CHAPTER 27
Jan Kerkman had been sitting in his car in a side street in Bruges, Belgium, for more than forty-five minutes.
Patience had never been one of his strongest characteristics and, despite the digital clock behind the steering wheel showing 10.46, he looked at his watch as if there might be a fault with one or the other. Being Sunday and, despite heavy overnight rain, he would have preferred to have been in the gym or on a longer run - perhaps even a half marathon as he had planned. On one side, locals with dogs walked on the wet pavement and on the other side bicycles and cars passed by on the road. As a mild distraction to the increasing boredom, the car radio was on but it was a local channel - family chat, adverts, a phone-in and sweet music. He turned it off and tapped the steering wheel.
As requested, he had driven from Brussels to Bruges and the phone call he had been expecting for forty-six minutes was to confirm a meeting place with someone going by the name of Guido. At 10.52 his mobile phone rang. The voice was sharp and clear, like a church choirboy with a hint of an Italian accent. "Mr Kerkman? Is that you?"
"Yes."
"OK. You will meet me at the Cafe de Oude Hans. It is close to the old church in the centre of Delft."
"But that's in Holland. I am in Bruges."
"Holland? Belgium? Bulgaria? Latvia? We are all one big, borderless community are we not? And, anyway, I thought you were Dutch. You'll be coming home. And what is the problem with a change of venue? I decide meeting places, not you. Are you driving a car or on a Dutch bicycle?"
"I am in my car," Jan admitted.
"So, you will know that Delft is not so far to drive. We will meet at 2 pm. Arrivederci."
Delft in the south of Holland is an old city with a historic centre and canals. It is a pleasant tourist attraction, the birth place of the painter Vermeer and of the famous Delft blue pottery. In some ways it is not unlike Bruges and like many parts of Holland, it has a history of international trade and influence. Delft blue pottery is, itself, a Chinese influence. So, there is little doubt that over the last four hundred years or so Delft has seen its fair share of money-making deals and other transactions within its ancient walls.
Despite his mild protestation about a change of place for his meeting with the Italian, Jan knew Delft well and with the fast motorway heading out of Bruges free of heavy traffic, he was early. He parked outside the city centre and walked over a canal filled with water lilies, past the City Hall and easily spotted the Cafe de Oude Hans. But as it was only 1.30, he walked past and went to lean on some railings overlooking the canal and to smoke a rare cigarette because he felt a little nervous. The sun was now quite warm and it had brought out short skirts and tee shirts and so Kerkman leaned, smoked and watched the passing female talent. He thought about Katrine and wondered what she was doing. Fraternising with staff, especially one so close to Eischmann as Katrine was, was not going to be easy.
And he wasn't looking forward to this meeting. He had only spoken to the man called Guido by phone twice. The first call had been very brief, the second had been the call earlier. What had struck Jan was the man's voice. It was strange - high pitched and clear as a bell, just like that of a boy he used to know at junior school. What was his name? Stefan, that was it. Stefan Scheele. They'd all mocked him, the poor lad, just because his voice took years longer to break than anyone else's.
And Jan knew nothing about Guido except for a brief description given in an impatient tone by Eischmann as they passed on the empty corridor on the sixth floor. Jan felt as if he had overstretched his position and was being petty by asking such an unimportant detail. Perhaps he had been. Certainly, the DG hadn't liked being stopped. It had been a mistake. Jan knew he had to be very, very careful.
"Short....dark suit.... you’ll recognise him," Eischmann had said, and then he was gone.
What his family name was Jan was not told. Neither did he know if Guido was just a nick-name. But when he saw a taxi pull up and a short, fat little man in a dark suit climb out, there was little doubt it was him. The Italian stood in the middle of the narrow road looking around. He then spotted the canal and went to look over the same railing that Jan himself was leaning on just ten metres away. Jan watched him nod his head as if in appreciation of the water lilies below and then look around. The Cafe de Oude Hans was right in front of him, its entrance surrounded by colourful hanging baskets and the pavement area outside laid out with small metal tables and chairs, each table with a Delft blue vase of lavender flowers. Guido nodded his head once again and walked towards it with quick, short steps, his round head with its flat mop of jet-black hair turning rapidly from side to side like that of a small bird.
