listening to their conversations on the device he had planted amongst the rubble that still lay around the desk of the now dead Mr. Moses.

"You can stop that job now," said Mr. Suleiman when Mitchell announced he was still listening in if he happened to pass by. "All the bad fraudsters, crooks and skimmers have been caught. And we cannot afford to pay overtime."

"No problem, Mr. Suleiman," Mitchell replied. "That thin boss man wiv hairy hat, he smoke too much, drink too much poyo and talk too much on phone. And Sunday he da fitta and drivah and sit wid ear to Nigerian music. But I like Fela Kuti music and learn new English."

"What are you saying, Mitchell? You are learning very bad English from them fucking Nigerians. They speak no good."

"Yes, Mr. Suleiman, but. I learn a lot. Dada's business is very interesting. I shine mine eye."

"Shine mine eye? What sort of English is that?"

"I keep mine eye and ear open. Dada tell Sunday same ting every hour."

"And who is this fella Dada?" asked Mr. Suleiman.

"Dada, the thin boss man. Smoke weed and take visitors to bah."

"Mitchell—please speak proper English, not Nigerian. What is bah?"

"Bah, Mr. Suleiman, bah. Where go drink beer and have lady."

"And what is their new business called?"

"Freeways Investments, Mr. Suleiman, like I once told you. Come from Switzerland."

Mr. Suleiman was ready to reach for his telephone, but he stopped, deciding instead to check Mitchell's knowledge with just a few more questions.

"So what did you deliver to this fellow Dada today?"

"One parcel, Mr. Suleiman."

"And what was inside the parcel?"

"Paper, Mr. Suleiman."

"Paper?"

"Maybe not paper, maybe money."

"Why do you think it was money?"

"Because I heard them counting US dollars when I sat in my truck."

"And Mr. Dada had a visitor there?"

"Oh, yes. Big man, fine suit and tie. Very rich but very fussy and speak like no good. Tell me to fok off. That's why I went to sit in my new truck to listen. But I need a new battery soon, Mr. Suleiman."

"Who is this rude and badly spoken visitor?"

"Man in suit is Mr. Johnson, from Nigeria."

"And what is Mr. Johnson's business, Mitchell. Can you tell me without speaking like a Nigerian?"

“Sorry, Mr. Suleiman. He is Mr. Jacob Johnson, from Lagos and London. There is a big business in Sulima now. Sulima Construction has big money. They will build a smart hotel on the beach." 

Mr. Suleiman then reached for his telephone and called his cousin, the lawyer, Cole Harding.

THE END

OTHER NOVELS BY Terry Morgan—available in various electronic formats from www.smashwords.com.

For paperback versions contact TJM Books www.tjmbooks.com

'The Malthus Pandemic'

DANIEL CAPELLI IS a private investigator of international commercial crime.

Armed with an unusually vague remit from a new client—an American biotechnology company—to investigate the theft of valuable research material but motivated by a private desire to see his Thai girlfriend, Anna, he travels to Bangkok and rapidly discovers that several scientists—all virologists—have also disappeared.

One of them, David Solomon, is an internationally acclaimed expert on viruses and known for extreme views on the need for direct action to reduce the world's population. Suspecting a plot to create a pandemic by spreading a lethal influenza virus, the Malthus A virus, artificially engineered by Solomon, and with sporadic outbreaks of the disease in Thailand, Nigeria and Kenya, Daniel discovers two other main characters. Doctor Larry Brown is an American doctor working at the USA Embassy in Nigeria and Kevin Parker, an academic and expert on the history and economics of population control. Both have arrived at similar conclusions but from different angles.

With help from Daniel's friend, Colin Asher—a London based private investigator—it becomes clear that Solomon is being funded by a rich Irish-American, Greg O'Brian, with a history of fraud, embezzlement and murder. Together with a secretive Arab company with a ready-made international distribution network, the plan is to spread the virus and then make huge profits by marketing ineffective or counterfeit drugs. But, despite the increasing evidence and fears that the virus is about to be released, there is no effective, international system capable of reacting quickly to a bioterrorism threat and it is a struggle to persuade the UK and USA governments to take them seriously.

Meanwhile, as the investigation continues to move between Bangkok, Cairo and Nairobi, Jimmy Banda, a charismatic Kenyan private investigator helping Daniel is caught and murdered by O'Brian's men and Daniel's cover is blown.

'An Old Spy Story'

THE OLD SPY in “An Old Spy Story”
is octagenerian, Oliver (“Ollie”) Thomas. During a long career spent trying to earn an honest living with his own export business, Ollie was also, reluctantly, carrying out parallel assignments in Africa, the Middle East and elsewhere only loosely connected to British Intelligence. But, by using threats and blackmail, his controller, Major Alex Donaldson, was forcing Ollie to help run his own secret money-making schemes that included arms shipments to the IRA through Gadaffi and Libya, money laundering in Africa and assassination.

Now aged eighty-six, recently widowed and alone Ollie still struggles with guilt and anger over his past and decides to make one last attempt to track down and deal with Donaldson.

"The Cage"

AN EX-POLITICIAN and professor of biology talks to a grandson no longer able to cope with life in an overcrowded city. A follow-up to the author's previous thriller, 'The Malthus Pandemic,’ this hard-hitting shorter novel (17,000 words) contains facts and forecasts supported by original papers.  

'Someone once said that you had no place in civilized society,' the grandson says, but the older man countered:

'I disagreed, of course, and I remember replying to that Christian bishop that he might like to consider whether he himself had any place in a modern, civilized society. Surely, it is a sign of an advanced civilization to be able to anticipate human disaster before it happens and to act accordingly.

'A human life that is fulfilling and contented needs to be accompanied by at least some hardship and struggle. To exist without the need for individual effort weakens the body and the will to fight for survival. Politicians, though, need the apathy that comes with a culture of dependency on the state because it ensures their own survival.'

'Past warnings went unheeded due to politicians' fears about human sensitivities on population control. That is not leadership. But world politicians and religious leaders were weak, scientifically illiterate stage performers, constantly shedding tears of compassion about suffering and poverty for short term popularity and political advantage.'