Whistle Blower (33 page)

"YOU AWAKE, JIM?"

It was five o'clock when Jim's phone rang. He had been half awake since three because the bad dream had recurred—not pigeons this time but cuckoos building nests in a tree somewhere.

"But cuckoos don't build nests," Margaret had shouted at him in the dream. "They steal nests of other birds. I don't believe a word you say." Margaret, in real life quiet and passive, was raging at him when the phone rang.

"Yes, who is it?"

"It's Tom."

"No need to shout, Tom. Did you get to share a bed with Guido?"

"I slept in the feckin' car. Have you ever slept in a box, Jim? If I was on expenses I might have paid the 120 Euros they wanted. I now need a wash. Perhaps I'll go upstairs, visit the gents and watch Guido eating a 30 Euro breakfast. But do I keep following him? I can't pursue him across Europe, Jim, and he's bound to soon realize a tiny white Opel has been following him half way across Europe."

"Fancy diverting and, instead, driving to Zurich to check on Freeways? If you start now you'll be there by tonight." Jim tried laughing but his head hurt.

"If Guido's driving back to Italy he'd go via Zurich. Is that what you're saying?"

"It's a possibility but I'm not suggesting you tail him through three or four more countries. But driving around Europe even with a set of false driving documents is a far more secure way of hiding your ID than going everywhere by scheduled airline."

"But he's so short, Jim. He can barely see through the steering wheel. I was right behind him at one point and I could have sworn it was a driverless car. But, seriously, I could ditch the car and fly to Zurich. Then, if we find Guido's hide-out in Italy, I'll head on down there. I bought a camera in Delft and took some lovely photos of Guido and Eischmann—mostly of their backs."

Jim glanced out of the hotel window. It was still dark so he lay back on the pillow, but Margaret was on his mind as well as Tom in Antwerp. He talked to himself about Jan in Brussels, muttered about Jonathan in London and asked himself how Hugh might be getting on. "Do you think an art exhibition is premature, Hugh? Am I making a stupid mistake?"

Then his mind went back to Margaret again. The visit to see her had been an emotional disaster, at least for him. "She just walked away, out of my life, Mother. What was it Douglas had said about pages being turned? Perhaps he is right. But Douglas has changed, too. He was nervous. He was hiding something."

Jim's mobile chimed again and made him jump. It was Jonathan—enthusiastic.

"Guido's based in Milan."

"And how do you know that?"

"Jacob Johnson. Not surprisingly, he's as mad as hell about what's happened to the Sierra Leone bid. I think he'd like to blame me, but he doesn't know what I've done or how. So he's blaming Guido and so I asked him to find out more. He then spoke to the Lebanese guys. They met Guido in Milan and think he's based somewhere near Linate Airport. They were taken to a restaurant in Milan—we don't have the name—and they stayed at the Park Hyatt at Guido's expense. A job for Tom?"

Jim agreed. "And explain it to me again, Jonathan. What happened in Sierra Leone?" 

"Cherry Pick's plans unraveled because someone, presumably Guido's Nigerian friends, shot dead the local guy who was running Sulima Construction and one, or more, or all of the Cherry businesses. Cole Harding says the guy who was shot is someone called Messiah Moses who also runs a company called Rocki General Supplies. My head's buzzing trying to understand the links, but I'm not alone. Jacob Johnson seems to have the same problem—he's running around like a headless chicken."

"But we're making waves and causing problems," Jim said, "And no one has yet noticed us. It can't last, but we all need to stay out of sight as long as we can."

JAN'S NOTE, SCRIBBLED on a scrap of paper, had been in his pocket all morning. Twice, he had walked along the corridor, past the open door of Katrine's office and looked in. On his third walk-by she saw him. He stopped briefly, looked at her, nodded his head and walked on. Seconds later he walked back and, as she stood at the door, he passed her the note.

It was now evening and he was waiting, sheltering beneath an umbrella from rain that had been falling for most of the day. Behind him, the tapas bar, but he had no wish to go in.

"We'll walk, Kat," he said when Katrine arrived. "There are too many eyes and ears and it's just as dangerous for you for us to be seen together." They walked under one umbrella, Katrine with her arm hooked in Jan's.  

