Whistle Blower (5 page)

"IT IS MR. Hamid and Mr. Farid, yah? Good, good.
Buongiorno e benvenuti alla bella Italia
. Welcome to Italy—to Milano. I am Guido,
Signore
Guido if you like but Guido is OK.
Oggi fa molto caldo
. It is very hot today, no? OK. Come, come, follow me."

Hamid and Farid, the two Lebanese, had taken a late afternoon KLM flight from Amsterdam. They glanced at one another with raised eyebrows but followed the short and stocky frame of the Italian as he marched in quick strides towards the exit.

"Yah, my car," he pointed as they arrived outside. He ushered them towards a large black Mercedes illegally parked but watched over by an airport security man. "
Molto grazie
, Umberto. It is not far. Please put your cases on the back seat. That is a nice case, Mr. Hamid. Is it Italian? We will arrive to talk the business in no time. Relax."

He got in and drove off but continued talking. The two Lebanese behind continued to glance at each other and shrug. Neither of them could see their host for the headrest was positioned well above the top of his head and the seat so low it was debatable whether he could see the road ahead. Nevertheless, he drove quickly and expertly and in the heart of Milan he stopped outside a restaurant, jumped out, handed the car keys to someone and led the way into the restaurant. "Donna worry about your nice cases. Everything is safe with Bruno.
Mi segua
—follow me, please."

The choice of restaurant was obvious. The Park Hyatt Milano where the visitors were booked to stay was close by.

As Guido pushed the door open, an elderly waiter in a black suit rushed forward. "Ah, Giuseppe. We are here. These are my guests." Giusepppe bent down to Guido's level and planted a delicate but manly, cheek-to-cheek kiss. Guido touched the spot where their cheeks had touched and smiled. "Yah," he said. "These are my good friends from Beirut, John," he said using, perhaps, Giuseppe's preferred name for non-Italians.

"Welcome, your table is ready." Then he whispered to Guido. "We have a case of 2007 Sassicaia for you or if you prefer…"

"Yes, the Sassicaia, and give Bruno a case for my car. No need for the menu. It is too late for them, they ate on the plane and they have had a busy day. Give them a
pizza margarita
and I will explain why it is called
margarita
. As for me, I'll have
mundeghili de vitel alla milanese, insalatina di asparagi e salsa alla senape
."

"Of course, of course," Guiseppe said, flapping white napkins. Was he pleased to see Guido? After forty years in the trade it was impossible to know.

The single bottle of wine was brought and poured without tasting. "
Salute
," Guido said lifting his glass. He sipped it, but then took a full mouthful, washed it around his mouth and swallowed. His two guests watched, sipped and looked at each other as Guido stuffed a pure white napkin into his shirt collar, coughed and thumped his wide, soft chest. "Yes, it is a my favorite. I like it. It is the best from Tuscany," he announced speaking in English. "We will eat soon. Fabrizio is the master for the
pizza margarita
. Italian food is much better than Lebanese." He gave his gurgling laugh at his own humor and then drained the glass. "So," he said, "Your business is now established?"

"Yes, it is called Cherry Pick Investments," the one called Farid replied. "It is registered in Singapore. We can now start."

"Yah, yah. What do you have in mind?"

The two Lebanese looked at one another as if unsure who should speak. It was Farid again. "There is an organization called the Coalition for Arab Youth—CAY," he said. "It is to support groups of young people who want to see a peaceful outcome to the many on-going conflicts in the Middle East."

"But?" asked Guido, reaching across the table to pour himself another glassful. He smiled over the rim, the small beady eyes staring at Farid.

"But, maybe not." Farid tried returning the smile.

Guido raised an eyebrow with his own smile fixed into position. "It is not something I have heard of. Who runs this youthful coalition?" 

"A woman professor from the American University of Beirut. She has a small network of teachers who try to encourage peaceful dialogue not armed struggle. It has received some publicity and has a record of organizing events and conferences…"

Guido clapped his hands. "Good. A track record is so necessary. Some paperwork, a few press releases and some important sounding names like Professor X or Doctor Y. Go on, please."

Farid continued. "But she is struggling for lack of funds."

"Ah, and what would she do with money?"

"She will establish new Coalition for Arab Youth offices in Saudi Arabia, Dubai, Jordan and Tel Aviv run by women who agree with its principles."

"Very nice. And how much would this cost?"

Farid hesitated. "About two million Euros—maybe over three years."

"Very nice. And how do you fit into this noble plan to enrich Arab youths?"

