The Fundraiser

By Deborah Wheatley

International French businessman Jean Philippe has it all, businesses both in Europe and the emerging third-world African countries. He enjoys the company of many diplomatic officials until he is accused of trafficking children from Africa into Europe and finds himself in a South African police station. He reaches out to an old friend, Nicky Brown, to help him track the missing children.
Nicky hasnt seen Jean Philippe in five years and wonders about his early morning call and at first is hesitant to help him. However, circumstances change, and with the help of her cousin Brinley Brown, a renowned gangster and drug dealer, they manage to get their first clue as to where to start the search.
The clue takes them from South Africa to Italy, Algeria, and finally Paris. During this time their already complicated friendship becomes even more so during their journey to find the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491878750

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© 2013 by Deborah Wheatley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/10/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7874-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7873-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7875-0 (e)

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I    would like to thank the editor, David Bernardi as well as Glegoo, Kenukupi and Fazzy for their contribution.

To Christ, all glory is Yours.

To my parents, Dorothy and Kenneth, for always believing in me.

To my son, Keenen, for his patience, encouragement, and quiet motivation.

Safety and Security don’t just happen; they are the result of collective consensus and public investment. We owe our children, the most vulnerable citizens in our society, a life free of violence and fear.

—Nelson Mandela

Chapter 1

"W e better make our way to dinner," JP says.

Dinner, I say, shocked, and then I look at my watch and realizes it is 9:30 p.m. This is the life, beautiful Paris in spring, where the sun only sets after 10 p.m. I could get used to this.

For me this is magical, because in my home town of Durban, South Africa, the sun both rises and sets between five and seven during summer and winter. I have to continually remind myself that this is not a dream and that I am really in Paris enjoying pre-dinner drinks with a friend of mine.

We make our way to the restaurant and are served with menus in French. JP requests an English menu for me, as my French is limited to the basics. I ask him to order dinner for me. Being a local, he would know what’s best on the menu. He ordered a fish dish for both of us. We enjoyed our meal while engaging in light, nondescript conversation. We then proceeded to order and shared a dessert of red berries and vanilla ice cream with some vanilla kisses. I try to savour the dessert and take my time enjoying it. It really is delicious, but mostly because I didn’t want the evening to come to an end. Dinner was over, and I could stall no longer. JP asks for the bill and proceeds to call for a taxi to take me, or hopefully us, back to the hotel.

We wait outside the restaurant for the taxi. The nippy spring wind blows and I am instantly cold. I wrap my black trench coat closer to my body, which has a thin, short, cream, sleeveless dress just under the coat. I hop from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm, and lean close to him, looking for warmth in his embrace. Finally, the taxi arrives, and JP gives the taxi driver my hotel details. We arrive at the hotel and JP exchanges a few words with the driver in French and walks me to my room.

Chapter 2

T he sound of my mobile awakes me from my deep slumber; I roll onto the other side of the bed and grab the receiver. Hello, I croak into the phone.

"Salut! Ça va?" I hear on the other side of the line.

"Bien, merci" is my automatic response.

Hello, this is Jean Philippe, a slightly accented voice whispers on the line.

I pause and don’t say anything, partly because I am still half asleep and also because that voice triggers something in my fuzzy sleepy memory. Yep, that face, smile, silhouette… I remember and am instantly awake.

Nicky, it’s me. Do you remember me? Jean Philippe Houvet!

Yes, JP, how are you? I glance at the clock on my bedside table. It’s 4:30 a.m. If I remember correctly, during our summer and Europe’s winter the time difference is minus one hour. I find it strange that after five years, JP would call me at 3:30 a.m. Europe time.

I ask him if he is okay and what is wrong. I hear a deep sigh. Not too good. I need your help. Then the call ends.

I sit up and wait for the phone to ring again. Nothing! I wait another minute. Still nothing! I try to call the number. The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please try again later. I try again and the same message repeats itself. I lie in bed wondering about this strange early morning call. I proceed to try the number a third and final time. There is still no service.

I sigh deeply and lay back in bed trying to fall back asleep, but I give up after fifteen minutes. I go downstairs and make a pot of tea and reminisce about the first time I met Jean Philippe Houvet.

Nicky, don’t forget the Conference on International Trade you have to attend tomorrow, Lulu, my secretary, reminds me.

Okay, I say grudgingly, mumbling to myself about the project that I need to complete before Friday, and now I have to waste an afternoon at the conference!

