Whistle Blower (28 page)

"YES, OF COURSE I spoke to Mr. Eischmann. And I didn't like what he told me."

Guido, rotating his big office chair and chewing on a pen seemed ready to sob. He sniffed, swallowed hard, then mumbled like a child.

"Those Cherry Picking bastards ignored us, Toni," he said between sniffs. "Even after I bought them pizza and paid for them to stay at the Park Hyatt Hotel—two single rooms with breakfast—they have gone behind our backs. But they were so naive, Toni. They knew nothing. And after I told them to be more ambitious, what do they do? They stab us in the back by talking to a fucking Nigerian and now they've put in a bid for 35 million Euros. Imagine, Toni. 35 million Euros. That almost beats our record.

"And Mr. Moses is very mad. He thinks it was me who caused him to receive two hundred boxes containing old copies of
Corriere della Sera
instead of his water purifiers."

He took a deep, audible breath as if trying to pull himself together. "So Guido is very upset and angry this morning because he could not sleep last night. His head, it hurts. He is very stressed."

The sniffing stopped abruptly. Instead, he started to giggle.

"But I like being stressed," he chirped as if a lost toy had suddenly been returned. "Whenever a little failure looms, Guido strikes back. Guido will never allow a mark of disgrace to be written on his forehead. So, you too, my flower, must wash away the dirty stain left by a tiny loss and together we will now show that it is not we who are the incompetent fools. It is others who have made a serious error of judgment. 

"Stress, my precious flower, led to another new idea and another clever solution. So, when I spoke to Mr. Eischmann I proposed a very simple solution to the problem of the fucking Cherry Pick bastards. You will see. A big revenge is the cure for a little failure."

THE TUESDAY MEETING of the Economic Aid to West Africa (EAWA) committee was in Room 4/116 and, as always, Dirk Eischmann had settled himself alongside Katrine.

"I hope it's not a long agenda, Katrine. I have a flight booked at 6:00 p.m., so let's not encourage too much discussion."

"We have three new bids for stage one assessment, Mr. Eischmann," Katrine said. "These have already been circulated and, as you know, committee members are required to be fully
au fait
with them before attending this meeting. So, minimal discussion followed by a straight vote I would think."

"Good, and how's the new committee member, Jan Kirkman, doing now? Showing promise?"

"Yes, Mr. Eischmann. He seems very knowledgeable."

"Seeing him socially?"

Katrine didn't look up, but she knew Eischmann was looking at her. "Our paths cross sometimes," she said, trying to hide her shock at the question. What, she wondered, was going on here?

"So," Eischmann said, now turning his attention to the pile of papers. "We'll be signing off the Ghana, Mali and Congo bids. That is what? Almost twenty-six million Euros. Then we'll move onto the three new ones."

It took an hour to come to the new bid written by Jonathan. Katrine, as usual, summarized it before opening it up for discussion. Jan, from his seat around the table, listened.

"This last project—it's the one titled 'Eco Tourism Project, Sulima, Sierra Leone'—you will all have seen it—is seeking some thirty-five million Euros. This has been submitted by Walton Associates in the UK. It looks ambitious, but they have provided three full pages of statistics ending with projections for tourist numbers—again you might consider the numbers ambitious—but they've also submitted estimates for the future value to the country's economy, evidence of local construction capability—a company called Sulima Construction—and three separate letters of official support from local and national government including two letters signed by the Minister for Tourism and the Minister for Trade. These letters confirm the Sierra Leone Government's contribution of 3.5 million Euros. So we have what looks like sound government support and a commitment to contribute. The project is to be managed by a company called Cherry Pick Investments, Freetown, Sierra Leone." She stopped. "Anyone have any initial questions or comments?"

It was Eischmann himself who jumped.

"Yes," he said without looking up. "Cherry Pick Investments. I've never heard of them. What do they do?"

"It's in the documentation, Mr. Eischmann. Construction projects, consultants, advisers especially to hotels and the leisure industry. And, according to the references shown, they are well known to the Chinese Embassy. The information also shows they have offices in Lebanon, Lagos and Holland as well as Sierra Leone. We have names of the Lebanese directors."

"Yes, yes, but it's not enough. And Sulima Construction? Who are they? We need to ask for more information. The Chinese letter also needs translating. I would like to put this project on hold until we have more. Does everyone agree?"