"I'm going to disappear, Kat," Jan said as they walked along the sodden footway that reflected the bright lights of shops, restaurants and bars.

"But where? What will you do?"

"Where? I'm not sure. But I'm going to continue where I left off and I'd like to leave behind a mess that someone will need to explain." He looked down at her. She was still holding his arm, tightly.

"Your friend in Treasury," he went on, "the one who noticed the mysterious cash movements." Katrine nodded. "She might notice something happening again. It would be useful if she was ready, waiting and watching."

Jan stopped walking, pulled Katrine towards the brightly lit window of a clothing shop where models stood, posing in long skirts, winter coats and scarves. He took out a slip of paper.

"This is how I get instructions, Kat—on a piece of paper from a dog that sits in the Warandepark with a blind Somali. I'm now a qualified fraudster who's able to move vast amounts of ring-fenced money to whoever and wherever someone tells me. All I need is a code and an amount."

Katrine stared at the slip of paper.

"You remember the Central Asia Humanitarian Aid Fund?" Jan continued. "Hundreds of millions for the refugee and natural disaster support facility in Pakistan that is supposed to be ready for the next disaster—an earthquake or a flood. If you recall, amounts are drawn down in phases from the central fund by the Ministry. Is anyone checking that the amounts drawn down are being properly accounted for? Who checks invoices against materials supplied and jobs done? And who ultimately signs things off—a Minister? Who is it? Do we know? Could it be possible that many of those responsible are working together to defraud the system and so covering for one another?

"But that's not all, Kat. I can log onto the system in my own office, tap in a few codes and a sum of money and—as someone I have recently got to know says—like a puff of smoke, it'll disappear. Where? I won't know, but it's certainly not going where it should. But one thing is for sure. Dirk Eischmann is at the center of it. He's probably making millions. The amount shown here—all 150,000 Euros of it—might well be going straight into his Cayman Islands bank account for all I know. On the other hand it might be going somewhere to spread amongst a hundred other small players. It's sophisticated, organized and almost undetectable international fraud."

The look on Katrine's face in the light from the window was incredulous. "I don't know what to say, Jan. It's unbelievable."

"Oh, no, it's totally believable, Kat. I know because I'm doing it. But I'm doing it because it's the only way to prove it happens." Jan pulled the sodden umbrella lower and looked straight into Katrine's eyes. "I need some help, Kat. I need the help of your friend in Treasury because I have an idea that'll prove that money that becomes hard cash goes out but is replaced almost instantly by worthless electronic money just to balance the account. The system has been hacked, but, worse than that, it isn't being fixed because certain people do not want it fixed. And it's such a sophisticated hack that it almost covers its tracks. This is not like someone stealing money from your private bank account or your credit card. Once that's gone it's gone but you notice it. This is so clever that when the auditors finally come to check, it will either not show up at all or it will appear as just another inexplicable loss that the powers that be will, when asked for an explanation, shrug and say, as they always do, that losses are inevitable. It's not good enough, Kat."

"What will you do?"

"Make the transfer as instructed and video what I'm doing."

"What can I do?"

"Talk to your friend in Treasury, but only if you are absolutely sure you can trust her. She must say or do nothing except through you. Can you trust her?"

"I think so."

"Be sure, Kat, be absolutely sure because by asking her to get involved you are both putting your careers at stake, perhaps more."

"What do you want her to do?"

"To set up some sort of recording of exactly what happens electronically on all aid funding movements and transactions, whether approved or not, between eight and nine o'clock on Monday morning."

At midnight, Jan phoned both Jim and Jonathan with the plan.

"YOU SURE YOU don't know anything more about this guy, Guido?"

When Scott Evora phoned, Jonathan had just arrived home and was still sitting in his car on the driveway. "Why? Does he bother you?" Jonathan asked, remembering the agreement with Jim was to say nothing yet.

"Yeh, we can't place him. From his accent and name he's obviously Italian but the name's cropped up a few times, not just with Silvester Mendes."

Jonathan thought about it for a moment and the silence must have been telling.

"Is Guido his real name?" Evora probed.

"Could be."

"Does Jim know him?"

"No."

"But your mole does, that right?"

"Yes."

"And where's the mole?"

"Burrowing in a hole."

"Jesus, Jon. Can't you help?"

