Whistle Blower (20 page)

"Jesus, you made me jump. I hope you don't mind me looking at these."

Jim turned, moved away, said nothing. Tom replaced the paper in the bag, put the bag back in the box and covered it with plastic sheeting. Then he went to the door. "The rain was dripping onto the boxes," he said. "I'm not an expert, but what I saw looks very, very good. The one of the mother and child is incredible, Jim. You should take more care."

"Why bother?"

"Because they are good, Jim."

"Who says they are good?"

"I say. I am not an expert but I think they are good."

"So, what did you see and what brought you to that profoundly unprofessional conclusion?"

"The mother and daughter, the orchids. I just liked them. It's not a professional opinion—just a personal one."

"Noy and Oy," Jim said. "Painted from memory about a year ago. The orchid, on the other hand, grows up there." He pointed into the darkness.

"Has no one else seen them, Jim?"

"No."

"You should take more care of them."

"Why? Give me a good reason."

Tom thought for a while. "Because, if I had a rare talent like that, which unfortunately God has not blessed me with, then I think other people should be able to see it, to appreciate it, to respect it."

"And what good would that do?"

"If I felt that I had absolutely nothing else to offer, other than a talent as an artist, then I would want to finish my life feeling that I had at least been able to contribute something, however small."

There was just the briefest pause. "You are not answering my question. My question was what good would it do?"

"But I am answering your question, Jim. You ask me what good it will do? Well, whatever else, if it does me some good by showing people what I had done, however small, then it would be good for me. Sometimes you have to be selfish. Do things for yourself not others."

"And if they mocked it, denigrated it, drew cartoons depicting a self-possessed, publicity-seeking old man devoid of talent?"

"If it's good enough there will always be praise from those that recognize true talent. Where has your confidence gone, Jim? Stone age cave paintings done with one finger are simple. Are they not respected? And, anyway, if you were a talentless, self-possessed, publicity-seeking old fool then you'd be joining a very large club, Jim. You'd be lost in the crowd."

Tom saw him nod and perhaps he smiled, but Tom took advantage. "If you are really serious about getting people to sit up and take notice of you and what you believe in, then I suggest you show them what you've been doing while you've been away. If I like your art, Jim, I'm sure others will too.

"The world has changed," Tom went on. "There have been too many mediocre, talentless politicians over the last few years for people to sit up and cheer yet another one spouting off about something they are not the slightest bit interested in. No longer do they bother to listen to fine words from a man or woman in a suit with a party rosette stuck in their button hole. But if there is something interesting and visual to look at—something to take their minds off the stupid old fart's rhetoric—then they might actually also start to listen to the words being spoken—especially if those words strike a chord with people. And especially if they think they're getting a raw deal while others selfishly exploit the system. People still like politicians who stand out from the rest. But it's all about presentation. Have you ever considered that perhaps presentation was your biggest weakness, Jim?"

Jim looked at the Irishman stooped inside the low doorway to his house—his first ever visitor. "Mmm," he said, apparently considering Tom's words. Then he nodded again. "Then, if you liked just two I'll show you a hundred or so more in the morning," he said. "The first public viewing of the work of an unknown artist. How about that?"

"For sure, I’d be very honored, Jim."

"Then I suggest you get some sleep. You can bed down anywhere. I think I'll stay here. But I suppose I'd better take my medication. Doctor's orders must be obeyed."

"MR. EVORA HAS arrived, Jonathan."

Jonathan had never met an FBI agent before, but Scott Evora was a perfect match to his preconception of one—a six foot, thick-necked, fair-haired and muscular man who looked as if he spent most of his spare time working out in a gym somewhere. Probably, Jonathan decided, they had one at the Embassy. Formalities over, cups of black coffee served by Sarah and Jonathan decided he'd try out Evora's method and cut to the chase.

"So, how can we help?"

