Whistle Blower

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Whistle Blower Page 34

by Terry Morgan


  "And let's now meet the UK Serious Fraud Office. I was reluctant to talk to the SFO till now for obvious reasons, but I think we're gathering enough evidence to make a move. It's time for me to show my face once again, Jonathan."

  "Jim—you've said it. Fantastic. Meet later?"

  "Yes," said Jim and he immediately felt better.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  WHEN KATRINE ARRIVED for work, an office rumor was rife. She had now chaired three meetings that Eischmann normally chaired and was actually enjoying it. Preparing herself for a fourth, she was sitting at her computer when her phone rang.

  "Kat?"

  "Jan? Is that you?"

  "Yes, listen. Can you do something for me? Please ask your friend in Treasury to continue to monitor all the international aid fund movements from now on. Tell her to do exactly what she did last time. It worked, Kat. We've been able to see what happens, where the money goes and to whom."

  "Where are you?"

  "I can't tell you, Kat. Not yet, anyway."

  "Something's happened here, also," Katrine said. "Dirk Eischmann's disappeared. He has not been seen for three days and no one knows where he is. The press, too, has got wind of something."

  "Stay in there, Kat. I sense some career progression for you very soon." Jan laughed and rung off. He was sitting in Tom's room at the Holiday Inn Hotel near Linate Airport, Milan. Tom was on the laptop checking maps.

  "Via Como, Civesio," he said. “It's not far away. It looks industrial. Shall we take a look?"

  "Yes. Then, we'll head into central Milan and check the restaurants around the Park Hyatt Hotel. And can we print off the photo you took of the back of Guido in Antwerp? I can describe him very well from the front, but any photo might help."

  They hired a car through hotel reception and after it was delivered set off with a more detailed hard copy road map. It was a cool, overcast early afternoon with no wind. Their car was a small, blue Fiat 500 that Jan drove as Tom sat hunched in the undersized passenger seat with the map on his lap. Via Como was, as he had noted, in the Civesio Industrial area, a triangular patch of older warehousing, small industrial units and repair shops. They drove around the triangle, noting a few names.

  "How's your Italian?" Tom asked.

  "Parlo un po' di Italiano," said Jan.

  "I'm impressed," said Tom.

  "Don't be. That's all there is. Stop a minute and I'll ask my mobile phone for help. We'll start with the Italian for 'do you know this man?'"

  It took half an hour of driving, stopping and then walking around the area until Jan finally stopped a man on a forklift truck. "Mi scusi. Parla inglese?"

  "A little," said the driver.

  Jan showed him the photo. "You know this man? It is not his face but he is a very small man."

  "Si, certamente. I see him sometimes. He drive big Mercedes. Ometto."

  "Ometto?"

  "Si, very small."

  "You know his office? Is it near here?"

  "Si. I think so." He pointed to a narrow driveway between two buildings.

  "Do you know his name?"

  The man shrugged. "He comes and he goes."

  Jan thanked him and, with Tom now talking to someone else, walked along the narrow road between two empty-looking warehouse buildings. The road ended in a small, untidy concrete parking area littered with weeds and lumps of concrete, but no black Mercedes. In the far corner, though, was a double door with a smaller metal door cut into it that looked as if it was used regularly. The weeds were flattened down, the door itself freshly painted in black. Jan walked up to it, listened. There was silence, but the door handle was smooth, worn. He tried it. It was locked. There were no windows and no way of seeing inside. He retraced his steps to find Tom now talking to the same forklift driver.

  "I think this is it, Tom. He comes here sometimes."

  The forklift driver listened. "The guy is crazy," he said. "One time I see him on car phone crying. Next minute he laughing."

  "That sounds like him," said Jan.

  "You polizia?"

  "No," replied Tom, "but we need to find him. You know where he lives?"

  "I think maybe in Como beside the lake on the road to Blevio and Torno. My boss, on vacanza, see him one time. See Mercedes. Tell me."

  "He saw him driving the car?"

  "No, no. Mercedes behind the cancello, the porta. It is a big villa with albero, many trees."