Farid looked at Hamid. Hamid spoke. "The professor is my wife."

Guido did not flinch. "Ah, here comes your pizza and here comes my
mundeghili de vitel alla milanese
. Let us eat…and also talk."

After one mouthful of pizza for the Lebanese, Guido, his mouth full of food, looked up from his plate. His eyes flashed from Farid to Hamid and back again. "So, where will the money come from?"

Hamid was chewing on a piece of dry pizza crust. "We need help. Can you help us? We were told you are very expert in this matter. We believe there are European funds that might be available."

"Yes, you are correct and I am an expert. The criteria will be that it meets European Middle East policy. Who decides the policy is a complete mystery to us voters, but that is the way our democracy works. But once it's there we do with it what we can. Here it is similar to the old USSR but not yet as bad as North Korea." He giggled and as he did so a large piece of green asparagus landed in the middle of the table next to the water jug. Still stuffing more food into his mouth he went on:

"And who will ensure the funding is properly used and fully accounted for? We can't have taxpayers feeling aggrieved that their money ends up in the pockets of rich men living in Beirut, or with Hamas or evil people like ISIS or Al Shebab or Boko Haram." His eyes flickered between his two guests.

Hamid put his knife down. "We have a management company in Beirut and…"

Guido interrupted. "Is this Cherry Pick, Beirut, Limited?" He giggled once more and another speck of chewed food flew from his open mouth.

Hamid tried to smile. "We are thinking to bid for funds with a management charge of say fifteen percent. That would be in order?"

He watched and waited as Guido scraped the last forkful, put it in his mouth, pulled the stiff white napkin from out of his shirt collar and wiped his face. Chewing on what was still left in his mouth he screwed the napkin up, threw it into the middle of the table and watched it slowly unfold itself once again.

"Fuck—I told Giuseppe about that. I have warned him many times. The fucking laundry uses too much starch. If these people cannot do what customers want, do they know what will happen to their business?" With that he drew a short, fat finger across his soft, white neck and glared around as if looking for Giuseppe. Then, with barely a pause:

"But fifteen percent, that is nothing. It is not worth getting out of bed. With good advice and careful management, fifteen percent would be a gross underestimate. If Cherry Picking is to benefit from this well-meaning organization, it should look to make at least fifty percent. You must be more ambitious, my friends. If you want advice on the bid process, to draw down money to ensure it travels in the right direction and then cover your tracks, then say so, but fifteen percent will only just cover Guido's charges."

"I see," said Farid and Hamid in unison again. "So it is possible?"

"Of course," Guido replied and he spread his short arms wide. "To be ambitious—that is my motto. You know we have a saying in Italy—
a rubar poco si va in galera, a rubar tanto si va cariera
. You know what that is in English, my friends?

"No," they said.

"Steal a little and go to jail. Steal a lot and make a career of it. Ha, ha!" As he laughed, he looked around, caught the eye of a waiter and beckoned for the bill.

Hamid and Farid, still struggling with their pizzas, listened to Guido's high-pitched laughter as it suddenly stopped and his tone became serious. Sitting with the top of his round head only just above the chair back, he asked. "So what other plans do you have for Cherry Picking? It is such a waste if I teach you how to play the game and you only play the game once."

"Ah yes," said Hamid. "I do not always live in Beirut. Sometimes I visit my associates in Lagos, Nigeria, and Freetown in Sierra Leone. We have trading companies there. They are also called Cherry—Cherry Trading, Cherry Imports, Cherry Marketing."

"And what do these companies do?" Guido asked as the waiter presented the bill on a silver plate. "
Gracis
, please leave it there. I will check it for accuracy."

"Ah, many things," Hamid said doubtfully and glancing at Farid. "One thing is we deal in—what shall we say—computers."

"Yah?" Guido leaned forward as much as the fully-fastened suit jacket allowed. He rested his arms on the table and entwined eight stubby fingers as if to say grace. On one middle finger was a large ring with a blue stone. On the other middle finger sat a wide, silver ring. "So tell me about these companies—or just tell me what you want me to hear."

"Yes," continued Hamid. "We plan to diversify…"

"Don't we all," Guido interrupted. "Please proceed."

"Yes, we import old computers, service them and sell them to schools."

"Very nice business," he said. "Anything else?"

"Ah, we are also in the jewellery business."

Guido used the middle finger with the blue stone to scratch his nose. "May I ask where you buy your stones?" 

"Uh, Bangkok," Hamid said hesitantly.

