Whistle Blower (30 page)

JAN APPROACHED THE shiny black door in the side street of Delft, pressed the buzzer, waited and looked around in case he was, as last time, prodded with the point of an umbrella.

He had no idea whether Tom Hanrahan was somewhere close by, but the very thought that he might be somewhere near gave him a much more comfortable feeling than the last time he'd stood there. A streetlight cast shadows on the cobbled street and reflected off the door, but other than casual walkers, a few boys on bicycles and a tall woman in a dark coat standing at the railings overlooking the canal, he had seen no one that resembled Guido.

Jan pressed the buzzer again, put his ear to the speaker. Nothing. Then he checked his watch. He was precisely on time and, by now, it was almost dark. He tried the buzzer again and, just as he did so, his mobile phone rang in his jacket pocket.

"Yes?" he said.

"Ah, Mr. Kerkman." The voice was unmistakable. "I am not at home today. Instead, we will deal with matters by telephone. Please return to the canal, find a seat and make yourself comfortable. The seat will be wet after the rain so you may want to dry it first. I will call you in two minutes."

Jan did as he was told. He found an empty bench seat beneath a streetlight and next to the railings where he'd once stood to admire water lilies in the canal and the short skirts of summer. A bicycle was chained to the fence next to him, the tall woman he had seen was now gone, a couple, arm in arm, strolled by laughing and two boys went noisily past on skateboards. On the other side of the canal it was busier and, at the Cafe de Oude Hans, people were checking menus at the window and a waiter was outside clearing wet tables beneath wet umbrellas. Then his phone rang again.

"Ah, Mr. Kerkman. Are you sitting comfortably?"

"Yes, thank you," said Jan.

"That is good. Now listen to me. There is a small problem with Puff and Slush. It seems it is not quick enough and someone has become suspicious. It is not your problem, but we want to test our new, bigger, better, faster and more secure version of Puff and Slush. What is very clever is that it does not need the use of an internal computer, but can be done from a laptop. As you do not have one, someone will deliver one to you in approximately—ah—twenty seconds. Wait. Do not switch your mobile phone off. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Jan.

With Guido, nothing surprised Jan any more. As if participating in some form of street magic he waited until someone tapped his shoulder. The tall, long-coated woman he had seen earlier was now standing right behind him. A laptop computer was placed on the seat beside him as Jan caught a fleeting whiff of perfume. Then the tall woman in the knee-length raincoat with a dark scarf covering her head walked away towards the bridge. Jan was sure it was the same one who had given him the package in the car park in Brussels.

"Now," said Guido's voice from the phone. "Open it and switch it on…There is an icon on the left that says Puff and Slush Version 2. Click it…What you now see is the start up screen…Yes?

"Yes."

"Enter the EAWA file and then the file covering the recent Tourism Project bid from Sierra Leone. This may take a few seconds. The speed is not Guido's fault but the equipment and server used by your employers. I will wait until you say yes."

Jan, sweating, did as he was told. Finally: "Yes," he said.

"Good. Now enter the file to show the details of the consultants who submitted the bid."

Fingers shaking because he knew this was Walton Associates, Jan clicked. "Yes."

“Now, delete that file.”

"Delete it?"

"Do not argue, Mr. Kerkman. Delete it. It is easy. Just hit ctrl plus A as you normally would. Then hit delete."

Jonathan's covering letter for the Sierra Leone bid on behalf of Jacob Johnson disappeared.

"Now return to the main menu. Under documents you will find a file marked EAWA Consultant."

Jan quickly found the file—three pages with an introductory letter from a company called Freeway Consultants with an address in Luxemburg.

"Yes."

"Cut and paste it into the online EAWA file."

There was just time for Jan to read the introductory sentence of the document. "Freeway Consultants are the new agents appointed by the main contractors, Sulima Construction, for the Eco Tourism Project, Sulima, Sierra Leone.”

Jan, shocked, breathed out heavily. Guido clearly heard.

"You are surprised, Mr. Kerkman? Thank you for remotely testing Puff and Slush Version 2 for us. Your bank balance has just been credited with five thousand Euros and a present of two thousand Euros sent to your father's bank account in Amsterdam with a note saying, 'Happy Birthday, Father.'”

"But…"

"No buts, Mr. Kerkman, Just say thank you very much Guido and then go very carefully. We keep digitalized records of all that you do for us in case of any repercussions. The system for recording such matters and member's bank credits is called Flush because we use it for all our members who are flush with money. Puff, Slush and Flush—you see? It is very easy to remember."

