Lucifer's Banker

by Bradley C. Birkenfeld

  Down below, the spectators in the stands are here for the thrill of the race. But everyone else is here for the thrill of the money. Sponsors’ banners hang from every building, stretch over the straight runs, and are splashed in bold on the barriers: Bridgestone, Rolex, Foster’s Lager, HSBC, Gauloises, Marlboro. I know those images flash quickly by the TV cameras as they follow the rocketing cars, so I’ve been a little smarter and paid for a better spot for the bank.

  Down at the back-end hairpin turn, where all the cars have to bunch up and slow before shooting back out on the straightaway, there’s a stone circle garlanded with a belt of big UBS panels and a UBS flag above whipping in the breeze. It cost us thousands to get that spot and this flat, but it’s all going to pay off. By the time this race is over, Bandini’s going to make an appointment with me for the following week in Geneva, and he’ll be dropping 10 million euros in a numbered account. Okay, so he’s not an American client and technically not in my wheelhouse. But I’ll tell the Italian Desk about it later—much later—after I’ve collected my eighteen percent.

  I just love Formula One …

  I’m wearing a black tuxedo, sitting at a $10,000 table in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York, along with 1,100 other guests in black ties and gowns. It’s the Hot Pink Party, the annual charity event for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. I’m here on behalf of UBS, and I’ve got a nice fat check tucked behind my pink pocket handkerchief, which I’ll shortly add to the $5.3 million that’s going to be collected tonight.

  This ballroom looks like the main-stage theater at the Metropolitan Opera, except that everything’s in pink: pink bunting, pink tablecloths, pink dishware, and hot-pink flower arrangements. Hundreds of Broadway and movie stars are gossiping and applauding and clinking champagne glasses, many of the women wearing thousand-buck pink gowns. Mayor Bloomberg’s at a table near mine, wearing a pink bow tie, and there’s former Governor Pataki and his wife and half the George Soros clan. The Mistress of Ceremonies is movie star Elizabeth Hurley, which makes me grin hard because I’m such an Austin Powers fan. In just a few minutes, Elton John’s going to take the stage.

  Elton John doesn’t just breeze through some number and leave. He does “Rocket Man,” “Tiny Dancer,” and by the time he slams into “The Bitch Is Back,” the crowd’s on its feet and rocking. When he rolls into “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” the woman sitting next to me, a stately diamond-studded brunette, gets up and tugs at my elbow. Her husband’s chair is empty. He’s probably gone off to drum up some business. I remember the title of that Norman Mailer novel, Tough Guys Don’t Dance. Well, maybe not, but bankers do, and I smile and take the woman in my arms and turn her to Elton’s dreamy tune. I didn’t suffer through all those white-gloved Friday-night ballroom lessons at prep school for nothing.

  I ask my dance partner what she and her husband do.

  “He’s an aerospace guy, private jets.” From the way her mouth turns down and her eyes roll up when she tells me about him, I figure he’s got a mistress; an expensive one. “I just spend his money,” she adds.

  I laugh. “It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  She grins. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a private banker in Switzerland. I’d like to meet him.”

  “You’d be bored,” she says.

  “That’s all right. I’m self-entertaining.”

  She laughs and presses herself against me. By the end of the night, I’ve got another client. I’ve also got his wife’s cell number in my pocket, but I’ll throw that away. No sense screwing up a good thing …

  I’m in Carmel, California, on a hot day in August on the Pebble Beach golf course, watching Jay Leno hold court in front of his 1936 Cord Baby Duesenberg, which is worth about half a million bucks. Leno is just as I’ve seen him on TV—friendly, jovial, always happy to josh with the regular folks, and not remotely phony. Of course these “regular folks” are all high-end automobile collectors like him, which means they’ve got wads of cash in their pockets in case they have to make a down payment on some flashy new toy.

  Leno’s as rich as the prince of a small country and has about a hundred of these four-wheeled baubles in his private collection, which he calls his “Big Dog Garage.” But I know he’ll never be a UBS client. He’s one of those dudes who feels blessed by what America’s given him and doesn’t mind a hard shave by the IRS. I respect that, but I’m here at the Concours d’Elegance car show to find the “other” type of guy—rich and rebellious.