"We need some eyes and ears, Jonathan. These are difficult times for ordinary US citizens with ever-rising costs of living, unemployment, cuts to services—you got it here in the UK. I watch the BBC news. And American taxpayers especially hate the thought of their hard-earned taxes going into the pockets of a bunch of already wealthy despots in Africa and elsewhere. US politicians are getting their ears burned so we get ours burned. There's pressure to be stricter, to track down villains, bring them to justice. Some argue to stop aid altogether, but it's fucking politics isn't it—handing out aid is supposed to win friends and influence people."

"So what are you looking for?"

"First off. Tell me about your business. How long have you been going?"

Jonathan stood up. "Twelve years. But come, see for yourself. I'll introduce you to some of the staff. No problem."

A walk-around tour Walton Associate's office could have taken all of three minutes. Handshakes with six staff—David, Lizzie, Carol, Mark, Steve and one receptionist
cum
PA, Sarah—but it took an hour. Jonathan showed him bids they'd submitted, a wall map showing flags with the bigger projects in Bangladesh, Pakistan, Bulgaria, Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Libya.

They stopped to look at Carol's computer screen where she was using a template to write a bid for some money for the UK—a rural economy project. Scott Evora followed Jonathan around, shook hands, nodded and listened. Then they returned to Jonathan's office and sat in the two arm chairs across the coffee table. As Scott Evora took over again, Jonathan filled the coffee cups.

"We just stopped a racket in Pakistan, Jonathan. Twenty million dollars for Christ's sake. Awarded for an educational project near Islamabad. Money's gone. Vanished. Where? Fuck knows. We got a couple of local guys but just can't nail their US partner. There must be one somewhere, but in Islamabad they clam up, shrug, say they know nothing. Trouble is they're probably right. We can't put our finger on the top local guys.  

"We also just sentenced a US sub-contractor for four years for issuing false invoices. And you will have heard about the $295 million contract with the Afghan Ministry of Public Health. Money came from USAID. But where did a lot of that $295 million go? Fucking Talban and Islamic extremists of course. We think some went to Iran, some just disappeared into local pockets. The rest? God knows. And why don't we know? Because there aren't any proper controls that's why. We just hand it over with smiles on our faces and hope it'll be spent wisely. Hope doesn't work, Jonathan. We just gotta get tougher."

Evora stopped, took a gulp of his coffee. Then, without moving his eyes from the bottom of his cup: "You ever dealt with USAID, Jonathan?"

"No, never," Jonathan said, remembering that Evora had asked him that before. Was Walton Associates suspected of something? "We leave anything to do with USAID to American consultants or contractors," he added.

Evora nodded, seemingly believing what Jonathan had said. He looked up from his cup. 

"But that's why we need the feedback, the snippets of intelligence that come the way of businesses like yours on this side of the pond. We especially need to know one hell of a lot more about the contractors involved, the agents, the sub-agents, the consultants. We need to start spot checks. Walk into their offices off the street. But first we need to know who to spot check. It's a moving target. They come, they go. They appear, they disappear—deliberately of course. A few names crop up, then they crop up again somewhere else and then they disappear. And how many fucking people do you know called Mohamed? We need stricter controls but the bureaucracy is bad enough already."

Evora was sitting back, totally relaxed in the arm chair, his long legs spread wide, the half empty coffee cup hovering in his hand over the arm of the chair. He took a deep breath.

"Now," he paused. "What, in your opinion, is the UK government doing, Jonathan? What is the EU doing? Are they concerned? The outward signs are they don't give a fuck. Am I right? But from what I understand, the figures are just the same as the US's—massive losses, huge discrepancies. Don't taxpayers over here care? Why don't they say something? Don't your politicians get it in the neck like ours do? Why give billions of dollars in aid for the teeming millions of poor in Africa, the Middle East and Asia only to find some tin pot dictator or despot has just stolen it? Why not spend the billions at home on your own poor—after all, it is these very same home-grown poor who have paid the tax in the first place. That's what US citizens are asking.

"You've been in the business a while, Jonathan, you must have your opinions and suspicions?" he concluded.

