Whistle Blower Read Online Free Page B

at the last page. He tore a few sheets of tissue paper from a roll on the wall, wiped himself, stood, pulled up his trousers, tugged the big, shiny belt tight whilst holding the paperwork between his teeth. He flushed the toilet, backed out and, still carrying the papers in his teeth, clattered back up the metal stairs to the office.
    At the top, he leaned over the metal banister, scanned the floor of the warehouse and chuckled to himself. The smooth concrete floor was visible only between the racks, the area littered with pallets piled with cardboard boxes covered in clear plastic film. A row of boxes with the blue and gold European Union logo, another showed "UNHCR"—the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. A third marked with Red Crosses and Red Crescents. A forklift truck stood idly between a set of double doors and a smaller metal door set into it that said "Exit." The warehouse was, but for Guido's high-pitched chuckling and an occasional loud, metallic, clicking sound from the hot tin roof, eerily quiet.
    He returned to the office, sat in the chair, swivelled, sweated, flicked at a fly and re-read one sheet all over again. Then he pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket and pressed a button.
    "Toni. Yah. This is the part. Let me read it to you and because I know you can't understand the fucking language I'll put it in nice simple Italian for you. OK? Where is it? Yah, here it is. Now, got a pencil in your little hand? Good. Sitting down? Now listen to papa.
    "It's the last part where it talks about—and excuse the fucking jargon—'supporting existing strategies that enable local communities and institutions to better prepare for, mitigate and respond to natural disasters,' blah blah. See it? Now we know what they are because we've dealt with them before. See it now? Yah. Now look at what countries are covered. That's it—Caribbean, Africa, South Asia. Right—and that'll be Pakistan or Bangladesh. The bureaucrats won't worry about money going to ISIS, Al Shabab, the Taliban or Boko Haram—or any other of their like-minded friends."
    There was a pause during which the strange chuckle gurgled somewhere deep inside his throat. The pink lips of his round mouth puckered as if he were tasting something delicious and all the time, he chatted to himself.
    "So we must lick some of the cream off the top before it goes sour, Toni. It is like recycling—it's good for the environment…it is a lot of money…the more there is the more will be lost in the accounts…but no one will lose their job…and there will be more bureaucrats after than before…it is good for the heart to know we create jobs." And then he giggled.

Chapter Five
     
    IN A RENTED room off a long corridor in a gray office block in Amsterdam, a young Belgian man stared at the screen of a laptop computer on a coffee table in front of him. His visitors, two Lebanese men, relaxed and watched, legs apart, from low backed chairs opposite. One was playing with a string of brown beads.
    "OK. It's set up," the Belgian said. "You want the details?"
    "Not so many," replied one of the Lebanese, sitting forward.
    "I have a trustworthy friend in the Isle of Man who specializes in this type of arrangement. We recommend incorporating the company in Singapore. That way you get what is known as a 'mid-shore' financial center. You'll get a good package with flexibility for a lot of offshore activity. No tax. You can move money wherever you want.
    "And for five hundred dollars a month," he continued, "You get an office address here in Amsterdam—probably this room where we're sitting now—and a call center. The call center will appear big to callers but be just one person trained by me. She'll operate from wherever she happens to be by call transfer to a mobile phone. It works fine. We're doing it for others right now. No questions asked, just messages taken. Everything will be referred to you in Beirut or wherever you are. As for accounts and auditing,