Illegal Holdings

 

 

 

 

When Aisa Simango, head of a development agency in Maputo, Mozambique, discovers five million dollars missing from Nossa Terra’s accounts, her gut tells her it’s not just a glitch. Nossa Terra never even received the money. The arrival of UN fraud investigator Valentin Vermeulen at her office confirms her suspicions. Someone has set up Nossa Terra to fail. But who would target a small agency dedicated to helping landless farmers?

Vermeulen intends to find out. Tracing the missing money sucks him into a labyrinth of corporate corruption, cover-ups, and hired assassins. With the help of investigative journalist Tessa Bishonga, he discovers signs pointing to a larger scheme—more sinister than he or Simango imagined. From the bustling streets of Maputo to Mozambique’s fertile farmlands and back, Vermeulen races to unravel and expose the truth before he’s stopped, permanently…

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Praise for Illegal Holdings

Niemann provides interesting insights into U.N. bureaucracy, developing countries, and global economics as he demonstrates once again the difference that an honest man can make.“—Publishers Weekly

“The third case for Niemann’s hero, a slick sleuth in the 007 mold, deepens the portrait of contemporary Africa through its detailed descriptions of Mozambique and its culture.”—Kirkus

If you need a break from psychopaths or special-forces supermen, you might consider downing a pint of Laurentina Preta with Valentin Vermeulen.”—Lance Charnes, Criminal Element

It’s Dan Brown, but with a conscience, an accountant, and the UN.“—Andy Martin, author of Reacher said Nothing. The Making of Make Me

Valentin Vermeulen is a hero you can believe in, an ordinary, brave and honest man, who’s doing an almost impossible job in the toughest of places. He’s a character you’ll like, and maybe even love, and definitely want to read more of!“—Mysterious Book Report

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At three fifteen that afternoon—Aisa had just corralled the staff for another unscheduled office conclave—the door to the Nossa Terra office opened and a visitor entered. That was the first anomaly. Visitors didn’t just show up. They made appointments. He was tall but not big and wore a dark-gray jacket over a beige shirt, tan slacks, and brown leather shoes. He was also white, another anomaly. White visitors meant important visitors—heads of foundations, funding agencies, European development NGOs. They never arrived without prior announcement and they never arrived alone. Aisa looked out of the window and saw a taxi drive away. That was the final anomaly. White visitors usually had a car and driver.

The man nodded and scanned the room with his pale blue eyes. He was clean-shaven, mid to late forties with a northern European countenance. Not so much British as continental. Looking tense, he pushed back a lock of blond hair that had fallen down his forehead. He was probably wondering whom to address. Aisa waited. Would he pick one of the two men in the room to speak to? Helton was the most likely candidate because his blue suit appealed to the Western sense of hierarchy.

The man didn’t get his chance to make the wrong choice because Bartina stood up and said in her rudimentary English, “Bom dia. We help you?”

The man relaxed a little and smiled.

“Bom dia. Yes, you may. My name is Valentin Vermeulen. I’m with the United Nations and I’d like to speak to Aisa Simango, please.”

The room fell quiet again. United Nations? They’d never had a visitor from the United Nations. Aisa rose from her chair. Why had no one called to schedule the visit? Even though a large part of the money Nossa Terra received originated with the United Nations, by the time it reached them, it had gone through three or more organizations. Getting a visit from the very top was a big deal. And it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

“I am Aisa. What can I do for you?” she said.

He stretched out his hand and walked toward her. Aisa shook it. He looked around.

“Is there a space where we can speak in private?”

He sounded solicitous, eager to lessen the tension in the air, which stood in sharp contrast to his request for a private conversation. The knot in her stomach tightened again. She suppressed a wince.

“Please, come this way.”

She led the man to the meeting room, which was littered with folders, left after the unsuccessful search for the Sofala documents.

“Please, excuse the disarray,” she said. “We didn’t know you were coming; otherwise we would have been prepared.”

Bartina, as usual tuned into her boss’s internal turmoil, stuck her head into the room.

“Tea, coffee?” “Yes, coffee please. Thank you,” Vermeulen said.

“Aisa?”

“Tea. Thank you, Bartina.”

She picked up a stack of files from one end of the table and dropped them at the other end. Vermeulen followed her example. They sat at the cleared side of the table.

“I understand that unannounced visits are rather unorthodox,” Vermeulen said. “I apologize for that. Ordinarily, we would have sent an announcement of my visit. is case, however, is urgent, and I decided to skip the formalities. I hope I didn’t trouble you unduly.”

Why did his calm demeanor and friendly words have the opposite effect on her? She hadn’t done anything. She wasn’t guilty. Yet telling herself didn’t make it so. Something had gone terribly wrong in her organization. Maybe it was a simple error; maybe one of her staff had had a hand in it. It didn’t matter. Files were missing, and she didn’t know what to do next.