Jan made a move and as Guido looked up at the hanging flower baskets, he tapped him on the shoulder.
"Guido?"
"Ah, sì, che è in me - that's me. You must be Mr Kerkman."
He looked at Jan - up and down his full six feet three inches from his size 12 black shoes to his short cropped, fair hair. "Mmm, you are very tall and so.....mmm.....bureaucrats are normally so dull."
He held out a short arm and a white hand emerged from the long sleeve of his suit jacket as he continued to gaze up at Jan.
"I'm pleased to meet you." Jan said, feeling self-conscious. He grasped the small hand that was offered and was shocked at how cold and small it felt. The top of Guido's head barely reached Jan's shoulder.
"Nice, nice," Guido said turning his back mid hand-shake and indicating the flowers and tables. "But we are not eating today."
"Then a coffee, perhaps?" said Jan trying to be polite and pointing towards an empty table.
"No, no, no. We will go to my apartment."
"You have an apartment in Delft?"
"Yes. It is small, compact and bijou. But it is enough."
"Have you owned the apartment long?" It was small talk but the answer was unexpected.
Guido giggled in a boyish way. "Yes," he said chirpily, looking at his wrist and a small faced watch circled with clear stones that might have been diamonds, "For twenty minutes. Here is the key. Come."
Jan was led along the side of the canal and then left into a narrow-cobbled street of old, two and three storey buildings, small gift shops of Delft Blue china and a pleasant-smelling bakery. Between the bakery and a gift shop was a shiny, black door with a brass plate bearing numbers of flats above and some security buttons to press.
"My little key," Guido said, holding up the key. "But I must first remember the entry code." He scratched his head with the key and closed his eyes. "Ah, yes." He pressed a few buttons, the door clicked and he pushed it open.
Jan followed as he mounted the carpeted stairs daintily but sideways like a crab. On the first landing, he stopped, turned right and faced a closed door with a brass number 2 above his head height. He inserted the key in the lock and went in.
"Come. It is not large. It is a room only - a pied a terre, a rabbit's burrow, a fox's hole. Ah - no, no, no - it is none of those. It is the den of a small wolf with big teeth that growls but does not howl at night in case it wakes the neighbours. But sometimes, if I sleep here, I might snore." He chuckled like a boy of eight telling jokes.
The single room had a pine, laminate floor and was bare except for a black leather two-seater sofa, two matching arm chairs and a pine coffee table. The blinds on the only window were shut. "Sit," said Guido, clicking on a lamp that hung from the ceiling. "I have a kitchen big enough to make a cup of espresso and a bathroom big enough for cleaning my teeth and a shit."
Jan sank his frame into one of the leather-clad arm chairs, crossed his legs, felt he should say something and said the only thing he could think of. "You will stay here often?"
"Sometimes." Guido stated firmly as he perched on the edge of the other chair. He then leaned back slipped off black loafers and put his short legs up onto the coffee table to expose a pair of pure white, hairless legs above bright yellow socks. Now almost horizontal, he wiggled his toes as if he might prefer to be wearing carpet slippers. He giggled. "It is enough. It is comfortable. It can be an office and a meeting room. Delft, you see, is not Amsterdam and it is not Brussels and it is not Paris or London or Frankfurt or Madrid. Delft is perfect."
He suddenly sat up straight, placed his yellow socked feet side by side on the pine floor, pushed his discarded shoes with the neat leather tassels together and rested his small white hands on his knees. "Now, to business," he said, clearly having finished with any small talk. "The Democratic Republic of Congo."
