Martin Bodenham

by The Geneva Connection

  “I give you my word, we’ll stop at nothing to bring your son’s killers to justice,” he said, hugging Mrs. Santiago.

  “You’re a good man. Luis spoke about you all the time. He looked up to you, and I can see why,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

  Merriman met the local DEA team at the El Paso Intelligence Center later that afternoon. He knew most of them personally, and many had served with him on overseas missions. They shared stories about the past; there were plenty of them.

  Eight years before his promotion to Chief of Intelligence, Merriman had been assigned as the Country Attaché for Colombia, where he achieved a massive reduction in the availability of cocaine. From there, he’d been promoted to Country Director for the Mexico Division, where he was responsible for bringing down major drug trafficking organizations, including the Artis-Laramo and Castro-Estrada cartels. The DEA field teams respected his achievements and, even though he was their ultimate boss, considered him one of them. More than anyone else on the DEA leadership team, Merriman understood the challenge of the work on the ground and how difficult it was to make sustained progress against the rising power of the cartels.

  He gave them a presentation on the results achieved so far, particularly in seizing physical money movements using the satellite reconnaissance technology run from El Paso. He went on to share with them the DEA Leadership’s agreed new strategy of focusing increasing resources on tracing the cartels’ assets. He told them this would involve sophisticated electronic monitoring combined with many more agents on the ground, pursuing the network of advisers and financial middlemen who were helping the cartels acquire assets and keep them hidden.

  “I promise you, we will win this thing. Nothing is more important,” he said, wrapping up his presentation. They gave him a standing ovation.

  The three agents were back in the air by five p.m.

  “That was a hell of a day,” said Halloran soon after takeoff.

  “You never get used to losing agents, Frank. They put their lives on the line every day and the sad thing is, the value of their work goes completely unrecognized. You saw today that not even the parents can fully appreciate the contribution they make,” replied Merriman.

  “I admire their courage. It takes a special type of person to do it,” said Halloran.

  “The toughest job we ever ask people to do.”

  Camplejohn turned in her seat to join the conversation. “I understand they’re all volunteers,” she said.

  “That’s right,” said Merriman.

  “How many agents do we have working undercover?” asked Camplejohn.

  “Outside of the leadership team, we never disclose the identities or numbers of agents in the field, but we have enough to achieve our goals.” Merriman knew exactly how many agents he had working undercover; he had an army of them. It was dangerous and painstaking work, but he was confident that progress was being made. It was only a matter of time before a major breakthrough. We’ll get there.

  The three-hour flight back was quiet. There was little appetite for conversation. Merriman’s mind was already working on how to step up the search for assets. Ideally, he needed to apprehend or turn a senior cartel insider. That way, he’d have a roadmap; he’d know where to look and could concentrate his resources. He didn’t underestimate the scale of the challenge ahead, but he was confident of ultimate success.

  If we need to cut a few corners, or bend a few rules, so be it. We owe it to the Santiagos.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Route 41 was a much slower road than the E20 motorway but, at this time of year, the extra forty minutes journey time was well rewarded. Lucas Stromholm appreciated the way the road changed from agricultural scenery, complete with red farmhouses and barns, one moment to stunning views of the rocky coast in another. He was in no hurry; he’d left in plenty of time. He had made this journey many times before, leaving his offices in Molndal and always arriving at Falkenberg at lunchtime for his client meeting. His client preferred a working lunch session at his office complex on the outskirts of Falkenberg when discussing personal matters.

  Stromholm was in his early forties and was the only son of a successful Swedish industrialist. After studying at the University of Gothenburg, he joined Sweden’s largest firm of financial advisers in Stockholm. Five years later, with his father’s financial backing and encouragement, he set up his own firm. The firm had grown to the second-largest financial adviser in the country, but its client base was the best by far. His father had introduced him to many successful entrepreneurs and industry executives over the years. Stromholm’s firm now specialized in financial planning and advice for ultrahigh net worth individuals and families. It had a goldmine of a client base.

  The client in Falkenberg, Andreas Kvarnback, was Stromholm’s biggest fee earner, so he handled the account personally. Kvarnback had made his money in pharmaceuticals. His original factory was based in Falkenberg, but now the company had subsidiaries all over the world. It was listed on both the New York and Stockholm stock exchanges. Since its flotation twenty years ago, the share price had risen tenfold, ranking Kvarnback seventeenth in Forbes’ list of the world’s richest people. Though he could live anywhere in the world, Kvarnback preferred the relative obscurity and more normal life afforded to him by the west coast of Sweden.

  Stromholm won Kvarnback as a client after the company was floated. It was another of his father’s introductions. Kvarnback needed advice on where to invest the proceeds from some of the shares he’d sold on the flotation, and Stromholm had provided it. Since then, Stromholm had been involved in all key decisions regarding the investment of the family’s immense fortune. He’d guided the family well. Their capital had been preserved, and he’d taken them into real estate and equities at the right time, leading to healthy returns. They trusted him and respected his judgment.

