Geneva Connection, The

Cover

Title Page

The Geneva Connection

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Martin Bodenham

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Mount Tuam Publishing

Copyright Information

The Geneva Connection, Copyright © 2014 by Martin Bodenham

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the Copyright Act of Canada, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author/publisher.

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First published by Musa Publishing, December 2011

Published by Mount Tuam Publishing, December 2014

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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ISBN: 978-0-9938446-2-1

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Book Design by Coreen Montagna

[email protected]

Dedication

To Jules, my best friend.

Chapter 1

T
HE
S
PATTERS
O
F
B
LOOD
on his hands were not a problem, but the fleck on his jacket was. It stood out against the gray fabric, creating an obvious stain. A burst of contempt swept through Miguel Rios as he rubbed his sleeve, making it worse.
Shit! The damn suit’s ruined
.

A thumping sound came from the trunk of the Mercedes. Rios leaned forward and shouted at his bull-necked driver. “Hit the fucking gas.” He slid back against the leather seat when the car accelerated.

Moments later, a convoy of CEMEX trucks came from the opposite direction, kicking up dust clouds and blocking much of his view of this grubby industrial area south of Tijuana. When the dust cleared, a graffiti-cloaked iron foundry emerged on the right. Outside its gates stood the charred skeleton of a vintage Buick that looked like it was trying to shaft the rear of an equally burned-out Corolla. What was Rios doing here? Ten years as head of the Caruana cartel’s enforcement team, and still he had to work in this shit-hole.

Soon after, they passed Plaza de Toros Monumental, and Rios chuckled to himself as he remembered how the locals liked to call it the Bullring by the Sea. Up ahead, the road sign for Lazaro Cardenas appeared, looking ready to topple at the slightest breeze—almost there.

When the driver swung the car into the dead-end road without hitting the brakes, Rios grabbed the handhold above the door. The car slowed, and he released his grip before looking out of the window again. Drooping power cables from a weed-shrouded substation across the street now lined the route. When they reached the rear of a derelict sawmill, the driver stood on the brakes. The Mercedes slewed to a stop, a haze of dust settling around it.

Rios struck a match and held it to the tip of a cigar while the driver and the guy hired as extra muscle for this job climbed out of the car and popped the trunk. Rios studied their every move in the side-mirror. They reached inside and, with a grunt, hoisted out their victim, a sucker in his late thirties, stripped down to his underwear and bound at his wrists and ankles. He tried to yell through the duct tape wound around his face then tumbled to the ground, his head striking the car. Rios pivoted in his seat.
That shut him up
.

Rios cracked open his window and pointed to the entrance of the building. “I’ll see you in there.” He sat back and dragged on the cigar, enjoying the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes now the thumping had stopped.

They grabbed the man by his hair and pulled him up before dragging him backward by the arms, his bare heels scarring a line in the parched earth. Seconds later, they disappeared behind the metal sliding door.

Rios turned on the rear-seat radio and tuned it to his favorite country and western station from across the border. They were playing Shania Twain. He snapped his fingers to the beat and thought about the girls at the bar he’d be visiting that night. The only problem was he’d have to change his suit before they went out.

He took several minutes to finish the cigar before stepping out of the car. He scanned the area as he walked into the building. Shafts of sunlight penetrated through holes in the roof like spotlights illuminating a stage. Rios sauntered over to the bloodied man, using the beams of light to avoid placing his designer loafers in the pools of stale rainwater on the concrete floor. He pointed to the back of the building with his chin. The henchmen picked the man up, carried him to a wooden chair bolted to the back wall, and strapped him in. The man looked down at the pool of dried blood around his feet and began to shake. Rios glared at him, but said nothing. He slipped on a pair of leather gloves before tearing off the duct tape from the man’s head.

“Please, Miguel.” Sweat poured down his swollen face, mixing with the blood running from the corner of his left eye.

“Tell me about Merriman,” said Rios without a hint of emotion in his voice.

“I swear I know nothing, Miguel.”

Rios struck the man hard across the face with the back of his gloved fist. “I want to hear everything you’ve told Merriman.”

“I swear on the lives of my children, I’ve spoken to no one.”

