Whistle Blower (8 page)

GUIDO HAD DECIDED his two Lebanese guests should stay at the expensive Park Hyatt Hotel in Milan. Had they been interested and had it not been past ten in the evening a short stroll would have enabled them to shop in the celebrated fashion houses and boutiques of Via Montenapoleone and Via della Spiga. But after leading them on foot from the restaurant, Guido ushered them into the hotel lobby and, as he left them to gaze at the opulence perhaps wondering who was paying for this, he walked to the reception area.

"Your rooms are booked," he said as he returned, "but I am very busy so you can check in later. Please leave your bags with Marcel. Marcel will take care of them while we talk. Marcel—
per piacere
—do your job. These are important guests—all the way from Amsterdam." Then he giggled.

As Hamid and Farid watched their two bags disappear once more, Guido walked quickly on, shoes clicking on the tiles, arms marching in unison with his short legs. "Follow me. We will sit and talk. You will take an Italian beer, yes?"

Still walking, he beckoned a passing waiter carrying a tray. "
Birra Moretti
—
due
—two. For me,
acqua minerale frizzante
—
San Benedetto
."

In the far corner of the lobby he gestured towards a long sofa set against a glass-topped coffee table. He made straight for the sofa, sat down in the middle and lay back with his feet barely touching the floor, his trousers riding up to expose bright yellow socks and white legs. Holding his arms out, he then beckoned them to sit on either side of him. "Yah. This is comfortable. Here we can talk."

He looked to his left at Hamid and then to his right at Farid, both perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa.

"Milan is a very nice city, yes?" he continued from where his head lay on the back of the sofa. "It is much better than Beirut and I expect it is much better than Lagos. But I have not yet been to Nigeria. I have my own managers in Lagos. One is called Frederico because he looks like my dead uncle who was called Frederico. Lagos Frederico is of course as black as the night. Uncle Frederico was as white as snow. The other manager is still learning the business. He is called Dada because his hair is long and curly."

Again, he looked to his left and then to his right as if waiting for a round of applause at his humor. "So," he said, spreading his arms on the settee behind his guests' backs. "Tell me about your Nigerian company."

There was another silence as the two Lebanese looked at one another across the space that Guido occupied. "Come. You must not be shy. If we are to be partners we must be open."

Hamid looked particularly uncomfortable and he moved as if he might get up and go, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with a tray. "Ah, here is your Birra Moretti and my San Benedetto."

As the waiter prepared the table with three delicate white doilies, placed chilled glasses for the beer and filled Guido's glass with his mineral water, the silence continued. But Guido was now beaming broadly as the waiter bowed his head and went away.

"
Sante
," he said, lifting his glass of water and beckoning them to try their beer. "You must not be shy with Guido," he said, from virtually inside his glass of water. "You must relax. Now—tell me about your Nigerian business."

His tone was changing, almost to a command, but the silence from the other two continued as neither of them seemed inclined to try their beer or to speak.

Then: "How is Mr. Johnson? Is he well?"

Hamid visibly jumped. "You know Mr. Johnson?"

Guido tapped his nose with a stubby finger. "Of course. So tell me about your Nigerian business." The tone was now even more serious.

"It is fine," said Farid, bravely, and he lifted his glass of beer to his lips.

"Fine? Fine? Do you understand your business? It is not fine. I have checked. It is weak. It is struggling. It needs fresh ideas. It needs what the Americans call 'an injection of expertise.’ How can you even think of a project in Sierra Leone without an injection of the right expertise? And as for Sulima Construction, it is not structured properly to attract funds. And yet…and yet…you are sending Mr. Johnson to London to ask for help with a funding bid? It is ridiculous.
Tu sei stupido
."
 

Hamid stood up. Farid edged even further forward on the settee.

"How do you know about Johnson?" Hamid, visibly insulted now, hissed the question from his standing position.

Guido himself then sat forward. He quickly took off his jacket and tucked it behind him on the settee as if preparing for a fight. Hamid appeared to almost laugh at such an apparent show of aggression from such a little man, but he was distracted by the damp sweat marks at Guido's armpits and the shirt that stuck to his round chest. And, instead of raising a fist, Guido stood up—to the height of Hamid's own shirt collar—and held out his arms.

"It is my business to know everything," he hissed quite clearly and deliberately copying Hamid, even with a touch of the Arabic accent. "Why do you come to see me, if not for help, Mr. Hamid?"

With that, using the tips of his toes, he raised himself two more inches but still only looked into the black stubble on Hamid's chin. His tone was menacing but in the confines of the Park Hyatt, Hamid, tempted though he was to punch the little creature in the face, looked around and thought better of it.

Guido continued to hiss, quietly but very clearly in English with only a slight Italian accent. He was less than twelve inches from Hamid's face. 

