Whistle Blower (19 page)

"I HAVE NO idea where he is."

It was late evening and Jan had phoned Jonathan to check if Jim had been in touch. Jan had felt increasingly nervous since his Sunday experience in Delft but they had both known there would be risks. It was the scale and sophistication and now the direct involvement that was worrying Jan. And the solution and a way of extricating himself seemed further away than ever.

Jan wanted to talk, but Jonathan was sitting, for the first time in a week, trying to watch TV with Claire. Claire was listening intently to Jonathan's side of the conversation.

"I see now that Guido's Puff and Slush schemes are just the ingenious mechanisms to hack into sites, extract and move money and then hide the gaps in the accounts that that generates," Jan was saying. "It's very clever. But I'm in this up to my neck now, Jon. Jesus knows how I'm going to get out of it. Even if I run, report it somewhere and ask for some sort of protection I genuinely fear for my parents, my sister, for Katrine. This Italian guy Guido is sinister. He makes me nervous just hearing his voice. I wake up at night thinking I can hear him. Who is he? Where is he? Is he the top man or just the technical brains? Is he part of a bigger organization? And where does Eischmann fit into this? Is Eischmann just on the take or is he a ringleader, as high up the chain as or higher than Guido?"

"Puff and Slush are the mechanisms—the technology side that Jim used to talk about," replied Jonathan, hoping that Claire would rapidly lose the plot and, with it, her interest. "But the organization itself has infiltrated companies, charities, government departments—organizations that can legitimately bid for funds—to influence them and divert funds to whoever they decide? A charity leader, a government official, a politician, a Minister, a President."

Jan agreed. "And it makes sense to go a step further and set up fictitious bodies specifically to bid for funds—targeting pots of money already ring-fenced, earmarked for humanitarian aid, economic support, social projects, healthcare, education. That, we know, is what Jim believes because he had the personal experience. They could be pocketing billions. But I think even Jim would be taken aback by Puff and Slush."

***

In Thailand, Jim had just made a crucial decision.

"I would like to invite you to my house, Tom. There are things I'd like to discuss."

Tom had imagined a modern dwelling, a bungalow perhaps, on the outskirts of Kanchanaburi—two or three bedrooms, en-suite, a kitchen, flower beds, a lawn. He did not expect the bike ride to take almost an hour. They stopped twice—once to buy iced coconut, the second time to buy clear soup, sausages, rice and a meat and chilli dish from a roadside stall—all packed into clear plastic bags tied with elastic bands. By the time Jim suddenly turned off down a dirt track and announced, "We're here," the sun was sinking behind trees and the distant hills.

Tom's concerns then rose.

In one corner of a small, grassy clearing liberally scattered with shrubs, a forlorn banana tree and a small patch of dry looking vegetables, was a rough-looking wooden structure built about a meter or so above the ground. A few wooden steps led to a platform partly sheltered by an overhanging corrugated roof. "Home," Jim announced cheerfully as he dismounted.

So started Tom's night at Jim's house. Where he imagined it might be in the suburbs, it was on the edge of the jungle, surrounded by night-time insect and other noises. When he thought it would be modern, it was old, wooden and ramshackle. If he thought he might get offered a beer, he got rainwater from a huge clay pot and he was wrong when he thought he might get a bed and bathroom if he stayed the night. But it had electricity— a bare light bulb dangled above the wooden steps and a strip light hung by a cable inside. And it had a small refrigerator, albeit empty but for a few cartons of soya milk and a yellowing cabbage. 

As Jim busied himself outside in the deepening gloom, Tom looked inside. It smelled smoky, dusty. The strip light showed a piece of gray netting hanging by strings from the ceiling in one dark corner, wooden shelves holding jars, cups and paint brushes, a cupboard with a few clothes hanging inside and a pile of stacked cardboard boxes, some tied with string. In the fourth corner was a bundle of plastic sheeting and a blue plastic pipe with a shower spray attachment lying across the floor.

They ate the contents of the plastic bags on Jim's veranda and nothing was said for a while. Eventually, Tom felt he needed to say something. "Well, Jim, I must say, this is a fine place for getting away from it all. You don't appear to have any neighbors to bother you."

Jim nodded. "You are thinking I must be mad to live here, is that right?"

"For sure, it had crossed my mind."

"But you don't ask me."

"OK. I ask you now, Jim. Why the bloody hell are you living in this place, miles from anywhere? I know why you left the UK, but why stay here. It's very—what shall I say?—basic." Tom flapped away another large, flying insect.

"There, perhaps, is part of your story, Tom."

The darkness was making it difficult for Tom to see Jim's face. He was sitting, cross-legged, staring out into the chirping, croaking blackness, sipping occasionally from a plastic mug of water. "Then tell me the story, Jim. If I don't like what I am hearing, I'll stop listening."

"Would you like a drop of the Irish whiskey with the water?"

"Good idea. I'll open it."

"Go ahead. And if you need to empty your bladder at any time, use the undergrowth. There is a toilet of sorts over there,” Jim pointed. “I have a torch but you'd need to be familiar with the positioning of the hole. I would also warn you about the scorpions, not to mention the frogs, which are probably using the same facility at this time of night. Don't, for goodness sake, use my art studio by the mango tree, but feel free to utilize the area by the two banana trees, instead…I think I will if you won't."

As Tom started on the whiskey in the flickering candlelight, Jim got up, clambered front first down the steps and disappeared into the blackness. When he returned he began talking from the bottom of the steps with his elbows on the platform where Tom was sitting.

"We're beginning to make progress in proving what I accused certain people of doing three years ago—corruption, fraud, that sort of thing. Fraudulent use of international aid on the scale I described is rife."

