Martin Bodenham

by The Geneva Connection

  They offered him the job, and Wright agreed to take it, commencing with immediate effect. He couldn’t wait to get started.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For the next couple of weeks, Kent tried his best to get back to business as usual, but the DVD kept playing on his mind. Whoever sent it knew he’d been about to file a suspicious report to SOCA and had it delivered to him just in time to stop him in his tracks. He was careful about any discussion in his office. They’re definitely listening. No doubt about it.

  He immersed himself in new deals and meetings, but nothing could distract him. At night, he struggled to sleep and during the day, he struggled to eat. Sarah had commented on his weight loss. Even Tara had telephoned her to say that he was not his usual self and to ask if he was all right. He needed to know who “they” were. Who the hell is Baumgart? Who does he represent? He decided to go and face Baumgart and to have it out with him. He couldn’t go on without knowing what he was up against.

  “Tara, could you get hold of Dieter Baumgart and arrange for me to meet with him over the next few days?” he shouted through his open office door.

  “Sure. What shall I tell him the meeting is about when I call?” replied Tara.

  “Just tell him it’s a regular catch-up session. Tell him I want to update him on the progress of their investments and what deals we have in the pipeline. Nothing unusual.” Must sound normal for the hidden microphones, he thought. Christ! I feel like I’m going mad. Maybe I am?

  A few minutes later, Tara walked into his office. “Mr. Baumgart is actually going to be in London for a couple of meetings next week and has suggested you meet him at his hotel one evening while he’s over here,” she said. “Is that okay with you?”

  “That’s fine. Can you sort out the travel arrangements? I won’t stay down there. I’ll catch a late train home.”

  I don’t want to spend too much time with that man, he thought. I just need to find out what’s going on, and then get out of there. I need it for my sanity.

  Kent caught the six thirty p.m. train from Peterborough to London the following week. The high-speed train arrived at King’s Cross station fifty minutes later. He was early for his eight o’clock dinner appointment with Baumgart, so he walked the thirty minutes or so it took to reach the Langham Hotel at the southern end of Portland Place. Besides, it helped to calm his nerves and gave him time to think.

  How should I play the meeting? he wondered. He didn’t know if he could trust Baumgart at all. The truth was he knew very little about him. That fat git must know something.

  Kent arrived first at the hotel’s restaurant, at a couple of minutes before eight. A condescending maître d’ showed him to the table in a small alcove just off the main dining room. The table was visible from the main dining area, but was private enough to hold a discreet conversation. His heart rate was rapid, and his palms were sticky. He dried them on his suit trousers. The last thing he wanted was to appear nervous in front of Baumgart when they shook hands. His nervousness would ring alarm bells. How would he be able to explain his odd behavior without giving away what he knew?

  Kent scanned the room for anyone who might be watching him. The restaurant was almost full, and most of the suited diners appeared to be deep in conversation. But the two men sat at the table in the corner of the room appeared to be looking over at him. They averted their eyes as he looked directly back at them. Are they watching me?

  The waiter came for his drink order and he ordered mineral water; best to keep a clear head for the difficult meeting to come. He skimmed the menu, but he had no appetite.

  This isn’t a social meeting. It’s not even a business meeting, thought Kent. He didn’t know what to expect from the dinner with Baumgart. Would he just come out and admit he’s a criminal? What happens then? Kent was no longer sure this was a great idea. Where’s this going to lead? Do I really want to know everything?

  He glanced at his watch; ten past eight and still no sign of them. Maybe they’re not coming. Just as he was about to call Tara to check he had the right place and time, he heard, “John, very good to see you. So sorry to have kept you waiting.” Baumgart and his sidekick, Kulpman made their way over to the table.

  Baumgart beckoned over the waiter, ordered a large glass of wine and started to read the menu. He looks relaxed, Kent thought. What’s his game?

