by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 59
"Oh yes, Mr Walton. Mr Valdez left a message for you, sir. Would you meet him in the basement bar at the King's Head."
Jonathan was standing at the reception desk at the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane. "The King's Head?" he checked.
"Yes, sir, it's just a few minutes' walk - Stafford Street, just up Piccadilly. You can't miss it."
Jonathan, now with a tiny, electronic device stuck by tape beneath his shirt, wondered if someone from the FBI was watching He walked out slightly self consciously, wondering if he was being followed.
The basement bar at the King's Head was dimly lit alcoves, archways, leather armchairs and sofas and Jonathan stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light. It was full and noisy with a hum of conversation and laughter and no place to sit. He glanced around but no-one even looked at him. Unsure whether to order himself a drink and stand and wait, he turned. "You Jonathan?" Peering down at him was a big man with a round face and muscular arms with a neck and chest that filled a plain white tee shirt.
"Yes," said Jonathan. "You Lucas?"
"That's me. Bit busy here, eh? Wanna go upstairs?" He turned. "I found a quiet corner." He sidled up the narrow stairs, "You eaten, yet?"
"No."
"Nor me. You wanna eat something, Jonathan? I like London Shepherd's pie."
"Sounds good to me. I'll join you."
"Take a seat, I'll order. And a cold beer?" Jonathan, still settling himself, nodded. "Thanks."
Lucas Valdez aka Silvester Mendes fitted Scott Evora's description perfectly. Big, black and muscular with a strong New York accent. He returned carrying two full pint glasses, pulled up the small chair across the round wooden table where he'd clearly left a half empty glass and sat down heavily. "Beer," he said, "London pie coming." He held out his big hand. Jonathan took it and felt his own being shaken.
"You like London?" was Jonathan's opener as if on a first date.
"Sure, great place. Cosmopolitan, busy, multinational and you all speak American. Yeh, it's cosy here. I like it." Valdez downed the last of the first, half empty glass and pushed it aside. "You travel much, Jonathan?"
"No, used to, but no longer. I find I'm busy enough here."
"Business OK?"
"Could always cope with some more."
"I understand you do a lot with international aid." Valdez looked at Jonathan across the top of his full glass and took a mouthful. His eyes were big, black and serious but with an intelligent glint. There was a day or two's growth of black stubble on his cheeks as he wiped his mouth.
"Yes, there's not much I don't know about the way the system works - or doesn't work." Jonathan deliberately raised an eyebrow, smiled, took a swig of beer, tried hard to appear what he had been made out to be - a man with an eye for an opportunity or two.
"Lucrative is it?"
"Can be."
"What are we talking?"
"Figures?" Jonathan checked.
Valdez nodded. "Sure - give me a feel for this English game you play."
"Mmm," Jonathan paused as if unfazed by large amounts of money. "I've just finished one bid for 35 million Euros." It was true. "Another one is going in for a bit less." That was also true. "I like to spread it around a bit - one in West Africa, next one in the Middle East. So, yes, if we only make two percent it's worth it. Obviously there are expenses that come out of it and that can vary - politicians, bureaucrats, paper shufflers especially - they need their palms greased. And we lobby the right people. It's hard work."
Valdez was staring at him. "Yeh, I know." He took another drink. "Ever make more than two percent?"
"Of course. That's the aim. But it depends how you deal with it and the value of the funds you bid for. Sometimes we bid on behalf of others - that way we make anything from two to ten percent. Other times we fix things and bid ourselves. That way we make more."
"You put in bids yourself?"
"Of course - it's now routine. We set up some sort a local organisation - a company or something - with partners. That way we have some control." Jonathan had never liked lying so he explained this particular lie away as just outlandish bullshit of the sort he'd recently practiced on Jacob Johnson.
"Is it in English pounds or Euros or whatever they are?"
"It depends - mostly Euros."
"Ever dealt with USAID?"
"No, never."
"Charities?"
"Not directly."
