Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  Guido paused, chuckled, flicked over a page. "But I see the money the poor taxpayers have been forced to give them to spend has gone up—a lot. If we are to benefit from all this I'll need to consider it and to do that I'll need some coffee before I read it again or my brain won't work. I also need a shit. I'll call you back."

  The phone dropped from inside his chin but he caught it expertly in his hand and put it on the desk. "Mmm," he muttered, rolling out of the chair. "Yah, too big lunch, too much wine, e troppo caro, too expensive but affare fatto. It was a bargain, a good investimento."

  The rounded stomach that protruded over the tight belt of his trousers had been hurting him for an hour. He stuffed the phone into the pocket of his well-filled shirt, felt the weight drag it down over his prominent left nipple and shrugged to loosen it. But the shirt was stuck with moisture and didn't move, so he ignored it. Still holding the papers, he waddled towards the door, opened it, clattered down the flight of metal stairs, turned at the bottom amongst the metal racking and went into the toilet. There was no one else in the building but he locked it, undid his belt, dropped his black trousers down to his ankles and sat down.

  "Che cazzo," he swore as he started to read. "Fucking English euro speak."

  "The measures provided for in this Decision are in accordance with the opinion of the Humanitarian Aid Committee established by Article 17(1) of the Humanitarian Aid Regulation. It is decided as follows:

  Sole Article Decision C(2013)4789 is amended as follows: In Article 1, paragraphs (1) and (2) are replaced by the following:

  "In accordance with the objectives and general principles of humanitarian aid, the Commission hereby approves a maximum amount of EUR 759,638,745 of which EUR 593,600,000 from budget article 31 08 09, EUR 337,700,000 from budget article 31 07 06 and EUR 46,237,746 from budget article 26 09 07, of the 2013 general budget of the European Union…"

  It took five minutes to arrive at the last page. He tore a few sheets of tissue paper from a roll on the wall, wiped himself, stood, pulled up his trousers, tugged the big, shiny belt tight whilst holding the paperwork between his teeth. He flushed the toilet, backed out and, still carrying the papers in his teeth, clattered back up the metal stairs to the office.

  At the top, he leaned over the metal banister, scanned the floor of the warehouse and chuckled to himself. The smooth concrete floor was visible only between the racks, the area littered with pallets piled with cardboard boxes covered in clear plastic film. A row of boxes with the blue and gold European Union logo, another showed "UNHCR"—the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. A third marked with Red Crosses and Red Crescents. A forklift truck stood idly between a set of double doors and a smaller metal door set into it that said "Exit." The warehouse was, but for Guido's high-pitched chuckling and an occasional loud, metallic, clicking sound from the hot tin roof, eerily quiet.

  He returned to the office, sat in the chair, swivelled, sweated, flicked at a fly and re-read one sheet all over again. Then he pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket and pressed a button.

  "Toni. Yah. This is the part. Let me read it to you and because I know you can't understand the fucking language I'll put it in nice simple Italian for you. OK? Where is it? Yah, here it is. Now, got a pencil in your little hand? Good. Sitting down? Now listen to papa.

  "It's the last part where it talks about—and excuse the fucking jargon—'supporting existing strategies that enable local communities and institutions to better prepare for, mitigate and respond to natural disasters,' blah blah. See it? Now we know what they are because we've dealt with them before. See it now? Yah. Now look at what countries are covered. That's it—Caribbean, Africa, South Asia. Right—and that'll be Pakistan or Bangladesh. The bureaucrats won't worry about money going to ISIS, Al Shabab, the Taliban or Boko Haram—or any other of their like-minded friends."

  There was a pause during which the strange chuckle gurgled somewhere deep inside his throat. The pink lips of his round mouth puckered as if he were tasting something delicious and all the time, he chatted to himself.

  "So we must lick some of the cream off the top before it goes sour, Toni. It is like recycling—it's good for the environment…it is a lot of money…the more there is the more will be lost in the accounts…but no one will lose their job…and there will be more bureaucrats after than before…it is good for the heart to know we create jobs." And then he giggled.

