Whistle Blower (15 page)

"So what do we do, Mr. Kerkman? I am sure you are dying to know.

"Well, we are also a type of consultancy but we are not like the rest. We are extreme specialists. We are not rewarded with lucrative contracts. Oh no. We earn our rewards by staying ahead of the game. But we like bureaucracy. It is the fuel that drives our engine. The more there is, the better it is for us and the faster our engine runs."

Guido paused and Jan watched as he craned his smooth neck backwards as if trying to look at the ceiling. With that apparently failing, his eyes moved up, the tiny pupils disappearing somewhere inside his head, the whites filling the space. Then he lowered his head once more.

"But let us return to why you are here and why you have been allowed out of your stuffy office and into the fresh air. You have been so highly recommended that you are granted the huge privilege of meeting Guido. That's me."

He pointed at himself, beaming. "So, welcome to our little team," he said. "Yes, you are welcome…welcome." And Jan felt himself scanned once again from his feet to the top of his head.

Guido went on. "To continue. So, the requirements they set for granting funds are subjective and their definitions of what will be accepted and what will not be is also subjective. And the ways they transfer money are archaic. The whole bureaucratic process, Mr. Kerkman, is like Milan in January—cold, wet and very foggy. It makes me laugh." And so he did. Another fit of girl-like giggling erupted.

Then, quite suddenly, he looked intense and serious. Jan, increasingly unnerved, watched him as he smoothed the eyebrow over his right eye with his little finger.

"And so let us return to the DRC. Because the processes are so foggy, we will be trying out some new technology. We will introduce a…yah, what shall we call it?… Yah, we will call it a virus. We will introduce a virus into their archaic processes. And that is where you come in, Mr. Kerkman. I shall be teaching you what to do because it is best done from the inside. Although…" he paused, "although not for too long. Guido always stays one step ahead so we will soon be able to deal with it from…from…anywhere—even from Delft."

Jan had been sitting, trying hard to relax with his long legs apart. But Guido's small, beady eyes deeply inset into his round, pink face began to wander. They started at Jan's feet, moved up his legs, stopped momentarily at his crotch and then went up to his shoulders and arms. Jan felt as if he was being sized up by a bespoke Italian tailor for a suit or, perhaps, by an overconfident woman. Then, to Jan's surprise, Guido got up, leaned across and squeezed his biceps between his thumb and finger.

"Yes, you can take care of yourself. It may be unnecessary but you never know." Then he sat down again. "So, why are you here? Let us discuss that. You already have…"

Suddenly there was a buzzing sound, Guido stopped, put his hand into his jacket pocket and came out with another phone. He squinted at the screen and pressed a button. "Not now, Toni, I have a new student." He then stuffed the phone away and leaned back again, his feet on the coffee table, his chin almost embedded in his chest.

"Yah, you already have some experience of the ways of the Commission and the influences you have made and work you have done during the last few months come recommended. Your character references show certain unique talents. As an officer operating inside the system you are in an excellent position to benefit. But you will need some more advanced training. This is my job. Only Guido can teach you. So this little place in Delft is not only an office and a meeting place and an occasional sleeping place but it is also a college. But we will not call it the Delft College. Instead, because we teach very special skills and we are quick, skilful and nimble we will call it the Deft College."

He chuckled, sat bolt upright and placed the tablet phone on the table. Rapidly, he swiped a few times and turned the screen around for Jan to see. "You see? A copy of the recent approval of eleven million, one hundred and thirty-eight thousand Euros for Bangladesh. It is like magic, Mr. Kerkman."

He turned the screen back to face himself, swiped it again and then returned it for Kerkman to see what had now appeared.

"This is my invention, Mr. Kerkman. We know about the awards before the people far away who bid for the money. We can even put in our own bids if we so wish. Then we start work. We are so efficient now. We can track these processes, step by step to Latvia to Bulgaria, to Sierra Leone, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Libya, Ghana, Gaza or a hundred other places that are the lucky recipients of European and American taxpayers’ money. But then, just as the money is transferred—bingo!—something even more magical happens. Some of it disappears."

He waved his hand in the air like a magician with a wand. "Puff—the magic dragon, lives here," he giggled, "in Delft."

If it was because he found he could not laugh, Jan would never know. But the Italian's whole demeanour suddenly changed. He stood up and waddled across to the door of the apartment and gripped the door handle. Jan, sensing that the meeting might already be over or that Guido was leaving him alone, got up. But Guido stopped. He looked back and beckoned Jan to come to the door, leaving only enough space for Jan to squeeze past.

As he did so, Jan looked down onto Guido's round face and rose bud lips, at the strands of straight, greasy black hair that hung across his forehead. How old was Guido? Even at close quarters, Jan could not tell. The skin of his face was smooth, clean, pink and free of wrinkles. Was he forty, fifty, sixty even? But there was no laughter from the Italian now. Instead he looked up at Jan and frowned.