"So what you are saying is that the stones really come from next door—from Myanmar? Guido knows many sorts of businesses you see " The small, beady eyes moved rapidly from Hamid to Farid and back again.

"Ah, yes," said Hamid.

"O…K," said Guido slowly as if a lot were going on inside his head. "Jewellery is a nice business. I like it. With jewellery we do not need money." He paused. "Your company in Lagos, Nigeria. Who runs it?"

Hamid looked at Farid again. Farid looked at Guido. Guido looked at both of them in turn. It was Hamid who spoke. "Ah, it is a family business. My brother, Marcel, is in charge."

"More family business," Guido said happily, apparently sensing it might be complicated and that he would need to concentrate if he was to remember names. He closed his eyes.

"My brother Marcel is married to Farid's sister, Nadine."

"Cozy," said Guido, his eyes firmly shut as if visualizing Nadine. "I like it. And your wife's name—the one who runs the so-called Coalition for Arab Youth—CAY?"

"Ah, my wife," Hamid said, apparently warming to the word cozy. "Yes my wife is Leila. And we have two children, both girls, Nancy is seven and Diana is thirteen. My wife liked the Princess."

"How nice," said Guido, his eyes perhaps smiling behind the closed lids. "And you, Farid. How is your family?"

"Yes, I also am married. My wife is Sabah and we have two children also."

"I like it," Guido said. "It is good to keep things in a family.” He opened his eyes at last and focused them on Farid. "So who is your contact in Myanmar?"

Suddenly forced from the soft, coziness of family talk back to the hard commercial, Farid and Hamid's smiles ceased. "Uh, we don't know," said Farid.

"Mmm." Guido sat back looking across the table at two half-finished pizzas. "There are new and exciting opportunities to be found in South East Asia, but I cannot tell you more about what I'm thinking without understanding your business better. A pity, but never mind." He paused. "OK, we will talk in more detail at your hotel. It is not so late and tomorrow I am too busy. Together we will ensure the future success of Cherry Picking. But…" he paused again, "You have already made a very good start by meeting Guido in Milano. The only problem was to eat the pizza."

JIM SMITH WAS feeling hungry.

He was still sitting cross-legged beneath the dog-koon tree in the cooling breeze from the electric fan on an extension lead, but he knew there was nothing in the house except a blackening bunch of bananas covered in fruit flies.

It was now late afternoon and thinking the headache that was threatening to return was a sign of a lack of food he wheeled the motorcycle out and drove up the dirt track onto the main road. Then he headed towards the town and a roadside shop that sold everything from meat and fish balls on sticks to baskets of 'battu'—steamed Indian mackerel. The air was still, hot and humid as he rode homewards, still talking to himself.

It was a year after his election that he had flown out of London Heathrow Airport to Frankfurt and then on to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia.

"I needed the space," he mumbled into the oncoming hot wind as if talking to someone who sat behind him on the motorcycle. "Time to think and decide what to do. I was in a serious spot of trouble. When I was running the business I could escape to my office to think and emerge a few hours later with my mind clear and a sensible plan in my head. But in that bloody zoo, I had no hiding place, the nonsense seemed to follow me everywhere. If they thought I'd just give up, however, they were badly mistaken. They had no idea what makes me tick. I was James Smith and I am still the same James Smith, an obstinate bugger when it comes to doing what I think is right."

But as a newly elected Independent Member of Parliament Jim was, he admitted, still a bit green when it came to politics.

For the first time in his life he was unsure what to do for the best. All he knew was that someone, somewhere, wanted him out of the way. How far they might go was what worried him but the feeling persisted that he'd highlighted something so awkward for someone somewhere that they wanted him destroyed—completely.

"I knew I would upset one or two people along the way, but I assumed they'd be big enough to handle it and perhaps do something. It seemed I was an independent, free-willed, politically incorrect old fart who had no business coming into their profession and behaving like a bull in a china shop. But I didn't reckon on a bigger gang joining in."

The mumbling stopped as he turned off the road and bumped along the track leading to the house, but his mind was still on the past. The first casualty of the process to discredit him was his marriage. After thirty years of married life, he and Margaret had, as the media called it, 'separated.'

Sitting on the 'veranda,’ he prodded a meatball with a stick, dipped it in chilli sauce, took a handful of raw, shredded cabbage, chewed, spat out a tiny piece of bone and wiped his mouth with his hand.