On Jan's mobile, there was a squeal of high-pitched laughter. "Oh yes, Flush will show it was you who changed this bid from Sierra Leone. Why did you do it? I cannot imagine. Now shut down the computer in the proper way, close the lid and put it beside you on the seat. And please, Mr. Kerkman, be polite and phone your father to check if he has received his present. Your father was a broker in Amsterdam, wasn't he? He will be so pleased that you are following in his footsteps by making money and not wasting your degree in Corporate and International Finance."

Sweating heavily, Jan did as he was told, looking straight ahead towards the Cafe de Oude Hans on the other side of the canal. He might have heard something, but when he looked the laptop was gone and the tall woman was walking away.

But Jan was now learning tricks of his own.

After Jonathan had phoned earlier to tell him about his meeting with Scott Evora and that he had been given a listening device, Jan had used his lunch break to buy himself a mini voice recorder that he taped just inside his shirt. It was a huge risk that had depended on Guido not turning up in person and not inviting him into the apartment. But having switched on the loudspeaker function on his mobile, Jan was now desperate to get back to Brussels to listen to whatever it had picked up. But where was Tom?

Tom Hanrahan was sitting with a Dutch beer at a wet table outside the Cafe de Oude Hans.

Wearing his driving glasses because, but for streetlights, it was dark and too far for his fading eyesight, Tom had watched everything. As the tall woman left and walked towards the foot bridge carrying something, Tom quickly paid his bill and followed her to the nearest car park where he had parked his own small rental car. He watched her get into a big, black BMW with Belgian plates and within five minutes he was following it as it headed towards Rotterdam and then the E19 towards Antwerp in Belgium. It took the route around the city and then headed towards Brussels. Tom, checking his fuel gage, kept going, still following the red rear lights of the BMW in the distance.

"I'LL DRIVE DOWN to see you in Brighton, Mr. Harding." Cole Harding had phoned Jonathan to fix a meeting for the following week, but Jonathan was far too impatient to wait for that.

The offices of Fitzgerald, Waterman & Harding were just a short walk from Brighton sea front. Once inside, Harding's own office was a typical English lawyer's room—walls of law books behind glass, an old, polished-oak table, four leather seated matching chairs and Harding's oak desk piled with files alongside a computer. What marked it out as different were the photographs that lined the walls—pictures of African families and a framed print of an old colonial-style building fronted by palm trees.

Cole Harding noticed Jonathan looking at it.

"Fourah Bay College, Freetown," he said. "Founded in 1827 by the Church Missionary Society."

"I had no idea there was such an old College in Sierra Leone," admitted Jonathan.

"Even during World War Two, the British colonial government took it over because of its strategic position."

Jonathan noticed his voice and English accent. It was uncannily similar to Jim's. "You were educated there?" he asked, although he already knew the answer because he'd checked.

"No, no," Harding replied. "I came to England with my parents when I was seven. I grew up here, but still have extended family back there—family that seems to grow larger every year. I'm forever discovering lost cousins." He laughed and sat back.

"So," he went on. "When I mentioned Cherry Investments and Sulima Construction, it clearly rang a bell with you, Mr. Walton?"

Jonathan sensed just a touch of suspicion and quite right, too. They did not know each other. Harding needed to reassure himself and check Jonathan out. But Harding had seemed an impatient, no nonsense sort of man on the phone so Jonathan's strategy, decided on the drive down, was to jump straight in.

"I don't know either of them," he said. "I was asked to help with a funding bid by someone who claimed to represent them—a Nigerian. But I've been in this business a while, Mr. Harding, and like to think I can smell a scam or an attempt at fraud a mile away."

"But you said they are a client."

"Mr. Harding. I would like to ask that you treat this conversation with the utmost confidentiality."

Cole Harding raised his eyebrows. "As always," he said, toying with an expensive-looking Mount Blanc fountain pen.

"And I've checked you out," said Jonathan, unsmiling, but pleased to be saying that to a lawyer. "I have read about your attempts to stamp out fraud—especially that emanating from West Africa."

"A futile task, Mr. Johnson. Nevertheless, I trust the checks met with your approval."

"It is why I asked that we meet far sooner than you suggested. I cannot wait even a week."

"I see. Desperate times, indeed."

Jonathan then sat with Cole Harding through several calls to his desk phone. Each time, he said, "I'm running late, Carole. Please apologize and ask that they call back. I'm happy to stay later tonight to accommodate them if it is convenient." 

At midday, it was Cole Harding who wound up their discussion.

"So, Jonathan, let me summarize if I may. You and your three colleagues, two of whom are mysterious and nameless and the other being ex independent member of parliament Jim Smith whom I remember only too well—admirable gentleman—they are pursuing the private investigations you have already instigated. Jim himself is temporarily back in UK but not willing for that fact to be publicized. Correct?"

