Whistle Blower (7 page)

They ordered coffee and while they waited for a waitress to serve, Colin asked what he could do. Jim waited for the waitress to finish, then leaned forward again and pushed his long hair back behind his ears. To Colin it looked tidier that way, but Jim was still talking through the beard. 

"I'm still looking for someone," Jim said. "Not a private investigator but someone who might work with me on this. It could be someone in a company familiar with the way international aid and public sector funding bids operate—especially European and US funds. The person would need to understand that there would be serious repercussions for them if it became known that they were involved with me. In other words, I'm looking for someone a bit special."

Colin put his cup down and looked at Jim. "There is someone that immediately comes to mind, Jim. I know him well. He's a member of FESE and was at the conference you spoke at. I also know he liked what you'd been saying. He's another one who is inclined to get mad with the system. And there's more to him than meets the eye."

Jim stayed silent. He could see Colin thinking deep and hard. Then: "Walton Associates, Jim. The guy who started the firm is Jonathan Walton."

"Never heard of him," said Jim.

"In that case, leave it with me. I'll tell Jon just a little bit and see where it all leads."

NIGHT HAD FALLEN as the black BMW pulled up outside the main gate of the Minister of Finance's vast, walled and private villa. Security lighting reflected off the high, gold and silver colored painted gates and a swarm of moths and insects danced in the light as the leading police car stood stationary in front of the Minister's car as the following car drew alongside. The driver of the BMW got out and opened the rear passenger door. The Minister, a tall, well-built man with a heavy black moustache and wearing a light, gray suit climbed out holding tightly on to his brief case. He nodded to the driver, "My guest is staying at the Sheraton Hotel. Please bring him here at nine thirty."

"Yes, sir." The passenger door was closed and the Minister walked towards the double gates that swung open. Then he walked across a well-lit gravel driveway, bordered by a row of short palms and rose bushes, the gates closed behind him and he walked the few meters to the double, wooden door of the villa. It, too, opened before he had mounted the three wide, tiled steps. At the door stood a slim woman wearing a long black dress and headscarf, but she moved behind the door as he entered.

She closed the door and faced the Minister. "Have you eaten?" she asked. Her lips were bright red, her cheeks flushed. There was heavy mascara around large dark eyes that flashed nervously. 

"It is not important. I will be in my office. A guest will arrive at nine thirty. There are to be no interruptions until he leaves. Just ensure there is coffee. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

With that the woman backed away and the Minister walked through a long tiled hallway with a glittering overhead chandelier and white and gold panelled walls, past the foot of the wide, marble stairway and towards a double door of polished wood. Still carrying his briefcase he opened the door. As he did so he loosened his tie and walked into a tiled corridor lit by a row of wall lights with tasselled shades and more chandeliers that came on automatically. Through ceiling-high arches, the corridor then opened up into two separate rooms, one on either side of the corridor with white walls and more gold-bordered panelling. To his right, the tiled floor was dominated by a circular Chinese carpet, six ornate, white armed chairs, a glass-topped table with a vase of silk flowers and a gilt-framed painting of a prancing horse. But the Minister turned left, dropped his briefcase onto a settee set with gold-embroidered cushions and made his way across another Chinese carpet to a glass cabinet. Dragging off his tie completely he dropped it on a wooden table next to a crystal table lamp and turned the key in the cabinet. There he filled a glass with neat whiskey, took it to the settee next to his case, stretched out one leg and leaned back into a cushion. He swallowed half the whiskey, placed the glass on the table alongside the crystal lamp, clicked open his case, pulled out a mobile phone and pressed a button.

"Akram?" he asked as the call was answered. "You still in Dubai? Is the purchase finalized?" He waited. "Good, now listen. It is about our bloody Italian friend…" He was interrupted, waited and meanwhile took another drink. Then:

"If that is true then it is time we managed without Signore Guido and his friend Toni and that Egyptian, Tawfik. That crazy man Guido is too greedy. He was useful once but I am thinking he is now past his sell-by date." He listened once more.

