Whistle Blower (35 page)

THE DOOR OF Ashton Art Gallery was opened as Jim was still standing outside, shaking rain drops from his new umbrella. Melissa had seen him coming. She smiled. "Hello Mr. Smith, Hugh is waiting for you. It is cold today, yes? Not at all like home."

"I'll be glad to get back to the sun, Melissa," Jim replied as he wiped his shoes on the mat.

Hugh McAllister was sitting in the small office where they had, on Jim's last visit, examined his paintings, eaten pizza and drank white wine. "Hello, Jim," he said, standing up. "You know, the more I look at your work, the more I like it."

Jim smiled, pushed the long, damp strands of gray hair away from his forehead and nodded. "So how are the arrangements going?"

"Everything is booked. We now need to decide where and how to promote it. You must advise me."

"No name, Hugh. That's the first advice. They'll find out soon enough. For a while I'll just be the unknown artist. There's nothing like creating a bit of mystery. "

"I've never heard anything quite like it before. I suppose Banksy manages it in his own unique way so a mystery element might enhance the marketing effort."

Twenty minutes later and the plan was taking shape. Ten days was not long. Was it long enough? Jim had no idea. Should he postpone it? No.

"I've got a few more questions, Hugh," Jim said as Melissa brought tea.

"Go ahead, Jim."

"You might find them personal."

"Try me."

"It's about Anne, your ex-wife."

Hugh shrugged. "Time has healed the wound."

"She was careless."

"And ruthless and ambitious, Jim."

Jim dug inside his jacket pocket, withdrew a brown envelope and pulled from it a single sheet of white paper. "This is an email that Anne was sent by someone in Brussels," he said. "It is an offer of a job with a salary three times as much as she was getting as a researcher. She was careless enough to leave it amongst some other papers on my desk. Whether she went in search of it afterwards I don't know, but within a week of the date on the email she'd left London. The job description was vague but enough for me to subsequently add two and two together and make four. The job was described as Media Coordinator." Jim paused. "Do you know who offered her the job?"

"Yes. Dirk Eischmann."

"You know that?" Jim wasn't too surprised.

"Oh yes. She deliberately edged close to him when she worked in Brussels. Dirk said this, Dirk said that. She was entranced. He already had a wife, but that didn't stop her forcing her way into his life and that of others who were already close to him. And that included the one she eventually set up with, Daniel Acosta—one of the richest guys in Spain. You know him? The newspaper owner, the director of the Spanish aid organization and other high profile jobs? Up until the divorce I had never heard of him but I soon did, along with a long list of others she was involved with. They were all the same type, Jim—businessmen, highly paid civil servants, some were politicians and others were ex government ministers who had pushed their dubious credentials and got themselves jobs as highly paid advisers. Of course, they all had their own circles of friends and contacts and all of them loved the lifestyle and were desperate to be seen as rich and successful. I hate that scene, but Anne loved it. The divorce came and I tried to forget about it."

"Daniel Acosta," Jim said thoughtfully. "Of course. That now makes perfect sense. And there's a recent coincidence. Have you ever heard of a company called Acosta Freeway Investment Holdings, Hugh?"

"No—I steer clear of anything with words like investments or holdings in it, Jim." He laughed. Jim nodded.

The rain had stopped and a watery, autumn sun was drying the street as Jim hailed a taxi from outside Hugh's gallery in Kensington. His next stop was Alfredo's Cafe Bar, Brook Street. Scott Evora arrived ten minutes late and was full of apologies.

"You must excuse me, Jim," Evora panted. "There's a lot going on. I only just got out of a meeting. We've got Senator Colin Stafford over. Not sure if you saw it in the paper, Jim, but Stafford has an interest in international aid—the fraud side of it. He's just in from Pakistan. We knew it was rife but, hey, Jesus. You got coffee already, Jim? Getting to like the espresso here? Want another? Hang on." He shouted inside. "Marie—two more. Got it? OK. And a refill of sugar, OK?"

They were sitting outside at the same rickety, metal table as last time but Jim had his own agenda this time. There were things he wanted to say and to ask and Pakistan seemed a good starting point. He began immediately.

"This chap, Silvester Mendes," Jim said, "the one Jonathan met. Are you still monitoring him?"

"Nope. He flew back to the US yesterday. He's off our patch now."

"I understand he had a visitor before he left?"

"Yeh, someone representing that guy, Guido."

"Toni. Do you have a description? A photo?"

"Yeh, we got a photo."

"Could you share it?"

"Mmm," Scott Evora stroked his chin, smiled. "You got anything for us in return? Jonathan said you might."

"Evidence of sophisticated computer hacking that can cream off aid funding straight out of ring-fenced accounts," Jim announced. "Would that interest you?"

"Jesus. You got that?"

"Yes, but we could still do with some help. And what does Senator Stafford want?"

"Like all politicians, he needs to deliver something—a few big arrests would be useful."

"Did Silvester Mendes crop up as the likely target for an arrest?"

"Yep, because he's still our focus for checking US citizen involvement in international aid fraud. But he's slippery."

"But he seems to know Guido."

"Sure, but who the fuck is this guy Guido?"

"We're trying to track him down and that's where we need your help."

"What sort of help?"

Jim pulled on his beard. "Money laundering is a priority for the FBI, isn't it?"

"Sure."

"In that case a few discreet investigations of the Dubai Asia Investment Bank might be useful for us. We have an account number, a few other encrypted codes and a name—Acosta Freeway Investment Holdings. Secondly a check on Banco de Credito de Milano. They are in Panama. Again we have an account number, more codes, evidence that 185,000 Euros was paid in a few days ago and we have a name—P.U. Eischmann."

"P.U. Eischmann," repeated Scott Evora. "Isn't that the guy you upset a few years back?"