  Baumgart made small talk as they waited for their order. Though Kent joined in, he was boiling inside. When’s he going to drop the bloody facade? he thought. Stop fucking about. We all know why we’re here.

  “So, John, what would you like to discuss?” Baumgart said as he scraped his fork on the last morsel of food on his plate. Kent had hardly touched his meal.

  Do I just come out with it? If Baumgart’s going to play games, then maybe I’ll have to be direct with him. What could he say, though? “I know all about the DVD, and I know you or your people were behind Anton’s death. What exactly do you expect from me, now we no longer have to pretend?”

  “Current progress on our portfolio of investments and the deals that are coming through over the next couple of months,” said Kent. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. The whole thing had the potential to go horribly wrong.

  He ran through the performance of the main companies in the investment portfolio. Baumgart was his usual self, praising the great work being done by CBC and Kent in particular.

  “Our investors are very pleased with your performance and would be delighted to make more capital available should you need it.”

  “I think we’re comfortable for the time being but, of course, I’ll let you know if we can deploy more capital,” said Kent.

  “There’s always plenty of capital available for the right deals.”

  “Have you picked up any new investors recently, Dieter?” Kent said in the hopes of prompting a reaction from him.

  “No. All of the capital still comes from the three families. Nothing’s changed. Now, are we going to have a coffee? I know I will.”

  Incredible! Baumgart still claims Tritona’s money comes from the three founding families. What about Andreas Kvarnback? Is it possible Baumgart’s not involved? He has to be. Nothing else makes sense.

  “We were horrified to learn about your partner being killed in that road accident.”

  What? Kent thought. How can he casually drop this into the conversation? What do I say? You bastards killed him.

  “We read about it in the newspapers. It must have been a shock to you all,” continued Baumgart.

  “Yes. It was a shock, all right,” said Kent, stoically. He felt his cheeks heating up. He wanted to shout out that it couldn’t have been a surprise to Tritona. He wanted to tell Baumgart to stop fucking about with his silly games. He wanted to know more about the DVD taken in the room Tritona had booked. He wanted to grill Baumgart on the people behind his Swiss firm. Is it mafia money? How long have you been on the payroll? How many other people have you been party to blackmailing and murdering? He wanted Baumgart to simply stop the pretense and tell him the truth, but something stopped him from blurting this all out.

  “Next time I’d like you to bring that delightful young lady, Tara, with you,” Baumgart said as they walked to the hotel foyer at the end of the meal. Kent wondered whether that was Baumgart’s way of saying he knew about the DVD?

  While he was revolted by the thought, Kent shook hands with Baumgart and then jumped into one of the waiting taxis in front of the hotel. As the cab made its way along Euston road, he ran over the evening in his mind. Maybe Baumgart is as innocent in all this as me. Is that credible? He leaned forward and cupped his head in his hands. Who was pulling the strings? Who sent the DVD? Who killed Anton? Whoever they are, they’re also monitoring CBC’s offices? He sighed. I’ve learned nothing tonight. Nothing.

  Kent caught the ten thirty train from Kings Cross. His carriage was quiet. There were a few people who looked as though they’d been down for the theater or dinner, but nobody rowdy or drunk. It was t
oo early for the late night revelers to be making their way home. As the train pulled out, two men in business suits looked in Kent’s direction from the other side of the carriage three rows away. He looked at them, as subtly as he could, trying not to make it obvious. They’re not the same men from the restaurant. He glanced away when they looked directly back at him. They appeared to be discussing him. Were they on the train coming down to London earlier in the evening? I don’t remember seeing them. He felt his stomach tightening. Am I being followed? Are these the people behind Tritona?

  The train stopped at Stevenage, but the two men stayed on. Kent thought of moving to another carriage to see what the two suits would do, but decided it was safer to stay put. At least there are other people in this carriage, he reasoned. Surely they wouldn’t attack me with witnesses around? How am I going to get back to my car in the quiet car park? The men were staring at him now and making no effort to hide it. Kent looked away. He thought it best not to let them know he’d spotted them.