Rios smirked at his associates. “He thinks he’s a hard case. He thinks he’s going to hold out. He thinks I want to stand here and let him fuck with me.”

“I don’t know this Merriman. You have to believe me.”

“He’s lying.” Rios nodded to his men. “Let’s see what one hundred and twenty volts will do to change his mind.”

The hired gorilla worked a pair of heavily insulated gloves onto his fat fingers then reached above the victim and pulled down two industrial electric cables. He threw the switch on the wall and brought the exposed ends of the wires closer together; they crackled.

“Please, God, no.” Urine ran down the man’s leg as the leads were moved closer to his groin.

Rios leaned over the man and smiled. “Still nothing for me?”

“I don’t know anything. I swear.” The man struggled against the bindings.

“Fry him.”

The piercing screams echoed around the cavernous building. At one point, Rios heard footsteps, swung round, and raised his sunglasses. Two young boys stepped out from behind some rusting equipment at the far end of the building and sprinted out of the sliding door. He waited for a few moments before ordering the torture to continue. Still, the man yielded no information.

“Leave him,” Rios said after five minutes.

He led his men outside into the bright sunlight. They leaned against the car and fired up cigarettes. They talked about the football match that night. Rios bragged how his team, the Chivas, would thrash Monterrey, no doubt about it.

“The drill,” said Rios when he’d finished his cigarette.

One of the heavies reached into the front passenger footwell and retrieved an electric drill—a nice one, a Ryobi with an eighteen-volt powerpack built into the handle. It had a half-inch wood drill still in the bit, stained black from the last time they’d used it.

“Please, have mercy,” said the victim when they returned. The wooden chair rocked as his contorted body fought in vain to slip free of the leather straps. Blood seeped out where the straps had cut into his skin.

“Tell me about Merriman. It’ll be easier that way,” said Rios.

“I’d tell you if I knew anything. You’ve known me for years, Miguel.” He was sobbing, and his voice was weak. “God knows I’d tell you.”

Rios pointed to the hired muscle with the drill. He powered it up, revving the motor. The victim swung back and forth, his head banging against the wall. “Lord, save me,” he roared.

“Only the knees,” said Rios, before walking outside. When he returned, there wasn’t much blood, but smoke and the smell of burning bone hung in the air. He took a perfumed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to his nose.

“This will go on all night. It makes no difference to me,” said Rios, staring into the man’s expressionless eyes. “We’re going to do your ribs next.”

The man said nothing; he had no fight left. Rios pointed to his upper body, and the accomplice with the drill moved it toward the middle of the man’s ribcage. Before it made contact, the man passed out, his head falling forward onto his chest.

“No more,” shouted Rios, and the drilling stopped. “He knows nothing. If it isn’t him, then who the fuck is it?” He pointed to the machete behind the wooden seat. “Finish it.”

While one of them lifted the unconscious man up by his sweat-soaked hair, Rios turned to walk back to the car. He didn’t need to witness the final, bloody act. He’d seen it many times before.

Chapter 2

I
T
W
AS
A
N
O
LD
F
INANCIAL
M
ODEL
, but it still worked. John Kent had created it years ago, when he worked at an investment bank in London, and had used it hundreds of times since. He sat in his corner office on the outskirts of Cambridge, England, tinkering with the Excel spreadsheet and hammering at his calculator. Without looking up from his screen, he shouted, “Tara, can you ask Joanna and Adrian to pop in? A coffee would be nice, too.”

“Sure,” said Tara Sanderson, his PA sitting outside his open door.

Joanna Kirkland and Adrian Johnson walked into Kent’s office five minutes later.

“Grab a seat,” said Kent from behind his iMac, pointing to the two sofas opposite his desk. “I’ll be with you in a sec. I’ve come up with a better financial structure on the Henderson Wright deal.”

Kirkland sat on one of the sofas and crossed her arms. “What do you have in mind? Can’t really see anything wrong with the one I came up with,” she said. At thirty-one, she was the youngest and only female partner in Kent’s successful private equity firm. She was also the highest paid, after Kent. Kirkland was a moneymaker, and Kent used her for his most important deals.