"You were advised to see me, Mr. Hamid, and I know who advised you. And you will fucking well know from the person who recommended me that you were asked to treat this meeting with total secrecy and extreme confidentiality. That is what you were told and that is what made you so excited, Mr. Hamid. You smelled big money and a big opportunity and you talked to Farid about it and you both agreed it was worth a little more investigating because, like so many others, you are greedy. You run a backstreet business that no one has heard of, you have a family to feed and you want to prove something to your wife or to yourself that you are very clever and can make big money."

Guido's rosy lips curled into a snarl.

"So I have a right to know about your Nigerian business and your Cherry Picking and your ideas for this so-called Coalition for Arab Youth. If you want funds from international aid organization and you think you can make a few dollars out of it for your own pockets then the only person who can help you is Guido. Guido has the systems in place. He has the technology. He has the contacts and he is very, very clever, Mr. Hamid. You cannot come here to Milano and treat Guido as if he was an Egyptian selling cheap bronze teapots in a backstreet of Beirut or an illegal Burmese immigrant selling colored stones from a plastic bag in Bangkok.

"You must raise your game, Mr. Hamid. If you want to play in the big league then you will need a big partner who costs money and who expects to be treated with respect. Because if you don't treat him with respect you will find you get stung, very badly and very painfully—and so will your family. This is a dangerous game you are trying to play, Mr. Hamid. You need insurance."

Briefly he stopped, dropped down from his tiptoes and offered a twisted smile. "There are many benefits of working with Guido, Mr. Hamid. You get a package deal that includes free insurance. But the insurance is quickly invalidated because I am also the underwriter."

With the smile gone, his small eyes bored into Hamid's but then he turned to face Farid who was still sitting down. 

"So you need to become more professional, Mr. Hamid and Mr. Farid. You are small players. You must learn to be big. You need to drop these old-fashioned ways of trying to make a few thousand dollars here and a few thousand there. It is a waste of everyone's fucking time, Mr. Hamid and Mr. Farid. I do not operate with small individuals. If you insist on staying small I suggest you fly back to Beirut or Lagos right now and forget about your plans to grow and diversify and make easy money from generous taxpayers. If you don't cooperate and do things my way you will find other problems arising for you because Guido may not be tall but his arms are long and they stretch a very long way."

He raised a short, stubby first finger and tapped Hamid gently on the chin. "Agree to do things my way, Mr. Hamid," he said in his high-pitched voice. "If you don't, you and brother Farid may not even get out of Milan, let alone return to Beirut or Lagos. Understand?"

Hamid was also now sweating. His face felt sticky as if Guido had been spraying him with spit. He wiped his cheeks and looked at Farid, but Farid was looking at the floor.

"Or…" Guido paused as if for effect. "If you'd like to make more than a few thousand dollars out of this project in Sierra Leone and would prefer to make five million Euros instead then tell me about your Nigerian business."

With that, he sat down next to Farid, picked up his glass of mineral water and downed it all.

"Now," he said, wiping his mouth, "Are you going to sit down, Mr. Hamid, and be a nice friend to Guido or shall I walk out and leave you to pay the hotel bill."

Guido was starting to lose more friends.

COLIN FOREMAN HAD returned to the UK and Jim to his old house in Kanchanaburi. The day after was the one that changed Lek's business forever—the day he first met the old 'farang' with the gray beard and long hair called Jim.

"Why not turn your business into an internet cafe, Lek?" he'd suggested. "Get young people in playing online games after school and paying you for the time and for their Fanta, Coca Cola, crisps and their dried squid and seaweed snacks? I'll pay for a few second hand computers and for the internet connection, but please decide quickly because I want to be your first customer."

Ten days later and with far greater efficiency than he imagined possible, Jim tested the new system out and it worked well. Lek's internet business was up and running and Jim was in contact with the world again. His first task, another email address and a message to Colin announcing he was in business, as agreed in Bangkok.

The following morning came Colin's reply. "To JS. So quick! I've chatted to Walton Associates. Jonathan has tentatively agreed and wants to meet you. Any chance of you getting over here, or if you don't want to go through Heathrow Immigration and into London how about Paris or Amsterdam? Regards, CF"

Jim's reply was by return. "I'll go for Amsterdam. Give me a date when JS is free and I'll be there waiting."

Ten days later and Jim had spent a night of unaccustomed luxury at the Ibis Hotel near Schiphol Airport—a hot shower, dinner of beef steak and potatoes in the restaurant, a beer in the bar, a good night's sleep in a proper bed and no headache next morning. He changed from his shorts and tee shirt into long trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, tied his hair back with an elastic band, trimmed his beard just a little in the mirror and sat reading European newspapers in the foyer while he waited. By mid morning, Jonathan Walton of Walton Associates arrived and, introductions over and an agreement to call each other Jim and Jon, they sat outside overlooking the clear lake and beds of multi-colored tulips in warm spring sunshine.

