The Geneva Connection

by Martin Bodenham

  “Of course. Adderley Dickins is a London-based corporate finance boutique advisory firm. We only do a couple of deals a year as we have a very small team. Consequently, we’re very selective over which deals we take on. We only take on winners.”

  Kent had heard all this before. He thought most advisors would take on any client if they were prepared to pay a fee. He’d make his own mind up if the deal was worth pursuing or not. “That’s comforting to hear. Tell me a little about the deal,” he said.

  “We’re advising the management team of Europe’s largest independent insurance broking business. I’d prefer not to say the name without a confidentiality agreement in place. The broking business is very profitable and always has been.”

  “Why do they need our money?”

  “Unfortunately, their bank is one of the many that have run into trouble and it’s reducing all noncommitted lines of credit.”

  “I recognize that story.”

  “I’m sure you do. We’re seeing a lot of bad behavior by the banks in this crisis. Unfortunately, my client has no committed term facilities. All of its credit lines are on short-term overdrafts as, historically, it’s only needed to use them for short-term seasonal cash requirements. For most of the time, my client has substantial cash on deposit.”

  “Let me guess. The bank has pulled the overdraft facilities just before a seasonal borrowing requirement.”

  “Got it in one. My client needs access to cash, and quickly, or else it will fail.”

  This was exactly the sort of distressed deal Kent had set up CBC to do. Although he had recently been trying to find credible reasons to reject new investment opportunities, he knew he had to walk a fine line. His phone was bugged so he could hardly kill off a good one like this without arousing suspicion.

  “How much do they need?”

  “They need two hundred million pounds within a month. The requirement is only for three months. After that, the company will have cash on deposit again from the inflow of premium income.”

  “That sounds like CBC deal. I’d like to hear more.” Shit!

  “That was our judgment, too. In the short time available, I hope you’ll understand we’ve not been able to prepare a fundraising document or business plan.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Kent thought for a moment about using the absence of a business plan to kick the deal into the long grass, but many deals came in without one. “We can learn what we need from a meeting with the management team. We get more out of doing that than reading a fundraising document, in any event.”

  “Can I suggest we arrange for you to meet the management team here, at our London offices, early next week?”

  “Yes, that would work well for me. I’ll ask my PA to arrange a date for me to come down. In the meantime, if there’s any background reading you can send me, I’d appreciate it by e-mail ahead of the meeting.”

  “Of course. I’ll also send over a confidentiality agreement. I look forward to meeting you next week.”

  “I look forward to it. ’Bye for now.”

  Kent asked Tara to make the meeting and travel arrangements. He decided he’d handle this deal personally. Can’t risk another Kirkland situation. Besides, he thought it would be nice to get out of the office for a while and find something distracting.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The following Tuesday, Kent caught the seven thirty a.m. train from Peterborough. Parking the BMW in the station car park, reminded him of the frightening experience some weeks earlier. He hadn’t seen those men since, but he was convinced they were around somewhere. They’d made their point; they’d let him know he was being monitored.

  He unfolded his Financial Daily and sat back in his first class seat to enjoy a quiet read. Rarely during the week did he have an opportunity to read the whole newspaper without interruption. He even managed to get as far as the foreign news at the back of the paper. He read about another earthquake in Japan and then an article on America’s war on drugs. It’s all so bloody depressing, he thought as the train reached King’s Cross.

  He walked over to the taxi rank on the western side of the station, just beating a crowd of tourists getting off a Eurostar train from Paris. He took the cab to Paternoster Square. Since he had an hour to kill before meeting the Adderley Dickins people, he’d arranged to meet Jonathan Gateley for a coffee at the Caffé Zero near his offices. Whenever Kent had spare time in London, he’d try to meet up with Gateley to get an update on Oakham Fiduciary Services. After all, it was now a subsidiary of CBC so he was ultimately responsible for it. Gateley always welcomed a coffee break out of the office.

  “How’s it going, Jonathan?” Kent asked, shaking hands. Gateley had grabbed two leather chairs near the window overlooking Cheapside.

  “Pretty hectic, actually. Tritona’s kept us busy. They keep acquiring companies and asking us to set up all sorts of corporate structures for them. They’re a very demanding client. They pay well, though,” said Gateley, smiling.

  Kent was convinced Gateley knew nothing sinister about Tritona. He would have received the same compliance information as CBC did about the three families. Unless they’d heard from Henning’s Swedish contact, which is unlikely, there’s no way they’d have any suspicion.

  “They have been busy. As I understand it, we do most of their acquisitions now.”

  “That’s right. CBC handles pretty much everything besides their large real estate holdings.”

  “Do you see Baumgart much?”

  “Not often. Mostly, we deal with him over the phone. There’s not really much reason for him to visit us in London. All we hold here are original records on the various corporate and trust structures we’ve set up for them. The real decisions are still taken by them in Geneva.”

  As they spoke, Kent was decided. Oakham’s being used as much as CBC.

  He stood up to leave. “Well, I must be going. I have another meeting at ten. Good to see you. I’ll try to stop by any time I have some spare time in London.”

