Whistle Blower (14 page)

He found his wallet and the keys to the bike, shut and bolted the rickety door, climbed down the steps and pulled out the motorcycle from beneath the house. Minutes later he was on the main road, the breeze in his beard and long hair and feeling as if nothing had happened. He stopped at a row of roadside stalls, leaned the motorcycle against a concrete post and went to the shade of some tattered umbrellas above tables laden with fruit. Several locals were sitting in the shade of a clump of banana trees and shouted out to him, “Hallo, Jim.” Jim only waved. He wasn't up to conversation today.

Instead, he stood and scanned the fruit—green mangoes, bananas, pineapples, rambutan and fresh green coconuts floating in polystyrene boxes of iced water. He bought his favorite, ice-cold coconut, the stall owner expertly hacked off the top with a large knife, stuck in a plastic straw and smiled as she handed it to him. Jim tried to smile back but wasn't sure if she saw it. Inwardly, though, it was as if she were the doctor who had just saved his life. He paid her and went to sit back on the saddle of the bike in the shade to drink the cool, sweet juice. Bliss, except he kept remembering the morning’s little problem. It was spoiling his day.

JAN KERKMAN HAD been sitting in his car in a side street in Bruges, Belgium, for more than forty-five minutes. 

Patience had never been one of his strongest characteristics and, despite the digital clock behind the steering wheel showing 10:46, he looked at his watch as if there might be a fault with one or the other. Being Sunday and, despite heavy overnight rain, he would have preferred to have been in the gym or on a longer run—perhaps even a half marathon as he had planned. On one side, locals with dogs walked on the wet pavement and on the other side bicycles and cars passed by on the road. As a mild distraction to the increasing boredom, the car radio was on but it was a local channel—family chat, adverts, a phone-in and sweet music. He turned it off and tapped the steering wheel.

As requested, he had driven from Brussels to Bruges and the phone call he had been expecting for forty-six minutes was to confirm a meeting place with someone going by the name of Guido. At 10:52 his mobile phone rang. The voice was sharp and clear, like a church choirboy with a hint of an Italian accent. "Mr. Kerkman? Is that you?"

"Yes."

"OK. You will meet me at the Cafe de Oude Hans. It is close to the old church in the center of Delft."

"But that's in Holland. I am in Bruges."

"Holland? Belgium? Bulgaria? Latvia? We are all one big, borderless community are we not? And, anyway, I thought you were Dutch. You'll be coming home. And what is the problem with a change of venue? I decide meeting places, not you. Are you driving a car or on a Dutch bicycle?"

"I am in my car," Jan admitted.

"So you will know that Delft is not so far to drive. We will meet at 2:00 p.m.
Arrivederci
."

Delft in the south of Holland is an old city with a historic center and canals. It is a pleasant tourist attraction, the birthplace of the painter Vermeer and of the famous Delft blue pottery. In some ways it is not unlike Bruges and like many parts of Holland, it has a history of international trade and influence. Delft blue pottery is, itself, a Chinese influence. So, there is little doubt that over the last four hundred years or so Delft has seen its fair share of money-making deals and other transactions within its ancient walls.  

Despite his mild protestation about a change of place for his meeting with the Italian, Jan knew Delft well and with the fast motorway heading out of Bruges free of heavy traffic, he was early. He parked outside the city center and walked over a canal filled with water lilies, past the City Hall and easily spotted the Cafe de Oude Hans. But as it was only 1:30 p.m., he walked past and went to lean on some railings overlooking the canal and to smoke a rare cigarette because he felt a little nervous. The sun was now quite warm and it had brought out shorts skirts and tee shirts and so Kerkman leaned, smoked and watched the passing female talent. He thought about Katrine and wondered what she was doing. Fraternizing with staff, especially one so close to Eischmann as Katrine was, was not going to be easy.

And he wasn't looking forward to this meeting. He had only spoken to the man called Guido by phone twice. The first call had been very brief, the second had been the call earlier. What had struck Jan was the man's voice. It was strange—high-pitched and clear as a bell, just like that of a boy he used to know at junior school. What was his name? Stefan, that was it. Stefan Scheele. They'd all mocked him, the poor lad, just because his voice took years longer to break than anyone else's.