"Mr. Kerkman," he said as he opened the door, "a little gift of twenty thousand Euros was transferred into your private bank account today. For Belgian tax reasons and your bank you may need to invent an explanation for why it is there and where it came from. You have, as yet, done nothing, so it is just a small gift—a token. In the future you can expect a bigger share in our business but you will need to earn it. I understand you like earning commission. Well, you can become very rich by working with us. But, meanwhile, consider your position very carefully."

Guido was staring up, unblinking, at Jan.

"With your sheltered little life as a middle ranking bureaucrat who shuffles paper for a living," he said, "you should know that living in the world outside where one dog eats another dog is more difficult. Survival is hard. So, we will start how we will continue. If you tell anyone about me or this meeting or this place, you will find you and your family are in serious trouble. You will never find Guido because no one knows Guido. But we will find you.

"We already have a growing international team of what I call 'Members,’ but along with these Members and others not in our team, you are already implicated. You said you wanted to earn money. Well, you have already started. But you are already up to your fucking neck in deep mud, Mr. Kerkman. So go very carefully. Tell no one. Go back to work, do as you are told and wait to be contacted. But show the slightest sign of incompetence or make even the smallest mistake and you are finished. We are undetectable. But upset the system that we have perfected or even be tempted to upset it and you will be made to disappear. No warning given. Understand?"

JIM USUALLY LEFT his motorcycle amongst an untidy row of others near the shops and market where a minibus of tourists sometimes stopped on its way to some poorly maintained archaeological remains—some stone buildings, a crumbling temple and a few skeletons—the town’s only tourist attraction. They never stayed long and usually left, looking disappointed, to head back towards Kanchanaburi and the river Kwai. The archaeological site was another of Jim's ideas: "Tidy it up, make people feel as if the visit was worth it," he had told Lek. 

There was no bus today but the small market was where he occasionally saw backpackers and might reluctantly engage in short conversations—usually directions to somewhere. He never understood why they sometimes asked more personal questions but he thought it was probably his appearance and voice.

It had been a young, bronzed American girl in shorts and her red haired Irish friend who had, some months before, convinced him of his appeal to that generation. He had been talking Thai to a man off-loading pineapples from the back of a truck and, as the Irish girl stood shyly in the background, the American asked for directions to a local guesthouse that was mentioned in her travel guide.

"Yes," he told her, "the Pong Phen Guest House. It is located over the bridge, on the left. You can't miss it."

His further explanation had been pure, clear and precise Queen’s English and he knew she hadn't been listening, just staring at him—an aging, long-haired, hippy-like Englishman hiding behind a beard and heavily tanned and wrinkled skin. She had asked him where he lived, how long he had lived there and what he did. Jim reluctantly gave his usual short explanations, but watched the much shyer Irish girl as she tried to pull her friend away.

Jim, too, had edged away with his plastic bags, a live fish and some vegetables, but the American girl followed and strung together more questions spoken in enthusiastic wonderment as though it was so much better to be living like he was.

"Say, I wish I lived like that. I'm Karen from Boston and this is my friend Katherine. She's from Dublin—Ireland, you know? Boston is so cosmopolitan. You really live in the jungle? What sort of art? Do you exhibit anywhere? Ever get back to England? Did you know the Beatles when you were young? You look real cool. You ever get to bathe out there?"

And, all the time, the attractive Irish girl with the red hair had watched and listened but said nothing.

Jim, remembering this encounter for no good reason but more concerned with the weakness in his legs, propped the motorcycle and walked shakily to an ATM, withdrew some money, stuffed the few notes into the back pocket of his shorts and walked slowly towards Lek's internet cafe carrying his duffle bag with the laptop over his shoulder. When he got there, it was unusually busy. Lek's wife's speciality of boiled chicken with rice, a thick and spicy ginger sauce and clear chicken soup—kamun gai—was becoming very popular. It was another of Jim's suggestions because he himself liked it, but today, even his corner table was taken. Lek apologized, beckoned to a front table nearer the road and went to get his beer and lime juice.

Jim didn't like this table. He didn't even take out the laptop. Instead he sat resting his head in his hands and muttering to himself. "I won't stay long—try again tomorrow. Such a waste of time carrying the computer. I can't use it here…far too exposed. I'll go back home, finish the painting… try again tomorrow…still feeling dizzy."

Lek brought his drinks. "You say something, Jim?"

Jim looked up. "Only to myself."

And then he saw the thick set man with white skin, wearing white shorts, white tee shirt, white socks and white trainers. It was as if he had arrived straight from a northern European winter. He walked past Lek's cafe, a few yards from Jim, looking around as if unsure where he was going. Then he turned, his uncertainty evaporated. He brushed past Jim's elbow into the cafe but then returned, pulled up a red plastic stool that was too small for his rump and sat at the next table to Jim, just two yards away.

Jim's feeling of over-exposure soared. "Bloody hell." He looked out of the corner of his eye at the man and, as bad luck would have it, the man saw him. He nodded. Jim ignored him. Lek brought a beer for the stranger and stopped to ask Jim if he'd like another beer and lime juice. Jim said yes and waited, staring into the street with the unopened duffel bag between his legs.