  It was only a ten-minute walk from Cheapside to the offices of Adderley Dickins at Tower Fifty-Four on Old Broad Street, so Kent decided to walk it. He arrived at five minutes before his appointment.

  The building was one of those tall, modern office towers that Kent really couldn’t stand. Soulless places. He pushed by the obligatory huddle of smokers outside the building and, as soon as he walked through the automatic doors, spotted the long line backed up at the security scanner. Wayne, the outsourced security operator, whose badge said Here to Serve, was milking his five minutes of power over the executives entering the tower — asking inane questions and taking ages to pass briefcases and laptops through his machine. Every now and then he’d even look in the direction of his screen to see what was being scanned. That delay, and the hassle of obtaining his visitor badge from a separate reception, meant Kent arrived at the thirty-second floor offices of Adderley Dickins at 10:08. Arriving late made him appear sloppy and inefficient, which was the last impression he’d want to create; he was a professional.

  He stepped out of the elevator and, immediately, was struck by the bright marble and sheet glass reception. Adderley Dickins appeared to occupy the whole of the thirty-second floor. No money’s been spared on these surroundings. Expensive pieces of modern art hung on the pale walls, and what looked like individually commissioned pieces of furniture were arranged around the waiting area. Cartwright said Adderley Dickins is a small corporate finance house doing only a couple of deals a year, he thought. Those deals must pay really well.

  He walked to the reception desk. “I’m from Cambridge Buy-Out Capital. Here to see Mr. Cartwright,” he said with a smile to the pretty receptionist. She smiled back at him. Nice teeth.

  “You must be Mr. Kent. Please take a seat, and I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

  Kent sat on the sofa at the back of the vast waiting area, furthest away from the noisy fifty-inch flat-screen TV. He shook his head; yet another TV blaring out at
visitors, broadcasting mindless drivel.

  “Do you think you could turn that thing down?” he shouted across to the receptionist, pointing to the TV.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kent,” she said as she walked over and turned it off. He immediately felt guilty for causing such a fuss. He’d always been impatient, but lately, with all the strain he’d been under, he knew he was increasingly quick-tempered and critical. There was a time when Kent would have been ecstatic about the money he was now making, but not any longer. The nightmare of the past few months had changed everything for him. He felt dirty and used.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling at the young woman, hoping she’d forgive him.

  He took a scribbled file note from his briefcase and scanned it to remind himself of the key aspects of the investment opportunity: Adderley Dickins’ client was a profitable insurance broking group in urgent need of two hundred million pounds, or else it would fail; the bank was about to withdraw the company’s short-term overdraft facilities; the cash was needed for three months only; and a large equity stake was up for grabs for CBC if it could move quickly. In Kent’s old life, this would have been a good one — a great company at death’s door, desperate for rescue finance. Back then, he would have been salivating over the enormous return on the transaction if it all stacked up, though that would depend on the caliber of the management team he was about to meet.

  “I can take you through now,” said the receptionist as she came to collect him.

  Kent combed his fingers through his hair, smiled at her, and then picked up his briefcase. He followed her shapely figure; her tight, short skirt revealing long, attractive legs. Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt. You bloody fool. That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.

  They walked along a wide, glass corridor past several rooms. Strange there’s no one else in any of these offices and meeting rooms; no telephones ringing, no tapping of keyboards, none of the regular sounds of a busy office. The only sound was the echoing of the young woman’s high heels as they clicked against the white marble floor.

  At the end of the corridor was a large meeting room with a view over the London skyline. Kent took his eyes off the woman’s rear and looked through the glass paneling. Three men were sitting at a boardroom table. He assumed two of them were members of the management team and one must be Cartwright.

  “Mr. Kent, thanks for coming,” said the man in the dark blue suit as he stood up, power-shook Kent’s hand, and then closed the meeting room door. He was a good five inches shorter than Kent’s six foot. No doubt the viselike grip is to make up for his lack of height. He had an American accent. Cartwright didn’t have an accent when he called about the deal last week.

  The other two men didn’t bother to stand or introduce themselves. Not the best way to impress a prospective investor, here to rescue your business. The price of the deal just went up.

  “Good to meet you,” said Kent, looking at his host and deliberately avoiding eye contact with the bad-mannered oiks.

  “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “No. Thank you. I’ve just had one. Water would be fine.” Kent walked to the far side of the room and placed his briefcase on the mahogany table. “Which one of you is Mr. Cartwright?” The three men looked at each other as though Kent had asked a difficult question. “They get harder from here, guys.” There were no smiles; the wit seemed lost on them.

  “The thing is, we’ve brought you here on a false pretext,” said the American.

  “I don’t understand.” Kent looked across the table. All three of the men were wearing almost identical white shirts and dark blue suits. Kent scrutinized them. Something was wrong that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The one doing the talking had a military-style buzz cut.

  That haircut’s not exactly corporate professional.

  The American was in his midthirties. He was very lean and clearly worked out. He had an intense frown, and kept glancing at the smartphone in his left hand, as though he was expecting an important call, or needed to be somewhere else soon. He appeared in a hurry to get down to business. “Is the deal off?”

