Whistle Blower (9 page)

"And what happens if I get caught? What protection will there be?"

Jim's reply was immediate. "There would be no protection. We'd need to face that when and if it arose. But you're looking for a bit of a challenge—excitement if you like. You'd just have to keep looking over your shoulder—just as I still do. We'll just see how things develop."

Jim had paused as Jan Kerkman looked down, clearly unsure what he would be getting involved in. His eventual reply was, again, music to Jim's ears. Kerkman was someone refreshingly motivated by something far greater than money.

"I would 'whistle-blow,’ as you call it, right now if I was sure it would do any good and someone might listen and act. But I wouldn't want to be arrested or have to fly to Moscow or South America or somewhere to be untouchable. I'd need your support and I'd want to meet up with you regularly—in secret. But yes, I'll help."

Jim had then returned to Thailand, Jonathan to London and Jan to Brussels.

MITCHELL WAS PLEASED he had finished his work for the day. It had started badly with Mr. Moses and the boxes full of nothing but newspapers, but the delivery of the live chickens had gone without a hitch with only one chicken found dead on arrival. As usual he reversed the truck into his allocated space next to the concrete block headquarters of Mambolo Transport Enterprises and jumped out.

In a line next to his truck were the three small vans that made up the rest of the fleet, but he was surprised to find the three van drivers, Samson, Big Saidu and George, sat together on a pile of wooden pallets outside. With the exception of Mr. Suleiman himself, Mitchell was normally the last to leave.

"What's up my man," he said to the three.

"You must go to airport," said George.

"Why? I was there this morning."

They looked at one another. It was Big Saidu who spoke. "Big problem. Mr. Moses from Rocki Supplies came here this afternoon. Sampson saw him."

"Yah," said Sampson. "Big argue-ation. Moses very vexed. Suleiman come out, seem very gladdy and say to him, 'Ow du boddy?'—polite like—but Moses ala man, he stat to shout too much. Say Suleiman is big teef. Say cost him fifty tousin dollah. No much fun, Mitchell. I see every ting with mine eye. Then Moses he show big knife and come to Suleiman, but Suleiman brave man. He stop, say let me alone, I not big teef. Suleiman stand tall. Say come in office, sid dan, tock man to man."

"Yah. I warned Mr. Suleiman," Mitchell said. "Mr. Moses is trouble. Suleiman says Moses is a big teef and a skimmer. But Moses thinks I, Mitchell, am the big teef. I told Mr. Suleiman. Where is Mr. Suleiman?"

"He went to airport," said George. "He want you go there. Check things out. See what happen."

"OK, I'll go now. But you got any watta, man?" Mitchell asked, resigning himself to an extension to his day. "I gave all my watta to chicken but bastad still die."

Mitchell then raced to Lunghi Airport, hoping Mr. Suleiman was still there and thinking all the while about the old cargo w
arehouse he'd been to that morning. It was small, too small and many pallets and boxes were often left standing outside, even in the rain. No wonder they made mistakes.

"Disorganized mess," said Mitchell to himself as he drove. "And that bloody man Tamba—people like him only make things worse—drinking poyo, fucking around when he have job to do."

Mitchell was right because he knew about warehouses. He visited them nearly every day. But the old warehouse at Lunghi was not secure. There was nothing for cold storage, dangerous goods or even weighing and many airlines refused to carry goods due to the lack of security checks. But, somehow, Mitchell's consignment of two hundred boxes had arrived and so, it would seem, had two hundred boxes containing Italian newspaper instead of water purifiers. He stopped his truck at exactly the same spot as that morning and saw Mr. Suleiman and Granville, the manager, sitting on chairs just inside the warehouse entrance.

"Ah, here is my driver," Suleiman said. "We will ask him… Now then Mitchell, please sit…OK, no more chair, then you must stand… Are you sure that all the boxes contained newspaper and not water purifiers?"

"I don't know, I didn't check all two hundred. Mr. Moses was still checking when I left."

"OK, listen. There is too much confusion here. Still sitting in the warehouse behind us are two hundred boxes. Granville and I just checked them. They all contain water purifiers. The paperwork says they are for Daisy Children's Charity and they come from Freeways Freight Forwarding in Milan. But there is no Daisy Children's Charity in Sierra Leone. And Mr. Granville cannot find Freeways Freight Forwarding in his book. That is why these boxes are still here.

"But Mr. Granville received a telex from Freeways Freight Forwarding admitting an error in the paperwork and asking that the boxes be released to Rocki General Supplies. Mr. Granville did not know what to do because Daisy Children's Charity is in Liberia not Sierra Leone. And also something was changed on the documents that were faxed. Mr. Granville said it smelled like old fish.

"Then the new consignment of two hundred boxes arrived by Swissair also addressed to Daisy Children's Charity with a Post Office Box address but with no consignee's name. Contents of boxes shown as water purifiers. Correct, Mr. Granville? I will now ask the warehouse manager, Mr. Granville, to explain."

Granville coughed. "This is very bad. I do not know what is happening here."

