Unlike in Sri Lanka, Price Waterhouse was traditionally strong in united Bengal largely because the India headquarters of the firm was in Calcutta. After partition, the Eastern part of Bengal became East Pakistan. R. Rahman, who used to work for Price Waterhouse, with his two friends Saifur Rahman and Aminul Haq formed Rahman, Rahman & Haq (RRH). In December 1971, East Pakistan became Bangladesh. Rahman, Rahman & Haq opted to join KPMG. Saifur Rahman had the distinction of serving twice as the Finance Minister of Bangladesh. RRH is today by far the largest firm in Bangladesh today.
My first assignment in Bangladesh was in August 1981. It was a secret mission. I had just returned from Australia and one our partners Tapas Ray called me to his room and told me that I was to go alone to Bangladesh to carry out a fraud investigation. The London office of Price Waterhouse was smelling a rat at a client and I would have to go for ostensibly a routine visit but try to find a specific discrepancy.
In 1981, there was no fax machine, only telexes. Strangely, Bangladesh could easily communicate with the UK and UK could communicate with both Bangladesh and India.But the connectivity between Bangladesh and India was bad. The only way I could send my report was through the client’s telex machine and how could I send a telex from the client if I was able to uncover the fraud?
A way was found. We drafted two versions of an otherwise innocuous telex message. In one version there were a couple of innocent lines that would alert London that a fraud was uncovered and the other version would indicate that either everything was clean as a whistle or I had failed to uncover any wrong-doing.
The client was Surmah Valley Tea Company in Sylhet. It was under the management of Duncan Brothers. The majority of the shares were held by UK investors who had engaged Price Waterhouse in London. The excitement of the journey was only exceeded by the thrill of the assignment.
There were a number of problems. In those days there were no dollar credit cards or Uber, one had limited foreign currency and one had to depend on the client for logistics. The CEO of the tea company was one Mr. Raymond Black, a British citizen who had married a Bangladeshi lady. (When I met him he introduced himself thus, “My name is a little misleading I am a white Black.”)
He was rather difficult to contact. I was flying into Dhaka and there was a tight Chittagong connection. If I missed the connection I would be in a soup. Even if I managed to reach Chittagong, there was no confirmation that a car would be waiting to take me to a hotel or the client office. I thought like David Copperfield’s Mr. Micawber that “something would turn up” and it did.
One of our family friend Nazir Taha’s sister had married a pilot of Bangladesh Biman. His name was Captain Ataur Haq Khan. As luck would have it, he was flying the Biman plane from Calcutta to Dhaka. They were happier days when security was not as strict as it today and a Biman pilot could really fast track immigration, customs and boarding. I not only made it to the Chittagong flight, he managed to radio message Mr. Black that I was on my way and a car should be waiting for me at the Chittagong Airport in Kaptai.
Sure enough, an old but well-maintained De Soto Chrysler was waiting for me at the airport. Mr. Black was very impressed that I was “powerful” and “connected” enough to send a radio message from the aircraft. Besides, the London office had sent a special message to him to look after me and extend all possible cooperation.
Mr. Black and Zillur Rahman of Duncans Bangladesh took me to a late lunch at the Chittagong Club. The Club was established in 1878 mainly for the use of British planters. The club is located on a major hilltop overlooking the city of Chittagong and the Karnaphuli River. Zillur Rahman told me the chilling story of how President Zia had been assassinated barely three months ago in the early hours of 30th May 1981 by a group of army officers. He was staying at the Government Circuit House very close to the Club.
I reviewed the accounts of the company and found that the profits had declined dramatically not due to fall in tea prices but owing to increase in costs. I would, therefore, have analyze the costs to see if there were any off-kilter items. I stayed at Agrabad Hotel for the night and poured through the books with a bright, young accountant. There was something funny with the materials consumed but I was not able to pin-point the issue.
I took an overnight train which took me from Chittagong to Shaistaganj in Sylhet district. In 1980’s the service of the Indian Railways had deteriorated. I was pleasantly surprised that the First Class passengers were still pampered in Bangladesh and the food was excellent. At the crack of dawn, we reached Shaistaganj and a jeep was waiting for me. I was going to stay with the Visiting Agent as his guest.
I had carried a bottle of Chivas Regal with me and after a little persuasion the Bangladeshi VA sat down for a drinking session in the evening. Scotch loosens tongues more than anything and I discovered the modus operandi of the fraud. Fertilizers and other consumables were being purchased and paid for at the gardens but the materials were not being delivered. Next morning a check of the challans and stock records confirmed the fraud. I made all the notes in long hand but did not disclose that I had confirmed the fears of London. Most importantly, I found out who was the ringmaster of the circus.
My return journey was a memorable one. We took a jeep and drove to Chittagong through the green of Bangladesh’s North East villages amidst steady rain. We drove straight to the office and sent the version of the telex that indicated that there was a fraud. But the telex looked harmless and inoffensive. Yet, I began to feel insecure as Zillur Rahman kept interrogating me about my findings.
I told him I had to catch the next flight to Dhaka. But I was out of luck. Because of heavy and incessant rains, the airport at Kaptai was flooded and the trains were not plying either. The office assistant told me that the only option would be an ordinary bus which would cross three rivers on barges and reach Motijheel Commercial Area in Dhaka late at night. I told Zillur Rahman to make a booking for the night at Purbani Hotel in Motijheel.My pilot friend bought me a ticket to Calcutta.
I was not prepared for bus journey. The bus was filled with people, chicken and goats and it was only with the help of a local guy from Duncans that I managed a seat at the back of the bus. My beard helped but neither my dress nor my accent. I decided not to speak a word. As soon as the bus started, a play on Siraj-ud-Daula began blaring inside the bus, interrupted by hen cackles and goat bleats. Crossing the mighty rivers in spate during the monsoon in Bangladesh can be quite scary. If I could wind back the clock, I would never embark on the adventure.
To cut to the chase, I reached Dhaka and flew back to Calcutta and filed the report before the deadline. Thereafter, heads rolled in Bangladesh and the UK investors changed the management.