With a deliberate flourish he produced from the inside pocket of his dark grey suit a tablet phone. He pressed a few buttons.
"Excellent WIFI here........it was a strict requirement. It means we can begin your education, Mr Kerkman. Yes, the Democratic Republic of Congo - we will call that mysterious and dangerous part of the dark continent the DRC, OK? My tongue is not sufficiently good to say Democratic Republic of Congo in a way our French colonialist cousins prefer. But then I hate the fucking French. Their standards have fallen beyond recognition and their food - their food - yuck! - it is now worse than the English." There was a brief pause during which he sucked at his front teeth before adding, "That is between you and me."
Jan was smiling but feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He put his own hands and fingers together and, because it was a bad habit, cracked a few knuckle joints. Then he moved his head as if a neck hair had caught in his tee shirt. Guido clearly sensed some nervousness. His small eyes now focussed directly on Jan's hands. He squinted, frowned a little.
"Mmm," he said and paused before continuing. "OK. To continue. The DRC. Previous kind gifts to this huge country were fraught with accusations of inefficiency in delivery. Unsurprisingly, local politicians and the President himself seemed the biggest beneficiaries. The poor received very little. This is, of course, most unacceptable. Our job is to find a much fairer way to distribute thirty million Euros. Once we have dealt with that, we can then deal with the next thirty million and so on and so on. That puts a huge responsibility on our small shoulders, don't you agree?"
He stopped abruptly having delivered the last few sentences at the speed of light. "This, of course, is precisely the sort of thing you have expressed an interest in helping with. Is it not?"
"Yes," said Jan., still trying to smile.
Guido giggled, still looking at Jan's nervous hands. "Nice. Nice." Then he stood up and wandered daintily around the chair in his yellow socks, with one hand holding onto the chair back as if he was a final competitor in a game of musical chairs at a children's birthday party. He circled the chair twice and then stopped to briefly examine his finger nails. He bit on one.
"This new project is a good one," he chirped. "It is why I decided to open a special branch office here in Delft. We need to manage it properly to ensure that less funds disappear into the pockets of African despots and their henchmen and more find their way into, what shall we say, more deserving projects. The money has come from generous taxpayers so let us ensure that it is put to better use and that some of it returns."
He circled the chair once more. "We may install a member of staff here for a week or so - long enough to form a company and make a funding bid or two. Then.........we will make it disappear. It is an interesting life."
Chuckling to himself, he sat down on the chair once again and loosened the belt around his waist. Then he let out a long sigh and swiped a stubby finger across the screen of the tablet phone.
"They have such nice websites and many files that, if you so wish, you can download. There is too much of course because they think it will drive innocent browsers into a deep sleep of boredom - a policy which forms the background to much of what they do. Public apathy, you see, helps them to rule. But it is also their subtle way of showing how democratic, open and accountable they are. But you, Mr Kerkman, know all about this. You work there and you see this website every day.
"You will also know that they still use far too much paper - piles of it. There is so much paperwork and bureaucracy, you see. They assume that all their checks and balances and processes plug the leaks in their buckets. But they only succeed in making matters worse. Their buckets are rusty. No-one understands the systems now. Bureaucracy, you see, has superseded democracy. Western politicians are now such weak bastards. They rely on the bureaucrats to avoid the need to make decisions. That way they can wave away mistakes or accusations of incompetence and point fingers at others. But there are so many bureaucrats that their fingers never alight on any one in particular so everyone is perfectly safe from public anger. But I, Guido, know exactly where I will point my finger, Mr Kerkman. But we will come to that.
"And bureaucrats like you, Mr Kerkman. What do fucking bureaucrats do? The bureaucrats rely on consultants. And so, if one looks hard enough, the bureaucrats and the politicians can all be found hiding behind the long skirts of private consultants.
"But first they must pay the consultants huge sums of money to ensure that their recommendations and conclusions do not upset the status quo. The consultants must, you see, only recommend what has already been decided. The politicians want to be re-elected, the bureaucrats want to keep their jobs and the consultants want more business. It is a very simple game when you know the rules.