  Rolex is sponsoring the show this year, which means that the winner will be getting a $25,000 gold watch. But their giveaway’s calculated and they’ve got a huge display of fine timepieces guarded by beefy plainclothes dudes wearing earpieces and belt bulges. Rolex is just like UBS, laying out cash on the bet they’ll pick up a lot of slick customers here; and ultimately they will. The place is crawling with golf pros, top athletes, movie and TV producers. Famed race-car driver Jackie Stewart can’t get far without drawing a crowd of photo and autograph-seekers, and I can see him trying to uncramp his shift hand.

  I spot a beautiful classic 1954 BMW 502 convertible resting on a carpet of plush green grass, and I’m thinking the golf course groundskeepers must fucking hate this show. The car’s magnificent crystal green with a tan canvas top that looks as soft as melted butter. The owner, a handsome guy in his sixties wearing linen golf trousers, a pink Polo, and pilot Ray-Bans, lounges in a beach chair reading Hemmings Motor News. I saunter over.

  “Beautiful car,” I offer. “Best specimen I’ve ever seen of this model.”

  He glances up. “Thanks.”

  “I’m a BMW guy myself. Just bought the new M5 in Finland.”

  “Good car.” He lowers the magazine an inch and looks up at me. “Why Finland?”

  “I live and work in Geneva. Private banking. Flew over to Helsinki and picked it up with tax-free Finnish plates.” I look down and smile. “I’m allergic to taxes.”

  Now he drops the magazine on his lap. “Got that allergy myself, but I don’t think there’s a cure.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I say as I extend my hand. “Bradley Birkenfeld.”

  “Thurston Whitegate,” he says.

  “Good to meet you, Thurston.” I look around. “Mind if I join you? My feet hurt.”

  “Sure.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s another chair under my awning.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting in the sun and sipping Manhattans. Whitegate’s no fool. He knows I’m not here for the cars.

  “So, Brad. What are you selling?”

  “Zeros.” I smile.

  He smiles too. “You don’t mean Japanese fighter planes, I assume.”

  “Nope.” And I give him my “Three zeros” pitch, but it’s done with a shrug as if I don’t really give a shit if he’s interested or not. Before long we’re talking about numbered accounts, trust structures, and long-term capital gains with no tax consequences. By the bottom of our second round of drinks, Thurston’s telling me how much he disdains the US government and its antiquated, fascist tax code, and I’m telling him that’s why I live in Switzerland, the land of cheese, chocolates, and cash.

  A month later, we’re having drinks at Perle du Lac down by the shore of Lac Leman. I’ve just given him a countryside tour in the Ferrari at about 110 mph. He tells me he’s moving $8 million over to UBS.

  I tell him I’m moved by his friendship and trust in me …

  And then I’m in St. Barths for a week while I sponsor, on behalf of UBS, the renowned St. Barths Bucket Regatta (Exhibit 10). Ka-ching! More clients. And then I’m in Miami for Art Basel, a fine arts exhibition also sponsored by UBS, which sort of bores me except that Miami’s nightlife is always wild and who doesn’t love drinking and dancing with all those Latina beauties? And then I’m in Newport, Rhode Island, for the Alinghi yacht trials where Ernesto Bertarelli is challenging for the America’s Cup, again sponsored by
UBS. His sloop wins it under the flag of the Société Nautique de Genève, so guess which banker cleans up when all those rich yachting fanatics are instantly huge fans of the Swiss?

  Oh, and between all those high-end treasure hunts, and for three straight months, I organize an exclusive Rodin exhibit in the UBS “Artrium” in Geneva. George Gangebin, head of UBS Wealth Management, hosts the opening cocktail party for the event. I bring in fifty-four iconic bronze sculptures, the largest collection in a single place on the planet. Everybody who’s anybody wants to see it, so naturally I spend a lot of time over there throwing more cocktail parties and handing out business cards. Does it pay off? I can’t even remember how many of those art lovers wound up in our vaults.

  Now a man’s got to take a break from all that hard work, pitching, wining, and dining, right? I’m in the Philippines with my millionaire buddy, Mauro, and it’s just before Christmas so we’re having a nice family dinner at his mansion with his mom. She’s a sweet lady, and I suggest that we should all reconvene in the morning and go to mass. Mauro kicks me under the table, while his mom claps her hands together, almost in prayer, so pleased that her son has some fine religious friends. We wake up at the crack of noon, and we never show up for church.

