Whistle Blower (10 page)

IT WAS JIM'S third visit to Amsterdam.

He had taken a hot shower, added blackcurrant cheesecake to his evening meal of steak and potatoes and was lying naked on the bed on freshly laundered white sheets and staring at the ceiling.

"I've always said, Mother, that to fully appreciate luxury, it must be an occasional experience. Luxury that is commonplace goes unappreciated and the mind quickly resets a higher level for its definition of what counts as luxurious." He paused.

"The same cannot be said about routine, however. No routine, or a constant change of routine, is a quick route to a disorganized mind and a dysfunctional lifestyle." He paused again. "Yes, Mother, I know, don't keep on. I may appear untidy, but untidiness is a matter of opinion. It is routine untidiness and so I know where everything is."

He sat up, cross-legged, dragged fingers through his beard, tucked the long strands of hair behind his ears.

"So how would you describe yourself, Mr. Smith?"

The imaginary voice was from someone with a microphone and recording equipment, though whether a he or a she or from the press, radio or TV was unimportant.

"Patient," Jim answered aloud to the ceiling in the Amsterdam hotel room.

"You've been on your own a long time, Mr. Smith."

"Yes." Jim had learned the hard way. He would stick to simple answers when it came to questions from the media.

"Aren't you lonely?"

"I find my own company perfectly satisfying."

"But it's rather basic here if you don't mind me saying so, Mr. Smith. You are a little cut off from civilization and the house itself looks in need of some, what shall I say, refurbishment."

"Yes."

"Is there anything you miss?"

Jim stroked his beard. That was a leading question. "No comment."

"So how do you manage?"

"Self-discipline."

Jim, sitting on the hotel bed with his eyes closed, could hear planes taking off at Schipol Airport. He opened his eyes, reached for a bottle of mineral water on the bedside cabinet and took a mouthful. "What time is it? Ten thirty. Jonathan and Jan at ten in the morning. Oh, well, no one's listening. My mother's fault all this talking to yourself…fifty years ago…eating cottage pie."

As a boy, he could distinctly remember his mother telling him—over that cottage pie one lunch-time—that he must, at all costs and at all times, adhere to a set of priorities, standards and rules. A man’s character she told him, would be judged on taking full responsibility for your actions and on delivery of positive results.

Over the years, he had to admit that he had gradually adapted his mother’s rules, codes, priorities and standards to fit his ever-changing situation, but he had always remembered them and never wavered too far from the course she had set him on. That he had ended up where he was now could probably be related back to his upbringing. But he was content enough with that. He closed his eyes again.

"Your core principle of judgment on results has remained a constant, Mother. Even now, at the ripe old age of sixty-six, I still feel it necessary to be judged on doing something tangible. But who is there to judge me now? …myself, I suppose…doing something tangible is precisely what I've been doing… even from out there. It's a small world now, Mother. What with the internet and airline travel. It's not like it was when you were young. We've all had to adjust and adapt…quickly. But…I've never really stopped, Mother. I've hit a few bloody snags on the way—personal and otherwise. But I'm still going at sixty-six. You should be pleased. Are you? No, I thought not."

He paused.

"Painting is my creative side, Mother. The other stuff is work in progress—problem solving, putting right the wrong, proving something to myself as much as to others. What would you say, Mother, if I told you that after I sold the business I got involved with the international criminal fraternity? You'd be a bit cross I expect. You'd certainly wag your finger at me then, wouldn't you? Quite right too.

"But you never pointed out one thing, Mother. It's all very well working hard, showing commitment, taking responsibility and delivering results but what if someone points out there is a fourth requirement. Do you know what that fourth missing requirement is, Mother—the one that you missed from the lesson over the cottage pie? It's the need to grow a thick skin, to be insensitive—to be so bloody insensitive that you are immune to criticism even if the criticism comes from someone who would fail every one of your first three tests.