The fresh drinks arrived, but because of the unwelcome arrival of the stranger and a sudden desire to go home, Jim swallowed half the bottle in one go feeling the gas rising into his throat. He couldn't help it and his mother would have been disgusted, but he burped. Tears came to his eyes and a mouthful of beer rose in his throat, but he swallowed it again. He remembered that. He also remembered wiping a few drops of beer from his beard, but after that, things were far from clear.

He put the bottle down, checked in his back pocket for some change to pay, slid his chair back and got up. Then the dizziness hit him again—and the pain in his chest. He sat down again, heavily, jarring his spine. He remembered glancing towards the white stranger and their eyes met. He remembered light brown eyes, close together, deeply set and peering sharply at him from beneath a receding line of auburn hair. And he remembered a freckled face with a touch of fresh sunburn on the nose. But then Jim slid from the chair and collapsed for the second time that day. Everything went black.

"IT'S THE AMERICAN Embassy, Jonathan."

It was an ordinary Wednesday morning when Jonathan took the phone call from the US Embassy in London. He had spent the previous evening at home finalizing the draft bid to the European Aid West Africa (EAWA) fund for Jacob Johnson. There were large gaps that needed filling and no word from Johnson for two weeks. Jonathan, though, was still feeling confident enough with his performance of a few weeks ago to expect the Nigerian to emerge again in the next few days. He wanted to be ready.

"I have the deputy Legal Attache, Scott Evora, for you Mr. Johnson," said the female American accent. "Are you able to take the call?"

Jonathan raised an eyebrow to himself but said yes. 

"Mr. Walton?"

"Yes."

"Scott Evora, deputy legal attache, US Embassy. Not sure if you're familiar with the US's worldwide legal attache offices, Mr. Walton, but basically we're FBI. In my case, we're FBI's office in London. Heard about the FBI?"

"I am aware," said Jonathan.

"Good. Cut to the chase, Mr. Walton—Jonathan is it? Been checking your website. Management consultancy specializing in helping businesses bid for grants and international aid. Would I be right?"

"Spot on," said Jonathan.  

"Good business, Jonathan?"

"We keep busy."

"Come across any Nigerians in your line?"

Talk about cutting to the chase, thought Jonathan. Was it just a coincidence? "Sometimes," he answered.

"Anything shady?"

"Always," joked Jonathan, wondering where this was leading. In the briefcase at his feet was the draft bid for Jacob Johnson.

"Sure, you bet. Done anything for organizations wanting USAID? United States Aid?"

"No, never," said Jonathan honestly.

"Might they ever cross your path?"

"Certainly, not so far, but I'm fully aware of USAID. Have to be in this business."

"Sure, I understand. West Africa, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Jonathan. Done anything there?"

"Yes, but only using EU aid money."

"Ghana? Sierra Leone?"

"Yes."

"Sound? Honest? Above board? Anything ring alarm bells?"

"Always, but we only help writing the bids, perhaps give some advice on lobbying et cetera. We don't deliver on the ground. If it's fraud you're referring to, then that's where it usually happens—the delivery end." Jonathan tried to laugh.

"Dead right. And not getting any better, huh?"

"We are very selective who we take on," Jonathan added.

"OK, sure you are." There was a brief pause from the man called Scott Evora—a clicking sound as if he was tapping a pen on his teeth. "Now, listen up. It might be useful to meet. Any chance? Get down here to the Embassy, Jonathan? Me take a ride up to you? What do you think?"

"What have you got in mind?"

"Broaden our discussion out a bit. Frankly we need some eyes and ears. Anyone with an eye for fraud, theft or money laundering linked to aid funding would be useful. Sounds like you're just what we're looking for."

"Sure," said Jonathan, suddenly seeing a glimmer of light. If things got more difficult for either himself and especially for Jan, who better than to have a friend from the FBI on board. They agreed. Jonathan invited Scott Evora to visit him on the Friday afternoon.

Meanwhile, Jonathan decided to widen his bedtime reading about aid fraud in the USA. Some of it was well known, other parts less so. Nigerian criminals, he noted, were the most widespread fraudsters. No wonder Evora had mentioned them at the start. They were costing the US alone an estimated one to two billion dollars each year and most of it went undetected or unsolved. There were the arrests and prosecutions like the nearly two million dollars of USAID fraud by two aid workers in Liberia, but it was only a fraction of what was going astray.

The US government was well aware of huge losses that were undermining its aid programs. As with Europe and as Jim had found through his bitter experience, there was a political culture around foreign aid that stifled criticism or any serious investigations. Meanwhile, millions of dollars were finding their way onto back streets just from money given for anti-malaria drugs. Once granted, USAID was unable to track the money properly and there were hundreds of examples of it being funnelled, mismanaged and used in unintended ways. 'The surprise is that anyone is surprised. Twenty percent of aid is lost. If that happened in the private sector then USAID would have been shut down.' One quote said.

"Yes," thought Jonathan as he yawned and checked the time. "But it's mainly the private sector that's creative enough to invent the new fraud schemes. The private sector will always stay a step ahead—which meant there were probably dozens of people like Jan's new friend Guido out there."