  "And this is Via Como, Civesio," said Tom, "Does he like the name Como?"

  The forklift driver shrugged and grinned, "Maybe." Then he started to reverse his truck. "Small man, big money," he said and drove away.

  Jan looked at Tom. "What do we do now? Drive to Como?"

  "What would we do if we saw him? What might he do if he sees you? And maybe he's not in Como at all. And don't forget we still need to check out restaurants around the Park Hyatt in Milan—and the hotel itself. Let's first update Jim and then head into the center of Milan.”

  Jim was on the train to London to meet Jonathan and Scott Evora when Tom phoned with the latest news and it only re-enforced Jim's conviction that the time was now right to explain in detail what they were doing. He told Tom.

  "But Jan's getting very nervous—and quite understandably," Tom warned him.

  "Just try to keep out of harm's way until we know how we're going to deal with it. By all means go up to Como but don't do anything silly and just keep me posted."

  "And there's another interesting development," Tom went on. "Eischmann's disappeared."

  There was a momentary silence from Jim. "Are you sure? We knew where he was two days ago. He was in Brussels with Daniel Acosta and Acosta's wife Anne."

  "Née Anne McAllister, Jim?"

  "Correct. And looking very well cared for apparently."

  ***

  Tom and Jim headed into central Milan, found a place to drop the car and then walked to the Park Hyatt hotel.

  "Well this is a fine place for the spending of money," was Tom's first comment as they went inside. "Do you think Guido also lives here?"

  Showing the photograph and trying to describe Guido to reception, however, got nowhere.

  "I am sorry. It is possible he is here but we have many guests, sir. But it is against our policy to divulge information on our guests. Are you police?…No, you see sir, it is not possible. I am very sorry. But if you think your friend is staying here you can perhaps wait for him, take a coffee or something in the Cupola Lounge…yes, that is it, sir, beneath the glass dome, the cupola…perhaps some afternoon tea, a glass of champagne?"

  Tom thanked the receptionist. "Perhaps another day"

  Jan's mobile phone showed over fifty restaurants nearby. "We can miss out McDonalds and Burger King," said Tom. It looked a hopeless task but they started walking and an hour later at the expensive Le Nuit they got something.

  "A table for two, sir," suggested the black suited man behind the desk inside already grabbing menus.

  "No thank you. We're just looking for someone. His name is Guido. He looks like this." Tom produced the photo. The man stared, his eyes opened perhaps a little wide. "You know him?" pursued Tom.

  "Ah, no sir, it is, ah, very small photo. It is not possible."

  "Does he come here?" Tom pushed.

  "Ah," the man looked away as if looking for support from somewhere. "Ah, no sir, I do not think so. Ah, let me think… ah… si…maybe."

  "He comes here?"

  "Yes, I think so. Sometimes. You are police?"

  "Yes, Interpol," Tom said to Jan's shock.

  "Interpol? Ah, let me see, maybe you should speak to Giuseppe, but Giuseppe he is not here. He will arrive later. Is, ah, this, ah Signor Guido, is he a problem? "

  Tom, with nothing official on his person to confirm he was working for Interpol replied, "Perhaps, sir, but thank you. We will return later."

  Once outside, they both agreed, Guido was probably known there. If nothing else, if the real Interpol was asked to intervene at any sta
ge, it might be a good lead. For now, they'd head towards Lake Como.

  ***

  In London, Jim was the first to arrive at Alfredo's. It was cold and raining again, but he ordered coffee and sat at the usual outside table. Then his phone rang. This time it was Jonathan.

  "Change of plan, Jim. We're to meet, instead, at the US Embassy. Scott wants us to meet someone who's just got back from Brussels."

  "Senator Stafford?"

  "This is it, Jim. Let's give it to them."

