Martin Bodenham

by The Geneva Connection

  “What are you thinking, Mark?” asked Bob Butler, Head of the DEA, looking confused.

  “We’re just scratching the surface right now, Bob. We’ve got to hit the cartels where it hurts most, by taking away the profit from their activities. We have to go after their assets — what they acquire once they’ve laundered their cash. That’s where most of their wealth sits, and that’s where they’ll feel it. But first we’ve got to track down the key financial players: investment fund managers, lawyers, accountants, brokers, and so on. Without these intermediaries, the cartels can’t deploy their capital. If we can do this, we’ll begin to close down these criminal organizations for good. It won’t be easy. We’ll need more specialist skills and have to work in a whole new way, but I’m determined to crack it.”

  “We’re much better off pursuing the cash,” said Jim Randell, the DEA’s miserable Deputy Head and Merriman’s predecessor as Head of Intelligence. “You’ll never get the advisers to talk. That’s if you can find them first.”

  Merriman shook his head. “One thing’s for certain: if we keep doing more of the same, we’re going to lose. We have to be more ambitious,” he said.

  “Just tracking down their advisers will require a lot more manpower. We don’t have the budget. I admire the sentiment, Mark, but we’re better off sticking to our proven methods. I can’t support a fundamental change.”

  “I didn’t expect you would, Jim. What I’m arguing for means throwing out a lot of practices you established. I know it’s hard for anyone to tear up their own ideas. I’m not trying to attack your work, but we need a new approach. The threat we face today from the cartels simply demands it.”

  “It’ll never work, Bob,” said Randell, turning to Butler for support.

  A wave of frustration shot through Merriman. He sighed. “Let me spell this out. If we don’t put an end to the cartels now, Mexico could soon become a failed state. With a population of a hundred million, the potential is for a massive influx of refugees across the border.” Merriman looked at the two senators. “Are we prepared to accept that? I know I’m not.”

  “He’s right. If Mexico fails, the repercussions for the US are unimaginable,” said the Wisconsin senator.

  Merriman stared at Randell. “Give me a year. If I don’t deliver tangible results in that time, I’ll stand down,” he said. That ought to shut him up.

  After a half hour of heated discussion, Merriman won approval for his new strategy and a large increase in his intelligence budget. At the end of the presentation, he asked his two team members to leave the meeting. Then he turned to his senior colleagues.

  “I’ve just one more confidential thing to add. We’ve been trying to infiltrate the Caruana cartel for some considerable time, without success. The good news is we’ve had one of our agents successfully embedded for two years now. The great news is we’re beginning to collect some promising intelligence from deep within this organization. It’s a real breakthrough, and it should help us start identifying their main financial advisers and investment managers around the world. I’m confident we’ll be able to report substantive progress on this at our next quarterly presentation.”

  Butler pulled Merriman to one side when the meeting broke up. “Excellent work, Mark. It’s great to see the progress you’re making. Don’t listen to Randell. He never supports anything he didn’t invent.”

  “Thanks, Bob. He thinks I’m after your job. He sees me as his competition.”

  Butler laughed. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “Safuentes is the key to this. I wanna bring him down, one way or another.”

  “I’m with you there, but don’t push it too far. This guy’s a ruthless son of a bitch.”

  “That’s exactly what my dad said over the weekend. I told him someone has to stand up to him.”

  “Do you really have to go after him first?”

  Merriman ignored the question. What’s the point of chasing the small players? he thought. “By the way, Dad asked me to say hello.”

  “Send him my best. He was a real loss to the service when he retired.”

  “Big shoes to fill.”

  “You’re not doing too badly.” Butler slapped Merriman on the back as they left the room. “I mean it, Mark. Don’t take any unnecessary risks with Safuentes. I know what you’re like.”

  Merriman grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful.”

  By the time he walked back to his office, Merriman was hungry. He offered to buy his team lunch. “It’s my treat. You guys did a great job today.”

