by Terry Morgan
"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.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
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."
Chapter Thirty-Eight
DEPUTY LEGAL ATTACHE, FBI agent Scott Evora, had only been gone an hour when:
"It's Mr. Johnson for you, Jonathan."
It's just as well he didn
't phone an hour ago, thought Jonathan. "Good afternoon, Jacob," he said aloud.
"Good afternoon, Jon. It is so pleasant to hear your voice again. Have you, uh…?"
"Yes, all is in hand. Everything is in my briefcase right here. But I'm still waiting for certain documents from you."
"Yes, that is why I am calling you. I now have them. They arrived by courier this morning. It is efficient, eh?"
"Yes, very good. And the, uh, Minister's signature on the, uh…?"
"Yes."
"The confirmation of the ten percent contribution from the Ministry?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. Then it shouldn't take long for me to complete everything. Will you send them to me or…?"
"You will need the originals or will copies do?
"We will need to submit originals with the bid but, of course, we will keep copies."
"Ah, so we must meet. I will hand them over in person."
They agreed. 7:00 p.m., same venue as last time. "And there's one more thing." Johnson added. "We…we have another project. This one is in the Middle East. My Lebanese associates."
"I see. Can I assume you will also want to discuss that this evening?"
"That is very good of you."
This time, Jacob Johnson was waiting when Jonathan arrived just before 7:00 p.m. Documents handed over, quick clarification of next steps done and it was obvious that Johnson was keen to move on to his new project.
"Ah, we have another company now. It is called Cherry Pick Investments," he began. "My Lebanese partners asked for our advice concerning a funding bid. Naturally I was able to tell them that we have a new partner—of course that is you, Jonathan—and we advised them to utilize your very detailed knowledge of these things. Of course, I did not mention your name. That is not the way to retain strict confidences. But I told them we were already at an advanced stage in one big project."
"I would hardly call it an advanced stage, Jacob, but never mind, these things take time. I would say we are making good progress."
"Yes, that is what I told them."
"So, Cherry Pick Investments?"
"Yes, that is it. There is, ah, in the Middle East that is—an organization that supports young people who want to see a peaceful outcome to the problems in the Middle East."
"I see. What is it called?"
"Ah yes, let me see." Johnson fumbled in the inside pocket of his oversized suit and pulled out a wallet, a passport, a dirty credit card and a torn off scrap of paper. He laid it all on the coffee table besides their empty cups. "Yes, it is here. It is called the, uh, Coalition for Arab Youth. It is also called CAY."
"CAY—that would be an acronym," said Jonathan.
"Yes, that is it, a…yes."
"And CAY needs funding, is that it?"
"Yes, but it is our Lebanese friends who want the funds."
"Of course, how stupid of me. So what do you want me to do?"
"To prepare a bid for this money, of course, just like the…like the other one"
"The other one being the Sierra Leone bid?"
"Yes, that is it."
"How much money is needed?"
"At least two million dollars."
Slowly, laboriously, Jonathan extracted details. Jonathan's Lebanese partners were called Farid and Hamid and were linked somehow by wives and family and a University in Beirut and something to do with Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Tel Aviv.
"So why can't the wife of Hamid bid direct? She sounds very professional—a professor, in fact, did you not say—at the University?"
"Ha ha ha. Yes, that is true but as I said they are, uh, wanting to, uh, ensure that they can, uh, handle the money themselves—you cannot trust anyone. There is too much, uh, interfering. You know?"
"So have they already tried to bid for funds?"
"Ah no, not yet. I said I would speak to you. They are not very, what shall I say, happy with another arrangement they have tried."
"They were not successful with a previous bid?"
"Oh no, no. They talked to another, ah, consultant. They were not happy with the, uh…they were not confident—that is it—not confident. They were not confident that the arrangement would be good for them. They, uh…yes."
Jonathan listened, learning nothing, as Jacob Johnson continued for a while. Then: "So you can help on this one, Jon?"
Inwardly, Jonathan shrugged—he was in for a penny so it might just as well be a pound. "There is an international education fund we could try for this one," he said. "It might fit perfectly. Provided we receive the usual support, good and timely information and all the right paperwork from your side."
"Good, good. That is exactly what I told Farid and Hamid. I said I knew a much better person than the Italian man they were talking to."
Jonathan's ears almost moved, but he let it go for the moment. "So what sort of financial arrangement are we talking about here, Jacob? Same as Sierra Leone?"
"Yes, of course. No problem."
"So what exactly?"