  He got off the train at Peterborough. A few people got off at the same time and made their way across the tracks via the pedestrian footbridge to the station exit. He started walking to his car in the station car park. The two men were only forty yards behind him. They can’t be regular businessmen, he realized. They have no briefcases, no papers, nothing. They’re definitely following me. Shit!

  There was no one else in the parking area. It was not well lit, but Kent could hear the two men not far behind him. He increased his pace a little, as imperceptibly as he could. He’d already taken his car keys out of his briefcase so he’d be ready to open the BMW without stopping. He could hear the footsteps of the men becoming louder. They’re getting closer.

  As he made his way under the rail bridge, he knew he would be out of their line of sight. He started to run, slowly at first then a sprint. He pressed the key fob and jumped into his car, starting the engine before pulling the door closed. He spun the wheels as he raced toward the exit. He fumbled with the ticket at the exit barrier. I’ll drive right through this fucking thing if it doesn’t open. He looked in his rear view mirror as the metal arm lifted. The men were gone.

  Kent was back home by midnight. As usual these days, he didn’t sleep, as he kept running over the evening in his mind. The dinner with Baumgart and Kulpman had been surreal. He was no nearer to understanding the events of the last few weeks, nor the threat he was up against. Were the two men in suits trying to attack me, or were they letting me know they were watching me? Maybe I am losing my mind. The evening had provided no answers, just more questions. Kent knew he was in trouble. He just had no idea how much.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was hot and sticky. The strong Gulf wind intensified the sandstorm blown up by the turbine engine. A desert cloud surrounded the building as the helicopter climbed into the air, buffeted by the gale. Raul Safuentes was the only passenger on board.

  “How long before we’re above this?” he shouted to the pilot.

  “Not long, sir. It’s all low-level turbulence,” said the pilot. “Should only be a few more minutes before it smoothes out.”

  Safuentes gripped the sides of his seat and closed his eyes. Infernal machines. As the aircraft climbed, the wind dropped and Safuentes began to relax. Isla Tiburon became smaller and smaller through his window, as the helicopter continued its ascent. He’d installed the latest IT and communications systems at head office so he could avoid unnecessary travel, but his role as the cartel’s CFO demanded that he dealt with certain matters personally. His brother expected no less.

  Forty-five minutes later, the town of Hermosillo was in sight. Safuentes closed his eyes again when they came in to land, taking deep breaths as he counted down the seconds until he felt hard ground.

  Six hundred miles above his head, a DEA reconnaissance satellite was monitoring every inch of the helicopter’s flight. The Special Agent controlling the satellite from El Paso noted when the aircraft loaded up at the island, that there was only one passenger on board. He increased the focus when the helicopter came in to land at the small airstrip on the edge of town.

  The encrypted radio crackled as the agent spoke into it. “Only one passenger. I’m pretty sure it’s Safuentes. Do you have visual?” the agent asked. A quarter of a mile away from the airstrip, two DEA agents answered from a disused water tower. “We have visual,” replied one of them. He focused in on the passenger leaving the helicopter. The Leviathan high powered telescope on a slim pedestal picked up close detail. “I can confirm the passenger is Raul Safuentes. It’s affirmative, Raul Safuentes.”

  “Copy that. Will continue to monitor,” replied the Special Agent in El Paso.

  As soon as Safuentes was on board the waiting Hawker 750 private jet, the pilot started the engines and took off in an easterly direction. An attractive, young cabin attendant brought Safuentes his favorite drink, bourbon with a little ice. He reclined in his leather seat. Besides the pilot and crew, once again, he was the only passenger on board. He finished his drink before taking out a stack of papers from his briefcase, occasionally reaching for his calculator to check some of the figures.

  They stopped to refuel at Monterrey, but Safuentes didn’t leave the jet. The aircraft headed out across the Gulf of Mexico, eventually landing at Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas.