  Chapter Five

  IN A RENTED room off a long corridor in a gray office block in Amsterdam, a young Belgian man stared at the screen of a laptop computer on a coffee table in front of him. His visitors, two Lebanese men, relaxed and watched, legs apart, from low backed chairs opposite. One was playing with a string of brown beads.

  "OK. It's set up," the Belgian said. "You want the details?"

  "Not so many," replied one of the Lebanese, sitting forward.

  "I have a trustworthy friend in the Isle of Man who specializes in this type of arrangement. We recommend incorporating the company in Singapore. That way you get what is known as a 'mid-shore' financial center. You'll get a good package with flexibility for a lot of offshore activity. No tax. You can move money wherever you want.

  "And for five hundred dollars a month," he continued, "You get an office address here in Amsterdam—probably this room where we're sitting now—and a call center. The call center will appear big to callers but be just one person trained by me. She'll operate from wherever she happens to be by call transfer to a mobile phone. It works fine. We're doing it for others right now. No questions asked, just messages taken. Everything will be referred to you in Beirut or wherever you are. As for accounts and auditing, everything will be done through the Isle of Man. It's all nice and safe. For all intents and purposes your company will appear sound, well run, secure and, above all, respectful of international law. Where necessary we can also provide evidence of a good trading history. Just tell us what you want."

  He sat back from his laptop, smiled and looked at the two men opposite. "So, are you happy with my recommendations?"

  The one who had remained sitting back playing with the beads now leaned forward. "How much?"

  "Set up, two thousand dollars, office and call center, five hundred a month irrespective of how much use you make of it. Auditing? That'll depend on how complicated you make your financial affairs, Mr. Farid, so I cannot say. Like any business, keep it simple with little paperwork and keep your overheads low. That is why I am giving you just one sheet of paper to take away and why I only take cash for today's advice and set-up charges—as you already know." He smiled again and placed the single A4 sheet on the table.

  "Why not use Luxemburg like I suggested?" the one called Farid asked as he picked up the paper.

  "Take my advice, Farid. It's getting too expensive. The industry is being hit by all sorts of regulation and bad publicity. None of us want that. As part of my fee I'm trying to save you money and any future complications." He paused. "Anything else?"

  The two Lebanese looked at one another. "No," they said, shaking their heads in unison.

  "Well, I wish you well with your venture," the Belgian said, closing the laptop as they all stood up. "Are you returning to Beirut now?"

  "No, we have a meeting in Milan," Farid said.

  The Belgian nodded, said nothing but noted it. Milan had been the next destination of his last client. He smiled and changed the subject. "I like your company name," he said. "I wish I'd thought of it myself. Cherry Pick Investments sounds so—how shall I say—like white lambs in springtime. So innocent."

  With that the three men laughed, the Lebanese handed over some dollars, they shook hands, and parted.

  Chapter Six

  TRUCK DRIVER MITCHELL'S first job at seven in the morning had been to collect fifty-six boxes from the sea port so some hassle was to be expected. But Mitchell never thought too much about hassle either before, during or after. Life was hassle. Life was about coping with hassle.

  As a truck driv
er visiting the port of Freetown, Sierra Leone, hassle meant sitting in a sweltering queue of other trucks. It meant arguments over paperwork. It meant coping with deliberate obstruction from self-important officials and, if things got really bogged down, it meant using a few spare Leone notes that Mr. Suleiman, his boss at Mambolo Transport Enterprises, gave him to keep safely in his back pocket ready and waiting for whenever there was a need to oil the bureaucratic wheels. Mitchell coped well with hassle and Mr. Suleiman liked Mitchell because of that. Mitchell was future management material.

  Mitchell dealt with the hassle of waiting by leaning out of the open window of his truck shouting to fellow drivers and smoking cigarettes that he rolled himself with a few leaves of something he bought on the road out towards the port. And, in between, he would gulp water from a two-liter plastic bottle that stood amongst the clutter of yellowing old newspapers, scraps of paper, empty cans of Coke and the dirty old tee shirt that he used to wipe his wing mirror when it rained.