  “You have to open your presents first,” said Greenough, beaming from ear to ear. “The presentation seemed to go well.”

  “If you insist,” said Merriman. “Gail, could you book us a table at Carlino’s, say for one fifteen?”

  His team crowded around him as he began opening the gift-wrapped boxes on his cabinet. The first package was a pen from Gail then, from Halloran, a joke book instructing the reader how to turn off a cell phone. Merriman had a reputation for never switching off his smartphone, and it would often go off in meetings, much to everyone’s amusement.

  Merriman laughed. “Very funny, Frank.”

  He picked up the next gift. “There’s no label on this one to say who it’s from. Is it another windup?” he asked, looking over to Halloran.

  “Not from me,” said Halloran, raising his palms.

  Merriman shook the box, trying to guess what it was. “No. Can’t figure this one out.” He tore off the wrapping paper then flipped open the cardboard lid. He collapsed back against his desk, dropping the box.

  “Christ, no.”

  A bloodied human ear and a man’s left hand fell onto the carpet.

  Chapter Three

  It was an old financial model, but it worked. John Kent had created it years ago, when he worked at an investment bank in London, and had used it hundreds of times since. He sat in his corner office on the outskirts of Cambridge, England, tinkering with the Excel spreadsheet and hammering at his calculator. Without looking up from his screen, he shouted, “Tara, can you ask Joanna and Adrian to pop in? A coffee would be nice, too.”

  “Sure,” said Tara Sanderson, his PA sitting outside his open door.

  Joanna Kirkland and Adrian Johnson walked into Kent’s office five minutes later.

  “Grab a seat,” said Kent from behind his iMac, pointing to the two sofas opposite his desk. “I’ll be with you in a sec. I’ve come up with a better financial structure on the Henderson Wright deal.”

  Kirkland sat on one of the sofas and crossed her arms. “What do you have in mind? Can’t see anything wrong with the one I had,” she said. At thirty-one, she was the youngest and only female partner in Kent’s successful private equity firm.

  “Don’t be so defensive. It’s good, but this is better.” Kent rolled his chair sideways so he could see his two partners. They’re going to like this.

  “I’m all ears. Can’t imagine what I’ve missed.” Kirkland looked as if she’d been sucking on a lemon. She was the highest paid partner, after Kent. She was a moneymaker, and Kent used her for his most important deals.

  “I want to can the German business as soon as we complete the rescue financing.”

  “Doug Wright will go ballistic. That subsidiary is his baby,” said Kirkland. “It’ll never happen.”

  “He’ll have to live with it if he wants our money. If he doesn’t, he can watch his entire group go over the cliff.”

  “How does that improve the deal for us?” asked Johnson, sitting on the arm of the other sofa. He took a sip of tea from an oversize mug with The World’s Greatest Investor printed on it.

  “I’m coming to that,” said Kent. “It’s losing too much money. We can release a lot of cash by shutting it down. If we take a charge on the German assets, we’ll get the proceeds when we flog them off and none of it will be wasted on the creditors.”

  “I like it,” said Johnson. “Who said private equity
houses were money-grabbing asset strippers?”

  Kent laughed.

  Kirkland kept a straight face. “Wright won’t wear it,” she said.

  She’s only pissed off because she didn’t come up with the idea herself, thought Kent.

  “He’s not calling the shots. This is our deal, not his. Anyway, he won’t know. We’ll only tell him once the investment’s completed,” he said.

  “Surely, we have to tell the CEO?” said Kirkland.

  “I’m with John. Wright doesn’t need to know,” said Johnson, finishing his tea. “Right, I can’t sit about here all day chatting to you lot; got to get on with the drawdown notices.”

  “Don’t send the one to Grampian Capital. If Paul’s still stuck in New York, I’ll ask him to take it over in person,” said Kent.

  “I can e-mail it just as easy.”