"I understand Colin has explained more about me and what went on," Jim began.

"Yes, and I did some research of my own. You were given a hard time."

"And you're still interested enough to want to meet me?"

Jim was not prepared for the passion that poured from Jonathan. He listened.

"Of course. You were always right, Jim. Someone has to ask awkward questions. Economic development support and international aid systems are flawed. Vast sums are wasted or go astray. I know, after all it's the business I'm in. Much of what you were saying at the time was absolutely correct. The only difference was you named names. Trouble is, like a lot of things, we tend to live with it. But why the bloody hell should taxpayer money have been used to build useless airports, motorways and suchlike in places like Spain? Why give European aid to regions like Cornwall in the UK? Have you seen any improvements there that would not have come from direct private investment? Vast sums of money go out, only a fraction comes back in real benefits. Does it really do anyone any good? Look at the state of countries where much of the so-called economic aid goes. Have they really benefited from interference in market forces? Rarely. Is some charitable assistance good for some countries? Yes, provided it's sensible, well-managed and it encourages self-sufficiency and not continued dependency.

"And then there are the billions spent on humanitarian and other international aid. Can we afford it? Is it for political influence? Is it for compassion? Is it to give them all a better life and if so why does everyone still think the grass is always greener somewhere else and migrate? Did anyone ask you if you agreed to your tax going to pay for public sector workers in Gaza who never go to work because there is nothing for them to do? Should we not be using the money in more efficient and more visible ways—like increasing the support for the growing numbers of our own old people who, in my opinion, get a very raw deal? Should we not spend it on improving education for our children, on our own economic development and infrastructure? 

"But because accountability is inadequate, where does a lot of your money end up instead? It ends up in the pockets of corrupt construction companies whose owners now sun themselves in the Caribbean or on the Costa Brava. It ends up in the pockets of small time politicians in town halls from Latvia to Romania and with African despots and terrorist organizations in the Middle East. And some of it ends up with bigger politicians and already well-paid bureaucrats.

"Look at Africa, Jim. You know Africa well. Has Western aid money got us any extra business and influence there? No. In fact, we've lost it. They took our money and ran off to Paris to buy designer clothes, jewellery and new cars. And, instead, the Chinese are the new colonialists and Islamic extremists are the new missionaries. They didn't give aid, they just moved in with direct investment for their own benefit and started to employ locals.

"And how much is wasted on the bureaucracy to give the money away. It's billions. It's bureaucratic monstrosities like the European Union trying desperately to keep thousands of people off the unemployment registers that embarrass all our politicians because of all their other short-term thinking. And those same politicians would like more and more of our tax to spend just to appear kind and generous. Why? So they get re-elected. But it's so much harder to cut the costs once you've already started it. It should never have been given in the first place.

"But don't get me wrong, Jim, it's not just governments. Charities are just as bad. They have far too much going into bureaucracy, into management staff, executive salaries and expenses. What percentage of your kind donations actually gets to where you think it's going? Ten percent? Less?"

Jonathan's passion was music to Jim's ears. He sat and listened as Jonathan, also sensing he was with someone who would agree with him, spilled it all—the opinion, the facts, the anger and the frustration. Finally, Jim got back to his proposal.

"But Walton Associates, your company, the one you started, is in the business of offering advice to organizations wanting a bit of this free money isn't it, Jon?" It was meant to be provocative.

"Yes, but don't forget, Jim, I started the business as a straightforward management consultancy. But we were constantly being asked if there were any government funds available—for staff training, apprenticeships, research or exporting—and for help in applying for it. We stuck it on the website and promoted it and were overwhelmed. It grew. But we got selective. We ditched the small stuff and focused on the bigger applications and funds—European regional aid, overseas aid and so on. And we learned a lot—how to bid successfully, whom our clients should lobby—and we got to understand the process from the beginning to the end. The end as far as we were concerned was getting the funds in. After that they were on their own."

"However," Jonathan went on, "we've recently gone back and checked a few of the successful applicants we helped and one or two we rejected. And then we've found some very interesting things. We may well be being overly strict but we're talking about public money here—you have to be strict."

"And what have you found?"

"Weaknesses, gaps, flexibility not entirely in keeping with the original conditions, a willingness to turn blind eyes, short cutting of pre-qualification criteria, inadequate scrutiny of delivery, invoices that look, and are, dubious. You want me to go on?"

Jim already knew it, but: "And how do you know this?"

"Disgruntled ex-employees, disgruntled existing employees—nervous people but potential whistleblowers if you like the phrase. They are rare but we quickly got to recognize them."

"Interesting," muttered Jim. "What happens to them?"