Jonathan nodded.

"The Sierra Leone bid you have submitted with the connivance of the Nigerian man called Jacob Johnson is, you are certain, an attempt at the fraudulent transfer of millions of Euros of economic development aid funds to unknown hands—although we have some names—linked to a chain of companies going by the name Cherry—Cherry Investments, Cherry Picking, et cetera."

Jonathan nodded again "And this Sierra Leone funding bid is just an example."

"Of course. But you are using this bid, knowing it is an attempt at fraud—a test case to try and pinpoint how it's done, where it's done and who does it.”

"Exactly."

"You already suspect an organized criminal group that operates globally with international connections that include certain high ranking bureaucrats who influence decision-making processes. As a result they have access to resources that can be, and have been, used to stifle attempts to uncover it—as poor Mr. Smith found to his cost. Give him my best wishes, by the way. I wish there were more like him. Is my summary accurate?"

Jonathan smiled. "Yes."

Cole Harding sat back. "Fine, then what I will do now is the following. As a priority I will speak to my cousin who first brought this to my attention—Suleiman runs a road haulage company in Freetown. I will ask him to delve a little deeper with the additional information you have now provided. In due course, but only if necessary, I can call on the Inspector General of Police to act—he is a good friend. In the meantime we will do nothing other than to immediately alert Suleiman. We will wait until the time is right, enough evidence is available and you and your small team are ready and in need of additional support. Is that how you understand it?"

"Perfectly," said Jonathan, "And we're hoping the FBI and Interpol might also be there when the time is right, Cole."

"AH. THIS IS Guido, Signore Mendes. Guido from Italy. I am in London."

"How the fuck…?" The mobile phone of Silvester Mendes, aka Lucas Valdez, had just rung. Lounging in his underwear in his room at the Intercontinental Hotel in London, he hit the TV remote, switched off the Jeremy Kyle show and stood up.

"How the fuck, Signor Mendes? It was very easy. Is the Intercontinental Hotel a good hotel, Signore Mendes? Nice food? Nice bed?”

"What the fuck…?"

"What the fuck, Signore Mendes? It is about Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, West Africa, East Africa, Central Africa. You cannot hide from Guido. You were in Dubai and you spoke to one of my friends who told my managing director who told me. So, welcome now to London, Mr. Mendes. I think we should meet again."

"Why the fuck…?"

"Why the fuck? Because you are looking to expand your business and there is only one partner good enough."

"And who the fuck is that?"

"Who the fuck? Why, me, Guido of course."

"And what if I don't want to see you, you little prick."

"Waaaah," Guido's soprano voice shrilled. "That's not nice. Of course you do. Think about it, Silvester. Don't be so hasty. Think like a businessman not an ex New York cop. We are professionals on this side of the big pond. Things are sophisticated. Without sophistication, you might as well go back to America. Americans couldn't even point to Somalia on a map let alone make money out of it."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Work with me, Silvester. Invest in me and start living up to your name—Silvester the Investor."

"Why the fuck…?"

"Meet me before I tell someone about your account with Dubai Asia Investment Bank and about Akram and Tahir and our mutual friend the Finance Minister. No one will find me but everyone knows where to find you. I found you. You are in room 320 and you were at the Highwayman Club last night and if I were you I'd watch your back. The FBI are on your tail."

"The fucking FBI have been on my tail for years."

"Meet me, Silvester. I'm in the lobby right now."

Silvester Mendes heard the phone click. This was his third mobile phone and SIM card since his arrival in London, so how the hell did that little bastard, who he'd only met once before in a hotel lobby in Karachi, know his number? He stood, walked around the room, pulled on some clothes, picked up his key and took the lift downstairs.

The lobby was frantically busy with coming and going. All seats were taken, luggage was being wheeled about, an Arab with entourage—children, women clad from head to toe in black sat waiting but Mendes wandered around. There was no sign of the squat little man in a dark suit he'd met in Pakistan, but he knew if he talked he'd hear him.

"Fucking, lying little prick." He turned to go back to the lifts where a tall, dark-haired woman was peering into a brown leather handbag on a gilt chain hung off her shoulder. He pressed the button, waited and when the lift arrived and the door opened he and the woman went inside. The woman stood behind him. He pressed for floor three, the woman for floor four. On the third floor Mendes got out. In his room he felt something in his pocket. It was a sheet of pink paper.

"My dear Silvester. We should be partners. Together we could exploit USAID's flaws because we have the technology. But we need someone on the ground. Invest in a professional partner, Silvester, or be doomed to detection and arrest. The choice is yours."