The Geneva Connection

by Martin Bodenham

  The press pack applauded. Laudel joined Merriman at the microphone in order to share in the glory of the moment in front of the live TV cameras. “We’re happy to take any questions,” she said. Twenty hands went up at once. Laudel pointed at one of them.

  “Can you say anything about the nature of the assets which have been seized?”

  Laudel nodded to Merriman. “The assets comprise mainly shareholdings in quoted and unquoted companies and some real estate holdings. These assets would’ve appeared completely legitimate, having been laundered through a complex network of corporate structures by the cartel and its advisers,” replied Merriman. “The cartel’s leadership would’ve assumed these assets were beyond our reach and completely at their disposal.”

  Laudel pointed at another journalist. “How were you able to identify these assets if they appeared completely legitimate?”

  Merriman continued, “Through tireless intelligence gathering. A major breakthrough occurred when we were able to obtain critical information from a member of the cartel’s own senior leadership team. I’d prefer not to say any more about this, for obvious reasons.”

  “What will happen to these assets now?” asked another journalist.

  “They’ll first be recorded and over time they’ll be sold. The proceeds will be retained as federal revenue for the benefit of the American people,” replied Laudel.

  Three and a half thousand miles away, Kent was watching the live broadcast on a satellite news channel at home with Sarah. Merriman had called him earlier in the day to let him know the announcement was imminent. At least Merriman had kept his word and had pointed to a senior cartel insider as the source of the information leading to the seizure of the assets. The cartel’s attention would be focused inward when looking for clues as to who’d talked. There’d be no reason to suspect CBC or Kent.

  Kent began to think through what he would say to his partners once he’d the all clear from Merriman to discuss it with them. None of them would know anything about the cartel or the significance of the press conference being held in Washington. He’d have to tell them the assets managed by CBC were now the property of the US government. How am I going to break it to them? CBC is now dead, and they’ll all be out of work.

  Baumgart arrived at Tritona’s offices at his usual time. He hadn’t seen the broadcast from Washington the night before as he was out having dinner. As he drove into the car park, a small convoy of police cars drove in behind him, blocking off his exit. Baumgart opened his car door then fell back into his seat when he saw the police, all of them armed.

  “Get out of the car and down on the floor!” shouted the senior officer in charge. Baumgart put up no resistance and did what he was told.

  “What’s this about? I have done nothing wrong,” he said, as he lay facedown on the car park floor. One of the officers put his knee between Baumgart’s shoulders, pulled both arms round behind his back, and strapped on handcuffs. It took three officers to haul his large frame from the floor and push him in to a waiting police van.

  Other armed officers began to file into the building. Kulpman was watching the whole thing from a first floor window. The moment he saw Baumgart being forced to the floor, he rushed downstairs and left the offices from a back door. He disappeared into the woods behind the building.

  Jivaro was enjoying a few days at his summerhouse in Mazatlan. He’d been entertaining potential new suppliers over a long, lavish lunch when he heard the news of the press conference. He missed the conference himself, but was given a blow-by-blow account by one of his lieutenants. He vowed he would have Merriman’s head and those of all his family for this.

  “He’s no idea what he’s started,” he shouted. “If he wants a war, he’ll have one.”

  He had to move quickly. His enemies would exploit this setback unless he responded quickly and dramatically. He ordered Miguel Rios to do whatever was needed to find out which of his lieutenants had collaborated with Merriman.

  “Suspect everyone and spare no one until you find out who has done this,” he barked down the phone. “I want the traitor’s head.”

  He ordered Rios to obtain a complete list of the assets seized by the DEA. No details had been released at the news conference. He needed to establish how much of the cartel’s wealth was still safe before deciding how to respond to the Americans’ attack.

  Rios couldn’t wait to get started. He’d find the collaborator and personally deliver his head to Jivaro. He had his suspicions as to which of the lieutenants might have talked. He ordered his henchmen to grab three of the most likely candidates and to take them to the cartel’s offices in Tijuana for interrogation. He ordered them to be held until his arrival. He would take personal charge of the interrogation process.

  Later that day, under the cover of darkness, Kulpman returned to Tritona’s offices. A police patrol car sat in the front car park. Two officers were in the car, monitoring the building. Kulpman crept closer to the car, keeping to the shadows. He crouched down next to the rear bumper and took out a silenced pistol from his jacket pocket. He jumped to his feet and fired two bullets each into the heads of the police officers.

  He waited a few moments to make sure there were no other patrol cars watching the building. Once he was certain he was alone, he let himself into the offices. He flicked a torch on as he walked around the dark rooms. No files had yet been taken. He knew the offices would be emptied by the authorities over the next few days. He walked across to the storage unit behind the office block. This was used by the grounds-men to keep their petrol mowers and gardening equipment. He picked up two large cans of petrol, took them back to the offices and poured the fuel over the filing cabinets. He lit a cigarette and threw it onto the liquid, and then disappeared into the woods. Sprinting away, he could feel the warmth of the flames at his back.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Kent called the partners together for a meeting first thing Monday morning. From their conversations, he could tell they thought the meeting was about the recently canceled FSA visit, and to discuss the feedback from his detailed file reviews.

