Whistle Blower by Terry Morgan Page B

Tahir."
    There was a pause as the man tapped names into a computer. "It won't take a minute…there. See? Could that be him? Tahir Babar, nice picture. If that's him then he's another Central Bank Board member. Figure?…We'll now try for a match. And let's check this Dubai Asia Investment Bank. Ever heard of it?"
    The tall, smart one shook his head. "Nope, never."

Chapter Seventeen
     
    GUIDO HAD DECIDED his two Lebanese guests should stay at the expensive Park Hyatt Hotel in Milan. Had they been interested and had it not been past ten in the evening a short stroll would have enabled them to shop in the celebrated fashion houses and boutiques of Via Montenapoleone and Via della Spiga. But after leading them on foot from the restaurant, Guido ushered them into the hotel lobby and, as he left them to gaze at the opulence perhaps wondering who was paying for this, he walked to the reception area.
    "Your rooms are booked," he said as he returned, "but I am very busy so you can check in later. Please leave your bags with Marcel. Marcel will take care of them while we talk. Marcel— per piacere —do your job. These are important guests—all the way from Amsterdam." Then he giggled.
    As Hamid and Farid watched their two bags disappear once more, Guido walked quickly on, shoes clicking on the tiles, arms marching in unison with his short legs. "Follow me. We will sit and talk. You will take an Italian beer, yes?"
    Still walking, he beckoned a passing waiter carrying a tray. " Birra Moretti — due —two. For me, acqua minerale frizzante — San Benedetto ."
    In the far corner of the lobby he gestured towards a long sofa set against a glass-topped coffee table. He made straight for the sofa, sat down in the middle and lay back with his feet barely touching the floor, his trousers riding up to expose bright yellow socks and white legs. Holding his arms out, he then beckoned them to sit on either side of him. "Yah. This is comfortable. Here we can talk."
    He looked to his left at Hamid and then to his right at Farid, both perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa.
    "Milan is a very nice city, yes?" he continued from where his head lay on the back of the sofa. "It is much better than Beirut and I expect it is much better than Lagos. But I have not yet been to Nigeria. I have my own managers in Lagos. One is called Frederico because he looks like my dead uncle who was called Frederico. Lagos Frederico is of course as black as the night. Uncle Frederico was as white as snow. The other manager is still learning the business. He is called Dada because his hair is long and curly."
    Again, he looked to his left and then to his right as if waiting for a round of applause at his humor. "So," he said, spreading his arms on the settee behind his guests' backs. "Tell me about your Nigerian company."
    There was another silence as the two Lebanese looked at one another across the space that Guido occupied. "Come. You must not be shy. If we are to be partners we must be open."
    Hamid looked particularly uncomfortable and he moved as if he might get up and go, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with a tray. "Ah, here is your Birra Moretti and my San Benedetto."
    As the waiter prepared the table with three delicate white doilies, placed chilled glasses for the beer and filled Guido's glass with his mineral water, the silence continued. But Guido was now beaming broadly as the waiter bowed his head and went away.
    " Sante ," he said, lifting his glass of water and beckoning them to try their beer. "You must not be shy with Guido," he said, from virtually inside his glass of water. "You must relax. Now—tell me about your Nigerian business."
    His tone was changing, almost to a command, but the silence from the other two continued as neither of them seemed inclined to try their beer or to speak.
    Then: "How is Mr. Johnson? Is he well?"
    Hamid visibly jumped. "You know Mr. Johnson?"
    Guido tapped his nose with a stubby finger. "Of