The Geneva Connection

by Martin Bodenham

  Vargas struggled to take it all in. The operation was much larger and more sophisticated than he’d imagined. “How many people are based here at head office?” he asked.

  “It varies but, generally, we have between three and four hundred people here at any one time. All of the living quarters are on the first two floors. I’ll show you those later. As a senior member of staff, you will have your own room.”

  “As we entered the building at the ground level, I noticed there were many armed security personnel.”

  “Yes. My brother takes security very seriously. We have at least twenty armed guards on each floor. You never know when we might be attacked.”

  “By the authorities?”

  “I’m pleased to say that, so far, we’ve had no trouble from the authorities. We make it our business to take care of the right politicians and police chiefs.” Safuentes smiled.

  “I understand. Then the threat must be from the other cartels?”

  “That’s right, but our location makes it extremely difficult for our enemies to attack us.” Safuentes led Vargas down a flight of stairs to another level and through a security coded metal door. “Now it gets interesting. In these offices are our most senior accounting staff members. You will be based on this floor. I work over there.” Safuentes pointed to a corner office.

  “It’s good to know I’ll be working so closely with you. What happens on this level?”

  “From here we have electronic control of all the cash deposits once they’ve been placed into our bank accounts.”

  “I know from my work at Corolla how much we deposit with the banks each day. How much do we keep on deposit with the banks?”

  “We settle our raw material purchases and overheads out of our physical cash resources in order to minimize the trail. However, once we have deposited cash with our chosen banks, we move those monies around the globe and into other assets as quickly as possible. All of those instructions are issued from here using our encrypted communications network. As I mentioned, you will be involved in this work.”

  “I noticed the restricted access to this floor.”

  “That’s right. Other than our senior accounting staff, only the fifteen lieutenants have access to this floor. Everyone has individual access codes for the doors, so we know exactly who is coming in and out, and at what time.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting the lieutenants. I’ve heard so much about them.”

  Safuentes nodded. “Now, follow me. You will see where they work in a moment.”

  Vargas was led down one more floor and through a fingerprint scanning security door. Visible CCTV cameras followed their every move. Vargas looked up at them.

  “The cameras run all day. Everything is recorded,” said Safuentes.

  They entered a long corridor with a number of doors leading off it. One of the doors was open as Vargas walked by. He stopped at the doorway and looked inside the office. A large electronic screen was attached to the wall facing a mahogany desk. There was no one sitting at the desk, but in the corner of the room was a smaller desk, where a young female assistant was working at a PC. She didn’t look up from her screen. She seemed immersed in her work.

  “These are the offices used by the lieutenants when they’re not in the field.” Safuentes held Vargas by his shoulder, preventing him from walking into the office. He pulled the door closed as they moved on.

  “How long do the lieutenants spend at head office?”

  “It depends on their role, but I’d estimate they’re here only one week in four on average. They are Jivaro’s eyes and ears in the field, so it’s important they’re out managing our operations on the ground. Come, we must hurry; we’re running a little late.”

  At the end of the long corridor, they took a sharp right turn leading to a much longer passageway, punctuated only by security lighting. Eventually, they passed through an automatic sliding glass door and into a large room, about one hundred and fifty feet by one hundred feet. It was full of natural light, unlike the dark corridors they’d just left behind. Vargas had to squint to regain his focus. At the opposite end of the room was a floor-to-ceiling glass wall with a view over the ocean. He could now see the fortress had been dug into the side of a hill overlooking the sea. He estimated the window was some six hundred feet above sea level.

  “This is amazing,” said Vargas. “Absolutely amazing.”

  “Arturo,” boomed a deep voice which resonated around the room. “Good to meet you. Raul tells me good things about your work.” It was Jivaro, and this was his domain.

  “Mr. Safuentes. It is an honor to meet you, sir,” said Vargas, raising his head to make eye contact.

  There was no shaking of hands. Vargas had already heard about Jivaro’s peculiar habits.

  “Come. Sit down,” said Jivaro, gesturing over to three leather sofas close to the window. On the side table were several photographs of Jivaro and his wife and only son.

  “What an impressive view. It must be a great place to work.”

  “Yes, although I spend little time here.”

  An attractive woman came into the room from a separate entrance and poured coffee for the three men.

  “How much time do you spend here?”

  “Not much. Now, let’s discuss your new role here on the island.”

  The small talk was over; Vargas took the hint.

  The three men spent half an hour going over the key responsibilities of his new position. He’d be reporting directly to Jivaro’s brother and would be spending most of his time at head office. As with all other senior staff members, he’d be permitted to leave the island one week in every four.