  Mitchell had finally driven out of the port at eleven fifteen with his fifty-six boxes that, according to the paperwork, contained three hundred second-hand laptop computers for a charity called School Aid, Freetown, Sierra Leone and that they had come all the way from the port of Felixstowe in England.

  Mitchell's destination now, according to the instructions Mr. Suleiman had given him in the office, was Rocki General Supplies in Sani Abacha Street, Freetown. And ready waiting at Rocki General Supplies would be another one hundred and fifteen boxes waiting for him. But Mitchell never asked too many questions. Mitchell just drove his truck to wherever he was told and put up with whatever hassle came his way.

  In the heat of the late morning market chaos in Sani Abacha Street, Mitchell was carefully reversing his tarpaulin-covered truck into a small overcrowded space between boxes of tee shirts and crates of yams and surrounded by people walking by on all sides with bundles on their heads. The heat and noise was intense. Mitchell's simple plan was to get the rear of his truck as close as possible to the rusted front door of Rocki General Supplies. But an argument had erupted because the tail end had struck an umbrella being set up to shade on-street transactions over the sale of a high stack of cans of lime green paint and caused it to topple onto the yams. Mitchell, himself, leaning from the open window, beads of sweat running from his forehead, was the target of the abuse. But, still smoking and still smiling, he made it, reversed the last few feet up to the doors, rattled on a handle and waited for someone to open it.

  The man who opened it was in a suit, albeit a dusty, ill-fitting one, with a tie and off-white shirt. A puff of cool, air-conditioned air wafted towards Mitchell as the door was scraped open and he stood for a second to appreciate it as the man in the suit wrapped a chain around the door.

  "Good day, Mr. Moses," said Mitchell, politely. "It is very hot today. I have fifty-six boxes of computers. They are for Daisy Charity. I think that is you, Mr. Moses."

  Mr. Moses was a man of few words. "Over there."

  Mitchell sweated for half an hour carrying the heavy boxes one by one into the dark recesses of the Rocki General Supplies warehouse. As Mr. Moses watched, Mitchell piled them as neatly as he could, but not too high in case they toppled. When he had finished, Mitchell went to the truck, swallowed the last drops from his water bottle and returned with his clipboard for Mr. Moses to sign the paperwork.

  "You has one hundred and fifty boxes for me to collect, Mr. Moses?"

  "Yes. Be seated."

  As there was nowhere else to sit, Mitchell did as he was told and sat on a wooden crate.

  Five minutes passed before Mr. Moses reappeared. "Take your truck to the rear entrance. There you will find one hundred and fifty boxes."

  "Is they big, big or small, small, Mr. Moses?"

  "It does not matter. You must take them all."

  So began Mitchell's next hassle—driving away, finding the first, turning left, left again and reversing up to the rear entrance of Rocki General Supplies where Mr. Moses was waiting for him. Behind Mr. Moses were the one hundred and fifty boxes that Mitchell thought might just fit inside his truck .He removed his shirt and started work. It took him an hour. Satisfied the boxes were stacked safely and soundly, Mitchell stood, wiped his sweating brow and then went inside to look for Mr. Moses. "They is all loaded, Mr. Moses. Is there something to sign?"

  "No, nothing."

  "So where is you want them delivered, Mr. Moses?"

  Mr. Moses handed him a piece of paper with an address and Mitchell looked at it. "Ayyya! Sulima Construction, Mr. Moses. Sulima is a long way. It is nearly in Liberia. Maybe I do not arrive today or tomorrow but the next day."

  It took Mitchell two days to reach Sulima after a punctured tire somewhere between Moyamba and Mano and trouble with his engine outside Sumbuya that he fixed himself with a piece of wire. But, resourceful as he was, he found Sulima Construction. It was a rectangular concrete block building with a corrugated roof in a litter-filled side street by the river that smelled of used engine oil and sea breezes. But it was not until he started unloading the one hundred and fifty boxes that he noticed labels on some of the boxes. 'Daisy Children's Charity,’ they said.

  Chapter Seven

  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 ano
ther 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?"