CHAPTER 55
Tuesday morning and Jim didn't feel well.
He put it down to the effect of seeing Margaret, but the morning headache had returned and when he left his room to find a newspaper to read, he felt dizzy. Worried that he was about to collapse again, he found a seat in the lobby and slumped into it. "Don't collapse here, you old fool, not now, not yet. Why don't you just try some strong sweet coffee?"
He ordered some without getting up, drank three cupfuls whilst reading some depressing news about terrorists in the Middle East, but felt better. "Fresh air is what you need now - blow the cobwebs away, clear the sinuses."
He left the newspapers and went to the door, but had hardly gone a few paces when a gust of cold, October wind caught his unbuttoned suit jacket and penetrated through his shirt to his skin. "Dear me, I'd forgotten how darned cold it gets here. Perhaps I need to don my thick woolly jumper, mother. Except I don't have one..And what's that noise?"
The ringing coming from his jacket pocket was a call from Jonathan.
"I'm meeting this American guy Silvester Mendes tonight - he phoned me, just like Scott Evora thought he might. Very brief call, nothing discussed, just a meeting fixed. But he's not calling himself Silvester Mendes, he's Lucas Valdez."
"Are you comfortable doing that, Jonathan?"
"No, but we're in this so deep now that I'm starting to believe that fraud is my real business. But I think you should now talk to Scott Evora, Jim. Think about it. He's not UK political class or establishment and I think he'd be very interested in what you've got to say. But he knows nothing about what we're up to Jim - yet. Just remember that."
Jim had already decided. "Go ahead, Jonathan. Fix it."
"And another thing, Jim. Before meeting Mendes, Scott's fitting me up with what he calls, some security."
"What's that?"
"A device concealed upon my person. But it's given me an idea that might help Jan."
Still shivering, Jim turned and walked the few steps back to the hotel entrance where a London taxi was drawing up outside. It was Tom who was paying the driver. Seeing Jim, he grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
"Success, Jim," he announced, "Come inside.....I've traced Pretty Polly, Jim."
"So quick?"
"Sure. I'm an investigative reporter, don't forget. With a wink and a nod from someone I used to know, it was so easy. I'm beginning to wish I'd gone solo years ago."
"Did they want to know why you wanted to find her?"
"I bullshitted, but my contact had spoken to Polly years ago. He told me there was a general view that it was a put up job. After all, it is not unknown to lay traps for unwary politicians or others just for the story - a sex scandal or corruption. But this one, he said, looked more complicated and he agreed with me there was some muscle and big money behind it, not just someone on a tight budget. Let's have a beer, Jim, I've got more to tell you."
"I think a coffee would be far kinder on my stomach."
"Still suffering from last Sunday's breakfast, Jim? OK, let's sit...... Polly has come up trumps, Jim, and she's a nice girl.........And how was Margaret, Jim?"
There was a fired up look in Tom's eye that Jim had not seen before, but he wanted to avoid the subject of Margaret at all costs. "You actually met Polly, you Irish scoundrel?"
"Sure I did. She's twenty four, married to a Swede who has his own fashion business, which she helps run. I met her at their shop. But as soon as I told her just the smallest bit about you, she cried, Jim. That's not to say I didn't rub it in a bit strong you understand. I told her you had been forced to leave UK, which she seemed to know. But she suddenly said to me she wanted to speak up now because things had prayed on her conscience for too long."
Jim listened but said nothing as Tom went on. "She made a thousand pounds, Jim, and all she had to say when asked was that the man she had entertained for a few nights was the one in a picture she was shown and then talk about her own life. She lied, Jim, lied for the sake of a thousand pounds."
Jim still said nothing. A waitress brought a tray of coffee and Tom was still talking.
"So last night, with her permission, I taped a full length interview with her and she has promised to confirm it all independently but only if anyone asks. It was voluntary, Jim, and I believe her when she said she felt ashamed of what she had done. But a thousand pounds to a young, aspiring and attractive nineteen year old with the usual ambitions for fame and popularity, is a temptation - particularly if you never consider the implications for others."
"Who gave her the money?"
"A woman, she said."
"Did you get a name?"
"Someone called Anne." Tom stopped, looked at Jim. "That's all she knew - Anne. Are you feeling OK, Jim?"
"Yes," Jim said, "I am now. I felt a little lightheaded earlier on."
"Do you know anyone called Anne?"
"Oh, yes. It just confirms my suspicions." Jim made a deep, audible sigh and shivered.
"You feeling the cold, Jim?"
"I took a stroll to clear my head but the damned wind nearly ripped the jacket from my shoulders and I see it's raining now. I hate this damned suit, Tom. I think I'll buy myself what my mother used to call a nice woolly jumper."
"Then we must go shopping again. But you must take it easy Jim. Can't have you collapsing again just as we're getting somewhere."
"But we now need to fly to Brussels. I haven't been to Delft for years. Let's see what we can find out about Guido."
"Jim, why not leave that to me. I'll fly over this afternoon. You stay here and continue to act as head of whistle-blowing - the whistleblowers co-ordinator-in-chief."
Jim smiled, scratched his head and felt the elastic band that held the long grey hair together at the back, snap. Hair fell around his shoulders.
"We'd better add elastic bands to the woolly jumper, Tom. I had no idea travelling abroad would be so expensive." He almost smiled. "OK, decision made. You go. I'm going to talk to the FBI. And that's my phone ringing if I'm not mistaken. It can only be Jonathan."
It was.
"Jim, more developments in the last half hour. I've had a phone call from a lawyer in Brighton - Cole Harding. He was fishing for views on fraud and corruption related to charities and international aid. What could I do but give him a few statistics, percentages going astray etcetera. My part done, I ask why his interest. He then mentions his West African links - he was born in Sierra Leone - and has some very strong views on fraud and corruption. He asked me how it all works and I thought I'd better not miss an opportunity to tell him about Walton Associates.
"Do you ever come across attempts at fraud, he asks. Sure, I say, but we're selective in who we work for. Then I said, listen, I'm a bit busy right now but do you want to chat further? I'd never said that to a lawyer before - it's usually them telling me to call back or make an appointment because they're tied up. He agreed but then, clever lawyer tactics, he asks if I've ever dealt with Sierra Leone or Liberia. I say, yes - as it happens I'm dealing with one right now.
"Then Jim, he really throws one at me. Ever heard of a company called Cherry Investments or Sulima Construction, he asks. I think for a second then say yes. And are they perfectly law abiding would you say, he asks me. That, Mr Harding, I said, is not something I could possibly discuss on the phone because they have just become a client, but if you have any reasons to suspect them of anything then perhaps you'd like to enlighten me. Then he suggests we meet. I've agreed."
"Interesting," Jim said.
"And I've also fixed it for you to meet Scott Evora," Jonathan continued. "I didn't say much to him except to suggest he checks politics of a few years ago and Googles James Edward Smith, MP. Jim Smith is a friend of mine, I said."
Jim glanced at Tom sitting across the table. "So when is my appointment with the FBI?"
"Tomorrow morning, 11am, Alfredo's cafe bar, Brook Street, just off Grosvenor Square."
"Fine, I'll be there. And Tom's just got back from Stockhol
m, Jonathan with some good news. I'll brief him. He's sat here finishing a cup of coffee. Then he's going straight back to Heathrow Airport, getting a flight to Amsterdam or Brussels and then driving to Delft."