"They either resign, find a new job, or they stick it out—take it all as part and parcel of the way the system operates. Apathy if you like. They shrug—that's the way of the world. And, of course, they are afraid. Afraid of losing their jobs, the income, the pensions."

"And what about the organizations you refused to work with?" Jim asked.

"Yes, I was always insistent we stuck to advising legitimate companies and organizations, ones we've checked thoroughly. I think we have become very good at identifying rogues just after free hand outs. They always ask the same questions—how much detail do they need to give for successful bids, how much paper accounting for their spend or for audit trails, for instance. So," Jonathan concluded. "I think we're good at what we do, Jim. Colin thinks we are and Colin also seemed to know that you and I might see very much eye to eye on things. Am I right?"

"Yes," Jim replied. Then he leaned over, shook Jonathan's hand once again and smiled. "OK, let's discuss an idea for a way forward over lunch and you can then tell me if you're up for it. If not, we'll just forget our discussion. You can go back to London and I'll go back to where I came from."

It was after lunch. They had moved to a quiet corner of the hotel lobby for more coffee when Jim asked about, what Jonathan had called, potential whistleblowers.

Jonathan described how to recognize them but how much harder it was to recognize anyone who might actually go through with it. He mentioned three—who they were, where they had worked, where they still worked, what they did day to day, their ages.

"OK," Jim said, surprisingly quickly. "One of them looks a possibility for what I'm thinking of. Let's see if he's up for it and if we can start pulling a few strings."

***

That had been Jim's first meeting with Jonathan Walton. His second was a month later—another eighteen-hour one-stop flight via Dubai and another evening of comparative luxury. Jonathan arrived from London next day at midmorning. Jonathan's whistleblower arrived at midday.

Jan Kerkman was Dutch and had assumed he was being poached for a job with Walton Associates—an informal 'get to know each other' session, English style. Jim introduced himself as a senior partner in Walton Associates. They let Kerkman talk for a while, encouraging him to be frank. Over six feet tall, athletic looking, with short cropped, fair hair, his idea of informality was a dark gray suit and open-necked white shirt. He was thirty-five years old, single, bored and frustrated with his job. He wanted some action back in the private sector from where he'd come—financial services. He was, he said, so frustrated that he had been tempted to join the Dutch police or go abroad or anything just to get out of the job he'd been doing for almost six years.

"Yes," Kerkman said in his Dutch accent. "It was OK to start and I was good at it. I got promoted a few times. I could probably ask for another move if I felt like it."

The more Jim listened, the more he grew to like him and after lunch and after a short private chat with Jonathan while Kerkman sat alone with a beer, Jim described to Jan what he wanted.

"You know the English saying, Jan? If you can't beat them, join them. Well, I've got my own version of that. If they are winning, learn their tricks and beat them at their game."

Kerkman smiled politely and nodded, unsure where all this was heading. "Have you ever seen me before?" Jim asked.

"No. But you don't look like a senior partner in Walton Associates," Jan replied. "That tan doesn't come from sitting in the next office to Jonathan." He saw the faint smile inside the gray beard. The teeth were big and yellowish as if they needed a good clean and some dentistry.

"I'm an outcast from the British political system, Jan. I was a Member of Parliament for a very short time but didn't fit in. And you're right, I don't work for Jonathan."

He took a slow, deep breath. "I didn't fit in because I had some rather unwelcome opinions about the workings of government. For instance, I said there was evidence of serious corruption over the use of international aid and economic development funding—internal fraud and corruption—and I had the audacity to speak out about it. But I spoke too loudly and I was too blunt and the system didn't like it because I also mentioned a few names and pointed a few fingers. All I wanted was an independent investigation into what was going on. Instead, I was hounded out, so I went abroad to decide what to do."

Jan Kerkman had nodded and listened intently.

"From what you said before lunch and what you've said to Jonathan in private it seems you, too, don't like what's going on," Jim went on.

Kerkman nodded. "I'm damn sure there is a lot wrong and I've already told Jon that I was unhappy with it. But, as you found out, you can't just make claims. You need proof. And even with proof, the system is likely to close ranks because there is too much at stake for certain people."

Jim had then looked at Jonathan seeking permission to take it a stage further. He got a nod. "Go ahead, Jim."

"Do you want to help expose what's going on?" Jim had asked. "Stay working inside the system. Dig a bit more. Find out what you can? Pass anything you get to Jon? Meet up with us both from time to time? Help us form a sound case?"

Jan Kerkman sat and thought, his eyes flicking from Jim to Jonathan and back. "You're serious are you? Don't fuck me about, OK."

"Jan," said Jim. "I'm serious. I've already been fucked about as you call it. I know what it's like. When I've gone Jon can tell you some more about me. But I'm deadly serious. This is an offer to act as a kind of spy inside the system, a mole or a whistleblower if you prefer. There are risks, yes. But I think you could handle it."