Working for an NGO is a cynical business. For those of you not in the biz, that's Non-Governmental Organization. We waltz into some Third World country with a few million bucks U.S., and proclaim to the world that we promote democracy and human rights and concern for the environment. Then we start buying people, so we can get what we want, which is generally to blackmail the government of that country into letting our sponsors loot their economy. But, you don't want to hear about this. You want to hear about sex. So, let's move on to Jamaica.
Sunday night, I landed at Norman Manley International Airport outside of Kingston and took a cab to the Imperial Hotel in New Kingston. I unpacked in my room, then went downstairs for a leisurely meal and a glass of Bajan rum. I reviewed in my mind my agenda for the days ahead. I had a conference room reserved at the Imperial for interviewing grant applicants. I would be all sincerity with these people, but I would be sniffing out the tell-tale cues that would help me identify those who might be susceptible to just a taste of corruption, which then could be parlayed into political leverage.
It is also a practice of long standing for me to look for opportunities for sexual encounters. Believe it or not, my employers strongly encourage this. Small countries are like small towns: everyone knows what everyone else is doing, and scandals spread quickly with explosive impact. The desire to avoid such a scandal can give us a powerful hold on someone.
Don't get me wrong here. We're all for democracy and human rights and all that stuff. We want pleasant, orderly, civilized countries in which to do business. But my employers didn't become billionaires by being altruists, you know what I mean?
Monday I had a full schedule of interviews. I put my foam sign with fancy graphics on the conference table, "PlanetaryConscience.org." My first appointment was with a middle-aged man and woman who had an organization set up to foster sustainable agriculture. This was routine, they would probably get some money, and I told them so. The next was a trio of youngsters, two men and a woman, who looked like part-time Rastas. Their dreads were a bit too spiffy and the clothing looked like it came from a chain store. They had a plan for a series of reggae concerts to promote human rights. I thought it was a silly idea, but I kept that to myself. Young people tend to be shapers of public opinion, and it could be good PR for my organization.
The third interview caught my interest. It was a woman in her forties, with big hips and bigger breasts, a dark brown complexion, shortish dreads, and a sensual smile that looked eminently kissable. She wore an elegant pearl-gray suit and heels, which made her about 5 and one half feet tall. Her name was Selene Sangster (apparently a distant relative of a former prime minister.) Her voice was mellifluous; her accent was less pronounced than that of the other applicants, or of the Bajans and Trinidadians I had seen the week before.
She had a plan to set up some sort of animal shelter, and wanted to buy land for it. A suitable plot of land was available adjacent to her home. I explained to her that normally we didn't get involved in animal issues. But then, putting on my most sincere face, I told her that this was just a formality; she could set up some sort of community group, get the grant, and then transfer the funds to her land purchase. She looked uncertain at this idea, but I smiled very reassuringly and told her, "It's my job to make sure that good people get the help they need." She rewarded me with a warm smile of her own, saying, "All right, Mr. LeMagne, I think you know what you are doing." And so the hook was set.
I gave her the paperwork, and asked her to return at the end of the week. On Friday she was right on time. She had set up a sort of dummy "community forum" group with a few friends who were helping her with the animal shelter. I wrote her a check then and there, and told her I would be back in Jamaica in three weeks. At that time I would need a progress report, and I would want a tour of her facility. She thanked me very earnestly, and promised she would fulfill my requirements to the letter. You don't know the half of it, I thought to myself, while smiling and shaking her hand.
I spent the next three weeks in Florida and the Bahamas. Then, again on a Sunday evening, I flew once more into Jamaica. The next morning I called Selene. It was pleasant to hear her musical voice once more. She said everything was going as planned, that she had purchased the property, and asked whether I might like to come by that afternoon to see it. "That would be perfect, Ms. Sangster" I replied. "I'll look forward to it."
I went out and took a walk, and then rented a car, a nice little Toyota with the steering wheel on the right, as is the case in many West Indian countries where they drive British-style, on the left of the road. I stopped at a little snackette for lunch, and then got back into the Toyota. I made my way through the bustling and somewhat anarchistic traffic of Kingston, dodging potholes everywhere. Before too long I was driving up winding roads into the green hills to the northeast of Kingston, to the neighborhood where Selene lived.
Selene had a little bungalow with a rude stone wall around it, with roses and short, bushy palms in the yard. She greeted me graciously at the door, showed me to her living room, and offered me a glass of mixed fruit juices, made locally. I accepted. As she went to the kitchen, I surveyed her home. The floor was spotless white tile, and there were some water-color paintings on the wall, along with some macramé hangings. She had a big comfortable couch, a coffee table that looked like it was made from native wood, and a set of wicker armchairs. She returned with the juice, and we made small talk as we drank it.
When we were finished, she asked, "Would you care to go see the land I have purchased?"
I replied, with a note of regret in my voice, "Well, Ms. Sangster, I'm afraid we can't do that just yet."
Puzzled, she said, "Why not?"
"I need to show you these." I placed two books on the coffee table.
Selene asked. "What are those?"
"Those two volumes contain the Jamaican laws which apply to fraud."
She looked alarmed. "Fraud?" she exclaimed.
"Ms. Sangster, I'm afraid our organization has very strict policies that apply to people who accept grant money from us, but use it for personal purposes. We would feel compelled to pursue legal remedies, and the penalties under Jamaican law would be quite severe."
She regarded me with astonishment. "But... I did just as you asked. You know I intend to build an animal shelter."
"It doesn't say anything about that in the documents you filed with us."
Selene muttered to herself, "What di backfoot?" Then her voice turned ice cold. "Mr. LeMagne, I feel that I have been deceived. What exactly do you want?"
