Whistle Blower (4 page)

IN MILAN, GUIDO was also going about his daily business.

He was holding the mobile phone, as usual, in the fold beneath his chin, his pink lips wet with saliva. Scrolling through pages of words on his computer screen, he had been babbling away to himself. It suddenly stopped, he put his head to one side, his ear on the phone.

"OK. You still there, Toni? Now then, scroll further down where it says a total of EUR 57,150,000 from budget article blah blah is allocated to improve the delivery of aid through transport and complimentary activities aimed at increasing effectiveness, quality, timeliness and visibility of humanitarian actions. Yah, that's it my friend. That's where our little friend Akram will come in useful. He needs to organize the finer details of the funding application—now, Toni, now. Not sit and wait or it'll be too late. Efficiency matters. Efficiency oils the wheels. If he does as he's told he can earn himself a little more money to buy milk for his next new baby. How many does he have now? Six?"

There was a pause followed by another high-pitched chuckle as if Toni might have added a touch of humor that pleased Guido.

"Does Akram's first wife know about Akram's second wife's new baby, Toni?…No, I thought not. But if he can't organize his private life then he needs to organize his business life. You know what to do. No time like the present. The early bird will catch the worm. He must cut his grass when the sun is shining. I thought I liked Akram when I met him in Dubai. He was a handsome and bright young man and I trained him very well. But he is now very bad at dreaming up problems that don't exist. He wastes my fucking time and I can't tolerate him anymore. You deal with him. And tell him he needs to keep his trousers on."

There was a short pause as he listened to the one called Toni, picked at a back tooth with his fingernail and sucked at whatever it was he extracted. Then:

"Yah, and he has another weakness, Toni. He needs to improve his understanding of banks. His other boss, our friendly Finance Minister, is due to speak today at the Government's post-budget speech. He will be expecting big things of Akram. That means that our friendly Finance Minister is expecting big things of us—Toni and Guido. So you must speak to Akram, Toni. Tell him you've spoken to Guido and Guido says I might promote him to Head of Operations North West Pakistan one day. He'll like that title. He can go back home with pride, he can drive there in his new Toyota and boast of his success to his stupid, impoverished neighbors. But first he needs to meet his targets. One million dollars is easy, so tell him his half of one percent commission will be more than enough to feed a fifth baby by a third wife if he has one. It can be a very fat baby. But if he cannot meet his target we will have to speak to people much higher up and they will not be as soft as Guido. Akram still has two hands, doesn't he? Can he work with one?"

There was another pause.

"And then, Toni, there is that prick Tawfik. This bastard needs to be taught a lesson. I give him one more chance only. Tell him this. It is not right that one million Euros was lost. Where has it gone? Tell me. Tawfik is a very poor investment. It is six years we have been in this business. Tell him Guido is very cross about him. Yah. Tell him Guido will cut off his salary or, worse, Guido will cut off his balls and spread rumors for the long ears of the provincial authorities and the police. You know what that means, Toni? Yah—they are very nasty people. They are very, very nasty to those without any balls. And while he will sleep with the rats and eat dry bread and water, Guido will still be sleeping, purring like a cat in his warm bed. Tell him many more things, Toni. Tell him he is like a bucket with holes. Tell him that if it happens again Guido will find a new bucket and throw him away—down a steep hill in the Khyber Pass. You see, Toni, Tawfiq is nothing. He is just an office boy."

Whether the person, Toni, on the other end of the phone was joining in with Guido's humor was not audible, but Toni, himself, clearly now had something to say. Guido, with drops of perspiration running off his greasy forehead, listened. As he did, he leaned back in his chair, now sucking noisily on the plastic cap of a cheap ballpoint pen. But the smile and the chuckle were gone. The round face with the greasy black strands of hair now looked distinctly unhappy. His mouth twisted sideways. Finally, it appeared he had had enough. He sat forward, pulled the phone from beneath his chin and interrupted.

"OK, enough! What the fuck are you saying, Toni? There is no one like us out there. There are only cheats out there. We are the best because we have built the systems. Six years and we have everything in place. We are experienced. We are superior. We are sophisticated. We are the only ones. I do not want to hear you say that, Toni, OK?"