  Instead, we join up with Calvin Ayre, the billionaire bad boy of Bodog fame. And third in our party is Jimmy Yang of the Chinese Secret Service, a guy who looks like he could eat Jackie Chan for lunch. Mauro can’t go anywhere without his team of five bodyguards, each hefting three bulging handguns under their native shirts. One of them’s a huge dude who looks like a snake eater and worked as a mercenary in Southeast Asia. I ask him how many people he’s killed. He glowers at me. “With a gun or knife?” Question withdrawn!

  Then we’re off on Mauro’s helicopter for a visit to Air Force One; not the president’s ride, but the largest strip club I’ve ever seen, with three floors and a parking lot for six hundred cars. There’s the usual bar and stage with its gleaming poles and glistening girls, but the floors are divided up into Coach, Business, and First Class. We ride the escalator to the top floor, which is lined with beautifully appointed, hotel-style “massage” rooms with hot tubs. We sprawl out on plush couches, drinks in hands, before a large billowy curtain that suddenly draws open like a Broadway stage. Ten girls are standing there, with comely smiles and manicured fingers on cocked hips. Mauro grins at me.

  “Choose anyone you want, Bradley. It’s all on me.”

  It’s hard to choose. They’re all gorgeous, and naked.

  So that’s why I couldn’t just walk away from it all. It was too much fun, and way too profitable. For four years I was on a magic carpet ride, and the rug was made of fun and money. Whenever the weekends rolled around, I rarely hung out in Geneva to just chill in my flat and take a stroll in the park along the lake. I’d grab some buddies and we’d fly off to Marrakesh or Mykonos, or we’d swing down to Saint-Tropez or over to Budapest for some girls and goulash. If one of my pals like John Ross actually managed to catch me on a Saturday in my flat, he’d say, “Brad! You’re visiting Geneva this weekend?” Sometimes I barely made it back to the office on Mondays, and more than once I had to sneak a nap in the bathroom.

  My team on the Americas Desk at UBS called themselves the “hunter-gatherers,” and we’d all coalesced into a tight-knit group of hard-charging, fun-loving, super moneymakers. I liked them all a lot and we helped one another, cheered for each other whenever someone scored, and had each other’s backs in times of trouble.

  Valerie had evolved from her role as “Ms. Moneypenny” to being more like Emma Peel in The Avengers. She looked out for me, never missed a pertinent detail, and could pull off any task I asked of her. When her twenty-fifth birthday was coming up, I asked her what she’d been dreaming of, as long as it was relatively legal. She put her chin in her palm and smiled.

  “I’ve never been to Amsterdam. I hear it’s pretty sexy.”

  “It is indeed, my dear.” I grinned and snapped my fingers. “Poof! You’re in Amsterdam.”

  We made a whole weekend of it, along with three other girls from the Desk and three male UBS banker buddies. I whipped out my Black American Express card and booked two suites at the Intercontinental Amstel Hotel, and we tore up the town, eating ethnic cuisine, drinking at jazz joints, laughing through an outrageous live sex show, and quality-testing some fine Dutch hashish while taking a midnight cruise on the canals in a classic wood boat. Whatever you’re probably thinking, none of us wound up in bed with each other. We were all battle buddies. By Monday we were back at our desks, still half-toasted and giggling over our Hollandish adventures. Valerie beamed for a week. Happy Birthday!

  I had so many friends in and out of the bank that I never lacked for a good-times partner. My Indian buddy Srinavansan Ramashanran (“Just call me Ram”) was a fun-loving guy with a thing for vegetarian cuisine. He covered the Indian market for Barclays Bank, which was big in East Africa, where many of the wealthiest Indians immigrated to, lived, and worked, and I tagged along with him on money-hunting safaris. My buddy Cornel Vermaak was a nonsmoking, no-drinking, cyclist banker of Afrikaans origin, funny as hell and always looking to make trouble, so we were like two peas in a pod. And then there was Mauro, my very close friend from Manila, for whom I’d bought a 550 Ferrari Maranello. Mauro was roly-poly, had a grin like the Cheshire cat, and was wealthy enough to own an Agusta helicopter. I’d swing down to Manila between hunter-gatherer trips and we’d jet over to Hong Kong, Singapore, or Bali and drink, dance, and flirt our way through exotic nightclubs and wild parties. It was nonstop craziness and I wallowed in it.