  Stromholm parked his old Saab in the visitors’ car park next to the main 1960s-design office block. The building gave no hint of the family’s fortune. Kvarnback was known for his aversion to ostentatious displays of wealth and preference for keeping a low profile.

  Stromholm signed in and went up to Kvarnback’s office, where he was expected.

  “Lucas, it’s good to see you. How was the drive?” Kvarnback held out his hand to Stromholm. “I’ve organized a light lunch. Would you like a coffee?”

  “A coffee would be fine. The drive was wonderful, as ever.”

  Stromholm glanced around the room. There were none of the usual outward signs of wealth on display in the office. The furniture looked as though it had been there from the days when the company was first founded. Even the view out of the window was toward the redbrick factory. The only thing of note in the room was a framed copy of Kvarnback’s first pharmaceutical patent hanging at an angle on the wall behind his desk. It looked like it needed a good dust.

  “Good. I assume you took the scenic route?” Kvarnback pointed to the corner of the room. “Come, sit down.”

  “I did,” said Stromholm, taking a seat around the small meeting table. “My father asked me to say hello. Says he might come down one day and drag you out for lunch.”

  “Send him my best wishes. Is he any closer to retiring?”

  “No. He’s like you, Andreas. He’ll go on forever. He loves the work too much.”

  They started on the open shrimp and salmon sandwiches, and Stromholm gave Kvarnback an overview of his personal portfolio and its recent performance. He suggested a few changes to the weighting of assets and gave some specific investment recommendations, all of which were accepted. Near the end of the lunch, Kvarnback asked his adviser to consider some suitable private equity fund investments for him.

  “You’ve not been interested in private equity as an asset class before,” said Stromholm.

  “I know, but I’ve seen some of my friends committing to private equity over the years, and the returns have been good. I think the timing might be right to put some into our portfolio.”

>   “I’ll do some research and come back with a few recommendations.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Lucas. You always do your homework first. Let’s discuss your research next time we meet. There’s no hurry.”

  When the meeting finished, the two men walked over to Stromholm’s car. “Sorry it’s such a long trip for an hour’s meeting,” said Kvarnback.

  “You know me, Andreas. I like the drive. Any excuse to get out of the office. Stromholm pointed to the clear blue sky. ’Specially on a day like this.”

  “When are you going to get rid of this rust bucket?” Kvarnback patted Stromholm’s aging Saab.

  “Plenty more miles in it yet,” said Stromholm with a beaming smile. Both men knew he could afford any car he wanted.

  Stromholm arrived at his office just after three thirty that afternoon. The drive back had given him time to think about private equity opportunities for his client. He knew an increasing number of high net worth investors were now making commitments to private equity funds, but these were in relatively small amounts compared to the commitments made by institutional investors. He understood how difficult it was for individuals to obtain access to the best performing fund managers. Institutional interest was so strong for these funds that there was no need to take on lots of small commitments from individuals to hit fundraising targets. He realized he needed advice from someone with more current knowledge of the market.

  He stopped by his PA’s desk to collect his telephone messages.

  “Lena, could you please dig out the number for Anton Henning at a firm called Cambridge Buy-Out Capital in the UK?” he said.

  Stromholm had gone to school in Gothenburg with Henning. They were good friends back then, but had lost regular contact when they went off to different universities. When Henning made it back to Gothenburg to visit family every so often, they’d meet up for a drink. He’d be able to obtain a good current overview of the private equity market from Henning.

  Lena brought the number in, and Stromholm picked up the phone. As he hit the numbers, he wondered whether or not to mention the name of his client during the call. He knew the inquiry would be taken more seriously if he did. Kvarnback was a well-known businessman, after all.

  “Lucas, good to hear from you. How are things?” asked Henning.

  “I’m well, thanks, and you? I read some of the coverage on CBC and Grampian Capital a few months back. That must’ve been tricky. Well done on getting the show back on the road. I keep reading in the financial press about all the deals you guys are doing.”

  “Thanks. Yes, that’s all behind us now, I’m pleased to say. It was a very difficult time for this firm. Now we’re focused on deal-making, which is lots more fun.”

  “Anton, I hope you don’t mind, but I need a little help on the current state of the private equity market.”

  “I’d be glad to help. What do you need to know?”

  “I have a client, an ultrahigh net worth individual, who’s thinking of investing in private equity for the first time. Before you say it, I know how difficult it can be for individuals to get into the best funds. I really need some advice on who the best funds are at the moment, and who might just be open to individuals.”

  Henning ran through the various top fund managers, most of whom were not out raising money due to the poor financial climate. He made one or two suggestions on the best people to contact.

  “Would CBC be open to a commitment from an individual?”