"So, what do we do, Mr Kerkman? I am sure you are dying to know.
"Well, we are also a type of consultancy but we are not like the rest. We are extreme specialists. We are not rewarded with lucrative contracts. Oh no. We earn our rewards by staying ahead of the game. But we like bureaucracy. It is the fuel that drives our engine. The more there is, the better it is for us and the faster our engine runs."
Guido paused and Jan watched as he craned his smooth neck backwards as if trying to look at the ceiling. With that apparently failing, his eyes moved up, the tiny pupils disappearing somewhere inside his head, the whites filling the space. Then he lowered his head once more.
"But let us return to why you are here and why you have been allowed out of your stuffy office and into the fresh air. You have been so highly recommended that you are granted the huge privilege of meeting Guido. That's me."
He pointed at himself, beaming. "So, welcome to our little team," he said. "Yes, you are welcome.... welcome." And Jan felt himself scanned once again from his feet to the top of his head.
Guido went on. "To continue. So, the requirements they set for granting funds are subjective and their definitions of what will be accepted and what will not be is also subjective. And the ways they transfer money are archaic. The whole bureaucratic process, Mr Kerkman, is like Milan in January - cold, wet and very foggy. It makes me laugh." And so he did. Another fit of girl-like giggling erupted.
Then, quite suddenly, he looked intense and serious. Jan, increasingly unnerved, watched him as he smoothed the eyebrow over his right eye with his little finger.
"And so let us return to the DRC. Because the processes are so foggy, we will be trying out some new technology. We will introduce a....yah, what shall we call it? Yah, we will call it a virus. We will introduce a virus into their archaic processes. And that is where you come in, Mr Kerkman. I shall be teaching you what to do because it is best done from the inside. Although..........." he paused, "Although not for too long. Guido always stays one step ahead so we will soon be able to deal with it from.... from......anywhere - even from Delft."
Jan had been sitting, trying hard to relax with his long legs apart. But Guido's small, beady eyes deeply inset into his round, pink face began to wander. They started at Jan's feet, moved up his legs, stopped momentarily at his crotch and then went up to his shoulders and arms. Jan felt as if he was being sized up by a bespoke Italian tailor for a suit or, perhaps, by an overconfident woman. Then, to Jan's surprise, Guido got up, leaned across and squeezed his biceps between his thumb and finger.
"Yes, you can take care of yourself. It may be unnecessary but you never know." Then he sat down again. "So, why are you here? Let us discuss that. You already have............."
Suddenly there was a buzzing sound, Guido stopped, put his hand into his jacket pocket and came out with another phone. He squinted at the screen and pressed a button. "Not now Toni, I have a new student." He then stuffed the phone away and leaned back again, his feet on the coffee table, his chin almost embedded in his chest.
"Yah, you already have some experience of the ways of the Commission and the influences you have made and work you have done during the last few months come recommended. Your character references show certain unique talents. As an officer operating inside the system you are in an excellent position to benefit. But you will need some more advanced training. This is my job. Only Guido can teach you. So, this little place in Delft is not only an office and a meeting place and an occasional sleeping place but it is also a College. But we will not call it the Delft College. Instead, because we teach very special skills and we are quick, skilful and nimble we will call it the Deft College."
He chuckled, sat bolt upright and placed the tablet phone on the table. Rapidly, he swiped a few times and turned the screen around for Jan to see. "You see? A copy of the recent approval of eleven million, one hundred and thirty-eight thousand Euros for Bangladesh. It is like magic, Mr Kerkman."
He turned the screen back to face himself, swiped it again and then returned it for Kerkman to see what had now appeared.