  Jim drained his coffee cup, put down a note as payment and left.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  KATRINE'S FOURTH MEETING deputizing for the usual chairman, Dirk Eischmann, had just finished. Out of five economic development aid bids on the agenda, only one had been passed for final assessment and signing off, whilst the steering group had asked for more work and information on each of the remaining four. It was unprecedented. But without Eischmann's presence, Katrine felt the whole group had been more critical, outspoken and demanding. The meeting had also gone on far longer than normal. It was now nearly 5:00 p.m. She returned to her office with a smile to find staff already preparing to leave for the day. Computers were being shut down and files put away when her internal phone rang.

  "Kat, it's Stephanie in Treasury. I'm sure we've been hacked again. A huge amount of money disappeared this afternoon from the Humanitarian Aid for Syrian Refugees Fund. Twenty million Euros. I've checked everything, but it's as if someone, somewhere knew all the codes necessary to instruct the transfer of the money. Despite all the encryption the fund now shows a twenty million shortfall, but I have no idea where it went. That part of the entire transfer has been wiped leaving no trace."

  "Did you record everything like I suggested?" Katrine asked.

  "Yes, but this time there was no rebalance after the money went out. The IT guys are looking at it, right now. But, Kat, there's something else. Financial Controller Castellanos, the head of my line management, has not been seen for two days."

  "That makes six then, Stephanie."

  "Six?"

  "Eischmann, Philip Eijsackers, Pierre Augustin, Joseph Santos and Kamal Mahmoud from Central Asia Policy and now Dimitri Castellanos."

  "And don't forget Jan Kerkman," said Stephanie.

  "Yes, I suppose Jan makes it seven," said Katrine. "It looks like we've got a few internal problems on our hands."

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  "MR. SMITH? JIM? I'm truly honored to meet you."

  Senator Colin Stafford was a tall, well groomed and smart-looking middle-aged American. His handshake was fierce, his eye contact direct and Jim wondered if he should have shaved and perhaps worn his suit jacket and tie instead of the damp sweater. But he hadn't planned on finding himself in a plush office somewhere in the heart of the US Embassy with a Senator. Jonathan, Scott Evora and the man Scott reported to, the Legal Attache Stephen Lockhart, were already present when Jim was shown in.

  "Scott's given me the rundown," Stafford continued. "A short but painful experience of politics, huh? You were given a hard time, Jim—ridiculed you might say."

  "Yes, indeed," Jim said, "that's why I went away to think, instead."

  "But still with the bit held firmly between your teeth."

  Jim now worried about his dentistry. Stafford's teeth glistened like white piano keys. He nodded with his mouth shut.

  "And you've built yourself a small team, I understand," Stafford went on.

  Jim took a deep breath. He had already decided that the so-called small team could not carry on much longer. It needed help and recognition for what it had already done. It needed immediate, top level action to support what Jan and Tom were doing right now in Italy. It was time to ask for it.

  "Right now, Senator, we have two guys, one an ex newspaper reporter who so disliked what he saw happen to me that he tracked me down and offered to help, and someone who has been working undercover as a mole within the system. This guy is at particular risk because he is known to some powerful people, but both men are, as we sit here, putting themselves in acute danger."

  Stafford nodded. "OK, Jim. Let me tell you where the US stands right now. It began with basic concerns about fraudulent use of USAID. Yeh, we've got hotlines and suchlike that pick up odd bits of petty fraud, but what we needed were the bigger fish. For me it started with my involvement in Central Asia. I've just got back from Islamabad and I can tell you that, only a few weeks ago, we listened in to a Government Minister with bank accounts scattered around from Dubai to the Caymans talking with a director of their Central Bank about how to steal millions from international aid donations. We know they have already used every trick in the book from tendering fraud to false invoicing. An American citizen was also involved. That's why I went and we've now arrested him. But our attention turned to the wider organization. There were signs of sophistication creeping in—serious organizational crime, big players using small ones to do the dirty work. You'll know one name—Silvester Mendes—that's who we've just taken in, but we know darned well that even he was only living on the edge of the more organized crime. Through Mendes though, we've got wind of others—including this mysterious guy known as Guido. We've also got to understand a little more about European aid fraud. Jonathan has already helped a lot. We could usefully use everything you've now got, Jim."