  “In the past, we’ve been exclusively funded by institutions, but we do have substantial family office money behind us now, so it wouldn’t be a huge leap to accept an individual investor. I guess it would depend on the size of the commitment to make it worthwhile.”

  “My client is Andreas Kvarnback, but that’s obviously confidential.”

  “The Svensk Pharmaceuticals Kvarnback?”

  “Yes. He’s by far my largest client and would be able to make a sizeable investment commitment, at least as big as an institution.”

  “He must have some private equity investments already. A man like that is bound to have.”

  “No. As I said, this would be his first time. He’s very conservative in his investment style.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “I manage the family’s whole portfolio, so I’d know if they’d invested in the asset class before.”

  “Yes, of course you’d know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Can you leave it with me, Lucas? I’ll have a word with our CEO and come back to you.”

  “I’d be very grateful. I’ll look out for your call once you’ve cleared it with your boss. Speak to you soon.”

  “Okay, leave it with me. ’Bye for now.”

  Henning raced over to Kent’s office, where Kent was having a rare break at his desk. The last few weeks had been so hectic there’d been little time for anything else but work. He was sat back in his chair, enjoying a rare opportunity to catch up on the news in the Financial Daily.

  “Do you have a moment, John?” said Henning as he stood at Kent’s open office door. “It’s just that I’m a little confused about something.”

  “Sure. Come on in,” said Kent, pushing aside his newspaper. “What is it?”

  “I’ve just taken a call from an old school friend of mine in Sweden. He and I go back a long way. He runs a successful financial advisory practice aimed at very high net worth individuals. Some of them are heavy hitters — well at least in Sweden.”

  “Would you guys like a coffee,” shouted Tara from her desk through the open door.

  “I’d love one,” said Kent.

  “Me, too, please,” said Henning.

  “As I said, Lucas is the financial adviser to many of the leading industrial families in Sweden. He’s built up a great practice,” continued Henning.

  “Pity he’s not over here. I could do with a good personal financial adviser,” said Kent, only half joking. He had little time to devote to the management of his own financial affairs at the moment. He was making a lot of money, but he knew it wasn’t being put to work in the best way.

  “He rang me to ask for advice on a suitable private equity fund investment for his biggest individual client. He asked if we’d consider a sizeable commitment from him.”

  “For the right level of investment, I think we would. The main reason we don’t normally do it is the admin burden for small commitments from individuals. It can be a real pain in…” Kent stopped talking. Henning’s grimacing face gave him the look of a man with the weight of the world’s problems on his shoulders.

  “I realize all that, John, but that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you.”

  Tara brought in the coffees.

  “Sorry; I interrupted,” said Kent. Henning can be a real worrier at times.

  “Lucas said the name of his client is Andreas Kvarnback.”

  “Did you tell him he’s already an investor in our fund?”

  “No, because he said his client had no prior exposure to private equity. I checked it was the Kvarnback family behind the listed pharmaceutical group, and it is.”

  “That’s odd. How many Kvarnbacks are there in Sweden? It doesn’t sound like a common name?”

  “Not that many, and there can’t be any more than one who’s made a fortune in pharmaceuticals.”

  “Your friend must be mistaken. He probably just doesn’t know his largest client is already invested in private equity. Why don’t you go back to him and tell him in confidence that the Kvarnbacks are already invested with us through Tritona?”

  “I’ll do that, but Lucas seemed pretty certain his client was not currently exposed to private equity.” Henning looked at his wristwatch. It was six thirty p.m., which meant seven thirty in Sweden. “I’ll give him a call tomorrow morning; it’s too late now. I’ll leave you to finish your newspaper.”

  “Let me know how you get on. There’s no point disturbing Tritona over this. It’s likely to be a screwup in Sweden.”


  Kent picked his newspaper back up. There’ll be a perfectly sensible explanation. Why is Henning so worried?

  Henning left Kent’s room, stopping at Tara’s desk to thank her for the coffee before returning to his own office.

  “Anton looks rattled,” Tara shouted in to Kent.

  “It’s nothing. You know, Anton.”

  “I’ll be setting off in five minutes. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “No thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.” Maybe now there would be a few minutes peace to finish the newspaper. He’d started reading the same article three times.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The elegant four-story Georgian townhouse stood on King’s Parade, directly across from King’s College and its famous gothic chapel. The moment Henning and his wife Nora saw the property four years ago, they knew they had to buy it, whatever the price. They’d been looking for a Georgian townhouse in the center of Cambridge for two years, but they were rare finds and usually sold within days to cash buyers. They snapped it up, paying well over the asking price. They spent the next eighteen months completely renovating the property, and now it was a source of great pride for them. They had received six unsolicited offers for the house in the short time they’d lived there. They had lavished so much love and attention on their home, there was no way they’d be selling up for many years. Having bought their little bit of England, the Swedes had fast become more British than the British. They loved living in their adopted country and could not ever see themselves returning to Sweden.