I try to get one of my managers to stand in for me, but alas everyone is busy with their own deadlines, so I ask Lulu to accompany me.

We leave the office at 9 a.m. for the conference and arrive there a bit early to meet the two gentlemen hosting the event. We introduce ourselves and are given our nametags and then told to commence to the breakfast hall for a light breakfast before the conference starts.

After breakfast, we make our way to the room where the conference is been held. We both push hard at the huge, heavily carved wooden swings doors that lead to the foyer. The doors swing slowly open to reveal three men standing at the end of the foyer just in front of the entrance to the conference room. I catch my breath. I recognized the two men, as being the hosts that we met earlier, but who is the third man? The stranger that makes me forget to do the most automatic things, like blinking, as I stare, breathing as my breath catches, walking as I stumble, and talking as I stop in mid-conversation.

All this as our eyes meet.

I drag my eyes from his. Concentrate, Nicky. Here we go, one foot in front of the other. Don’t look at him. It’s safer.

I turn to Lulu, who is chatting away next to me, and try and listen to what she is saying, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart. I keep couching myself, reminding myself to put one foot in front of the other; however, the closer I get to him, the more distracted I get as my body seems to have a mind of its own, and instead of walking towards the entrance it pulls me in the direction of where this stranger is standing. It is a tug of war as I try and maintain my set course. The closer I get to him, the more magnetic the pull is, and it takes all my energy, firstly not to look at him and secondly to walk past him. I inhale deeply as I pass him and catch his aroma. His unique aroma attacks me as a rabid dog would a passer-by. Every sense, including my sixth, protests and threatens to strike as I walk past him and into the safety of the conference room.

I grab the first chair that I can find, knowing that my protesting body won’t hold me anymore. I feel my senses slowly return as I wonder who this stranger is.

After everyone is seated and the conference begins, in walks the stranger, who introduces himself as Jean Philippe, international French businessman, and takes up the position of head speaker.

I watch as his lips move, but the words don’t register. My focus is entirely on him—his eyes, smile, hair, hands, fingers, and physique. I have to restrain myself from thinking about him and make notes so that my mind can be occupied and will not linger. The conference comes to an end, and we are invited to enjoy a light lunch while the hosts have an impromptu Q&A session. I watch as he circles the room and makes his way towards us. We chatted a bit about the conference, and before we know it, it is time to leave. He offers me his business card, which I take with glee, and manage to hand him mine. Lulu has to practically push me out of the room, for which I am grateful, for as I know, I won’t be able to leave his presence on my own.

We leave the conference and a few days later he emails me asking me if I have any questions. That was the start of a friendship that was built and sustained via emails.

It took him six months to return to Durban for another conference, which of course I was invited too, and again after the conference we, the guests, were invited to a light meal.

JP, as I have fondly grown to call him, makes his way towards me and greats me by kissing me on both cheeks (as only the French can do). He kneels besides me and tells me that we should go and have a drink.

Are you sure? You look like you still busy, I respond shyly, feeling like a teenage girl.

No, don’t worry, my colleagues have agreed to help me pack and sort out my things. We will be leaving for the airport in one and a half hours. So we got some time for a few drinks, he smilingly responds.

Over drinks we chat, and I tell JP excitedly that I will be attending a conference in Paris in a month’s time, and before we say our good-byes we make plans to meet there.

My thoughts are disrupted by the ringing phone next to me. I grab the phone in anticipation. Hello I say hopefully, willing with all my strength that it’s JP.

Hello, a bare whisper of a voice breaks through the static reception.

JP, are you okay?

No, I need your help. I am at the police station in Point Road, Durban. Can you come and see me.

The police station?

Yes, I can’t talk for long is his stress-filled response.

Okay, I say, running up the stairs to my bedroom. Grabbing a pair of jeans and a vest, I begin to dress myself while still on the line. However, the call ends before I can tell him that I will be there in thirty minutes. Well, at least I know where he is, I think to myself.

I exit my apartment and run to my car and speed off towards the Point Road area. I barely managed to park in the designated parking space and rush towards the charge office, looking around as I enter to see if I can spot JP. He is nowhere to be seen, but what I do notice is that the charge office is full of unsavoury characters. Most of them are bruised and battered and seem too comfortable in the station. You almost wouldn’t expect them to be anywhere else.