  "How long have you got, Senator?"

  "I'm here till Sunday. It should have been Saturday but, hey, my wife is with me and she always wanted to see Windsor Castle. But let me tell you this before you have your say and because I know you spoke to Scott about this. Your government is starting to listen now, Jim. You got booed out of the country once. No one wanted to hear what you were saying. Others decided they needed to silence you. But you were right all along and things are now starting to change. I met with your Home Secretary the day before yesterday, I was in Germany and Holland and this morning in Brussels. And tonight, after our discussion, I'm meeting the Director of your SFO—Serious Fraud Office. OK, it's US stuff I'm stuck with as my remit, but we're all in this together. None of us can afford this amount of corruption and theft of taxpayers’ money that's happening right under our noses. We want the SFO's cooperation to support action and anything I take to them tonight will be enhanced by what you tell me."

  So began Jim's long explanation with Jonathan adding bits from his own experiences. Jim, sure that the conversation was being recorded, ignored the likelihood. As he talked, Senator Stafford sat and listened.

  Finally. "This guy Guido," Stafford said. "We still don't know who he is. Right? " Jim nodded. "But you've got a few leads now, addresses, some possible bank details and now a link with Lake Como. Correct?"

  "And Tom and Jan are driving there as we speak"

  All three Americans looked at one another but it was Scott Evora who spoke for the first time. "Jim, you mentioned you had some photos of Guido's Mercedes."

  "Yes, taken by Tom on his mobile from a distance and at night in an underground car park in Antwerp."

  "Does the registration number show?"

  "It's impossible to read because they're on Tom's mobile phone but I can ask him to send them over."

  Stephen Lockhart spoke. "Let's have a look at them, Jim. Urgently. You never know."

  Stafford looked towards Stephen Lockhart. "And get onto Milan, will you Steve. Tell them we're now gonna need some local support—urgently—and tell them the Italian Government are about to issue some guidance."

  Scott Evora seeing his cue, nodded at his superior and left.

  Stafford continued. "Now. Explain Puff and Slush again, Jim. Is he for real, this guy Guido?"

  Jim did as best he could.

  "It's clever," Jim concluded. "There's Puff and there's Slush but there's also Flush. One can only assume Guido developed it himself but it's not at all certain. One or more computer wizards might well be involved somewhere. But it has flaws, as we noticed when we looked at the video. That video will be strong evidence."

  With t
hat, as everyone watched, Jim edged forward in his seat, reached behind his damp jumper and struggled with something deep inside the tight back pocket of his trousers. He eventually extracted a crumpled envelope and then took out the memory stick inside. He handed it to Stafford.

  "This is a copy," he said, pushing his hair back behind his ears and desperately wishing he could remove the jumper.

  Stafford took the memory stick, exchanged glances with Stephen Lockhart and laughed. "You sure you aren't the magician, Jim. That looked like a real clever trick.”

  "I'm damp from the rain and it got stuck in my pocket," Jim apologized.

  Jonathan then spoke. "Jim won't mind me telling you, Senator, that outward appearances disguise a highly successful businessman who could and should have made a huge contribution to politics. He won't, however, thank me for saying he's not only an excellent magician but a brilliant artist."

  Jim smiled and shook his head in embarrassment, but an idea had suddenly come to him.

  "Yes…uh, my first London exhibition is Friday, next week, Senator. Any chance you could come along? Introduce the artist, then the reasons behind the exhibition."

  "And what are the reasons, Jim?"

  "It's payback day, Senator. Let them see that Jim Smith was telling the truth all along, that he is not the politically incompetent old fool he was made out to be, that stories about a liaison with a nightclub hostess were fabrications designed to destroy both him and his marriage, that he never ever gives up if he believes something's wrong and needs to be put right, and that Jim Smith is also not a bad artist."

  Stafford smiled. "OK, here's the deal, Jim. If we can find and arrest that weirdo Guido and get perhaps some Interpol action on Eischmann and a few others between now and a week Friday I'll be there. That's a promise."

  Chapter Ninety

 

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