"This is my invention, Mr Kerkman. We know about the awards before the people far away who bid for the money. We can even put in our own bids if we so wish. Then we start work. We are so efficient now. We can track these processes, step by step to Latvia to Bulgaria, to Sierra Leone, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Libya, Ghana, Gaza or a hundred other places that are the lucky recipients of European and American tax-payer’s money. But then, just as the money is transferred - bingo! - something even more magical happens. Some of it disappears."
He waved his hand in the air like a magician with a wand. "Puff - the magic dragon, lives here," he giggled, "In Delft."
If it was because he found he could not laugh, Jan would never know. But the Italian's whole demeanour suddenly changed. He stood up and waddled across to the door of the apartment and gripped the door handle. Jan sensing that the meeting might already be over or that Guido was leaving him alone, got up. But Guido stopped. He looked back and beckoned Jan to come to the door leaving only enough space for Jan to squeeze past.
As he did so, Jan looked down onto Guido's round face and rose bud lips, at the strands of straight, greasy black hair that hung across his forehead. How old was Guido? Even at close quarters, Jan could not tell. The skin of his face was smooth, clean, pink and free of wrinkles. Was he forty, fifty, sixty even? But there was no laughter from the Italian now. Instead he looked up at Jan and frowned.
"Mr Kerkman," he said as he opened the door, "A little gift of twenty thousand Euros was transferred into your private bank account today. For Belgian tax reasons and your bank, you may need to invent an explanation for why it is there and where it came from. You have, as yet, done nothing, so it is just a small gift - a token. In the future you can expect a bigger share in our business but you will need to earn it. I understand you like earning commission. Well, you can become very rich by working with us. But, meanwhile, consider your position very carefully."
Guido was staring up, unblinking, at Jan.
"With your sheltered little life as a middle ranking bureaucrat who shuffles paper for a living," he said, "You should know that living in the world outside where one dog eats another dog is more difficult. Survival is hard. So, we will start how we will continue. If you tell anyone about me or this meeting or this place, you will find you and your family are in serious trouble. You will never find Guido because no-one knows Guido. But we will find you.
"We already have a growing international team of what I call 'Members', but along with these Members and others not in our team, you are already implicated. You said you wanted to earn money. Well, you have already started. But you are already up to your fucking neck in deep mud, Mr Kerkman. So, go very carefully. Tell no-one. Go back to work, do as you are told and wait to be contacted. But show the slightest sign of incompetence or make even the smallest mistake and you are finished. We are undetectable. But upset the system that we have perfected or even be tempted to upset it and you will be made to disappear. No warning given. Understand?"
CHAPTER 28
Jim usually left his motorcycle amongst an untidy row of others near the shops and market where a minibus of tourists sometimes stopped on its way to some poorly maintained archaeological remains - some stone buildings, a crumbling temple and a few skeletons - the town’s only tourist attraction. They never stayed long and usually left, looking disappointed, to head back towards Kanchanaburi and the river Kwai. The archaeological site was another of Jim's ideas: "Tidy it up, make people feel as if the visit was worth it," he had told Lek.
There was no bus today but the small market was where he occasionally saw backpackers and might reluctantly engage in short conversations - usually directions to somewhere. He never understood why they sometimes asked more personal questions but he thought it was probably his appearance and voice.
It had been a young, bronzed American girl in shorts and her red-haired Irish friend who had, some months before, convinced him of his appeal to that generation. He had been talking Thai to a man off-loading pineapples from the back of a truck and, as the Irish girl stood shyly in the background, the American asked for directions to a local guesthouse that was mentioned in her travel guide.
"Yes," he told her, "The Pong Phen Guest House. It is located over the bridge, on the left. You can't miss it."
His further explanation had been pure, clear and precise Queen’s English and he knew she hadn't been listening, just staring at him - an aging, long haired, hippy-like Englishman hiding behind a beard and heavily tanned and wrinkled skin. She had asked him where he lived, how long he had lived there and what he did. Jim reluctantly gave his usual short explanations, but watched the much shyer Irish girl as she tried to pull her friend away.
