Whistle Blower (29 page)

Jim listened. Hugh's preference for a simple life was something Jim understood and Hugh's description of Anne also fit. The evidence was in a brown envelope—the one he'd picked up from the solicitors on his way to meet Douglas Creighton at the Cumberland Hotel. But he changed the subject.

"So, can I leave you to organize matters? I have a mobile number you can call me on. I will leave you the paintings in the bag—all except the one that belongs to me, that is—and bring more before the exhibition." He picked the special one up and slipped it back into the empty laundry bag. "And one last thing, Hugh. Only one or two people know I'm back in UK. I don't want every man and his dog finding out just yet."

As they shook hands, Melissa reappeared. "I remember you now, Mr. Smith. You ate grilled red snapper and drank Tiger beer."

Jim just smiled and nodded.

"OH YES, MR. Walton. Mr. Valdez left a message for you, sir. Would you meet him in the basement bar at the King's Head."

Jonathan was standing at the reception desk at the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane. "The King's Head?" he checked.

"Yes, sir, it's just a few minutes' walk—Stafford Street, just up Piccadilly. You can't miss it."

Jonathan, now with a tiny, electronic device stuck by tape beneath his shirt, wondered if someone from the FBI was watching. He walked out slightly self-consciously, wondering if he was being followed.

The basement bar at the King's Head was dimly lit alcoves, archways, leather armchairs and sofas and Jonathan stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light. It was full and noisy with a hum of conversation and laughter and no place to sit. He glanced around but no one even looked at him. Unsure whether to order himself a drink and stand and wait, he turned. "You Jonathan?" Peering down at him was a big man with a round face and muscular arms with a neck and chest that filled a plain white tee shirt.   

"Yes," said Jonathan. "You Lucas?"

"That's me. Bit busy here, eh? Wanna go upstairs?" He turned. "I found a quiet corner." He sidled up the narrow stairs, "You eaten, yet?"

"No."

"Nor me. You wanna eat something, Jonathan? I like London Shepherd's pie."

"Sounds good to me. I'll join you."

"Take a seat, I'll order. And a cold beer?" Jonathan, still settling himself, nodded. "Thanks."

Lucas Valdez aka Silvester Mendes fit Scott Evora's description perfectly. Big, black and muscular with a strong New York accent. He returned carrying two full pint glasses, pulled up the small chair across the round wooden table where he'd clearly left a half empty glass and sat down heavily. "Beer," he said. "London pie coming." He held out his big hand. Jonathan took it and felt his own being shaken.

"You like London?" was Jonathan's opener as if on a first date.

"Sure, great place. Cosmopolitan, busy, multinational and you all speak American. Yeh, it's cozy here. I like it." Valdez downed the last of the first, half empty glass and pushed it aside. "You travel much, Jonathan?"

"No, used to, but no longer. I find I'm busy enough here."

"Business OK?"

"Could always cope with some more."

"I understand you do a lot with international aid." Valdez looked at Jonathan across the top of his full glass and took a mouthful. His eyes were big, black and serious but with an intelligent glint. There was a day or two's growth of black stubble on his cheeks as he wiped his mouth.

"Yes, there's not much I don't know about the way the system works—or doesn't work." Jonathan deliberately raised an eyebrow, smiled, took a swig of beer, tried hard to appear what he had been made out to be—a man with an eye for an opportunity or two.

"Lucrative is it?"

"Can be."

"What are we talking?"

"Figures?" Jonathan checked.

Valdez nodded. "Sure—give me a feel for this English game you play."

"Mmm," Jonathan paused as if unfazed by large amounts of money. "I've just finished one bid for 35 million Euros." It was true. "Another one is going in for a bit less." That was also true. "I like to spread it around a bit—one in West Africa, next one in the Middle East. So, yes, if we only make two percent it's worth it. Obviously there are expenses that come out of it and that can vary—politicians, bureaucrats, paper shufflers especially—they need their palms greased. And we lobby the right people. It's hard work."

Valdez was staring at him. "Yeh, I know." He took another drink. "Ever make more than two percent?"

"Of course. That's the aim. But it depends how you deal with it and the value of the funds you bid for. Sometimes we bid on behalf of others—that way we make anything from two to ten percent. Other times we fix things and bid ourselves. That way we make more."

"You put in bids yourself?"

"Of course—it's now routine. We set up some sort a local organization—a company or something—with partners. That way we have some control." Jonathan had never liked lying so he explained this particular lie away as just outlandish bullshit of the sort he'd recently practiced on Jacob Johnson.