  After clearing immigration at Lynden Pindling International Airport, ten miles west of Nassau, Safuentes was picked up by two tattooed muscle-heads in a black Mercedes. They drove him downtown and dropped him off outside a bland office building on East Hill Street. The brass plate on the entrance door was the only hint at what went on inside the building. It read “Oakham Fiduciary Services — Nassau Branch.”

  Safuentes walked into the building, straight past reception, and up a flight of steps to a small, wood paneled office. Already waiting there for him were Baumgart and Kulpman.

  “Good afternoon, Raul. Good trip?” asked Baumgart.

  “I’ve had worse. I assume you arrived yesterday?” replied Safuentes.

  “Yes, so we could make sure the files were in good order for today’s meeting. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Coffee. Let’s get on with it.”

  Baumgart poured a coffee for the three of them while Kulpman looked on. “We have a lot to cover with you. It’s been an active year,” said Baumgart.

  “I’m listening,” said Safuentes, unpacking the papers from his briefcase.

  “I’m sorry. In the last twelve months, we have received electronic transfers from your Mexican bank accounts amounting to twenty-seven billion dollars.”

  “That agrees with my records.”

  “Good. Those funds were transmitted to our various accounts in Geneva then transferred immediately to the established list of holding companies and trusts administered by Oakham Fiduciary Services. These are located in sixteen different countries, all selected by Oakham for their low tax status and guaranteed discretion.”

  Baumgart handed over a list to Safuentes. Against the name of each holding company or SPV was a dollar amount detailing the distribution of the twenty-seven billion dollars. The analysis went on for six pages. Safuentes took a few moments to review the list before nodding his approval.

  “Another coffee,” said Safuentes.

  Baumgart looked at Kulpman, who didn’t move. Baumgart placed his notes on the table and grabbed the flask of coffee. He refilled their cups.

  “Go on,” said Safuentes.

  “The monies set out on that list have been added to funds already held by those vehicles. As in previous years, we have drawn down on those combined funds as and when appropriate investment opportunities have emerged.”

  Baumgart handed over another sheet of paper. “On this report, we have shown the assets acquired during the year. It’s been a good period for investment. We’ve made investments totaling some forty-three billion dollars. We have added to our existing real estate and quoted securities portfolios, and these together amounted to new investments
of twenty-one billion dollars. In addition, we’ve invested heavily in an asset class where we have historically had only a small exposure. We’ve invested a total of twenty-two billion dollars in private equity, and most of this has been through CBC.”

  “CBC’s returns are encouraging,” said Safuentes.

  “They’ve been a very good find. Since compiling this report, we have invested much more through CBC. I believe we’ll be able to deploy a lot more of your capital through them in the coming years.”

  “What about the problem with them you mentioned a few weeks ago?”

  “The problem…”

  Kulpman raised his hand, stopping Baumgart in midflow. He sat forward in his chair and turned to Safuentes.

  “There will be no more difficulty with CBC. We took immediate action and now have enough insurance in place to guarantee their continued cooperation. Problem solved.”

  Safuentes’s mouth creased into an almost imperceptible smile. If something was guaranteed by Kulpman, then he could rely on the information without question. Safuentes himself had trained Kulpman before he joined the senior enforcement team within the cartel. Because of his intellect and complete loyalty, Safuentes had placed him close to the assets at Tritona some years ago. It had been a shrewd decision; he was the cartel’s eyes and ears on the ground where it mattered.

  “Very good, Franz. I will speak no more of this,” he said.

  In the three hours that followed, Safuentes grilled Baumgart on everything, taking nothing on trust. Later on, he’d have to answer to his brother. He wanted to know the details of the assets being acquired with the cartel’s funds and the returns being generated. He also wanted to understand the legal structures being set up by Oakham Fiduciary Services. He understood how these esoteric corporate arrangements made it difficult for the authorities to trace the cartel’s assets. The structures represented a legal firewall, almost impossible to penetrate without insider knowledge.