  “I don’t want to give them any excuse to delay coughing up the money. Any idea why they were late last time?”

  “No. I never did find out. It’s not like them. Want me to have a word with their CFO?”

  “Leave it to Paul. I don’t want to embarrass them.”

  “These big institutions are a bureaucratic nightmare. I’m sure it was just a cock-up at their end.”

  “I hope so. It highlights how reliant we are on Grampian.”

  “Three quarters of our fund. I’d say that counts as reliant,” said Johnson as he left the office.

  Kent turned to Kirkland. “Have you issued our offer letter to Wright yet, Joanna?”

  “Did it yesterday. Just waiting for him to sign it,” she replied. “He told me first thing this morning he’ll be standing down the other private equity firm he’s been talking to and will then sign our offer.”

  “Don’t give him any longer than five o’clock to have it back to us. I don’t want him showing our terms to the other firm. He’s a smart-ass, so I wouldn’t put anything past him. I’ve been shafted by people like him too many times before.”

  Kirkland returned to her own office after the meeting.

  “Tara, can you come in for a moment?” shouted Kent from his desk. She was wearing a thin white blouse, partially revealing her bra and the outline of her firm breasts. When she sat, her wavy brown hair obscured Kent’s view.

  “Is Paul back from New York yet?” he asked, trying not to make it obvious where he was looking.

  “No. He’s still struggling to find a flight. I heard on TV last night that they think the air traffic controllers’ strike could go on for days. He said he’s thinking of catching a flight to mainland Europe then making his way to the UK by train.”

  “Actually, I’m glad he’s still over there. I’ve got some work for him. Once Adrian has prepared Grampian’s drawdown notice, e-mail it to Paul and ask him to take it over there to talk them through the deal. That should speed things up at their end.”

  A silver Bentley collected the American executive from the underground garage of the lower Manhattan office tower.

  “The apartment,” he said as the driver held open the door.

  The car drove onto West Street and pushed its way into the heavy traffic.

  “Beautiful day, Mr. Schaeffer,” said the driver, peering up at the clear blue sky.

  “Is it?” said Schaeffer, not looking up from his papers. He pressed the button to close the privacy screen then flipped open his cell phone and hit one of his fast-dials.

  “Tom Grannis,” said the voice at the other end.

  “It’s Dan.”

  “Have you heard?”

  “Yeah, about an hour ago. They won’t help.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Not a penny. Hard to see what options we have left.”

  “I was optimistic they’d do something. We’re talking about Grampian Capital for God’s sake, not some hick bank nobody’s ever heard of.”

  “Do you guys know any other senior people over there?”

  “I’m sorry, Dan. We’ve exhausted out best contacts.”

  “Figured as much.” He snapped the phone shut.

  Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up outside the forty-floor Pyramid building, Manhattan’s most expensive apartment block, across the road from the Met on the Upper East Side. Schaeffer climbed out of the car.

  “Wait here. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Kirkland returned to Kent’s office with Anton Henning, another partner in the firm. She looked like a stern-faced librarian with her black-rimmed reading glasses and pursed lips. Henning looked agitated, slumping his lanky frame onto one of Kent’s sofas.

  “Just taken a call from Doug Wright. You’re not going to like it,” said Henning.

  “You’ve not mentioned the German business?” said Kent, leaning over a waste-paper bin under his desk, clipping his fingernails. “Don’t tell me Wright knows about our scheme.”

  “What scheme?”

  “Forget it. What’s the problem?”

  “Wright says the other private equity firm is prepared to do the same deal as us, but with thirty percent for the management team, compared to our twenty percent.”

  “Fucking hell!” said Kent, narrowly avoiding severing the tip of his left index finger. “Wright’s playing with fire. His business runs out of cash in three weeks. How easy does he think it is coming up with a billion pounds in a hurry?”

  He shoved his chair back from his desk, walked to the large picture window behind it and stared toward Cambridge. He inspected his bleeding finger in the light and then placed it in his mouth.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Henning, interrupting Kent’s thoughts.