"It is the same as before."
Jonathan took a deep breath. "Yes, but the value of this bid would be less. I do not want to appear greedy. How about 50,000 Euros when the bid goes in and 100,000 Euros when the money is granted and transferred?"
"Yes, of course. That is not a problem."
"That's agreed then," said Jonathan, as amazed as last time about the way Johnson operated.
But would the Nigerian honor anything? Probably not. And why? Because Jacob Johnson was just a small cog in a bigger wheel—a message boy. Because, when the time came, Jacob Johnson would think of himself first and foremost but mostly would be under pressure from others not to give away anything at all. And so what might happen in a few weeks’ or months’ time when two lucrative commissions could be expected to be paid to Jonathan? Well, Jacob Johnson would probably disappear back to Nigeria or somewhere. Jonathan would, most likely, never see him again.
But did Jonathan care? Not a jot. Despite what was running through his mind, he managed a smile. "So I'll just wait for more information," he said. "Exactly like last time—names, addresses, letters of support, preferably from a government Minister, et cetera. And we'll go for the Education fund I mentioned. Is that correct?"
"Yes, yes and I'm moving to live here in London so we can handle more projects like this."
News of a move to London was a surprise but Jonathan kept smiling. "Oh, that is good news. More coffee? A beer? Something stronger? I feel our partnership is already flourishing, Jacob."
"Yes, yes. It is. It is definitely, uh…flurrying."
Jonathan went in search of the man who had brought them their coffee earlier. Once found—he was reading the paper in the kitchen—he asked for two beers. Then he returned to join Jacob Johnson to wait. "Two beers are coming—eventually," Jonathan said. Then: "Tell me, Jacob, who is the Italian you mentioned?"
"Oh, crazy man. I don't know him. Hamid told me. They met him in Milan. Not a nice man, Jon. Not trustworthy. I said it is better to deal with English. But Italians? Pffff… probably mafia and they don't speak English. It is not suitable to deal with the Italians. They know nothing."
"Yes, I know what you mean," said Jonathan. "But I had no idea there was an Italian consultant competing with us? What is the Italian company's name?"
"I only know his name. He is called Guido."
"Never heard of him," said Jonathan. "Ah here comes our beer."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
IT WAS JAN Kerkman's second encounter with the man and the dog. This time the man stayed sitting down, but the big Labrador stood up, and plodded towards Jan wagging its tail. There was no leash.
Jan stopped running and stood still as the dog sat down at his feet, barked up at him and then continued to sit with its tongue hanging out. It was then that Jan saw the piece of paper under the dog's leather collar. As if to say, "Go ahead, it's for you," the dog barked once more. Jan glanced at his owner with the white prayer cap. He was staring ahead as if nothin
g was happening. Jan bent down, patted the dog's head, pulled out the paper and watched the dog walk away to sit once again by the man on the bench. Had anyone been watching what happened, they would have assumed it was just a friendly dog and that the jogger liked dogs.
Jan pushed the paper into the back pocket of his track suit and started to run again. But with the pressure of wanting to read the note getting the better of him, he turned and ran back to his flat, past where the man and dog had been sitting. They were both gone.
"Fund: EAWA. Ref No: RSFF 312A. Code: rs$5198701@rs1. Transfer USD 35,000.”
"Fund. CAHA. Ref No: CAHA 418F. Code mx$5198701@kp9. Transfer Euros 260,175.”
Jan lay back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and stared at the paper. It was so simple. Was that all he had to do? But by doing it, he knew he would be party to fraud. There was no way he could do this. Could he? Transferring money to his own account was bad enough. But over a quarter of a million Euros to someone else? Who was it? Would he find out if he went through the process that Guido had demonstrated?
This entire, massive, fraudulent scheme needed to be exposed but to whom? But Guido had said, with some justification, that not only was he undetectable but so was the fraud itself. And Guido had known about Jan's private life—about the one night with Katrine who he had not seen, even socially, for three weeks because he felt it was too risky. Was he being watched? Followed? Bugged even?
He picked up his spare mobile phone, the one he used to speak to Jonathan, left the apartment still in his track suit and tee shirt and started on another long jog, this time through Grande Place, towards Rue Neuve and the vast City 2 Shopping Mall. He walked fast in, through and around the Mall, then exited and, feeling like a fugitive on the run, turned into a side street. Here, still in his track suit, he found a bar, ordered himself a beer and sat watching other customers come and go. Satisfied at last, he phoned Jonathan to report.