  When the meeting was over, Jivaro stood up, signaling to Vargas it was time for him to leave. “I know you will do well here, Arturo. Raul will keep me informed of your progress.” When they reached the exit, Jivaro pulled his brother to one side and whispered into his ear. Vargas could not hear what he was saying, but he looked irritated with his brother.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The flight time from Heathrow to Geneva was just under two hours, long enough for Kent to show off to Tara his extensive knowledge of Switzerland and to read the briefing papers sent over by Tritona. Baumgart was the CEO of this multifamily office. The three families mentioned were well known ultra-high net worth Europeans, all with well-documented business backgrounds. Kent was impressed by their names and was not surprised to learn they’d set up their own combined family office. In recent years, he’d seen many very wealthy families do the same thing. Rather than pay many different outside managers to run their affairs, by setting up their own family investment office, these families could retain greater control over their assets and ensure their financial interests were handled with the utmost discretion. Given the names involved, Kent was hopeful the trip was not going to be a complete waste of time.

  Their plane landed at two thirty in the afternoon, bang on schedule. They left the terminal building fifteen minutes later and walked toward the waiting limousine.

  Tritona’s offices were in a small village called Bellerive on the southern shore of Lake Geneva, some ten miles from the airport. As the limousine rolled into the car park, Kent gazed out of the window at the office building. It was nondescript, but not untypical of the low-profile style preferred by family offices he’d come across before. After all, they were spending their own money. They had no one to impress.

  It was two fifty-five, just in time for their three o’clock appointment. They were greeted in reception by a friendly young woman. “Good afternoon. Mr. Baumgart is expecting you both. Please follow me and I’ll show you to the meeting room,” she said.

  The inside of the offices gave no hint of the amount of wealth managed by Tritona. They were functional and austere with very few frills on show. Funny how the fanciest investor offices are always occupied by managers spending other peoples’ monies and not their own.

  “Would you like some coffee? Or, perhaps you might prefer tea?” said
the receptionist as they took their seats in the meeting room.

  “Coffee would be fine for both of us, thank you,” replied Tara.

  Moments later, Dieter Baumgart entered the room. Kent nudged Tara’s arm with his elbow. Baumgart weighed at least two hundred and eighty pounds, and Kent estimated he was some six or seven inches taller than his own six feet. He was so large coming through the door that he didn’t notice Baumgart’s assistant, a gaunt, weedy looking man with bi-focal glasses. They made an odd couple. This is going nowhere.

  The Swiss gorilla smiled and extended his hand. “Dieter Baumgart. Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Kent. And who is this delightful young lady?” he asked, crunching Kent’s hand in a viselike grip.

  “This is Tara Sanderson, my executive assistant,” said Kent.

  “And this is Franz Kulpman,” said Baumgart, introducing the puny, little man who’d already begun taking notes. What on earth could he be writing at this early stage in the meeting?

  Baumgart sat at the head of the meeting room table, his chair creaking as it took the weight. The lower buttons of his tightly stretched shirt looked about to explode. “Mr. Kent, I’ve read your fundraising document with great interest. As you can imagine, I have a number of detailed questions for you. Would it help if I told you a little more about Tritona first?”

  “That would be very helpful. Obviously, I’ve read the papers you sent, but there’s nothing like hearing it firsthand.”

  Kent always preferred to hear a little more about a prospective investor before launching into his own presentation. That way, he could judge whether or not the investor was a tire kicker, and adjust the length of his presentation accordingly. He never ceased to be amazed by how many investors were happy to waste time in meetings with private equity firms, and yet had no intention of making a commitment. He assumed they did it to look busy, but he found it irritating.

  They were interrupted by the coffees being brought in. “Laura, would you please make the dinner reservation for eight o’clock?” said Baumgart. He turned to Kent. “As you know, I’ve reserved two rooms for you at Hotel Morgana in Geneva tonight. I hope you don’t mind if we continue our discussion over dinner at the hotel?”

  “That would be great,” said Kent, thinking that a first meeting would not normally need more than two hours. He was okay with this, however, as their flight was not scheduled to leave until nine a.m. the following day.

  “Excellent. Now, let me tell you more about our organization.” Kent noticed Baumgart’s fat fingers and heavy breathing. He was probably around the same age as Kent, but in very poor shape. He assumed from Baumgart’s size that he took every chance he could get to enjoy a meal out at a fancy restaurant.

  Baumgart’s assistant continued to scribble notes on his legal pad. Kent stared across at Tara. He was beginning to worry what their Swiss hosts might be thinking as she’d not yet taken any notes. Not that there was anything worth noting so far.

  “Tritona was established four years ago when the Deutchman, Needmeier, and Kvarnback families merged their individual family investment offices into a multifamily office. Before the merger, we had a team of eight, which has now grown to thirty-five. Our growth has come from taking on the management of virtually all of the three families’ wealth. And from good investment returns, of course! Today, we have over four hundred and fifty billion dollars in assets under management.”

  “That’s impressive growth,” said Kent. Tritona was a much bigger player than he’d first thought. Their assets under management meant they were a top-ten global player. Strange we haven’t come across them before. CBC’s fundraising needs are nothing for this lot.