  “There is no deal. Take a seat,” said the American.

  Kent remained standing. He didn’t appreciate his aggressive tone. “Then what am I doing here?” Why drag me down to London if the deal’s no longer alive? A total waste of time.

  “Please, sit down and I’ll explain.” The American poured him a glass of water.

  Kent sat, but left his unopened briefcase on the table; he wasn’t planning on staying long. “So who’s Mr. Cartwright?”

  “None of us. Cartwright doesn’t exist,” said the American.

  Kent frowned. “I must be in the wrong office.”

  “That’s funny. If you just give me a moment, I’ll explain.”

  “You’ve got thirty seconds before I’m out of here.”

  The American put down his phone, leaned forward on his elbows, and clasped his hands together. He glanced at his colleagues before staring at Kent.

  “My name is Mark Merriman. I’m the Head of Intelligence at the DEA.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “The DEA?” Kent went cold inside. This is a fucking trap; I knew something was wrong from the moment I set foot in reception. Is this how it ends?

  “The US Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  “I know what it means. You people must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Merriman raised his right hand. “There’s no mistake. Just hear me out.”

  “What’s the DEA got to do with me?” Got to pretend I know nothing.

  Merriman ignored the question. “These gentlemen here are Special Agents Whitlock and Young.” The agents lowered their heads a little as their names were mentioned. Kent gave them a condescending once-over. They looked like a couple of well-dressed bruisers, nowhere near as polished as the one doing all the talking.

  “I came here to discuss a deal. What the hell’s going on?”

  “There never was a deal. The firm of Adderley Dickins doesn’t exist. We’re the only ones here.” Merriman pointed to the offices. “All this is made up.”

  Kent stood. “I’m leaving. I don’t know who you people think I am.”

  “Sit down, John. You’re gonna hear this.”

  Kent sat. Merriman’s tone had made it clear it wasn’t a request. He looked at his watch, shook his head and exhaled loudly through his nose. “This had better be good.”

  Merriman paced the room. “What we’re about to share with you is confidential. You can’t speak to anyone about it, not even your wife, Sarah. Understood?”

  Kent flinched and uncrossed his arms. Jesus, these people must have been monitoring me as well. “How do you know my wife’s name?”

  “We know everything about you,” said Special Agent Whitlock with a self-satisfied smirk. Kent instantly disliked him and the way he kept cracking his fingers and playing with the oversize silver fraternity ring on his right hand, as though he wouldn’t think twice about using it as a knuckle-duster.

  “Where you live, your family, everywhere you worked before you started CBC. We know you’re a bright boy, a first at Cambridge and an MBA from Harvard. If it’s worth knowing, we know it,” said Special Agent Young. Kent didn’t think much of him, either. Another muscle-head.

  “Okay. You have my attention, now get to the point; I haven’t got all day.” Kent’s mouth was dry as he spoke. He gulped down some water.

  “The reason we brought you here under the pretext of a new deal was to avoid any awkward questions from your team at CBC, or from the people at Tritona,” said Merriman.

  “I’m listening.” A bead of sweat ran down Kent’s brow. He wiped it as he pretended to smooth back his hair. These guys have done their homework.

  “We know all your investment funds come from Tritona in Geneva. Without them, you don’t have a business.”

  “And that’s your business because?”

  “Because, wise guy, the people a
t Tritona don’t get their money from where they say they do.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll spell it out for you.” Merriman walked over to Kent’s side of the table and pulled up a chair next to him. He sat facing Kent, leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his knees. “Tritona ain’t what it appears to be. It’s a front for the Mexican Caruana drug cartel, the most powerful organized crime group on the planet.” He paused and stared right into Kent’s eyes.

  Kent maintained eye contact, his heart pounding in his chest as the terrifying news began to sink in. Fuck! This is far worse than I’d imagined. There’s no backing out now. I’m in too deep. They definitely killed Anton. They’d think nothing of killing me or Sarah.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “All of Tritona’s money comes from the Caruana cartel. None of it is legit, in spite of what they may have told you.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Where the hell’s this conversation going? Am I about to be arrested? Do they think I’ve been colluding with these gangsters all along? They won’t care I was being blackmailed. Every impulse in Kent’s body told him to get out of there.

  “Do you think we’re a bunch of amateurs?” asked Kent. “We carried out comprehensive compliance checks before we took Tritona on as an investor. They all came out clean.” He wanted to get this on the record. I’m not a criminal. We did everything by the book when Tritona first emerged as a potential investor. I didn’t know about their criminal backers back then. When I did find out something was wrong, I’d have reported them myself, but what they had on me would have ruined my marriage.

  Merriman stood and walked over to the large window, with his back to Kent. “I’m sure you checked them out, John. We know you’re a professional. We know you’ve nothing to do with their illicit activities.” Whitlock and Young shook their heads no, as if to confirm he couldn’t possibly be involved. Kent couldn’t tell whether or not they were mocking him.