And Jan knew nothing about Guido except for a brief description given in an impatient tone by Eischmann as they passed on the empty corridor on the sixth floor. Jan felt as if he had overstretched his position and was being petty by asking such an unimportant detail. Perhaps he had been. Certainly the DG hadn't liked being stopped. It had been a mistake. Jan knew he had to be very, very careful.

"Short…dark suit…you'll recognize him," Eischmann had said, and then he was gone.

What his family name was Jan was not told. Neither did he know if Guido was just a nickname. But when he saw a taxi pull up and a short, fat little man in a dark suit climb out, there was little doubt it was him. The Italian stood in the middle of the narrow road looking around. He then spotted the canal and went to look over the same railing that Jan himself was leaning on just ten meters away. Jan watched him nod his head as if in appreciation of the water lilies below and then look around. The Cafe de Oude Hans was right in front of him, its entrance surrounded by colorful hanging baskets and the pavement area outside laid out with small metal tables and chairs, each table with a Delft blue vase of lavender flowers. Guido nodded his head once again and walked towards it with quick, short steps, his round head with its flat mop of jet black hair turning rapidly from side to side like that of a small bird. 

Jan made a move and as Guido looked up at the hanging flower baskets, he tapped him on the shoulder.

"Guido?"

"Ah,
sì, che è
in me
—that's me. You must be Mr. Kerkman."

He looked at Jan—up and down his full six feet three inches from his size 12 black shoes to his short cropped, fair hair. "Mmm, you are very tall and so…mmmm…bureaucrats are normally so dull."

He held out a short arm and a white hand emerged from the long sleeve of his suit jacket as he continued to gaze up at Jan. 

"I'm pleased to meet you," Jan said, feeling self-conscious. He grasped the hand that was offered and was shocked at how cold and small it felt. The top of Guido's head barely reached Jan's shoulder.

"Nice, nice," Guido said turning his back mid handshake and indicating the flowers and tables. "But we are not eating today."

"Then a coffee, perhaps?" said Jan, trying to be polite and pointing towards an empty table.

"No, no, no. We will go to my apartment."

"You have an apartment in Delft?"

"Yes. It is small, compact and bijou. But it is enough."

"Have you owned the apartment long?" It was small talk but the answer was unexpected.

Guido giggled in a boyish way. "Yes," he said chirpily, looking at his wrist and a small-faced watch circled with clear stones that might have been diamonds. "For twenty minutes. Here is the key. Come."

Jan was led along the side of the canal and then left into a narrow cobbled street of old, two and three storey buildings, small gift shops of Delft Blue china and a pleasant smelling bakery. Between the bakery and a gift shop was a shiny, black door with a brass plate bearing numbers of flats above and some security buttons to press.

"My little key," Guido said, holding up the key. "But I must first remember the entry code." He scratched his head with the key and closed his eyes. "Ah, yes." He pressed a few buttons, the door clicked and he pushed it open.

Jan followed as he mounted the carpeted stairs daintily but sideways like a crab. On the first landing, he stopped, turned right and faced a closed door with a brass number 2 above his head height. He inserted the key in the lock and went in.

"Come. It is not large. It is a room only—a
pied a terre
, a rabbit's burrow, a fox's hole. Ah—no, no, no—it is none of those. It is the den of a small wolf with big teeth that growls but does not howl at night in case it wakes the neighbors. But sometimes, if I sleep here, I might snore." He chuckled like a boy of eight telling jokes.

The single room had a pine, laminate floor and was bare except for a black leather two-seater sofa, two matching armchairs and a pine coffee table. The blinds on the only window were shut. "Sit," said Guido, clicking on a lamp that hung from the ceiling. "I have a kitchen big enough to make a cup of espresso and a bathroom big enough for cleaning my teeth and a shit."

Jan sank his frame into one of the leather armchairs, crossed his legs, felt he should say something and said the only thing he could think of. "You will stay here often?"

"Sometimes," Guido stated firmly as he perched on the edge of the other chair. He then leaned back, slipped off black loafers and put his short legs up onto the coffee table to expose a pair of pure white, hairless legs above bright yellow socks. Now almost horizontal, he wiggled his toes as if he might prefer to be wearing carpet slippers. He giggled. "It is enough. It is comfortable. It can be an office and a meeting room. Delft, you see, is not Amsterdam and it is not Brussels and it is not Paris or London or Frankfurt or Madrid. Delft is perfect."