  “Our assets are located in most major markets with a heavy weighting in cash, real estate, and bonds. Most of the real estate portfolio has been acquired in the last few months. Now that markets are at a low point, we’re interested in committing an increasing portion of our funds to equities, including private equity, where we are particularly underweight. We have a few direct private equity investments, but nothing with fund managers like CBC. Most of our assets are handled directly by our team here.”

  Baumgart’s much smarter than he looks. Getting into real estate just after the market crashed, and now buying into equities at their low point, shows real investment judgment.

  “Impressive timing. Warren Buffett says an investor should be greedy when others are fearful, but most don’t have the courage to follow the rule,” said Kent. He could see from his beaming smile that Baumgart was flattered by the comparison with Warren Buffett.

  The meeting continued with Kent’s presentation and a series of detailed questions from Baumgart concerning CBC’s strategy, investment performance record, deal-flow, and the background of each key team member. Baumgart was thorough and demonstrated deep knowledge of the private equity market. He appeared to be satisfied by Kent’s answers. The CBC story was a strong one, after all. As the meeting went on, Kent became moderately hopeful.

  Baumgart brought the meeting to a close at five thirty and suggested they meet in the bar of Hotel Morgana at seven forty-five.

  Maybe, just maybe, this is going somewhere, thought Kent as he and Tara drove off in the waiting limo.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Merriman knew the DEA was the career he wanted from a very young age. He learned from his father how important the work was and saw how it made a real difference to the lives of many Americans.

  But his father had to pull a few strings to get him accepted into the service, because of Merriman’s poor academic record. He’d made up for the academic chip on his shoulder by aiming high, being prepared to take risks, and being more tenacious than his more intellectual peers. He was streetwise and understood what motivated people. If he was told something was not possible, or that it had been tried before and failed, he’d stick at it until he found a solution. This dogged determination, and his ability to motivate those who worked for him, meant he had a strong history of achievement in the job.

  But he was still a young man, full of ambition. It was not enough to have become the youngest Head of Intelligence. Now he’d persuaded the DEA leadership team to focus intelligence resources on cartel assets, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d turn the war. The enormity of the challenge did not deter Merriman; it inspired him. He understood that success here would enable him to close down entire criminal networks and hit the cartel leaders where it hurt most.

  His primary target was the Caruana cartel, the biggest and most powerful. He knew others had tried to bring down this narcotic powerhouse, but they’d failed. Merriman would be the man who brought down Jivaro’s empire, whatever it took.

  “Got a moment, Mark?” asked Bill Greenough, standing at the doorway to Merriman’s office.

  “Sure, grab a seat.” Merriman cleared a space on his desk so Greenough could rest the file he’d brought with him. “How can I help?”

  Greenough pulled up a chair and opened the file. “You know I’ve been trying to track what happens to some of the Caruana cash once it’s transferred overseas by their Mexican banks?”

  “Sure. Was my contact at the Mexican central bank any help?”

  “Extremely helpful. Without him, we’d be nowhere.”

  “Good. He owed me a favor.” Merriman’s cell phone went off in his hand. “Sorry, let me kill this.” He looked at the screen of the phone, thought about taking the call for a split second then hit the cancel button before turning it onto silent mode. “What have you got for me?”

  “Well, I’ve concentrated on one bank in Monterrey and only for a six-month period so far.” Greenough turned to some analyses on his file. “You can see here that the cartel is moving massive funds overseas. If I’m right in what I’ve extrapolated, then this whole thing’s much bigger than any of us imagined.”

  Merriman leaned forward onto his elbows to read the data in front of him. “Let me take a look.” He turned over a couple of pages of the file, read them twice, then looked up at Gre
enough.

  “That’s incredible. You think they might be shifting twenty to thirty billion dollars out of Mexico each year? Our earlier estimates were less than half this.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a good handle on the amounts.”

  Merriman sat back in his chair and steepled his hands as he thought. “Where the hell’s it all going, Bill?”

  “That’s what I’m working on now. We’ve got some of our best people helping on this, but unpicking the corporate structures used by the cartel ain’t easy.”

  “I know. Can you see any light at the end of this yet?”

  “Does the name ‘Oakham’ mean anything to you?”

  Merriman chewed on the question a moment. “Not really. Why?”

  “It’s just it keeps cropping up in our tracing results, but I can’t connect the dots at the moment. Thought it might mean something to you. Long shot, I know.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help. What or who do you think Oakham might be?”

  “Difficult to be certain, but I think it’s where a lot of this money ends up. The trail goes cold each time we come across this Oakham name. Sure would help to have an insider’s help on this.”

  “We’re working on that. How can I help you move this forward?”

  “Can I have your approval to move a few more people onto this? I’m optimistic it’s not a dead end.”

  “How many do you need?”

  “Three if I can have them.”

  “If I find you ten, can you use them?”

  Greenough’s eyes lit up. “Easily,” he said.

  “Leave it with me, Bill. This is a priority investigation for our unit.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the help.” Greenough stood up to leave.

  “As soon as you learn more about Oakham, I want you to let me know. Good job, Bill.”