  But there was method to my madness. Even though I had this hunger for fun, I never took my eye off the ball. I nurtured my big black Rolodex phone book, in which I recorded nothing more than people’s names, where I’d met them, and their modes of contact. I took no notes because that’s all I needed to remember who they were and what they did for a living. Then on my computer I created a master spreadsheet, and every year at Christmas I’d write a holiday letter, print it on high-grade paper, include a photo of myself on a white-sand beach in Asia, or in front of the Pyramids in Cairo, or on a majestic sailing yacht in Cannes, and send out two hundred via snail mail. And then I had another spreadsheet with all the annual high-end events taking place around the world—yacht regattas, tennis tournaments, film festivals, wine tastings, auto shows, and car races—and breakdowns of every country’s best restaurants, bars, and hotels (Exhibit 9).

  It got to the point where I was like the banker–travel agent–entertainment director. Clients and their friends would call me up and say, “Brad, I’m going to be in Brussels in May, and Harry said you’re the guy to talk to.” I’d say, “You bet!” and I’d click on Brussels and come up with festivals, hotels, restaurants, and the best nightlife spots. So, of course, after these folks got the skinny from me and had a wonderful time, they also turned to me for money matters or referred their wealthy friends. It was social engineering with a profit margin. I suppose anyone could have done it, but I made it my specialty. Bradley Birkenfeld, the “Go-To Guy.” I was living the high life, traveling the world, making rich people happy, I had tons of friends, and I was raking in cash like a croupier at a craps table.

  So, be honest. Could you have just walked out on all that? And why would you?

  Well, the world was slowly changing and I knew it. First of all, the Patriot Act in the States had given all these federal bureaucratic agencies a license to rummage through everyone’s drawers. The stated objective was to unravel a worldwide network of terrorist financing—to “follow the money,” as the old gumshoe saying goes. Mohamed Atta and his 9/11 terror cohorts had purchased all their cell phones in Geneva, plus they’d had about half a million in cash, so it made sense for the FBI, CIA, DOJ, and IRS to start nosing around Switzerland. They were scrutinizing wire transfers, credit card transactions, offshore accounts, and business transactions. The Swiss, being oh-so-Swiss, would never cooperate. “Our reputatio
n is built on discretion!” So that meant the spooks had to cast a wide net, with all sorts of fish being reeled in. However, whenever they came across a PEP (Politically Exposed Person), such as a congressman or big-time lobbyist, they’d pretend they hadn’t seen the activity. But anyone else was fair game.

  “This looks like money’s being moved by Congressman So-and-so, so let’s leave him alone. But this one looks like a rich guy who sells Beanie Babies. Let’s shake him down.”

  My clients were more the Beanie Babies–type guys, rather than high-power politicians, and they were getting nervous.

  International travel was being scrutinized as well. Guys like me and my fellow bankers zipping back and forth to the States from Geneva, Lugano, and Zurich were starting to raise some eyebrows. Never mind that the Department of Homeland Security and its absurdly incompetent and ineffective TSA were focused on all the wrong people, and still are; grandmas and toddlers being strip-searched at airports while a dude named Ahmed who’s wearing a kaffiyeh can’t be touched because that’s “Islamophobic.” But slick-looking Swiss bankers with big expense accounts? “Follow those men!”

  And they did. Lots of my UBS colleagues were spending unusually long stretches at Customs being questioned and having their suitcases tossed. Some of the guys swore they were being tailed in the States, or approached by friendly, clean-cut, curious strangers while having drinks in luxury hotel bars. Personally, I never paid much attention to any of it. After my experience with the corrupt FBI clowns in Boston, I figured the Feds couldn’t find their asses with both hands, and I wasn’t going to start acting like Clyde Barrow on the lam with Bonnie Parker. I was a Swiss resident, working within the legal boundaries of Swiss law, and also paying my fair share of taxes. But don’t get me wrong; I was careful, just not paranoid.