"I lacked that one ingredient, Mother. After thirty successful years when being sensitive was an important and valuable asset, I entered a profession where it is a vital necessity to be a thick-skinned, self-centered, hypocritical bastard. I used to listen to criticism because I wondered if there might be an element of truth in what was being said, but I know now that the criticism aimed at me was unfounded and that it was just the start of a vindictive campaign because I was starting to touch nerves.

"Yes, I know Mother. I know I'm repeating myself—you've heard it all before, ad nauseum, but you must try to understand me. I'm sixty-six now and I can't escape it you see. I was accused of incompetence even though I was totally competent. I was accused of doing things that I never did. I was held up to public ridicule because of the way I am and the way I spoke and the way I dressed and… and…because I believe in stating facts and not blinding people with lies, bullshit and hypocrisy. I was blunt in my words. But I was still learning how they played their games. I learned it, but I learned it the hard way. At one point I wondered if I should also start telling lies, talking bullshit and being a bloody hypocrite. But because I couldn't and didn't and because I stuck to my principles, do you know what I have ended up with, Mother? Nothing."

Jim Smith, eyes tightly closed, smiled. Nothing was OK. Having nothing, wanting nothing and being perfectly happy with nothing was the perfect argument against those driven to corruption for their own solution to happiness.

"So how is your wife, Margaret, Mr. Smith? Seen her recently?" The reporter had returned.

"I'm not too sure I've even got a wife anymore and that's probably your fault as much as mine." 

"Oh, we were only doing our job, Mr. Smith. Selling stories to attract advertising."

"Precisely. And who was paying you?"

"Don't take it so hard, Mr. Smith. That's the way of the world. But don't you miss your home, your garden, the washing machine and the nice big bed with clean sheets smelling of flowers of the forest conditioner, Mr. Smith?"

"No I bloody don't. I manage on three hundred baht a day. That's six pounds or about eight dollars. It's enough."

"Don't you miss dear old England, across the channel there? It's only a few minutes into Heathrow from here."

"No, not much. And let me save you the need to think up more pathetic questions. Do I miss the way the world is now? No, not at all. Do I miss having responsibilities for anything or anyone other than for myself? Yes, a little." 

"So is there anything you miss, badly, Mr. Smith?"

"I miss talking to people—sometimes."

"So how the hell do you manage without anyone to talk to, Mr. Smith? You were always a bit of an oddity, what with the long hair, the beard, the messy tie you could never quite manage to fix, the sandals and the socks you once wore to a meeting."

"There you go again… judgment by appearance. But how do I manage? I talk to myself. And I'm very self-critical so don't assume I can get away with saying anything blatantly wrong, untrue or offensive. It might be politically incorrect, but I can get quite heated with myself at times as my mother knows."

There was a pause.

"Is there anything you need, Jimmy?"

"No, Mother, thanks for asking. …except I suppose I want to be listened to. But even then, I still remember your words, Mother. You remember what you said? Be patient with everyone but above all be patient with yourself. I'm being patient, Mother, and you were absolutely right—we're starting to show results. I knew it would take a while, but three years? That's at least two years longer than I thought. But do I care? No, not really. I live happily enough albeit with the increasingly desperate need to finish what I started."

"Well, that's a blessing, Jimmy. So what else have you discovered about yourself since I passed away?"

"That I am a man with only very simple and basic needs, Mother. That eastern practices of patience, tranquillity, self-analysis and contemplation suit my character rather well. I enjoy the simplest of daily tasks, although it didn’t used to be like that. I was once an absolute stickler for efficiency—they all said so—and they all suffered as a result. But if they downed tools in a fit of pique, I would, nevertheless, pick them up and say—here, carry on, just do your best."

"That's my boy."

"Please, Mother, don't embarrass me. Did you know, Mother, it was once said by an ancient Buddhist monk, ‘How wonderful, how miraculous—I fetch wood, I carry water.’ It is this basic simplicity of living a life that is all too short that pleases me, Mother. That is why I do not understand the ways of the corrupt who take more than their fair share from others."

