Whistle Blower by Terry Morgan Page A

paper?"
    "Newspaper. Italian newspapers. But no water purifiers."
    "So there is a problem."
    "Yes, that's what I'm telling you, Mr. Suleiman. And Mr. Moses thinks it is me."
    "Ha ha! No, no, no. It cannot be. I will phone the airport. It is that bloody man Granville."
    "Or the bloody man Tamba. But it wasn't me, Mr. Suleiman."
    "OK, no problem. I will sort it. Here is your next job. Thirty-six crates of chickens. Collect from William's chicken farm and take to Sani Abacha Street."
    "Sani Abacha Street, Mr. Suleiman? Again?"

Chapter Sixteen
     
    AT NINE THIRTY-five, the Minister of Finance heard the expected knock on the door. Placing his empty glass on the cabinet, he pushed the half bottle of Glen Scotia away out of sight and closed the glass front. Then he walked to the door, greeted a short, balding man in a dark suit and primrose yellow tie and ushered him to sit in one of the gold-braided armchairs next to the glass-topped table and the tray of coffee.
    Just as the Minister started pouring the steaming, black coffee, a small red light appeared on some electronic equipment laid out in the kitchen of an apartment in a gray, concrete block less than a mile away. Sitting alongside it were three men, one a tall, well-groomed man in a smart suit and tie, the other two wearing casual clothes. All three wore headphones.
    "He's in, sir," said an American voice. "A pity about the sound quality—it's the fucking walls but OK, we're recording…sorry for the language, sir…and that's the Minister's voice, sir…and the other belongs to our little friend from the Central Bank…Shahid Masud."
    There was a long pause as the three Americans listened through headphones. Then:
    "Hear that name, sir?"
    "Did he say Mendes?" the suited one asked.
    "Yep. I reckon. It proves Mendes is involved somehow, somewhere. That's the second time in a week we've taped something. It adds to suspicions but it's still not enough to do anything."
    "Silvester Mendes, huh? Jesus."
    "Yep…that's just what we wanted you to hear, sir…listen now, sir. Hear that? Government contracts. They're now talking online tenders. It'll be another fucking stitch up… sorry 'bout the language, sir. Any aid going in there is supposed to be awarded via open tenders but it'll probably be another fix, a stitch up by the adjudication committee—chaired by that same little bastard Shahid Masud and signed off by the Minister… Listen! 'Education,’ hear it? Young people, students.' The only beneficiaries will probably be the Minister, this little guy Masud and a few other characters."
    The smartly dressed one now asked a question. "That fund they're talking about is not US money, it's European…it was only officially announced last week and it was in the Minister's budget speech today…" He was interrupted.
    "Yep. Dead right, sir. Listen again, sir. Sorry about the sound. They're now talking money transfers. Electronic. Switches. No wonder their foreign exchange reserves dropped by sixty percent last year…OK, listen, that's a new name. Who the fuck is Tahir? And Italy? He just said 'our Italian friend'… You get that as well, Steve? What's the Italian connection? Don't tell me Silvio's involved here as well, sir. Ha! …Sorry sir, now they're moving around. Did you hear a name? Weedo? Get that, Steve? Weedo? I think they've already finished. He used a mobile earlier but we couldn't get a fix or enough voice clarity. All we got was a definite mention of Dubai and the Dubai Asia Investment Bank…and the sound of a bottle… Yep, they've finished. It's a fucking enormous villa, sir. Gold everywhere and a fucking big jade horse. We got a few pictures inside once. Now the sound’s gone. He's probably seeing him to his limousine outside. But, that enough, sir?"
    "Yep, keep it coming, boys, but we gotta improve that sound quality." The suited one got up, dropping his headphones alongside the equipment.
    "Just one thing, sir. Before you go. Let's check out this guy,