  Kent turned to Tara as he started the meeting. “Tara, there’s no need to take any minutes, but you’re welcome to stay. This affects you as much as everyone.” Those words, and Kent’s somber tone, caught the attention of his partners, who immediately quieted down. They all turned to him, waiting to learn more.

  “This is a very difficult and shocking matter,” he said, looking round the conference table. He cleared his throat. “There’s no easy way to put this. Sadly, CBC’s business has come to an abrupt end.” There was absolute silence in the room as Kent paused. He collected the penetrating stares of his partners. “Over the weekend, I received a call from the Drug Enforcement Administration in the US.”

  “Why would the DEA call you?” asked Johnson.

  “I’m trying to explain,” said Kent, holding up his right palm.

  “Sorry.”

  “The DEA informed me they’d seized, with immediate effect, all of the assets managed by CBC.” Kent took a sip of his coffee, buying the time to choose the right words. He looked at the stunned faces around the boardroom table. “I know. It’s hard to believe.” He cleared his throat again. This is difficult.

  “It transpires that the funds we’ve been investing on behalf of Tritona are actually criminal proceeds from the sale of illicit drugs in the US.”

  “What? That makes no sense,” said Johnson.

  “You’re saying Tritona is involved in the drug trade? That can’t be right,” said Kirkland. The other partners shook their heads in disbelief.

  “My reaction was the same, Joanna. I’m still shocked,” replied Kent, convincingly. “The DEA explained that Tritona has always been a corporate front for a Mexican drug cartel called Caruana. Apparently, this cartel is the most powerful organized crime group in the world. They can afford the best advisers and investment professionals such as Tritona. Much of their wealth was channeled through Tritona and i
nto legitimate investments, most of which have been acquired and managed by us. We have, unknowingly, been used as a critical part of their money-laundering activities.”

  “I just don’t believe it. What about the three well-known families behind Tritona?” asked Long. “I did the compliance checks and they all came out fine. We would have picked up anything suspicious. What do the families say about this?”

  “I raised that point, Kevin. The families don’t exist, at least not as investors in Tritona. The DEA said anything we received from Tritona, verifying their identity and so on, would’ve been a forgery. We were duped.”

  Kent was bombarded with questions. Were they all about to be arrested? What would now happen to the assets which had been managed by CBC? Would this story be all over the press? Would they be sued?

  “I had exactly the same questions. The DEA has seized the assets. They’re no longer under our control. We shouldn’t deal with them in any way or else it would appear as though we are trying to interfere with their legal process.”

  “So, what do we do, sit on our hands?” asked Johnson. “There must be something we can do.”

  “The DEA may want some assistance from us going forward, but our involvement will be purely administrative, helping them to understand the files we have and assisting in the handover. That’s all.”

  “This is going to be all over the press,” said Long. “We’ll be torn to pieces by the media.”

  “The only official PR they’re putting out concerns the cartel and Tritona. But, you’re right, Kevin. It’s likely the press will pick up on the story since it’s well known Tritona is our most important investor.”

  “This is a complete disaster,” said Johnson, burying his head in his hands. “How the hell did we let this happen?”

  “I know, Adrian. It’s a nightmare. We’ll have to deal with the deluge of press interest. I’ve been assured by the DEA that CBC is under no suspicion. They regard us as a victim in all of this, which is exactly what we are. It’s important we get that message out there when we’re speaking to the press.”

  Kent’s performance was convincing. It had to be. For all he knew, the whole of this meeting was being monitored by the cartel.

  “The UK authorities will be all over us,” said Kirkland. “We thought the FSA’s investigation was going to be tough. That would be a walk in the park compared to what they’ll hit us with now.”

  “The FSA and police will want to crawl all over this, Joanna, and rightly so. However, we’ve nothing to hide and should welcome their questions. Remember, we’re victims in this.”

  “It doesn’t make it feel any better,” she said.

  “Nothing can make up for our loss. The sad truth is we no longer have a business. We have no assets to manage which means we have no income coming in. All of our investment firepower has disappeared overnight. Our business will fail.”

  “Dead right,” said Johnson. “This has killed our business, and our reputation will be worthless. We’ve been working for a drug cartel for God’s sake. I know we’re innocent, but that’s not how the market will see it.”

  “All we can hope to recover out of this mess are our personal reputations,” replied Kent. “Even that may not be possible.”

  The remainder of the meeting focused on how to handle the expected press inquiries, how the staff would be informed, and agreeing what legal advice ought to be taken by CBC in order to deal with the whole thing properly. The FSA would expect the wind down to be handled properly. The partners concluded they’d be tied up for weeks winding down the firm and handing over the management of the assets to the DEA, so they could be sold by the US government. All for no reward and for the pleasure of being mauled by the press.