"Thank you, Mr. Granville. That is a very clear conclusion and very honest." 

"Now then, Mitchell. Please tell Mr. Granville that I once told you that Moses from Rocki General Supplies is a fraudster and one big-time skimmer."

"Yes, sir." Mitchell then looked down to where Granville sat, shaking and scratching his head. "It is true. My boss warned me that Moses is a teef and a big-time skimmer, Mr. Granville."

"You see?" said Suleiman. "He is up to no good. It is well known in Freetown, but people are scared to say. They keep quiet because Moses has a big silver Mercedes and a driver with a gun and knows the Government and the Ministers and they think he has other big friends with important jobs. But I am not afraid."

Mitchell raised his hand as if wanting to offer something new. He did.

"Mr. Suleiman, sir. Please do not forget that I delivered
fifty-six boxes that according to the paperwork contained three hundred second-hand laptop computers to Mr. Moses last week. These were for a charity called School Aid but I delivered them to Mr. Moses. Do you think you should also check if there is a charity called School Aid? And I also took many boxes from Mr. Moses all the way to Sulima. It took me four days. It was for a company called Sulima Construction but Sulima Construction was like an empty garage, Mr. Suleiman. And I saw labels with Daisy Charity on these boxes also."

"This is good thinking, Mitchell," he turned to Granville. "There is something going on here. I smell bad fish and dead rats. Mr. Mitchell is my best driver, Granville. He is the eyes and the ears of Mambolo Transport Enterprises. Maybe he will become a manager one day."

"So what will you do?" Granville asked.

Suleiman beckoned Granville to sit forward. "Mr. Moses pull a knife on me but I never pull a knife. I pull rugs. I pull carpet. Moses is not the only one with friends. I pull strings."

AT HIS NORTH London office, Jonathan Walton was working late. Seven thirty wasn't unusual but he'd been sitting at his computer since morning. It was Friday, he was tired, his eyes were losing focus and he had the makings of a bad headache. Thinking enough was enough, he rubbed his eyes and sat back. As he did so, the main office phone rang. With a sigh, he leaned over and picked it up. The caller was male, the voice deep and strong and with an accent that Jonathan put down as African, but he had never been good enough at accents to pin it down any further.

"Ah, is that Walton Associates?" asked the voice.

"Yes," repeated Jonathan, "I'm Jonathan Walton, the managing director."

"Yes, I see. Your website says you help charities to bid for money."

"Yes," said Jonathan and because he was tired, he was tempted to reel off the exact words on the company's website that the caller had just mentioned. But he thought better of it and shortened it. "Yes, we offer various types of help to businesses and charities and that includes bidding for funds."

"Yes, I see. We would like some help."

Mm
, Jonathan thought.
This looks like it might take a while.
He said, "Can I ask your name, sir?"

"I am Mr. Johnson."

"And where are you from, Mr. Johnson?"

"Ah, Lagos, Nigeria, but I am in London."

A red light flashed somewhere inside Jonathan's aching head. Scams and other illegal practices were too common from that part of the world and this, even at this stage, had all the right signs. "And the charity's name?" he asked.

"Well, sir, it is called African Young Business."

"And what does it do?"

"It helps young Africans start businesses."

"I see. So do you know if there are sources of international funding for that sort of thing?"

"I was hoping you might know about that."

"Yes, we can sometimes help there."             

"So what else can you do?"

Jonathan took a deep breath. His headache was suddenly getting worse. Unable to come up with anything fresh, he started to quote from the website. "We can assess your project. We can help you find suitable partners and provide legal advice for partnership working. We can develop and draft international grant applications where there are suitable funds. We can help lobby for your organization. We can offer project management training. There is a lot we can do—but it all depends on your organization and what you need."

The last bit was a polite way of warning Mr. Johnson. We're a busy company, we are selective about whom we work with and I do not want to be messed about, OK? Jonathan hoped he had got the message. Perhaps he had, perhaps not. Either way it didn't matter. Even if this turned out to be commercial fraud on an international scale, Jonathan had been wanting to find something like that since meeting Jim Smith. He had told Jim it might not take too long to come across something suspicious. His suspicions were now immediately re-enforced

"OK, sir. Well, perhaps I'll leave it for now."

Jonathan heard the phone click, touched the red button on his own receiver and pressed his hands around his throbbing head.
Ah, well
, thought Jonathan and went home.
More than likely, he'll phone again.

He did. The second call from Mr. Johnson came on Monday morning. The call was taken by Sarah, the receptionist and Jonathan's PA. As Mr. Johnson already said he'd spoken to Mr. Walton on Friday, Sarah put the call through to Jonathan.

"Good morning, Mr. Johnson."

"Yes, good morning. We spoke on Friday."

"Indeed. Have you thought about how we might help you?"

"Yes. Can we meet?"

"Before we do, can you tell me a little more about your project—a brief summary perhaps?"

"Ah, it's for Sierra Leone."

"I see. A little more information, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir. It is an eco-tourism project. My associates are building a 50-million-dollar tourist complex—hotel, apartments, restaurants and shops. It is to attract more foreign tourists."