Jonathan sighed, seriously wondering whether to say 'just look what had happened to Jim Smith.’ And then, of course, there was Jan, sitting at his desk behind a computer right at the heart of the system. Should he even mention the mysterious Guido or the suspicion that the system itself tolerated, wittingly or not, the antics of top bureaucrats like Dirk Eischmann?

And there was another worry. Did Evora suspect that Walton Associates might, itself, be involved somewhere? Had Evora come with another agenda? If so, he needed to proceed very carefully. Did the FBI already know about Jacob Johnson, for instance? Were they so on the ball that Johnson was being watched? If so then was Walton Associates also being watched? He stood up, wandered over to the window and looked down into the car park where he could see what he thought must be Evora's car—a Ford Mondeo—parked next to his.

"Yes," he said still looking down. "We have a lot of suspicions and so we are, as I mentioned earlier, very selective who we work for. But you are right, Scott, the international aid business—if we can call it that—is huge, it is massive, it is bureaucratic, the world is a very big place and the money handed out is vast. But the attitude seems to be that you have to allow for discrepancies—twenty percent is a figure that often gets mentioned—because it's just not practical to tighten things up enough to stop it. It's probably a lot more than twenty percent but can you imagine a private business accepting even a twenty percent loss?"

"No fucking way they would," Evora said. "So they turn a blind eye, is that what you're saying?"

"Yes." Jonathan hesitated, enough to be noticed. "They turn a blind eye, but there's more to it than that." He walked back to the coffee table. "Because if someone suggests something's wrong, that huge losses are unacceptable and that massive international fraud and political corruption is suspected, they close ranks." Jonathan hesitated again but then went for it.

"I remember," he said, "A few years back. A UK politician, Jim Smith, asked questions in Parliament. In fact, he even went as far as to make allegations, named names. Unfortunately it didn't do him a lot of good. You should check it out—a good man was Jim Smith."

"What happened?"

"He was hounded out."

"So who the fuck did he name? The Prime Minister?"

"Perhaps you should ask him."

"Where is he now?"

"He went abroad."

"Where?"

"I don't know," said Jonathan honestly. "But I suggest you do a bit of research on the trouble Jim Smith encountered. The only thing he managed to prove was that it's not at all clever to point fingers at, and ask questions about, certain people in power."

Scott Evora sat forward. "It sounds to me, Jonathan, that what you're saying is that over here the corruption begins closer to home. Would I be right?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yes, I think you can say that."

"Jesus. Listen. Thanks, Jonathan." Evora had apparently heard enough. He stood up, held out his big hand. "You've been a real big help. Can we stay in touch? You've got my card. Anything crop up you just call me, OK? Anything—suspicions, evidence that'll stand up—anything. It's the US side that the FBI is tasked with but I suspect we might find some cross-over somewhere. And what was that English politician's name again?"

"Jim Smith."

"Jim Smith. That's easy enough to remember. I'll check him out."

Yes
, thought Jonathan,
But you'll draw a complete blank from the day Jim boarded that plane to wherever he went
.

For the first time for weeks, Jonathan began to think there might, just might, be a way forward here. If they needed a law enforcement agency to sit up and take an interest, why not the FBI. For now he desperately needed to talk to Jim.

TOM WAS GRATEFUL for the whiskey he'd drunk. He'd found a cushion lying near the boxes of paintings, lain down on the bone-hard, wooden floor and slept.

It was still dark when he awoke so, hearing nothing outside, he crept to the door. The big yellow candle was still alight, flickering but steady, but Jim was nowhere to be seen. He switched the strip light on inside and checked to make sure Jim hadn't crept in during the night, but there was nothing, not even inside the net curtain in the corner which, he assumed, was Jim's usual sleeping quarters. He checked his watch. It was five thirty and just a faint light was showing over the distant hills. Feeling a little nervous, Tom went back outside and sat in the chair, the air cool but still full of buzzing and chirping from the ground and the trees. A bird was calling from somewhere.

"Where the bloody hell is he?… Jesus, I see why Jim talks to himself. I've started already."