"If he now says you are not good enough, it is because he does not need you. He thinks he can save a commission, cut you out. We must cut him out. These are my instructions. Do you understand? Cut him out. And cut out that Egyptian fool, Tawfik, also. Tell him you no longer need him, that you are returning to Pakistan to see your family. Instead, we will deal with things ourselves. We are now in a very strong position. Deal with it, Akram. It is urgent."

The Minister switched the mobile off and leaned back on the ornate high-backed couch and put the other leg up on the table. He checked his gold watch, drained the last of the whiskey and closed his eyes briefly. But then he stood up, went to refill his glass and, as he did so, heard the door to the corridor open. The woman in the long black dress crept down the corridor in soft slippers, walked around the edge of the Chinese carpet and placed a bronze tray with a dallah, a large, Arabic coffee pot and china cups on a long glass-topped table next to a jade statue of yet another prancing horse.

"It is nine twenty," she said. "Coffee for your guest." And then she stood, removed her headdress, pulled a clasp and let her long black hair flow across her shoulders. The Minister watched, smiled, looked at her, up and down.

"That is good. Please show him to the room when he arrives. We will be finished in an hour and then…" The woman nodded, smiled, touched her red lips and bowed almost imperceptibly. Then she backed away, turning briefly to smile again as she passed from his sight down the short corridor.

The Minister was still standing with the bottle in his hand. He held it up, checked the Glen Scotia label, raised his glass to something or someone and then drained it.

THE SPEED WITH which Mitchell drove his empty truck back to the barbed-wire encircled compound of Mambola Transport broke his previous record by almost five minutes. He skidded to a halt in a cloud of red dust outside Mr. Suleiman's concrete block office, leapt from his truck and ran inside. Mr. Suleiman was sitting on a large, wooden crate, speaking into a mobile phone.

"Mr. Suleiman, Mr. Suleiman. Big problem. Mr. Moses is very cross. I ran away in case he slapped me o…"

"Shhh. I am having important negotiations. You must wait."

Mitchell waited, fidgeting, first on one leg, then the other. He went to the window and glanced into the yard to check if Mr. Moses might have followed him. Mr. Moses had once told him that if anyone ever crossed him then they could expect serious consequences and then, as if to re-enforce his determination, Mr. Moses had pulled out a long and very sharp looking knife from the drawer in his desk and pointed it at Mitchell's nose.

"Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Taylor," Mr. Suleiman continued calmly. "It was one of my drivers. OK, so that's fifty boxes every day for one week starting on Monday from Cobra Printers to go to Awoko Newspaper. That is very good, Mr. Taylor. No problem. My driver Mr. Mitchell will be responsible. He has just returned from his last delivery and I will make sure he obeys all the instructions. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Taylor. Good bye…What is it Mitchell?"

"Big problem, Mr. Suleiman. Mr. Moses is very cross. I ran away in case he took out his big…" Mitchell was still out of breath.

"His big what, Mitchell?"

"His big knife, Mr. Suleiman."

"Ha, ha! No problem. I told you already, Mr. Moses is always cross. He is a crook, a swindler, a skimmer. Mr. Taylor who I have just spoke to is the opposite. He is an honest, hard-working family man with six children and his old mother. Don't worry. As long as you do your job it's OK. Moses won't hurt you."

"No, no, Mr. Suleiman. There is a problem. All his boxes had newspaper inside. I saw with my own eyes."

"Ha, ha. No problem. It was packaging paper, plastic foam, polystyrene, don't worry."

"No, no, not packing paper. Nothing to pack. Nothing inside except paper. Nothing. That is why they were lighter than the first two hundred boxes."

"What are you saying? What first two hundred boxes?"

"There was a big mistake, Mr. Suleiman. Tamba the forklift driver was drunk from last night and got slapped by Granville. But before he got slapped he made a mistake and gave me the wrong two hundred boxes. So, I unloaded the wrong ones and loaded the right ones. Then I took the right ones to Mr. Moses. But I think they were the wrong ones. Then Mr. Moses checked inside and it wasn't what it said on the paper—it was paper."