As usual when Eischmann was the first to express an opinion, there were nods and murmurs of agreement. Jan, unwilling to stand out, also nodded his assent. But he already sensed that Eischmann was taking steps to stifle this one. Similar questions could have been asked of the previous two bids. So why this one? Jan couldn't help it. He looked at Katrine and caught her eye. 

At five thirty, from outside in the street and on the designated mobile phone, Jan called Jonathan about Eischmann's decision on the Sierra Leone bid.

"For some reason, Jonathan, he took a dislike to the bid. No doubt you'll hear formally in due course, but you can expect a request for more information on both Cherry Pick Investments and Sulima Construction. There were two other bids prior to that one and neither of them got any questions—both were passed. So why?"

"Could this be Guido's doing?" Jonathan surmised. "We know from Jacob Johnson that Guido was deliberately bypassed by the two Lebanese. They thought he was crazy. So, has Guido decided to get his own back, to get even, to take revenge by telling Eischmann to put the boot in and clobber the bid?"

"That's exactly my thinking," replied Jan. "And I've had another message from the dog in the park. It seems my training in the art of hacking the treasury is not complete. I've got an evening rendezvous in Delft on Thursday."

"In that case, Tom needs to know," Jonathan suggested. "He's on his way to Delft right now. Perhaps he might get a look at Guido himself."

TOM HAD TAKEN a taxi straight back to Heathrow Airport, this time for Amsterdam. Jim walked into the town, purchased a thick brown sweater, a packet of elastic bands and returned to his room. But he couldn't settle. For a while he sat thinking, but then went to his bag of paintings, transferred some into a plastic laundry bag he found in a drawer, pulled the sweater on, took a taxi to the station, a train to London and another taxi to an address in Kensington.

It was late afternoon when he arrived at the Ashton Art Gallery.

He remembered it with green window frames and green door, but everything was now white. He pushed the door and a buzzer sounded as he went inside, up two steps and on to a plush royal blue carpet. The pure white walls were covered, tastefully, with abstract oil paintings, one corner dominated by a large potted fern and another by a table with white, porcelain figures of ballet dancers. As he stood for a moment, the buzzing still in his ears, a woman appeared from a desk behind a screen at the rear. She had long black hair, light brown skin and wore a long, yellow silk skirt with a wide, black belt and black. Malaysian or Thai, Jim thought.

"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?"

Jim looked at her and could not help but remember Noy. It was as if it were Noy standing there. Noy wearing expensive clothes.

"Good afternoon." He looked at her, up and down, and then glanced around the walls. "I used to know Hugh McAllister quite well," he said. "I was wondering if he would see me."

"Mr. McAllister will be back very soon, sir. May I help you in the meantime?"

Jim's eyes were still roving around the walls. Abstracts. Big and small. Wall decorations. He walked over to examine one more closely as the woman watched him, nervously. Perhaps it was his beard and long hair, Jim thought, although he himself also felt a little apprehensive as if he was a poor and struggling artist desperate for someone to enthuse about his work as though his livelihood and the survival of a young family might depend upon a favorable response.

"Yes, perhaps," he said. "I have brought along a few pieces of my work for Hugh to see. Perhaps I can show them to you while we await his return."

"It would probably be best if you show Mr. McAllister rather than me."

Jim couldn't help looking at her big brown eyes, long lashes and thick, black eyebrows, and he recognized the accent. She saw him looking at her and looked away. Her lips were full and pink and then he remembered her. "You are from Malaysia?"

"Yes," she said and looked back at him, smiling, pleased.

"But you have lived here for some time now?"

"Yes, my husband is English. He works in the city."

"Are you from Penang?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Did you once work at the Ambassador Hotel?"

"Yes. How do you know?"

"I stayed there once."

"Ah," she said, smiling. "I once worked in the restaurant."

"I remember," he said.

"You have a good memory."

"For some things."

"May I ask how long did you stay in Malaysia?" she said.

"In the hotel for just two days but I stayed in the area for longer. I returned on Thursday. I have been away since then."

Jim could remember her even more clearly now. It had been during the days of a Sunday newspaper interview given by Margaret. He had lain on his hotel bed reading it, over and over again. Then he had gone down to dinner.