"No. Why does Guido bother you, Scott? Come on, you tell me something."

"He sounds to us like a kingpin. Would I be right?"

"Yes, probably, with others."

"Fuck, come on, Jon. Spill."

"Look, Scott, Jim's running this show with no resources. We're all volunteers. All four of us. How many staff does the FBI have? Help us a bit more and perhaps we'd help you."

"Yeh, Jim said the same thing, but how?"

"Jim asked for technical help, did he not?"

"Yes, but what and how?"

"The listening device you fixed me up with was a good idea so we bought one ourselves. It was useful. It's already given us some evidence. It would be very useful if you could take things a stage further and hack and then track financial movements in a complex public finance system that's not based in the USA. Can you do that?"

"Jesus. Can you imagine the fall out if we did that and got found out?"

"You see what I mean, Scott? Is the FBI that weak? Another thing—Jim also asked you to help push international aid fraud up the political agenda, didn't he? So if you think you might need international arrest warrants at some time, which will be the only way to start to bring down the organization we are slowly uncovering, then why not discuss your concerns—without breaking any confidentialities of course—with the UK and European governments? Prepare the ground so to speak. Be ready when the time comes."

"I'll ask again."

"And what happened to Silvester Mendes, Scott? You thought he might phone me after his phone call with Guido that you listened in to."

"Yeh, I know. He's gone quiet. We thought Guido would turn up to see him at his hotel—that was the gist of one call we picked up but couldn't trace—but he didn't. After the call it looked like Mendes came down to look for someone in the lobby but he, too, was disappointed. Guido didn't show. Meanwhile, Mendes is still sitting in London, spending money from what we can tell. We lost him one night but caught up with him next morning back at the Intercontinental. A woman turned up, they were talking business, but all we really got was the woman's name—Tony."

Jonathan flinched, his heart missed a beat and his imagination went into overdrive. Jan had mentioned someone called Tony—a phone call in the middle of his first meeting with Guido in Delft. "Oh Christ!"

"What's up, Jon?"

"Guido knows someone called Tony."

"Fuck me. So did Guido send a deputy? A woman? Who the hell is she?"

"No idea, Scott, and that's no bullshit. It's just a name we picked up once. But…you still got the recording of me and Silvester?"

"Sure. Oh fuck! You think you said too much? Silvester might have mentioned you to this woman Tony?"

Still sitting in the car on his own driveway, Jonathan felt heat spreading up from his neck.

"How do I know? I mentioned a few genuine deals including…Oh God!…including the Sierra Leone one that Guido's so mad about losing. Will the FBI offer any protection if Guido turns up at my office?"

MONDAY MORNING AND Jan was at his desk early with the slip of paper in his hand. He had been given codes for two funds—the Central Asia Humanitarian Aid Fund and a fund for helping disabled and orphaned children in India—and two codes that triggered money transfers.

At eight fifteen precisely he logged into the CAHA Fund, ran through the procedure and three minutes later it was done. Where the money had gone was a mystery. At eight thirty precisely, Jan did the same with the Rural India fund. By eight forty-five, when a colleague arrived, Jan had put a tiny hidden camera that was pinned to his shirt away and was already busy on something else.

At eight fifteen in another building, less than a five-minute walk away from Jan, a member of the Treasury staff also logged into the CAHA two funds ostensibly as a routine check of the balance. At eight eighteen she noticed a sudden drop in the cash balance of 150,000 Euros. At eight nineteen, the balance restored itself.

At eight thirty-three the same thing happened with the Indian fund. A sudden drop in the balance by 185,000 Euros, but one minute later it was restored. In both cases nothing had been authorized and all encrypted security coding related to the release of funds bypassed. At nine o'clock, the staff member re-ran the process that had been recorded on a separate computer. At nine thirty, Katrine made an excuse to her own staff, left the building and met her friend outside, on the street outside a Costa Coffee. There was no time for coffee, just a nervous hello and the handing over of a memory stick.

By ten thirty, Jan walked passed Katrine's office, once to check she was there and had seen him, the second time to pick up the memory stick. At eleven, he left the office altogether, picked up his car from his apartment and drove to Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, parked his car in the long-term car park and took a flight to Zurich to meet Tom.