"What sort of paper?"

"Newspaper. Italian newspapers. But no water purifiers."

"So there is a problem."

"Yes, that's what I'm telling you, Mr. Suleiman. And Mr. Moses thinks it is me."

"Ha ha! No, no, no. It cannot be. I will phone the airport. It is that bloody man Granville."

"Or the bloody man Tamba. But it wasn't me, Mr. Suleiman."

"OK, no problem. I will sort it. Here is your next job. Thirty-six crates of chickens. Collect from William's chicken farm and take to Sani Abacha Street."

"Sani Abacha Street, Mr. Suleiman? Again?"

AT NINE THIRTY-five, the Minister of Finance heard the expected knock on the door. Placing his empty glass on the cabinet, he pushed the half bottle of Glen Scotia away out of sight and closed the glass front. Then he walked to the door, greeted a short, balding man in a dark suit and primrose yellow tie and ushered him to sit in one of the gold-braided armchairs next to the glass-topped table and the tray of coffee.

Just as the Minister started pouring the steaming, black coffee, a small red light appeared on some electronic equipment laid out in the kitchen of an apartment in a gray, concrete block less than a mile away. Sitting alongside it were three men, one a tall, well-groomed man in a smart suit and tie, the other two wearing casual clothes. All three wore headphones.

"He's in, sir," said an American voice. "A pity about the sound quality—it's the fucking walls but OK, we're recording…sorry for the language, sir…and that's the Minister's voice, sir…and the other belongs to our little friend from the Central Bank…Shahid Masud."

There was a long pause as the three Americans listened through headphones. Then:

"Hear that name, sir?"

"Did he say Mendes?" the suited one asked.

"Yep. I reckon. It proves Mendes is involved somehow, somewhere. That's the second time in a week we've taped something. It adds to suspicions but it's still not enough to do anything."

"Silvester Mendes, huh? Jesus."

"Yep…that's just what we wanted you to hear, sir…listen now, sir. Hear that? Government contracts. They're now talking online tenders. It'll be another fucking stitch up… sorry 'bout the language, sir. Any aid going in there is supposed to be awarded via open tenders but it'll probably be another fix, a stitch up by the adjudication committee—chaired by that same little bastard Shahid Masud and signed off by the Minister… Listen! 'Education,’ hear it? Young people, students.' The only beneficiaries will probably be the Minister, this little guy Masud and a few other characters."

The smartly dressed one now asked a question. "That fund they're talking about is not US money, it's European…it was only officially announced last week and it was in the Minister's budget speech today…" He was interrupted.

"Yep. Dead right, sir. Listen again, sir. Sorry about the sound. They're now talking money transfers. Electronic. Switches. No wonder their foreign exchange reserves dropped by sixty percent last year…OK, listen, that's a new name. Who the fuck is Tahir? And Italy? He just said 'our Italian friend'… You get that as well, Steve? What's the Italian connection? Don't tell me Silvio's involved here as well, sir. Ha! …Sorry sir, now they're moving around. Did you hear a name? Weedo? Get that, Steve? Weedo? I think they've already finished. He used a mobile earlier but we couldn't get a fix or enough voice clarity. All we got was a definite mention of Dubai and the Dubai Asia Investment Bank…and the sound of a bottle… Yep, they've finished. It's a fucking enormous villa, sir. Gold everywhere and a fucking big jade horse. We got a few pictures inside once. Now the sound’s gone. He's probably seeing him to his limousine outside. But, that enough, sir?"

"Yep, keep it coming, boys, but we gotta improve that sound quality." The suited one got up, dropping his headphones alongside the equipment.

"Just one thing, sir. Before you go. Let's check out this guy, Tahir."

There was a pause as the man tapped names into a computer. "It won't take a minute…there. See? Could that be him? Tahir Babar, nice picture. If that's him then he's another Central Bank Board member. Figure?…We'll now try for a match. And let's check this Dubai Asia Investment Bank. Ever heard of it?"

The tall, smart one shook his head. "Nope, never."