In the restaurant, this woman was the waitress and he had ordered grilled fish. He was amazed at how clearly he could remember all this despite the effects of Tiger beer. He remembered looking at the fish, then at the tablecloth and trying to find his bottle, which was six inches from his plate. He had been fully aware of his condition and had looked at her, up and down, just like now. It was this same girl who had started him thinking about the point of continued faithfulness. He had not made any advances towards her, although he remembered, just, amidst the alcoholic haze, being sorely tempted. But it was she who had set his thoughts in motion. He could also remember something else.

"Your name is Melissa, am I right?"

"That is amazing. How did you remember that?"

Jim looked at her and tried to smile. "I have always been grateful to you, you see. You started me on a long process of readjustment in my life. It is still going on, but I am grateful for the small, perhaps unwitting, part you played."

"I am afraid I don't remember what I said, but if it was useful then I am very pleased."

Jim smiled at her, his poor teeth showing through the beard.

"So, do you have a business card or something, Mister uh?" she asked as if trying to change the subject.

"No. I am so sorry. My name is Jim Smith. Hugh's wife Anne worked for me once—for a short time. That is how we know each other."

"Oh, I see. You knew Anne?"

Jim did not answer this time. Instead he bent down to the plastic laundry bag and carefully withdrew a small bundle of his paintings. "I'm afraid I don't look after them too well."

He held one out to her. It was his old lady with the basket of eggs and fried bananas, a water color of the woman's shoulders, the wooden yoke and her face looking directly out, the deep lines on her face drawn in sharp black ink, the wispy, gray hair falling across her dry and sunburned cheeks. But it was her eyes that mesmerized. The deepest brown and shining with an almost wicked twinkle. And her mouth—open and toothless—it smiled back. He handed it to Melissa. She took it to the window. "It’s so good," she smiled.

He handed her another. A lizard. Black and red. Its crested head aloft, its eyes looking sideways and its tail curved around towards its front legs, claws and scales drawn and painted in meticulous detail. He pulled out another. A large fruit, yellow, greenish, its surface pitted and rough. It lay on the ground apparently in bright sunlight casting a dark shadow, its thick stalk angled towards the viewer. "Jackfruit," said Melissa.

The fighting cock. Its head down, its feathers fluffed, its vicious eye glinting. "Amazing. Very good."

Jim watched her as she looked closely and then held each one out before her or went to the window for a better look. "Your colors are incredible," she said. "Feathers, scales, texture, the skin, wrinkles, the eyes. Especially the eyes."

Jim waited, quite happy to look at Melissa anyway. Then the door buzzer sounded and Melissa looked up. "It’s Hugh, Mr. McAllister," she said.

Hugh McAllister, now in his early forties, looked much the same as Jim remembered. He was slim, short and casually but smartly dressed in a blue denim shirt, but his hair was now visibly receding at the front. He came in carrying a brown bag and a flat box of pizza.

"This is Mr. Smith, Mr. McAllister. He came specially to see you." Hugh McAllister put everything down and came over. He looked at Jim, up and down.

"Well I'm damned. If I'm not seriously mistaken this is no simple Mr. Smith, Melissa. This is James Smith, my favorite politician of all time, short and sweet though it was. Jim, how good to see you. It is you, isn't it?" He held out his hand.

"How are you, Hugh?"

"Well, thank you. And you're looking—what shall we say? Bronzed. Yes, bronzed—bronzed and bearded. What brings you here? Long time."

"Yes, it's been a while, Hugh. How's business?"

"Fine, fine. You know how it is, Jim. Up and down. We've gone into more abstract work these days. Seems more of a demand. It's the expensive, contemporary, riverside apartments. Not that they ever want to pay very much."

"How's Anne?" It was an unusual question for Jim. It was private and private questions were normally alien to him. He usually avoided them altogether. But this one had some significance. It was asked early on and it was deliberate.

"Anne? Divorced, Jim. It's ancient history."

"I'm sorry. I had no idea." But Jim was not surprised.

"You've been away. Why should you? Where've you been?"

"Thailand"

"Nice. Live there, do you?"

"Yes."

"Alone, Jim?"

"Yes. Are you and Anne hitched up again, Hugh?" Again, it was unusually personal and he never normally used the word hitched, but Jim got the answer he was seeking.

"Anne is. She married one of those high ranking bureaucrats working out of Brussels and is living a life of luxury that I could never have afforded. Speaking of luxury—would you care to join us for a slice of pizza around the back? It's a very late lunch or early dinner, I'm not sure which. But when I smelled it along the road I couldn't resist it."