"Is it in English pounds or Euros or whatever they are?"

"It depends—mostly Euros."

"Ever dealt with USAID?"

"No, never."

"Charities?"

"Not directly."

"Meaning what, Jonathan?" There was an edge to his voice, but he didn't give Jonathan time to reply. "Never mind. I checked your business." Perhaps he was hoping this would unnerve Jonathan.

"You mean you checked out Walton Associates?" Jonathan smiled the sort of smile used for suggesting Walton Associates was just a front, a front for more profitable ventures run from somewhere foreign, hidden from the Inland Revenue. "I hope you found what you were looking for."

"Sure, I did. Looks a nice, honest business, accounts submitted timely, taxes paid, decent profits, dividends paid to the three directors, staff pension payments—nice. Ah, here's the London pie or whatever you call it. Tuck in. Let's talk." Valdez grabbed a fork and stuck it into the brown crust of the steaming hot pie.

By ten thirty Jonathan had drunk several pints of real ale. He was not used to it. Neither was he familiar with nightclubs with exotic dancers that Valdez was now suggesting. "Listen, Lucas, I can't," he said. "Not tonight anyway. I've got a call coming in from Sierra Leone later. I need to be ready."

"Sure, I understand. Sierra Leone a good place?"

Jonathan laughed. Laughing was becoming easier as the ale took effect but he was having to concentrate more. "Depends what you mean by a good place, Lucas. I wouldn't want to live there if you get my meaning. But the business is looking good. That's where this 35 million Euros bid is from."

"Tell me. How's that one working?"

Jonathan gave a quick summary—a tourism project, good for the economy, it hit all the right buttons for getting official support, a Nigerian was his main contact with a few Lebanese involved somewhere.

But Jonathan was sober enough to know he hadn't been getting much back from Valdez. If Scott Evora was listening in he might be getting anxious. The pie was gone and Valdez had mentioned USAID a few times and Pakistan and Afghanistan. He'd rattled off a large sum of money to impress—two and a half million dollars in one hit—he'd mentioned links in Dubai, friends with Ministers, connections at a Central Bank. But it was mostly all one way—Jonathan telling things, not learning much. Suddenly it changed.

"You and me alone in this business, Jonathan?"

"Come on, Lucas. You know the answer to that. There are plenty of small time crooks out there," Jonathan said with the confidence the beer was giving. "Local politicians who get bright eyed at the sight of a few funds coming their way, a lot of greedy bureaucrats, some small businesses who usually get spotted before they get anywhere. But, if you're meaning big time professionals, then we're a rare breed."

Valdez grinned. "Ever met an Italian guy, name of Guido?"

Jonathan, inwardly alarmed, showed no signs. "No."

"Claims to be the best in our business."

"Well he's bloody stupid," said Jonathan who didn't normally swear, but it was the beer. "He needs to keep quiet about his very existence. Who's he bragging to?"

Valdez grinned again. "Me. Should I meet him, Jonathan? Or can you and me do something together? East Africa's appeals right now. Got a bit going in Somalia. Interested?"

"Depends what I'm required to do and the arrangements."

"I set up the local organization. You do the bids. I grease the palms as you call it—I like that phrase—easy shit."

"And the rake off?"

"Share the takings, fifty-fifty."

"I'll think about it," said Jonathan, moving to get up. "Listen, Lucas. I've got to go. I can't talk to Sierra Leone sitting here and I need to get to some paperwork. Why don't we stay in touch. How long are you in London? But, yes, I'm interested. You call me, OK? When you're ready with something on the ground, we'll talk."

Then, probably because of the beer he'd drunk, he managed a joke. "And, as a true professional, I'd advise you to check this guy Guido out. Never make a decision to award a contract without getting at least two quotes from competitors."

Valdez laughed, so it must have been a good joke.

Jonathan was quite pleased with himself, felt he'd retained some initiative and he hadn't even slipped up and called Lucas Valdez Silvester. He left the King's Head, walked towards Piccadilly to look for a taxi to take him to where he'd left his car. But as he stood waiting by the curb, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Scott Evora pulled him into a dark doorway. "Great stuff, Jonathan. We got it all on tape. Now, who the fuck is this guy Guido?"

SOME ELEVEN HOURS later, a dismal gray morning, and it was Jim's turn to meet Scott Evora in the Mayfair area of London. He was on the train when Jonathan phoned about his meeting the night before with Silvester Mendes.

"Scott still knows nothing about what we're up to Jim. So, play it by ear. You decide what to tell him. And remember, Jan is meeting Guido tonight."

"And Tom should already be there," Jim added. "The plan is he'll be lurking somewhere close by."

"Do you think we are getting somewhere at last, Jim?" Jonathan sounded almost excited.

"Yes," Jim said thoughtfully. "But we'll need something very special if we're to convince the powers that be to do something or even believe us. And somehow we'll need to find a way of extricating Jan before he gets hurt. And, as for your big muscular friend Silvester, how do you feel about him discovering you are a part-time FBI agent?"

"Don't make me nervous, Jim. Let's just keep going for now. See where it all leads."

Jim had always enjoyed a cup or two of good Italian espresso mid morning. He could now smell it as he rounded the corner. Despite the cold, gray drizzle, Alfredo's door was wide open and there was no mistaking Scott Evora. The blonde-haired six footer was already sitting at a small metal table out of reach of drips of water from the red, white and green striped canopy. He clearly recognized Jim.

"Jim Smith?" He stood up, scraped the chair back on the stone pavement and held out a big hand. Jim shook it and sat down. "Coffee?" Jim nodded and Evora called inside the open door to order another espresso. "They know me. It's the best coffee within a mile of the Embassy."

They looked at one another. Jim pushed his damp, straggling, gray hair back behind his ears, wiped rain drops from his face and then wiped his hand on his new brown jumper that was as wet as his hair. An umbrella, he had decided, was to be his next purchase.

"Call me Scott," Evora said. "It's great to meet you. It was Jonathan's suggestion. It was also his suggestion that I do a bit of research before we met." He laughed. "A lot was written about you a few years back."

Jim nodded once more.

"You were sure riding low in the popularity stakes. Then all the mentions stopped just like you died or something."

"Some wished I really had died."

"You were very outspoken."

Jim loved questions like that. "And why not? People do not want self-interested politicians who pussy foot around and keep their heads down just to ensure their re-election. They elect politicians who they hope are brave enough to face up to problems and solve them. I agree I was a bit rough around the edges at the start but I had a lot to learn in a very short time. I was a successful businessman, not a career politician who'd never had a proper job."

Scott Evora laughed. "Jesus, you should come and live in the States—they'd love you. So why did they get so mad? Couldn't they take it?"

Jim did not know where to start. "How long have you got?" A toothy smile appeared from somewhere inside the wet beard. "You've read the reports. I started out with a long list of subjects I wanted to address as a politician. Perhaps I started with the wrong one. I was reminded of another one on the London underground just now—overpopulation. Dear me, cattle trucks are less crowded. Cattle have minimum standards for their transportation that London Transport could do well to emulate for commuters. But please don't get me going on that."

The coffee arrived. Evora moved cups around. "But it was international aid that got you fired up," he said, spooning sugar into his cup.

"Yes. I started with the billions of Dollars and Euros given for international aid projects—the public's money, let's not forget—vast sums are lost through fraud and corruption and I wanted it recognized that the leading perpetrators are often the very people who decide where it should be spent and who are then entrusted to spend it. Is it not right to ask for action to investigate it and then find ways to stop it?"

"Yeh, I would have thought so," said Evora.

Jim took a breath, sipped his coffee, looked around at the wet and dreary London scene but didn't see it. There was so much he could say but, he reminded himself, he was sitting with a man from the American establishment—the FBI. He changed tack. "But you're only interested in American aid money."

"Not necessarily, Jim. Fraudsters stealing USAID money also steal other countries’ aid money. One of my jobs is to put a finger on these people and bring them to justice. It ain't easy and it ain’t made any easier by official attitudes as you've noticed. But at least in the USA there's a debate going about how fraud and corruption undermines well meaning projects. Here? I'm not so sure. You tried and they came gunning for you. No wonder people run scared shit of asking questions."

Jim already sensed he might enjoy this conversation. "But even in the USA little is actually done about it," he said. "Estimates are that twenty percent of aid is lost to corruption and mismanagement. In Europe it's probably more. Huge amounts are lost to fraud within Europe itself. Billions are utterly wasted. Why, for instance, even think about giving aid to a country for improving the skills of unemployed youths when that country doesn't have any jobs to offer. Surely you solve the first problem first—create some jobs."

"Politics?" suggested Evora. "Influence? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?"

"Correct. And re-election of course. Ensuring re-election takes absolute priority over solving problems. Here's some money, now go and vote for me. In a different situation they'd call it bribery, but it's not nice for politicians to have to admit that they've collectively managed to create deep-seated problems that'll take more than money to solve.

"And much of the problem comes back to my other argument about overpopulation. Thousands of poverty-stricken, unemployed migrants pour into Europe and the USA from Africa and elsewhere every day. They come looking for jobs that don't exist. Result? Increased pressure and social tensions on economies already in trouble. Fundamental cause? Overpopulation. Too many people, too few jobs. So face up to the fundamental cause, don’t pussy foot around the edges for fear of upsetting people. Surely that's what leadership is. It's all so blindingly obvious."

"Jim," said Evora. "You're already making me depressed. No wonder nobody liked you."

"Ah, but depression can be a constructive emotion, Scott," said Jim.

"Really? I've never looked on it like that."

"Then think about it. Living alone as I do and feeling a little fed up now and again is not uncommon. The solution is not to sit and mope, but to sit and decide precisely why you're feeling that way. Then you define the exact cause in the clearest possible terms and then sit and work on a solution. It requires nothing more than quiet solitude and a decent brain. If the brain has undergone some decent scientific training in the past it helps."

"Then I fear I'm lost. Jim."

Jim sighed. "So, if you're lost, how can I help?"

"Reading about you helped with the background. Jonathan has also been a big help and so, but I need a…"

Jim interrupted. "Listen, Scott, I asked you just now, how long you've got? I didn't expect an answer that time, so I'll ask you again and this time you can answer it? How long have you got?"

Evora glanced at his watch and grinned. "You got a lot, Jim? I wondered if you had. If so I'll stick around a bit. I'm all ears."

Jim hadn't noticed that the rain outside Alfredo's was now steady and heavy. He talked. At the end of it, Scott Evora knew about Jim's link with Jonathan and, without mention of their names, about Jan and Tom. Jim explained why he was back in England and what he wanted to do.

"This is all totally confidential, Scott. If the media gets to know, I'm finished yet again. So would Jonathan be, so would our mole be and so would our plan. And your own efforts might well be scuppered as well. We've got to keep it quiet."

"I understand, Jim, and, if it'll make you feel good, Jonathan was fantastic. We got everything on tape. He was like a pro. I couldn't have done it better myself—but, then I couldn't have done it anyway." He paused. "But who's your mole?"

"No names, Scott, because he's in a tricky enough spot already."

"And the other guy?"

"My health adviser and nurse? He's currently in Holland chasing the one called Guido."

"Hmm. So you're not saying. And what's your feedback on this guy, Guido? Is he based in Holland?"

"Our mole knows him. He's Italian. We might know more in the next day or so."

"You must know more, Jim. Come on, spill the beans."

Jim took another deep breath.

"Scott. Listen. Nearly four years ago I asked for an official investigation. But, in retrospect, I think I was wrong. Why? Because even if one had been started, there would have been an elaborate cover up, it would have dragged on for years and years, the public would have lost interest and the prime suspects would have been long gone, retired or living it up overseas. An investigation might have found a few small issues but because of the high profile, all the big fish would have dived deeper leaving only a few small fry caught in the net. No, the only way to catch these people is to catch them with their hands in the till. And how do you do that? Undercover is the answer, but we'd still need evidence that would stand up in court. With four of us, all volunteers, how would you rate our chances?"

Scott Evora grunted. "We might have enough on Silvester Mendes. We've only just got wind of this guy, Guido. But we know almost nothing, Jim, and I'm running for the US Government, not Europe or anywhere else. So what can we do together? How can we help?"

"Dear me," Jim grinned behind the beard. "I never thought I'd hear that from a FBI agent. You really want to help? If so, here is the first way. Go back to the US Government. Demand that these massive frauds move up the political agenda. Start to frighten these characters. Make the public more aware of where their taxes are going. Get the public angry. And…" Jim paused. He pulled on his beard, scratched the back of his head and felt the new elastic band snap.

"And?" prompted Scott Evora.

"Give us some help and advice on technical surveillance. Even a few devices like you lent Jonathan."

Scott Evora grinned. "No problem," he said. "But…" It was his turn to pause.

"But what?"

"Keep us involved?" It was a question with a plea.

"You are already involved, Scott. Why am I here? But we need help to get some international arrest warrants—Interpol, that sort of thing."

"Yep, that's something we can do, but only when we've got something to go on."

"And that is exactly what we're trying to get, so help us."

Shortly after that, they shook hands and Jim walked off into the pouring rain to buy an umbrella.