  “He’s bluffing. Did you ask him to e-mail us the other firm’s term sheet?”

  Henning dropped his shoulders. “No, didn’t think of it.”

  Kent turned and smiled at him, as if to say he should have done. “Let’s get him on the phone right now. Tara, can you get hold of Doug Wright?” he shouted.

  “I’ve Doug Wright for you,” Tara said through Kent’s open office door a few moments later.

  Kent leaned over his desk and hit the speakerphone, but said nothing, leaving an awkward silence. He waited for the pressure to build on Wright.

  “John, how are you? We’re in the thick of it over here,” said Wright after a few long seconds.

  “I understand from my team you have a better offer on the table.”

  “Yes, it’s all a bit embarrassing. We were just telling the other firm they’d lost the opportunity when they offered to improve their terms. We’re not sure what to do about it.”

  “Did you show them our offer letter?”

  “No, not at all. I wouldn’t do that. They said they don’t want to lose the deal and offered to sharpen their pencil. Took me by complete surprise.”

  “I can imagine. E-mail us their terms so we can take a look at them.” Kent hit the mute button and turned to his colleagues. “That’ll flush him out. Let’s see how he wriggles out of that one.”

  There was another uncomfortable pause at the other end of the line. “That wouldn’t be very professional. I’m sure they wouldn’t thank me if I did,” said Wright.

  “He’s struggling to figure out what to do. The slimy bastard’s lying to us.” Kent turned off the mute button. “Tell you what, Doug. It’s now four o’clock. I’ll give you until ten past to accept our offer. There’s no point leaving our deal on the table any longer when you have an obviously better proposal available.”

  “I will not be bullied or rushed into accepting your deal. You’re not the only people interested — ”

  Kent ended the call. “He’d better sign our offer letter while he still has the chance. It’s a great deal for us. The last thing I want is for that idiot to blow it for everyone.”

  “Do you still think he’s bluffing?” asked Kirkland.

  “Dead right he is. He’s out for himself. His firm’s at death’s door, and he’s fannying about with our investment terms. I’ve a good mind to jack our equity stake up to eighty-five
percent.”

  “Can we do that?” asked Henning, his face taking on a glaze of incredulity.

  “Sure. We can do anything we want before our offer letter is signed. It’s our money.”

  At 4:08 p.m. Tara walked into Kent’s office. “This e-mail has just come in from Mr. Wright,” she said, handing out copies.

  “Is it the other firm’s term sheet?” asked Kirkland.

  “No. It’s a scanned, signed copy of our offer letter. Mr. Wright telephoned me a moment ago very anxious to know that I had it. He seemed most upset.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Henning, shaking his head.

  Kent smiled at his colleagues. Another great deal in the bag.

  “The River Café,” said Schaeffer, climbing back into the Bentley. He let several calls on his cell phone ring out as he gazed out of the window while the driver followed the East River to the Brooklyn Bridge. When the car pulled into the restaurant car park at the eastern end of the bridge, the driver jumped out and opened the door for his passenger.

  “Don’t wait for me. I’ll find my own way back.”

  “Are you sure, sir? It’s really no trouble.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Enjoy your lunch, sir.”

  Schaeffer waited until the Bentley disappeared. He walked away from the restaurant and headed along the bridge. The pedestrian walkway sat above the traffic, and when he reached the midpoint of the bridge, he stopped and looked around. The nearest people were about a hundred yards away. He dropped his attaché case on the floor, scrambled over the rusting metal safety fence, and climbed onto the outside girder. He struggled to keep his balance on the narrow beam. When he found his feet, he stared across at the Manhattan skyline and picked out Grampian Capital’s offices, where he’d been sitting an hour or so earlier.

  He raised his head. A slight breeze, but the sky was crystal clear.

  “I guess it is a beautiful day.”