Tom tried seeing Jim's face as he continued. "In Europe they will want to deny it. Accusations of that sort, especially with evidence, are not compatible with their need to conceal the truth from the people, you see. There is a massive democratic deficit. But there is a story developing. Do you want it?"

Tom, shocked by the change of topic, gulped down another half cupful of water mixed with Irish whiskey. "Sure. It would be interesting." It didn't sound convincing but he was barely concentrating. Something was biting his neck.

"I need to show that the accusations I made about fraud and corruption are true—with evidence this time."

"So you've got the evidence, now? If I recall that's why they got a bit mad with you at the time."

"It's coming together."

"Enough to raise the matter all over again?"

There was a definite pause of uncertainty from the darkness as a yellow candle that Jim had lit flickered in a breeze that had suddenly picked up. The flame almost went out, but it was enough for Tom to see Jim's teeth and strands of his long gray hair flapping in the breeze. "I hope so," he muttered.

"Enough to warrant going back? You'd need to be sure this time, Jim."

"Yes, I know. I understand the risks. But I need to go back. There is work to be done to prove what I said and I need to clear my name. I need to show that what I said was right, that I was right to speak out, that I'm not an incompetent fool and that it was worth electing me for speaking my mind, my experience in business, my honesty."

The breeze became fresher, stronger and Tom heard what he thought was a rumble of distant thunder. "Would anyone listen to you?" he asked.

"We'd need something to get them to sit up and take notice."

"Like what?"

A flash of distant lightening brightened the sky, Jim's so-called garden and his face. A long rumble of thunder followed from somewhere behind the house and a few large spots of rain fell on the tin roof above Tom's head. The trees rustled and a clump of tall bamboo to his left creaked and swayed. But it was as if Jim had seen or heard nothing.

"As well as pursuing my case," he went on, "I will lecture on materialism, discuss the merits of Buddhism in a Godless society, speak on issues that the Church is afraid to discuss—death, family values, self-dependency, population control, individual responsibility…"

Tom was considering how much interest these subjects might attract and was grateful for another long flash of lightening followed by a deafening crash of thunder that seemed to split the sky.

"I think I will join you up there," Jim said. "It will rain now—heavily, perhaps for ten or fifteen minutes. But, first, excuse me while I move the guttering around to fill the second pot. Rainwater is so much nicer to drink."

As Jim disappeared once again into the darkness Tom filled his cup having now resigned himself to staying the night. The whiskey was good but it was making him feel a little lightheaded and he still felt a sort of responsibility for Jim's health. The man had only just come out of hospital yet he was behaving as if nothing had happened.

Jim reappeared as the rain began falling in torrents. Another flash, another loud crack of thunder, the lightning already showing up puddles and water streaming off the roof onto the ground below, driven by a breeze that had become a cool wind. As water splashed onto his feet, Tom got up holding onto his cup of water and whiskey and made for the door that had swung half shut. Behind him, Jim settled into a crouching position with his back to the wall of the house out of reach of the water falling from the overhanging roof. The struggling flame on the orange candle only just hung onto the wick.

Tom made for the far corner next to the boxes feeling drops of water falling on his head from nail holes in the roof. Another flash outside, another crack of thunder.   

The boxes were loosely covered in plastic bags and a small pool of rainwater had already formed on the top one. Above it, on a wooden shelf, sat rows of small jars containing paint brushes, different color paints and dirty water. A square, plywood sheet, stained with paint and with bulldog clips fastened along the top, was propped against the back wall. Tom stood, looking around but not daring to touch. But as more water dripped onto the top box, he opened it and drew out a flat, plastic bag containing what looked like sheets of thick paper. Pulling out the top sheet, he carried it towards the strip light, held it up and stared at it.

At first he thought it was a large color photograph or print. He felt it. The surface was rough, and at the edges he could see smudges of color. He strained to look at it. If it was a painting, then, to his untrained eye, it was brilliant. He turned it around trying to detect imperfections but the nearer to the light he got, the more perfect it looked. It was like a color portrait taken by a skilled photographer—a second in time caught with absolute perfection.

It showed a smiling, young, oriental woman with just the top of her bare breasts exposed. She was kneeling down and leaning forward, trying to get closer as though she wanted or expected to be kissed. Her smile was perfect, her eyes dark, wide and full of life. Her hair was long, black and fell in a dense curve over one shoulder. But it was what Tom could see within that flowing, dark hair that made the picture an absolute masterpiece of artistry. A young girl’s face, mischievously but purposely forcing itself into the picture, her face a perfect, miniature version of the young woman. Her black eyes smiled and looked directly at him like her mother's, but their appearance suggested they might at any moment look away, perhaps up towards her mother either for a hug or a reprimand. The child's own jet-black hair merged with her mother's but the straight, short fringe of black hair was painted to perfection. Tom stared at it.

He had admired photographs and paintings over the years but nothing had had the same affect on him as this. "Incredible," he mumbled it to himself. “It’s brilliant."

Tom continued to look at it, turning it around, still barely able to believe that he was not looking at a photograph. But this was better than any photograph he had ever seen. Another flash of lightening pierced the interior. The rain was heavy, noisy on the tin roof above his head. He took another sheet out, holding it up to the light again. The paper, this time, was dark, perhaps green—he could not tell in the poor light—but the center of the paper was dominated by an orchid, purple and mauve with a yellow center and mottled with irregular patches of purple and white. The light green stem was bent in such a way that it showed one other orchid, a less mature one just showing signs of opening, tucked away behind the main flower as if seeking the same opportunity to participate as the child in the first picture. As he stared at it, the heavy rain stopped, the next crash of thunder was further away, the lightning just a prolonged, flickering flash.

"Brilliant," he said aloud, but a voice behind him made him jump.

"Not so brilliant." Jim said. He was standing just inside the doorway, silhouetted by another flash of lightening.