"No—it's his wife."

"Phew! You getting that close?"

"Yes, but Eischmann is nothing without Guido. Guido is still the kingpin. So can we count on some urgent help to look into these accounts? Like by tomorrow?"

"I'll do what I can, Jim. Do we know what Guido looks like?"

"That's another problem. Our mole is the only one who has met him face to face. So we have a good description and a voice recording, but no photo. We've also had sight of a woman associated with Guido. This might be the one called Tony or Toni spelled with an i. Our mole thinks it's Toni with an i because of how Guido pronounces it. But we've got no photo except from the back which doesn't help a lot. She's tall, maybe five nine, five ten, maybe long black hair, that's all we know, but that's why your own photo would be useful. Is this the same person?"

Scott Evora had listened intently and scribbled notes. Then:

"OK, Jim. Listen. We've had our ears thoroughly burned this morning. Evidence is piling up about aid fraud. Let me give you some examples. The Majid dam project— the supplier of one item shipped via Dubai was a French company, the goods declaration states the value at 55,000 Euros but the receipt on the actual consignment showed 4,500 Euros—someone benefited to the tune of over 50,000 Euros. But it's a drop in the ocean. Colin Stafford showed us total losses now into seven figures and we reckon Silvester Mendes knows a thing or two about some of that.

"Another one, Jim. The Pakistan Disabled Children's Fund—generous US taxpayers have given several million US dollars for specialized equipment. Who the fuck would feel OK about stealing from that? Well, someone has. Estimated losses are over two million dollars.

"The special anti-fraud hotline is red hot, Jim. It would help if the EU had one. We sometimes identify small time operators but even if they talk they know so little and are so scared, we get nowhere. It's the organization behind it that's hard to get a fix on—we're talking politicians, government ministers, gangsters—but you already know all that. But we'd definitely like to get a few characters like your friend Guido out of circulation. That would send a few very strong messages."

"Your Senator Colin Stafford," Jim said quietly. "Has he spoken to the UK or other European governments?"

Scott grinned. "I was coming to that, Jim, but understand this. I can't tell you everything. We've got our own sniffers out there and things happen behind closed doors, but Prime Ministers talk to Presidents, Senators talk to Ministers. The US is doing something about aid fraud, but we can't act alone. That, I understand, was the message Senator Stafford delivered to your own Home Office today and in Germany yesterday. They are, we think, now listening. And, trust me Jim, no one knows you're back here and have dug up that dirty old bone to have another gnaw at. I've told no one. Jonathan is known to a couple of my buddies but that's it."

Jim just listened intently. An idea had been simmering in his head for a day or so but he'd not even mentioned it to Jonathan, Jan or Tom. But with Scott Evora showing signs of a willingness to help, he went for it.

"So why not deliberately lift a few stones and watch what crawls out?"

Evora sniffed and smiled. "Hmm. What have you got in mind?"

"A few years ago when I rattled a stone but failed to lift it, nothing crawled out. Nevertheless, all hell broke loose as if I'd seriously unsettled what was living underneath it. I'm just wondering if a few names whispered in ears—and since Senator Stafford has met the government here you could start with our Serious Fraud people—it might, this time around, tempt a few creatures to crawl out. Even a few tongues might loosen up. I don't really know how it all works but can't you bring a few people in for innocent questioning on the back of suspicions raised elsewhere. Failing that, mention a few names to national police forces through your FBI European offices and see what happens?"

"And ruin any chances of clean arrests?"

"Perhaps," Jim said. "So leave the key players in place. Aim wider and see if you find someone who'll talk. We could work on a short list of people to prod with a sharp stick if you like."

Jim knew he was pushing ideas that probably went way beyond what was possible, but time was running out. He had always wanted international law enforcement agencies to sit up, take notice and then act, and this was the best chance yet. They chatted it through a while longer. In the end, Jim knew he had convinced Evora to give it a try.

"So who would be on your short list of names to mention in high places?" Evora asked.

"Try Daniel Acosta," Jim replied, knowing full well the name would mean nothing. "He's a media mogul, one of the richest guys in Spain and, not by coincidence, president of the Spanish aid agency HAED—the Humanitarian Aid and Economic Development organization. He also touts himself around the globe as a very well connected private consultant. Then try his wife, Anne Acosta, née Anne McAllister."

"You know this guy?"

"Not personally. I knew his wife and then found out about him. Just to remind you I ran a company that manufactured water purification and sanitation equipment. Many of my contracts depended on aid funding. The HAED had a particular interest in that business. It specialized in Latin America and the Caribbean, right on your door step. Acosta has some very powerful friends in the USA."

"Jesus Christ!" Scott Evora scribbled the names as Jim sat back. "Any others?"

Jim was not short of names. Some had been on his mental list for years. Some had moved on but others—he knew because he had checked—were still there. He gave the names as Evora scribbled.

"These are just a few, Scott—secretive but wealthy bureaucrats who enjoy their wealth but hate publicity. I suggest leaving the politicians and private sector alone at present. They both depend on the incompetence of the bureaucrats or their willing involvement in fraud and corruption. 

"OK, let's take them one by one. Who's Dimitri Castellanos?" asked Evora.

"Director of Finance."

"Jesus! The top guy? You sure?"

Jim nodded. "Almost the top man. Directors also have bosses."

"And Pierre Augustin?"

"Humanitarian Aid—Head of Policy."

Scott raised another eyebrow. "And Ahmed Majoub?"

"Central Asia—Head of Policy."

"Joseph Campos?"

"Economic Development, West Africa, based in Luanda."

"Philippe Eijsackers?"

"Environmental Policy."

"You sure about these guys, Jim? This would be like opening a huge can of worms."

"Worms also live under stones, Scott."