He listened briefly, once more, before throwing the chewed pen top across the room where it bounced off the fan and disappeared into a corner. "It is impossible! I do not believe this… go check again. It is not possible. That is another one million Euros. It is incredible. Find out more… OK, so don't fuck about. Pay him to find out some more. Yah, I know he's a greedy bastard. Tahir was always a greedy bastard. But if he knows something then give him something…of course…are you stupid, Toni? Give it afterwards, not before."

There was a short silence as Guido continued to listen and roll the remnants of the pen between his fingers. The boyish chuckle had, by now, been replaced by a throaty growl like a small dog. Then he said more quietly, "Oh, give him what he wants, Toni…Tahir is like a little baby…and probably a little bastard baby…so when he starts to cry like he's a hungry little bastard baby it means he wants his bottle…it's feeding time…give Tahir what Tahir likes to drink…give him some fucking whiskey."

AT LEK'S CAFE in Thailand, Lek was shuffling around in his stained tee shirt and baggy black trousers. He'd just watched Jim Smith wander off into the hot sun muttering something in English to himself.

Lek didn't really understand the old 'farang' he'd been calling 'Jim' since he'd suddenly arrived three years ago. But Lek liked him. Despite the beard and long hair and that his lips moved because he talked to himself, Jim had been good for business. Jim, Lek thought, had a natural flair as a businessman. But for Jim there would be no red flashing sign outside Lek's Cafe saying, in English, "Cold Beer and WiFi" and never any young backpackers from faraway places or local children playing computer games.

Lek's customers, even those who came in with their backpacks and mobile phones tempted by the red sign, could hardly not notice the old 'farang' sitting with his bottle of beer and staring at the screen of his old and dusty laptop computer in the corner. But with eye contact difficult on account of Jim's long hair and beard, they rarely, if ever, spoke to him. For this courtesy Jim seemed quietly appreciative and would reciprocate their generosity by ignoring them completely. What was it about farangs, wondered Lek. So far from wherever their home was, why not talk to one another. With Jim gone, Lek continued to conduct his business by wiping tables and mopping the floor.

***

"Want to come up, Mother? Mind the third rung. It's loose."

Jim Smith had been talking to himself and his long dead mother throughout the ride home. As he propped the motorcycle beneath the house amongst the dry, worm-eaten firewood and carried the duffel bag up the wooden steps onto what he referred to as his 'veranda,’ the conversation continued. Three years was a long time to have been living like this, but he had made the most of it—liked it in fact. What he missed was conversation.

"Inane chatter about pettiness is something I can manage perfectly well without, Mother. Constructive dialogue is what I miss. Saying what you think aloud re-enforces the reasoning behind the thoughts."

He opened the rickety wooden door, lowered his head, ventured into the dark and stiflingly hot interior and stood for a moment allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Sorry, Mother—I've done it again. I got my feet muddy earlier and there is mud on the steps. Go careful."

Living alone in a tropical hideaway with few personal possessions had not been part of Jim Smith's original plans for life after sixty-five but it suited him. "I've never been a man for material possessions, clothes, domestic appliances, cars or holidays."

To appear to be a harmless, poverty-stricken old opt-out from Western society content with painting, bird watching, private rituals and lonely meditation was perfect cover for Jim Smith's ongoing campaign. "Margaret would be shocked though, if she knew how I lived, Mother. Margaret liked spending money and shopping."

There was a brief pause as he considered his habit of talking to himself. It was getting worse, but it didn't seem to matter so he did nothing to discourage it.

"Merely thinking words reduces them to insignificance. Spoken words are remembered, Mother. Thoughts are so easily forgotten. Anyway…that aside, a pleasant enough ride back from town. Give it a few days for a reply from Jan and Jonathan and then you must make a firm decision, old chap. Regret the consequences of the decision if you must, but never regret the decision itself."

He put the duffel bag with the laptop on the top of a pile of boxes, re-emerged into the bright sun and slumped into his old wicker chair. "It's not revenge, Mother. Revenge is for the weak. Righting the wrong is for the strong." Then he stood up again.

"Work," he said even louder than normal. "Got to get a move on. Time to do some painting, Mother. I'm a man of strict routine. Routine is part of efficiency, of self-discipline and of unerring commitment to a job that, once started, must be completed totally and utterly to one’s satisfaction. Routine means good time management."

Painting, every day, before it got too hot or when it cooled down a little was a serious routine that Jim rarely wavered from, so he went down the steps again. Painting was done by perching on a plastic stool inside a flimsy structure made out of strips of wood covered in mosquito netting and tied to the lower branches of the mango tree with nylon rope.