"Meaning what, Jonathan?" There was an edge to his voice, but he didn't give Jonathan time to reply. "Never mind. I checked your business." Perhaps he was hoping this would unnerve Jonathan.
"You mean you checked out Walton Associates?" Jonathan smiled the sort of smile used for suggesting Walton Associates was just a front, a front for more profitable, ventures run from somewhere foreign, hidden from the Inland Revenue. "I hope you found what you were looking for."
"Sure, I did. Looks a nice, honest business, accounts submitted timely, taxes paid, decent profits, dividends paid to the three directors, staff pension payments - nice. Ah, here's the London pie or whatever you call it. Tuck in. Let's talk." Valdez grabbed a fork and stuck it into the brown crust of the steaming hot pie.
By ten thirty Jonathan had drunk several pints of real ale. He was not used to it. Neither was he familiar with nightclubs with exotic dancers that Valdez was now suggesting. "Listen, Lucas, I can't," he said. "Not tonight anyway. I've got a call coming in from Sierra Leone later. I need to be ready."
"Sure, I understand. Sierra Leone a good place?"
Jonathan laughed. Laughing was becoming easier as the ale took effect but he was having to concentrate more. "Depends what you mean by a good place, Lucas. I wouldn't want to live there if you get my meaning. But the business is looking good. That's where this 35 million Euros bid is from."
"Tell me. How's that one working?"
Jonathan gave a quick summary - a tourism project, good for the economy, it hit all the right buttons for getting official support, a Nigerian was his main contact with a few Lebanese involved somewhere.
But Jonathan was sober enough to know he hadn't been getting much back from Valdez. If Scott Evora was listening in he might be getting anxious. The pie was gone and Valdez had mentioned USAID a few times and Pakistan and Afghanistan. He'd rattled off a large sum of money to impress - two and a half million dollars in one hit - he'd mentioned links in Dubai, friends with Ministers, connections at a Central Bank. But it was mostly all one way - Jonathan telling things, not learning much. Suddenly it changed.
"You and me alone in this business, Jonathan?"
"Come on, Lucas. You know the answer to that. There are plenty of small time crooks out there," Jonathan said with the confidence the beer was giving. "Local politicians who get bright eyed at the sight of a few funds coming their way, a lot of greedy bureaucrats, some small businesses who usually get spotted before they get anywhere. But, if you're meaning big time professionals, then we're a rare breed."
Valdez grinned. "Ever met an Italian guy, name of Guido?"
Jonathan, inwardly alarmed, showed no signs. "No."
"Claims to be the best in our business."
"Well he's bloody stupid," said Jonathan who didn't normally swear, but it was the beer. "He needs to keep quiet about his very existence. Who's he bragging to?"
Valdez grinned again. "Me. Should I meet him, Jonathan? Or can you and me do something together? East Africa's appeals right now. Got a bit going in Somalia. Interested?"
"Depends what I'm required to do and the arrangements."
"I set up the local organisation. You do the bids. I grease the palms as you call it - I like that phrase - easy shit."
"And the rake off?"
"Share the takings, fifty-fifty."
"I'll think about it," said Jonathan, moving to get up. "Listen, Lucas. I've got to go. I can't talk to Sierra Leone sitting here and I need to get to some paperwork. Why don't we stay in touch. How long are you in London? But, yes, I'm in
terested. You call me, OK? When you're ready with something on the ground, we'll talk."
Then, probably because of the beer he'd drunk, he managed a joke. "And, as a true professional, I'd advise you to check this guy Guido out. Never make a decision to award a contract without getting at least two quotes from competitors."
Valdez laughed, so it must have been a good joke.
Jonathan was quite pleased with himself, felt he'd retained some initiative and he hadn't even slipped up and called Lucas Valdez Silvester. He left the King's Head, walked towards Piccadilly to look for a taxi to take him to where he'd left his car. But as he stood waiting by the kerb, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Scott Evora pulled him into a dark doorway. "Great stuff, Jonathan. We got it all on tape. Now, who the fuck is this guy Guido."