However, even in my haste to find JP, one lady sticks out from the bunch. She has a bruised face with eyes that are nearly swollen shut. She sits unemotionally, staring straight ahead. Next to her sits a young child holding and stroking his mother’s hand and looking tearfully at his mother’s bruised and battered face to the police officer, then back again. How sad, a child trying to comfort his mother instead of the other way around. My heart instantly aches for that young boy trying to be so brave for his mother.

I walk uncertainly towards the front desk of the charge office, soon forgetting the plight of the young child with his mother as I am now plagued with the thoughts of why JP is here at a police station. Has he been assaulted or worst yet arrested for something?

I join the line of almost ten people waiting to see the officer in charge. I suppose this is normal for a weekend in the red light district of Durban.

Hi, Nicky, a familiar voice shouts out. What are you doing here? Jerry, my best friend’s husband asks me. He signals me to move one side so that I don’t have to join the long queue ahead of me.

Jerry! I am so glad to see a familiar face. Are you stationed here? I ask as I let out a deep sigh.

He smiles and says, Yes, are you okay? You look a bit anxious.

No, I’m fine, but I got a call from a friend of mine this morning saying that he is at this police station and that he needs my help. But before I could ask him what had happened, the call was cut, so I am a bit concerned about him. I don’t know if he is hurt, arrested, or anything, I say in a rush of words.

Calm down! What is his name?

JP, sorry, I mean Jean Philippe Houvet, I say. His is a Frenchman.

You’re here for the French dude that we have in custody, he whispers, pulling me into one of the cubical. What is your involvement with him?

I look at his stern angular face and say with fear in my voice, His someone I knew a long time ago. I haven’t heard from him in the past five years. Then, out of the blue, he calls me this morning saying he needs my help. Why, what has happened?

We have the French ambassador and the French consulate down our throats. He has a team of lawyers that are trying to get him released. He is well connected. He even has government officials from three of the African Union countries trying to vouch for him, Jerry says in awe, but we see him as a flight risk and it’s unlikely he will get bail, he ends firmly, as if to say don’t ask me anymore questions.

I know he is well connected. I also know about his links in Africa. He headed up a division of a very lucrative freight business in Nigeria for many years. What I don’t know is why he is in your custody, or more to the point locked up in your cells. What did he do?

Don’t get involved. This case is going to make headlines all over the world, and believe me you don’t want to get involved. His crimes go beyond Africa’s borders, and I know you hate being in the limelight. If you get involved your life will be dissected along with his. Did I mention he has a team of lawyers?

Yes, you did, and if you don’t want to tell me anything about what’s he has been arrested for, that is fine, but I want to see him to make sure that he is okay. He didn’t sound healthy on the phone. Can you organize that? Get me to see him? I ask innocently.

Sorry! No one is allowed to see him besides his lawyers.

Please, I know you can get me to see him, and you know that you can trust me.

Let me tell you what he is accused of first. I am sure once you hear the story you won’t want to see him, he says triumphantly and proceeds to explain why JP has been arrested.

In early 2000 the Nigerian containerized port was in urgent need of repairs, and they decided to tender the process out. The French authorities decided to build and fund a missionary in the area, hoping that this would boost their chances to purchase the containerized port. The missionary was completed in 2005. The bid went to a Danish firm, but the French still had to uphold their part of the contract by managing and funding the missionary, which also housed an orphanage. They approached various French NGOs in the area as well as local community leaders to help run the missionary come orphanage. Jean Philippe’s company was chosen to run the missionary with funding from the other NGOs as well as the French authorities.

The missionary was one of the best run missionaries in Africa. Not only did they provide food, shelter, and education for these orphaned children, but some of them were given full scholarships to study at private boarding schools across Europe, and some were even adopted by European families.

Because the missionary offered a safe environment, shelter, food, clothing, and an education for these orphaned children, some of the families in Nigeria sent their children to the orphanage under the pretence that they were ‘orphaned’. With what little money they had, they paid for fraudulent documents and had their children declared ‘orphans’ and sent them to the missionary, knowing that in a few years’ time their children would have obtained an education and be much better equipped with assisting their families financially.

Several years later these parents would go to the missionary looking for their children thinking they had received a good education and were now ready to assist their families. These parents were told that their children had been adopted or sent away on full scholarships aboard. When they queried further as to which adoption agencies were involved in the adoptions or which schools granted their children full scholarships, they were given the run around. Most of the parents were too afraid to query this further or go to the government officials to complain, as they had already committed fraud by declaring their children orphans and were afraid of the repercussions. However, a group of parents approached their religious leader to seek guidance, and they in turn approached the UN