He suddenly sat up straight, placed his yellow socked feet side by side on the pine floor, pushed his discarded shoes with the neat leather tassels together and rested his small white hands on his knees. "Now, to business," he said, clearly having finished with any small talk. "The Democratic Republic of Congo."

With a deliberate flourish he produced from the inside pocket of his dark gray suit a tablet phone. He pressed a few buttons.

"Excellent WiFi here…it was a strict requirement. It means we can begin your education, Mr. Kerkman. Yes, the Democratic Republic of Congo—we will call that mysterious and dangerous part of the dark continent the DRC, OK? My tongue is not sufficiently good to say Democratic Republic of Congo in a way our French colonialist cousins prefer. But then I hate the fucking French. Their standards have fallen beyond recognition and their food—their food—yuck!—it is now worse than the English." There was a brief pause during which he sucked at his front teeth before adding, "That is between you and me."

Jan was smiling but feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He put his own hands and fingers together and, because it was a bad habit, cracked a few knuckle joints. Then he moved his head as if a neck hair had caught in his tee shirt. Guido clearly sensed some nervousness. His small eyes now focused directly on Jan's hands. He squinted, frowned a little.

"Mmm," he said and paused before continuing. "OK. To continue. The DRC. Previous kind gifts to this huge country were fraught with accusations of inefficiency in delivery. Unsurprisingly, local politicians and the President himself seemed the biggest beneficiaries. The poor received very little. This is, of course, most unacceptable. Our job is to find a much fairer way to distribute thirty million Euros. Once we have dealt with that we can then deal with the next thirty million and so on and so on. That puts a huge responsibility on our small shoulders, don't you agree?"

He stopped abruptly having delivered the last few sentences at the speed of light. "This, of course, is precisely the sort of thing you have expressed an interest in helping with. Is it not?"

"Yes," said Jan, still trying to smile.

Guido giggled, still looking at Jan's nervous hands. "Nice. Nice." Then he stood up and wandered daintily around the chair in his yellow socks, with one hand holding onto the chair back as if he was a final competitor in a game of musical chairs at a children's birthday party. He circled the chair twice and then stopped to briefly examine his fingernails. He bit on one.

"This new project is a good one," he chirped. "It is why I decided to open a special branch office here in Delft. We need to manage it properly to ensure that less funds disappear into the pockets of African despots and their henchmen and more find their way into, what shall we say, more deserving projects. The money has come from generous taxpayers so let us ensure that it is put to better use and that some of it returns."

He circled the chair once more. "We may install a member of staff here for a week or so—long enough to form a company and make a funding bid or two. Then…we will make it disappear. It is an interesting life."

Chuckling to himself, he sat down on the chair once again and loosened the belt around his waist. Then he let out a long sigh and swiped a stubby finger across the screen of the tablet phone.

"They have such nice websites and many files that, if you so wish, you can download. There is too much of course because they think it will drive innocent browsers into a deep sleep of boredom—a policy that forms the background to much of what they do. Public apathy, you see, helps them to rule. But it is also their subtle way of showing how democratic, open and accountable they are. But you, Mr. Kerkman, know all about this. You work there and you see this website every day.

"You will also know that they still use far too much paper—piles of it. There is so much paperwork and bureaucracy, you see. They assume that all their checks and balances and processes plug the leaks in their buckets. But they only succeed in making matters worse. Their buckets are rusty. No one understands the systems now. Bureaucracy, you see, has superseded democracy. Western politicians are now such weak bastards. They rely on the bureaucrats to avoid the need to make decisions. That way they can wave away mistakes or accusations of incompetence and point fingers at others. But there are so many bureaucrats that their fingers never alight on any one in particular so everyone is perfectly safe from public anger. But I, Guido, know exactly where I will point my finger, Mr. Kerkman. But we will come to that.

"And bureaucrats like you, Mr. Kerkman. What do fucking bureaucrats do? The bureaucrats rely on consultants. And so, if one looks hard enough, the bureaucrats and the politicians can all be found hiding behind the long skirts of private consultants.

"But first they must pay the consultants huge sums of money to ensure that their recommendations and conclusions do not upset the status quo. The consultants must, you see, only recommend what has already been decided. The politicians want to be re-elected, the bureaucrats want to keep their jobs and the consultants want more business. It is a very simple game when you know the rules.