"My studio, Mother, and we'll need the electric fan on today. It's warm. Just aim it at your legs. Anything higher and the paper flaps and I can't paint."

Facing Jim was his painting of a mynah bird, the paper held by two bulldog clips to a sheet of plywood. This was propped against another plank of wood to keep it well away from the trunk of the mango tree. "It's the
mut see-deng
—the red ants—they march in line up and down the tree and right across my wet paint. It's partly why I prefer water colors to oils…but, where there's a will there's a way, I work with both."

Jim was only moderately pleased with the mynah bird. Its eye was still not quite as he wanted. Eyes depicted mood, feeling and emotion and he felt he had been getting better at it, but the mynah seemed to be looking away from the viewer as if distracted. Unusually, he'd struggled with it for three days and it was not getting any better. He gave it one more go, looked at it sideways—"A little better I suppose"—then got up, tied the entrance to the studio with a short length of nylon string, picked up the drinking water bucket and carried it into the shade of the dog-koon tree. Here, he sat down, cross-legged.

"Same bloody nightmare again last night, Mother. Then the headache this morning. Perhaps it's the coffee." He paused, took a mouthful of water from the plastic mug. "So, what made me wake up this morning? Oh yes, that bloody photo. Why on earth Margaret thought it was me is a mystery. It didn't even look like me. The man's hair was shorter, tidier, middle parting, probably a bloody ponytail as well and I've never been to such clubs in my life. I've been in bars and so on when abroad with clients, of course, but only occasionally. It went with the job. It was business. Serious stuff. But I have no idea what goes on in clubs like that in Soho and neither has Margaret.

"She probably imagines otherwise decent men behave badly or oddly once inside them, Mother, that they use make-up and aftershave, dress strangely, do their hair to impress the waiting women in their short skirts, fluffy rabbit tails and long ears. But I know darned well I didn't leave the flat after ten thirty and certainly not to visit a nightclub in Soho."

A SHINY, BLACK BMW pulled silently away from the government building. Inside, taking up all of the rear seat, the Finance Minister relaxed. It had not been a bad performance, perhaps not one of his best, but he had never liked addressing post-budget conferences.

This was his fourth such budget speech and each time the questions afterwards seemed to get harder. That was why he no longer sat alone at the grand table with the great flag behind him but with some suitably chosen support to both his right and to his left. As they answered questions of detail and sensitivity he could now relax, place his hands together in front of him and take his time to scan the audience of press and politicians and to smile and nod.

As the Minister's car began to negotiate the chaotic early evening city traffic, he glanced over the uniformed driver's shoulder, through the heavily tinted front windscreen. The white police car was in place, blue and red lights flashing. He looked behind where the second police car followed close up to the rear of the BMW. Feeling safe, he leaned over, snapped open the crocodile skin briefcase, extracted his speech notes and flipped to sheet three.

"…so the Federal budget is primarily aimed at bringing almost half of the country's population above the dreaded poverty line…"

Mistake. He should never have listened to Secretary of Finance, Masoog. Never use words like 'almost' and 'dreaded' and never, ever quote figures that made the future look just as bleak as the past. But he had managed to get Masooq himself, sitting on his right, to reply to the question on that one so he had smiled.

He skimmed further.

"…If we consider two dollars the minimum daily wage then ninety million people live below the poverty line, so we will launch many new schemes to help the needy, provide soft loans to unemployed youths and assist students to gain the qualifications the country so badly needs. And, following the agreements signed in New York and London, the country will now stand to benefit from international aid specifically targeted at these groups."

Good. He'd mentioned schemes, funds, loans. Positive news. He'd drawn in the unemployed, the students and had then handed questions on that to the Chairman of the Federal Revenue Board, Tariq. And Tariq, sitting to his left, had also done well. What was it Tariq had said? "These outstanding new steps will ensure sustainable development." It was always good to mention sustainability if the world's press were there to pick it up. And then Tariq had said, "The Government's Youth Program, Business Start-Up scheme and Income Support scheme can only lead to rapid improvements for all…"

The Finance Minister smiled again, tucked the notes back into his case, snapped it shut, closed his eyes and thought instead about the purchase of the new penthouse apartment he'd just finalized in Dubai.