Jim, too, had edged away with his plastic bags, a live fish and some vegetables, but the American girl followed and strung together more questions spoken in enthusiastic wonderment as though it was so much better to be living like he was.
"Say, I wish I lived like that. I'm Karen from Boston and this is my friend Katherine. She's from Dublin - Ireland, you know? Boston is so cosmopolitan. You really live in the jungle? What sort of art? Do you exhibit anywhere? Ever get back to England? Did you know the Beatles when you were young? You look real cool. You ever get to bathe out there?"
And, all the time, the attractive Irish girl with the red hair had watched and listened but said nothing.
Jim, remembering this encounter for no good reason but more concerned with the weakness in his legs, propped the motorcycle and walked shakily to an ATM, withdrew some money, stuffed the few notes into the back pocket of his shorts and walked slowly towards Lek's internet cafe carrying his duffle bag with the laptop over his shoulder. When he got there, it was unusually busy. Lek's wife's speciality of boiled chicken with rice, a thick and spicy ginger sauce and clear chicken soup - kamun gai - was becoming very popular. It was another of Jim's suggestions because he himself liked it, but today, even his corner table was taken. Lek apologised, beckoned to a front table nearer the road and went to get his beer and lime juice.
Jim didn't like this table. He didn't even take out the laptop. Instead he sat resting his head in his hands and muttering to himself. "I won't stay long - try again tomorrow. Such a waste of time carrying the computer. I can't use it here.......far too exposed. I'll go back home, finish the painting.... try again tomorrow........still feeling dizzy."
Lek brought his drinks. "You say something, Jim?"
Jim looked up, "Only to myself."
And then he saw the thick set man with white skin, wearing white shorts, white tee shirt, white socks and white trainers. It was as if he had arrived straight from a northern European winter. He walked past Lek's cafe, a few yards from Jim, looking around as if unsure where he was going. Then he turned, his uncertainty evaporated. He brushed past Jim's elbow into the cafe but then returned, pulled up a red plastic stool that was too small for his rump and sat at the next table to Jim, just two yards away.
Jim's feeling of over-exposure soared. "Bloody hell." He looked out of the corner of his eye at the man and, as bad luck would have it, the man saw him. He nodded. Jim ignored him. Lek brought a beer for the stranger and stopped to ask Jim if he'd like another beer and lime juice. Jim said yes and waited, staring into the street with the unopened duffel bag between his legs.
The fresh drinks arrived, but because of the unwelcome arrival of the stranger and a sudden desire to go home, Jim swallowed half the bottle in one go feeling the gas rising into his throat. He couldn't help it and his mother would have been disgusted, but he burped. Tears came to his eyes and a mouthful of beer rose in his throat, but he swallowed it again. He remembered that. He also remembered wiping a few drops of beer from his beard, but after that, things were far from clear.
He put the bottle down, checked in his back pocket for some change to pay, slid his chair back and got up. Then the dizziness hit him again - and the pain in his chest. He sat down again, heavily, jarring his spine. He remembered glancing towards the white stranger and their eyes met. He remembered light brown eyes, close together, deeply set and peering sharply at him from beneath a receding line of auburn hair. And he remembered a freckled face with a touch of fresh sunburn on the nose. But then Jim slid from the chair and collapsed for the second time that day. Everything went black.
CHAPTER 29
"It's the American Embassy, Jonathan."
It was an ordinary Wednesday morning when Jonathan took the phone call from the US Embassy in London. He had spent the previous evening at home finalising the draft bid to the European Aid West Africa (EAWA) fund for Jacob Johnson. There were large gaps that needed filling and no word from Johnson for two weeks. Jonathan, though, was still feeling confident enough with his performance of a few weeks ago to expect the Nigerian to emerge again in the next few days. He wanted to be ready.
"I have the deputy Legal Attaché, Scott Evora, for you Mr Johnson," said the female American accent, "Are you able to take the call?"