***

Jim slept soundly that night. There were no dreams and no headache and at just after ten next morning he was with Jonathan Walton, just flown in from London and Jan Kerman, just driven up from Brussels where he lived. They were in the bar with a tray of coffee.

"I've just become 'Project Manager—Economic Development—Africa.’" Jan announced and raised a celebratory fist in the air. "Ten days ago."

All three looked at one another as Jan's fist waving stopped. "Yeh, I know," Jan went on, looking embarrassed. "I've stepped up the ladder again and I'm living the high life. But don't laugh, OK? It's so fucking unexciting I find it hard to get up some mornings."

"Your reluctant enthusiasm brightens the day, Jan. You are about as stubbornly patient as I am. So what does the Project Manager—Economic Development—Africa do?"

Jim was leaning back in the chair, his hair longer now than it had ever been but he had, as was now usual for these meetings, tied it back with an elastic band in a vain attempt to appear business-like. Regular emailed updates from Jonathan were useful but there was nothing better than these face-to-face meetings despite the forty-eight-hour round trips. But it had been hard to keep Jan motivated and Jim and Jonathan both knew he had become increasingly frustrated by the seemingly never-ending routine of meetings, reports and nine to five. He might have been slowly edging in the right direction but it had been six months since their first meeting and he had, at times, seemed almost ready to give up.

"I still move paper around and attend meetings," he said, dismally. "But I'm starting to see funding bids when they come in and I sit in on policy meetings and I'm starting to rub shoulders with politicians and…" he paused.

"This might not be important but I've now met the DG—that's the Director General—several times—he's rude, he's short-tempered, he's…" he paused yet again. "I don't like him. His manner, his attitude, his commitment—it all seems wrong for the position he's in. His personal assistant—her name is Katrine—told me she doesn't trust him either. Saying that to a work colleague is potential career suicide. She wants to move out. But—anyway—Katrine and I have become friends."

Jim and Jonathan looked at one another. Was something personal being said in a roundabout way? But Jan went on, "I suggested that if Katrine wanted a move then she should ask for one, just like I've been doing and, if she did, could she recommend me to take over from her. Now, things don't happen like that in the system. We have to keep to proper procedure, job advertisements, decisions on internal applicants, vetting, assessing experience, equal opportunities, et cetera—you know how it is.

"But Katrine and I had lunch one day and she told me something she thought I should know—that the DG spends most of his time away. He rarely ever attends routine meetings these days. When he does it's usually ones where funding bids are discussed. He has to sign them off so I suppose he has good reason to be there. I think Katrine has suspicions about him. We've not yet talked like that, you understand. If she knew what I was doing with you…well…I just don't know."

Jim stood up, wandered away a few steps. "How long has he been in the job—this Director General—the DG?" he asked, leaning on the back of Jan's chair, almost whispering into his ear.

"Several years." Jan turned his head to face Jim. "It's unusual. The President himself has discretion on appointments like that and there is a sort of reshuffle occasionally, but it's all a compromise—if you appear to be doing the job OK and are not getting any flak from anywhere you keep your job."

Jim was still crouched behind Jan's chair. "The man you are referring to as the DG is Dirk Eischmann, is it?"

"Yes."

"And he was once in Environmental Policy?”

"Yes, before this job."

Jim returned to his own chair and Jonathan and Jan looked at him, expectantly. "OK," said Jim. "Now you want to know something? Naming this man in the wrong place was what started my troubles. I know all about Dirk Eischmann. He's Austrian. He grew up in Linz. He was a member of Die Grunen—the Green Party. He moved to Vienna. He used to push an anti-corporate, anti-business line until he suddenly started to make money himself. He was made a director of an Austrian renewable energy company. That got taken over by a German company and suddenly Eischmann finds corporate life much more to his liking. He changes…does a complete U-turn…joins the Social Democrats…again does well for himself and rises up the ladder of influence outside Austria. Then he gets given Environmental Policy—it was his green credentials you see. And that was, coincidentally, just the time my own business, Smith Technology, started to lose business to unknown contractors who failed to deliver—I could time it—almost to the month, certainly to the year.