Geneva Connection, The (11 page)

“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 my work 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 Greenough.

“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. What more do you need? We have to crack this.”

“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. In the meantime, 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.”

“Leave it with me. There’s no greater priority than this investigation.”

“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.”

Merriman shut his office door behind Greenough and sat to check his voice mail. Then he rang his contact at the Mexican central bank to thank him for his help. No doubt, his contact would have bent a few rules to gain access to the information. At last, this investigation is going somewhere. No one’s traced an end point for Caruana’s fund transfers before.

“Oakham, Oakham,” he said quietly.
Don’t know what it is, but we’re gonna find out
.

Chapter 15

H
OTEL
M
ORGANA
S
AT
O
N
T
HE
E
DGE
of Lake Geneva on Quai des Bergues. