Whistle Blower (12 page)

"Paying commissions is, of course, impossible, Mr. Kerkman, and I think you know that. But there are always other opportunities for those who think outside the box."

Eischmann stood up and went to the large, picture window, looked down into the street below and then repeated the words as if needing to reassure himself that he was making a right decision. "Yes, there are always opportunities. I have a meeting in Eindhoven on Wednesday afternoon. Meet me at the Novotel at 5:30 p.m. Let's discuss things in more detail. We need individuals like you, Jan—point out weaknesses, identify opportunities. You said you like flexibility. So do I. Just don't tell anyone we've discussed anything, OK?"

IT WAS RAINING in Milan and Guido didn't like rain, especially heavy, late summer thunderstorms. He had parked the black Mercedes as close to the door of the warehouse as he could but it was still too far to walk or run without getting wet. Every few seconds he looked up at the almost black sky to see if the storm might be passing but, whenever he did, there was a flash of lightening that made him blink, wince and wait for the next crash of thunder. Short, fat, impatient fingers tapped on the steering wheel. Then his mobile phone rang.

"Allo? Yah—of course it's me," he snapped. "You think someone has stolen my phone and is answering my calls?"

There was another flash of lightening, the rain hammering onto the roof of the car and he expected another loud crash of thunder at any second. "Yah, you need to speak up, Toni. I can't hear you. The world is coming to an end. God is throwing his furniture out of the window and my shoes will get wet."

He shifted in his seat, put a podgy hand over one ear to block out the crash of thunder and tried listening to Toni with the phone in his other hand. Then:

"Yah, yah. Stop! Stop! Let us discuss this, Toni. Anything to do with America needs to be taken seriously. The USA is not Nigeria or Pakistan where everyone is expected to play little games. It is not even like Europe where it is so complicated and they are afraid to speak out. No, Toni, in the USA politics and business are linked together and we do not have anyone in place who is reliable enough. In the USA they ask questions about money that goes missing. And let me remind you that we have talked many times about finding a place for American AID in our business. But we are not yet ready. Like all things American this US Agency for International Development is crazy…yah, I know Toni, I know it's exciting but you must calm down, my flower. Do not twist your underwear. Guido has a long-term business strategy that must be followed and that strategy was, if you remember from our discussion a year ago, that we would steer clear of USAID until we had made better contacts. So no, Toni. No, no, no—do you hear me?"

Hailstones now pounded onto the roof of the Mercedes and tiny lumps of melting ice slid down the windscreen. There was another flash, another huge crash and Guido shut his eyes. Wherever Toni was, the weather did not seem to be a factor because the excited voice was still coming through the phone. But suddenly Guido opened his eyes and his mouth, the pink lips formed a perfect circle and he let out an excited squeal like a wounded rat. 

"Weeeee! Well done my flower…yes, I remember him. Silvester was his name, right? Once a New York cop, then a private investigator, right? But not a private investigator but more of an investor. Silvester the investor who met our very own Tahir in Islamabad offering to invest his time on anything to do with USAID. Silvester the imposter who was not in Pakistan representing the US government at all but was in Pakistan representing Silvester the investor. And Silvester the friend of our friend, the Deputy Prime Minister Kabodi who oversees the USAID malaria projects and the other big money. You mean that Silvester?"

The response was clearly yes.

"Weeee! Yes! Toni. Get him over. We can use him. Buy him a first class air ticket. Fly him to Paris—no, fly him to London. Book him at the Dorchester, Park Lane. Our expense. Anything."

As Guido stopped talking, the rain also stopped and a patch of bright blue sky showed somewhere over Linate Airport to the east. He gingerly opened the door of the dripping car, thought about taking an umbrella that lay on the rear shelf of the car but, instead, tiptoed his way through puddles towards the warehouse door holding up the bottoms of his trousers. Once inside, he stood, took off his wet shoes and walked in his socks past rows of boxes to the spiral staircase leading up to his office, made straight for the laptop computer, logged on and then onto the USAID website.

There it was, exactly as he remembered:

"USAID Central Africa Regional Program for the Environment." And on another page the sentence he had been reciting to himself almost word for word for over a year.
"USAID welcomes individuals and organizations to share their ideas on how we can do development differently. New ideas and innovations for addressing global development challenges can come from anywhere—a start-up entrepreneur, a university research institute, a corporation, or a grassroots community organization."

It had always fit like a glove and
suitable local people were already in place, ready and waiting.
The missing part with USAID had always been having the right man on the ground in the USA. Silvester the investor and imposter had always looked a good investment.

MIDNIGHT IN LONDON and Jonathan Walton had been reminding himself for an hour that he had a home to go to an hour's drive away and a wife who was prone to get upset if he stayed out late. The later it was the more upset she got. But getting away from the Nigerian, Mr. Johnson, was proving difficult. The man had changed dramatically from the vague, uncertain individual of their first phone conversation into a talkative, enthusiastic man with only one real interest in life—fraud. 

Jonathan's private thoughts as the Nigerian talked on and on were that, during the preceding hour he had done far too good a job on Mr. Johnson. Two minutes of a story, invented as he went along, had seemingly convinced the Nigerian that Walton Associates—or a secretive, somewhat unofficial subsidiary of it that had its registered address somewhere offshore like the Cayman Islands—was the key to successfully defrauding the international development aid system. But it had been his deliberate use of jargon that had been so convincing.

"We'll need to describe frameworks that clearly explain our goals and ambitions," Jonathan had said with all seriousness. "We'll need to demonstrate the economic outcomes and economic drivers…show the benefits to the community at large…provide evidence of our past experience of achieving alignments with the overall strategy…we'll need to demonstrate coordinated approaches using cross cutting themes…"

It all smacked of just the sort of public sector bureaucracy that he, Jim Smith and Jan Kerkman had discussed—language written by officials that, it was argued, reduced the likelihood of fraud but only succeeded in making genuinely sophisticated fraud far more difficult to detect. Sophisticated fraud, Jonathan decided, was precisely what Mr. Johnson seemed to have in mind.

"And you can do all this, Jon?"

Johnson was smiling enthusiastically at Jonathan's explanation that evidence of delivering other similar projects would be required, but not to worry as a set of falsified company trading accounts and other fictitious or forged pieces of paper were easily the quickest solution. "Of course, that is our business," Jonathan replied, embarrassed but smiling nevertheless.

Mr. Johnson—Jacob as he was now required to call him—was still smiling and interrupting throughout. "And we can do all this as well—anything—with your help, of course…We can ensure many cutting schemes…The benefits to the community are very clear…the people can use the facilities…"

"So are you really going to build this energy-efficient leisure complex in Sierra Leone? I was under the impression that…"

"Ha, ha, ha…no, probably not. But it is up to you to help us and together, well…you know…this is West Africa. We are used to this sort of thing. Ha ha."

At that point Jonathan had had his knee loudly slapped by the Nigerian who was, it seemed, enthusiastic enough to sign up with Walton Associates before the night was finished. But he was still talking and Jonathan was still looking at his watch.

"So you will deal with the bid, the paperwork…the English are so good at this…my friends will deal with the local situation…the letters of support from the Ministry signed by the Minister…that sort of thing…no problem…the architects plans, the technical things, anything you need to go with the bid…we will see to that…we are very good at that…just ask. Yessah, my brother is a close friend to a big chief in Sokoto. The chief has a wife in Sierra Leone—it is his fourth wife but he is willing to help us. His wife, the one from Sierra Leone, is a Minister and she can pull strings. We may need some cash to start it off … just a bit of dash here and there you know… but my other brother will have a small stake in the project… my other brother will pay some money to oil the wheels…we need the bank involved…but this is also already sorted…the manager is a friend of…"

Jonathan had already lost the plot, but finally Mr. Johnson edged his bulk to the back of his chair and sighed.
Is that it?
Jonathan thought.
Has he finished at last?
If so, it was his, Jonathan's, turn again and he'd now have to perform even better. Jonathan needed to show he was not a pushover and that the mysterious subsidiary of Walton Associates would not be taken for a ride by a bunch of African rogues. There had to be a show of toughness to suggest there was, despite everything, a need for at least an ounce of respect.

"So," Jonathan said before Johnson had time to start again. "Shall we wrap this up, Mr. Johnson—Jacob? I need to get home or my wife will think I've been out in Soho not sitting in Gloucester Road…"

He was interrupted almost before he had begun. "Ha, ha. Yes, there will be time for that Jonathan." His knee was slapped again. "We'll have a good time when it is finished. It is my promise. My girlfriend in Brixton…"

"Yes, of course," Jonathan interrupted, but intrigued by the word promise. "So to summarize. You will provide me with the details of your consultant in Freetown and the other details I asked for. We have agreed to bid for thirty-five million Euros under the so-called EAWA Economic Aid funding which I am familiar with. Don't forget that this must include a written promise of three point five million Euros from your friends in the Ministry to demonstrate the Ministry's own commitment to the project. No money will ever need to be transferred of course—it is just for the paperwork, you understand—to demonstrate the project has received official Government recognition and support."

"Yes, yes, good, good," said Jacob Johnson, smiling broadly.

It was no surprise to Jonathan that he was not asked for details of the fictitious subsidiary that he was proposing to use as part of the fraud, but he was pleased with the name he had invented on the spur of the moment. He might sort that out first thing in the morning but only after he'd slept on the night's events.

"My subsidiary, JWS Projects," Jonathan went on, "will act as your advisers, prepare the bid and deal with all the questions and requests for further information that are bound to arise. They always do. For this, you have agreed to pay JWS Projects two hundred thousand Euros when the bid goes in and a further two hundred thousand Euros when the funds are transferred and are in safe hands in Sierra Leone. These amounts can be added to the total bid—it is quite legitimate to show these sorts of expenses, although we may disguise them a little. Are we both agreed?"

"That is it—exactly. That is it."

Johnson's reply was hardly a sign that official agreements, signed, witnessed and legalized, were to form any part of this relationship but Jonathan let it pass.

It was one thirty by the time he slipped into the warm bed alongside his wife, Claire, and put his cold arm around her. There was no reaction, but Jonathan's mind was on other things. Despite the hour, he was still wide awake. Something had happened tonight that might add another dimension to what Jan Kerkman was already doing and the idea growing in his mind would need Jan's help. But he also desperately wanted to speak to Jim.

At 5:00 a.m. he could wait no longer. He got up and emailed Jim to suggest another meeting.

IT WAS 4:15 IN the afternoon, another meeting was over and another thirty million Euros of funding had been agreed to on schedule.

Dirk Eischmann, the Director General, gathered his few papers together and left Committee Room 4/116. As usual, he took the lift to the sixth floor, swiped his security card over a doorway and walked down the carpeted corridor to his office at the far end. And, as always, he dropped the files onto his desk, opened the drawer, took out a fresh bottle of Glen Scotia Scotch whiskey, poured himself a glassful, loosened his tie and took his glass to the wide, leather chair in the corner by the potted fern and the coffee table. At 4:35 p.m. he returned the now empty bottle to the drawer, got up, closed the door of his office and left the building.

By 5:30 p.m., he had parked his black BMW in the basement car park of a shopping mall. He took a lift up and made his way to a coffee shop. Casually dressed in jeans and a white tee shirt, and already sipping a cappuccino at a table close to the main concourse, was Jan Kerkman. Eischmann scraped up a metal chair and sat down as Jan wiped froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.

To Jan, Eischmann looked as if he was trying to conceal something that pleased him. He was right. Eischmann spoke first. "Exactly as expected. All agreed except the one for the Sudan. That made sense. The politics there are too fragile."

"Coffee, Mr. Eischmann?" asked Jan, thinking that perhaps the Bangladesh bid had been approved and that was what pleased Eischmann.

"No."

Jan's first meeting with Eischmann had been at the Eindhoven Novotel a week ago but he had no idea what to expect next. He tried appearing eager to help. "What can I do, sir?"

"Nothing yet. You will meet someone on Sunday who will explain. You can expect a phone call."

Eischmann seemed distracted, on edge. He was glancing furtively around the mall as if he was uncertain about what to say next, but he clearly decided to bite the bullet. "Yes, it was a good afternoon's work—twenty-nine million Euros granted—let's call it thirty million—a drop in the big ocean and no real issues. We will draw you in slowly, bit by bit. There is much for you to learn."

Jan just nodded.

"I'm meeting a Minister from Pakistan tonight," Eischmann continued. "He is here with his Central Bank officials. They seem to think a bit of lobbying might be good for them but I always remind them that bribery and corruption is frowned on. And, anyway, the systems, procedures, checks and balances are so tight it's impossible."

He paused and looked straight into Jan's eyes. "This is just the start," he said seriously. "You will learn much more on Sunday."

With that, he nodded, pushed his chair back and walked away.