He found his trainers, went down the steps and then reached up and by touch only, found the torch. He shone it around Jim's so-called garden and spotted a bamboo hut which he assumed was the toilet. "But I suppose I can piss anywhere." 

Standing at the bottom of the steps, Tom pissed. It was just as he finished that he heard the motorcycle. He hadn't thought to look to see if it was there. A beam of light shone through the trees and Jim appeared. He drove up to the wooden steps and stopped.

"Early start, Tom. Breakfast. We've a lot to do today." He pushed the motorcycle up against a timber support and went up the steps, carrying more plastic bags. "The food stall a mile or so down the road opens well before dawn."

"That early, Jim? Christ, it's still night-time."

"Nonsense, it's nearly six o'clock and a good time to work. It's cooler. I always get a lot done before eight," he said, emptying the contents of the plastic bags into dishes in the light from the candle.

Tom returned to the wicker chair. Jim sat cross-legged on the floor spooning rice and soup into his mouth. "Did you take your medication, Jim?"

"No, not yet. Later. I was thinking during the night and have made some decisions. I am going to England. I need to check my email and book a flight. But first I would like you to view my paintings and decide which ones to take with us."

"Us?" thought Tom as Jim stood up, wobbled on his feet and grasped the upright holding the roof. Tom jumped, ready to support him. "Are you sure you're up to all that, Jim?"

"Of course," Jim said. "Ageing and sickness is inevitable. Youthful vitality diminishes with age. Our eyesight deteriorates, our hearing fails, we are exhausted more easily. Even our intellect is less sharp and our memories fade. Make hay while the sun shines. Loneliness deepens in old age as we start to understand our mortality. But death comes to us all. We come with nothing, we go with nothing. But we should not fear death and we should never regret our past life. Never. That is why I want to go home—at least for a while. There are things I need to do, things I need to say, wrongs that need to be put right. Do you understand?"

"Yes—I suppose so," said Tom, realizing that Jim was on a roll, talking as if he had a far larger audience than one.

"None of us are immortal, Tom. At the end, money is nothing, possessions are unimportant. Yes, leaving loved ones to cope alone is painful. But what is important is to leave your mark on them so that they remember you with happiness and understanding. When we die, our body decays or is cremated. A dead human body is just an empty shell. It is useless and mindless. It was, in any case, just a temporary, organized, coming together of molecules. Accept it. Believe it. Live in accordance with it. The atoms, the molecules, are all recycled. Nothing is actually lost. Everything is, once more, re-organized, reshaped into other things. It is our thoughts, our opinions, our contribution and our actions that live on."

"Mmm," said Tom, scraping his dish and drinking from the cup of rainwater that Jim had placed before him as if it were freshly squeezed orange juice.

"What do you think, Tom? Do you sit and think? Do you ponder on such things? Do you worry about money, possessions, whether you have a big house, a fridge, a car, a TV? And those who already have all these things—what do you suppose they want? A bigger house, a better car, a newer TV, more and more money? Why? What for? Do they ever ask themselves what is really important? Do you, Tom? What is important to you?"

Tom had no need to think.

"Maeve was important to me and…"

Jim immediately interrupted him. "No, Tom. Maeve IS important to you. Do not forget that. Please continue," he said, spooning rice into his mouth.

"Yes, but she is no longer with me although I still feel she is. Even on the plane out here, I was thinking about her, how much she would have enjoyed the trip. She'd have sat beside me with her arm tucked around mine just looking down on the clouds. I know. I seemed to feel her. And when I go home? She's not there, but she is. Do you understand?"

"Of course. There we have it, Tom. Maeve still lives. She lives in your heart. Keep her there. She is still around here somewhere." And Jim, still chewing noisily on his breakfast, waved his arms towards the trees and the distant hills where the sky was getting brighter by the minute. 

"What was her favorite color, Tom?"

"Pink, I suppose."

"Then look over there beyond the hills. What color is the sky?"

"It's pink," Tom said.

"Then show her, Tom. In your heart, quietly, to yourself, tell her to look over there and then just sit still for a moment and remember her—while I wash the dishes."