"Look at it this way, Mother," he muttered. "I now realize that other politicians who suspected something of this magnitude might have decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Others might, I suppose, wait for the right moment to publish a book of revelations, by which time it would be back in the mists of time, deniable and far too late to do anything. But a book, suitably peppered with innuendo and just a few facts, might be profitable enough to boost a pension pot. Some might share opinions with one or two trusted friends in quiet restaurants and agree it was best to let the dogs lie for the sake of their careers. But I am a stubborn bastard, Mother. I was not like the other elected politicians. I had no Party, no friends and no allies. I had become an awkward outsider with an unconventional style and no one to share a cozy supper with. In fact, I knew I had made some unseen enemies."

He stood up, bent his head so as not to hit the overhanging tin roof and went inside to fetch his bucket of drinking water—water he collected every time it rained. He brought it outside, sat in the chair and gulped down a mug full. The sun had now disappeared and a fresh, cooling breeze was picking up.

So why had he gone into politics? It was as if his mother had just asked him.

"Time on my hands, Mother. Not enough had been happening, you see. I'd always been so busy. But it had made sense to sell the business. Bigger businesses had been hovering around for quite a while as it became clear that the company needed the extra clout a publicly owned multinational could offer so I agreed rather reluctantly. It was my baby. I'd started it, ran it my way and was afraid it would lose its identity as part of something much bigger. But it made sense in other ways and I was pleased with the way the business had grown from a one-man band to employ over a hundred and at the cutting edge of technology. We were exporting to over seventy countries and had subsidiaries in Singapore and South Africa and a new joint venture just going in China that had taken the best part of a year to resolve the details. But, by the signing date, and having rejected the chance to continue as an advisor to the new Board, I knew I'd soon get bored.

"But what I brought with me on my first days as a new boy in politics was not a book of rules and regulations, but a bag of dirty washing and a few other files that showed that all was not quite as it should be in the corridors of power. Then I quickly learned that the rules and regulations that I had not fully read were often used to pour cold water on controversy and unpopular opinion and kick them into the long grass where they could be lost and hopefully forgotten altogether. And I quickly learned not to expect support from anyone however high up the chain of command; after all they were far too busy trying to remain popular until the next election. If they got a whiff of something that smelled a little unpleasant, they wanted to move away to where the air smelled fresher.

"But that left those targeted by this obnoxious old fart pulling dirty washing out of the bag he'd brought with him to start to play a new game—a game with few rules and no bloody sympathy."

He suddenly sprang to his feet and went inside the house, conscious of the use of a couple of words his mother would have frowned on. He had almost heard her. "Language, James, language." But he still felt annoyed, annoyed enough to use words he, himself, didn't like. 

Five minutes later he re-emerged carrying a cup of coffee and wearing just his shorts. He sat down in the chair once more. Darkness was now enveloping the house.

"Yes, Mother, it was one hell of a whirlwind during the few weeks before I eventually arrived in Kuala Lumpur. Perhaps if I had been any other politician facing the same sort of attention I might have deliberately gone to ground by staying inside my London flat. In fact, I tried it for two days and spent the whole time on the internet and watching TV. But I've always hated being housebound and with a group of photographers and a TV camera parked outside it was two days too many. It was also unfair on the other residents of the block and I had gone out of my way to apologize for the inconvenience. With no rear exit that didn't involve trespassing and clambering over numerous fences and walls, I'd tried to leave by the front door just to buy some newspapers to read what sort of fuss they were now making of me. But it had been hard going pushing my way through the crowd and then they followed me. Finally, I turned back again and locked the door. But I could read all about the fuss on the internet, TV and radio anyway so I wasn't missing much.

"But much of my life for the past thirty years involved hopping on and off airplanes, so a vague plan started to form. I decided to go abroad for a few days to be alone to think. So, I packed an overnight case with a few bare essentials and some paperwork, took a deep breath, made my way up the steps to street level, forced through the crowd on the pavement and flagged down a taxi to Heathrow Airport.

"I flew to Frankfurt and stayed overnight in the Sheraton Hotel. But because a small group, including two familiar faces, still seemed to know where I was and were in the hotel foyer next morning, I returned to the airport. Then, for no other reason than there was a Lufthansa flight going to Nairobi and I have always liked Nairobi I bought a ticket. A day later, I took a Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong thinking that that, surely, would be enough to find myself alone. But, no. A new face appeared. He followed me in a taxi all the way from the airport into Kowloon—a Chinese man in jeans, just like the later one in KL—and they no longer had cameras. That was what started to unnerve me. The next day I flew to Kuala Lumpur, Mother, and they were still following me."