  Kent could do nothing to change the reality of the situation for his colleagues. There were no words or hope to offer them to soften the blow. He, at least, had the comfort of knowing he’d tucked away the investment in HS1. All of the necessary documentation was now in place, and it was beyond the reach of Merriman and the cartel. He was safe; only he would be able to recover something from this mess.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Rios flew by private jet to Mazatlan to report personally to Jivaro on the progress of his investigation. He’d spent several days looking into who had collaborated with the DEA and betrayed the cartel. So far he’d interrogated three lieutenants at the Tijuana sawmill, but he was no closer to finding out who had talked. He reported that none of the lieutenants had survived the questioning.

  “The important thing is to find the traitor and quickly. I understand there’ll be casualties. No one can be trusted,” said Jivaro.

  “In time, I’m confident I’ll find who talked to the DEA and I’ll deliver him to you,” said Rios.

  “Continue with your work, Miguel. We cannot show any weakness. We must send our enemies a clear signal. They must know I’m still in command of this organization, and that we’ve not been weakened by the Americans.”

  Rios needed no encouragement. He already had his next list of victims lined up. He had other interrogation methods still up his sleeve. One way or another, he’d find answers for his boss.

  “I have some news, however,” said Rios, proudly.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve heard from Kulpman. The assets which were seized by the DEA were all those managed by Tritona.”

  “Two thirds of our assets now in the hands of the DEA; that’s much worse than I’d assumed.”

  “It’s a massive blow.”

  “The American has made this personal. He will regret this action. I have something in mind for Mr. Merriman, something that will also serve to remind our enemies we have not been beaten.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “More of that later, Miguel. Did Kulpman learn anything about our traitor?”

  “Baumgart’s been arrested.”

  “Baumgart would not do this. He’s too weak. But I want him silenced before the authorities squeeze him for information.”

  “I know exactly what to do.”

  “Good. Once we’ve eliminated him, we’ll move on to Merriman.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Cancun Airport was heaving with tourists, with planeloads descending every hour. Arguments were flaring up as people ran into each other or wheeled their suitcases across open-toed sandals. Just inside the entrance to the building, illegal taxi drivers were touting for a fare, adding to the chaos. It was hot, sticky, and crowded.

  Frank Halloran breezed his way to the taxi rank outside. He’d told his colleagues back at the DEA he was going to Cancun for a few days in the sun. He certainly looked like a regular tourist with his designer shades and knee-length shorts.

  The cab he climbed into was a death trap — bald tires and the usual spongy brakes — pretty much like all of the others he’d been in when visiting this part of Mexico. Most visitors didn’t think twice about the safety of these vehicles, and yet they wouldn’t have gone anywhere near cars like these back home. They all had their brains in vacation mode.

  Unlike most tourists, Halloran did not head for the hotel district to the east of the airport. Instead he headed west across the Yucatán Peninsula toward the town of Merida, almost two hundred miles away. He could have rented a car, but the roads were bad, and he hated the hassle of arguing over fictitious damage to the car when it came to return it to the rental office. It was an annoying scam. It was simpler to take his chances in a cab. As they drew near to Merida, Halloran gave street by street instructions in fluent Spanish.

  Just after four p.m., the taxi pulled up outside an ochre-rendered house on a scruffy street about a mile outside the town center. He paid the driver who then released his bag from the trunk — normal practice with tourists running up a large fare. No payment, no bag. It seemed to work as a system.

  He walked to the front door of the house and used his own key to let himself in. He took his bag upstairs to one of the two bedrooms and threw it on the bed. The plac
e was tidy enough. The only thing disturbing the peace was a barking dog from the property next door.

  An hour later, Halloran was enjoying a cold beer from the well-stocked refrigerator when he heard a car pull up outside. He stood up from the kitchen table and watched as three men got out of a black Mercedes. They let themselves into the house.

  Two of the men were well-built bouncer types. The third was in a well-cut, light gray suit. Halloran shook hands with the suit, but ignored the bouncers.

  “How are you? Made it here before you this time, Miguel,” said Halloran.

  “Let’s go through to the lounge where we can talk,” said the Rios, pointing one of the heavies to the refrigerator. “I’m sure we have much to discuss.”

  Halloran and the suit made their way into the lounge at the back of the house, while the other two men went through to the kitchen, grabbed cold beers, and lit up a cigarette.

  Two years ago, Rios had approached Halloran when he was a young agent at the DEA’s Mexico division. Rios made it his business to know the backgrounds of all field agents on his patch. He targeted those from poor backgrounds and offered them money beyond their dreams in exchange for information on the DEA’s activities. Halloran had been an easy turn.

  Raised by a single mother in a poor part of Arkansas, Halloran had a difficult childhood. He’d worked to put himself through college. He despised fellow students who had it all given to them on a plate. They had no idea how tough life could be and what it was like to worry about the next meal. When Rios approached him he was receptive; he never wanted to face poverty again. All he had to do was to provide information to the cartel, bank the money for ten years, and he’d be set up for the rest of his life.