"Yes, thank you."

"Bring the box, Melissa, and there's a nice Italian white in the fridge. Let's celebrate."

So Jim joined them in eating pizza and drinking wine. Conversation was amiable enough. Hugh, never one for deep conversation, chatted superficially about London, art, business. Jim steered clear of mentioning Anne again but planned to come back to it. At last Hugh appeared to wonder why Jim was paying him a visit. Melissa jumped in. "Mr. Smith has brought some very good paintings. His own work."

Hugh looked at her and then at Jim. "You've taken up painting, Jim? Then let's have a look."

Melissa laid them on a table, switched on a desk lamp and stood back. Hugh looked over the top of his spectacles, silent for a while, picking them up, one by one. "Do you have more, Jim?"

"Just a few more are in there." Jim pointed to the plastic laundry bag. "Do you want to see them?"

Hugh nodded but continued to look at what was already laid out. He was now holding the one of the old lady. "I like it, Jim. Good. In fact it's very good." He put it down and went to peer inside the bag. "You always keep them in a hotel laundry bag?"

He pulled them out, one by one, lay them on the table and took one of Jim's morning sky paintings—abstract, lines of orange, pink, purple and gray with a black silhouette of a coconut palm—to the window

"They’re good, Jim. But this one." Hugh moved to one he had put down separately. "This one is brilliant." Jim stood up to see. It was Noy and Oy. They both looked back at him, Noy's mischievous eyes peering through Oy's black hair.

"That one would not be for sale, Hugh. It is rather special to me. I included it to show the type of thing I've been doing."

"So how many have you done, Jim?"

"There are about three hundred at home. I brought about fifty."

Hugh looked again at Noy and Oy. "You are good, Jim. I had no idea. More satisfying than bloody politics, eh? So what do you want to do, Jim?"

"If you think they're good enough, I'd like to organize a quick exhibition—before I return. Can you arrange it?"

Hugh looked at him over his glasses again. "Where? How? Why? How much do you want to spend, et cetera, my dear friend? And how quickly is quick?"

"Within a month?"

"That's very quick. Why so urgent? When are you going home?"

"In a month."

"Not sticking around to test reaction?"

"Can you do it, Hugh? A hotel? Somewhere central? Organize a few people to come along? Press? Publicity?"

"Why the urgency, Jim? I've never heard anything quite like it."

"I want to make some public comments about what happened three years ago. I guarantee some interest if you can get it organized."

"Are you serious, Jim?"

"Of course. I'll pay for a venue. But I'm open to suggestions. It’s up to you to have a quick think on venue, promotion, organizing it. Can you do it, Hugh?"

"I suppose it's possible, but you really mean one month?"

"Or earlier. I would be very grateful. You can take all the proceeds from sales or give it to charity. I'm really not interested in the money."

Hugh McAllister looked at him. "So what's biting you, Jim? After all this time."

"I just want to prove something. It's very simple. Do you recall the nonsense that surrounded me before I went away? It was wrong, malicious, deliberate, but I need to prove I was right in asking questions and demanding action. Someone tried to silence me—no, more than that, to destroy me."

"I remember, Jim. After all," he paused, "I had to listen to Anne every night." He looked away but then quickly back at Jim. Jim waited—waited for something he had suspected for four years. Melissa, obviously sensitive to something, walked away.

"You know something? I can say it now after so long because Anne has gone. Anne was involved somehow, Jim. I don't know how but I think she had something to do with your problems. I could only see the best in her at the time, but I now see things in a different light. I was not good enough for her. I was just a struggling, small gallery owner. She was ten years younger and thought I was something far bigger in the art world than I was. It was probably my fault, but offering a small showroom for unknown artists in a side street is quite different than dealing in art masterpieces. I didn't exactly come up to her expectations with a life of exotic holidays, skiing, yachts moored off somewhere fancy, of rubbing shoulders with royalty and men of power and influence at dinner parties and suchlike. I'm a takeaway pizza man who doesn't even own a car let alone a yacht. It just didn't work. I can't say much more and I have no evidence except some comments she made, but I have certain nagging suspicions about her nowadays. She had her mind set on something—something that meant she'd do anything to get it. She was already having an affair with the guy she eventually went off with—all long before I got to know."