"Mm, very interesting. But I thought it was called African Young Business.

"Ah, yes, that is another project."

"So we now have two projects. Who is leading on the Sierra Leone one?"

"It is what we call a joint venture."

"Yes, I have heard about joint ventures," Jonathan said. "Who are the main partners?"

"Ah, yes. Ah, the main partner is Sulima Construction. The other is Vacation Afrique. It is a French company."

"So why do you need funds?" asked Jonathan. "These partners sound big enough."

"Ah, no. It is for the extra work—work not included in the main contract."

"And what is that extra work?"

"It is for the, uh, solar water heaters, waste water recovery systems, insulated walls and roofs, double glazed windows—other energy-saving systems…and, uh, so on." Jonathan felt sure Mr. Johnson was reading from something lying in front of him. No matter, he often did that himself.

"And who is supplying and fitting the energy-saving systems?"

"Ah, it will be subcontracted."

"Can I ask, to whom?"

"This will depend on funding, sir. Without funding there will be no energy-saving systems."

"That would be a big pity I agree. Do you work for Sulima Construction or Vacation Afrique, Mr. Johnson?"

"Ah, neither, sir. We are acting as consultants to the project."

Well, there was nothing better than a consultancy to hide behind, Jonathan thought, smiling to himself. "And the name of your company—the consultants?" he asked.

"Ah, perhaps we should meet?"

The meeting was fixed for 8:00 p.m. on Monday night. The venue, a small, cheap place that called itself a hotel but was, more aptly, a bed and breakfast joint off the Cromwell Road in west London. In his mind and in the current jargon of the business, Jonathan had labeled the meeting as 'exploratory' and so arrived with nothing except a business card and his laptop. But this was far more than Mr. Johnson had when he arrived, late, at 8:45. Jonathan had sat, his patience almost expired, in an uncomfortable, sagging armchair next to a table stained with coffee cup rings and a wilting, potted plant.

When Mr. Johnson arrived Jonathan shook a large, sweaty palm and Mr. Johnson dragged up a hard, upright chair. Then they eyed each other across the table and spoke in barely audible whispers. The Nigerian was big and heavy but well dressed—newish looking suit, whitish shirt, cuff links, big gold ring with a red stone—but the entire effect was spoiled by a badly tied, off-center tie and a pair of black, lace-up shoes that were in desperate need of some polish. When he finally shook the Nigerian's big hand again at 10:00 p.m., Jonathan's instinct told him that something was definitely going on here that had little to do with youth start-up businesses or leisure complexes. Getting even that far, though, had been hard work.

"I checked Sulima Construction, Mr. Johnson. Sulima is in Sierra Leone but there is a very small company with that name based in Ghana. But I could not find any trading history or names of directors."

"Yes, but it is growing very fast."

"And I checked Vacation Afrique. The only company I could find with that name was a travel agent in Paris."

"It is not that travel agent."

"And you mentioned you represent a consultancy."

"Yes."

"So, can you explain more about this consultancy, Mr. Johnson? You see, I am struggling a little to get my head around your business."

Mr. Johnson looked around the so-called TV lounge as if he had no wish to be overheard. This was unlikely. The TV was on—a film of something, but with the sound off—and there was only one other guest, a man who might have been a plumber on a short-term contract. He was fast asleep, grunting occasionally, a crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror slipping from his lap.

"Ah, yes," the Nigerian scratched the side of his nose and then pulled on his ear lobe. "But I thought Walton Associates specialized in this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing would that be, Mr. Johnson?"

"Well, I was told that you have experience in finding funds for projects in Africa…especially if it is to do with the environment."

"Yes, a little. Go on."

"And, uh, my Lebanese associates spoke highly of you."

"Your Lebanese associates?"

"Yes. They recommended you."

Jonathan said nothing. He had no recollection of meeting any Lebanese, but almost six years of trying to fathom out what the hell was going on in certain business and political circles had already meant rubbing shoulders with some unusual people. Within the last few weeks, though, since meeting Jim and Jan Kerkman, sections of circles were starting to join up. He had made a promise to help look into certain matters and knew it might be fraught with risk, not least to the reputation of Walton Associates. But the promise had been made and he had no wish to suddenly walk away.

Seconds of silence passed as he considered his position but, finally, he smiled at the Nigerian. It was a deliberate smile, as honest a smile as he could summon. It was a smile aimed at communicating a desire, however repugnant, to do business in a way that would ignore the straightjacket of regulation. The Nigerian smiled back, similarly.

"Then it might be best, Mr. Johnson, if, for this venture we use another company with which I am involved. Walton Associates, you see, mostly deals with rather ordinary business advice to UK companies and charities and I normally delegate that sort of thing to my staff. I suspect that, in this case, we may need the use of my other company. It is a much more outward-looking and flexible business. Is this what your Lebanese friends are referring to?"

Mr. Johnson's smile grew into a wide grin. "Yes, I expect so, Mr. Walton. Like you, we have to be sure that the partners we choose are fit for purpose."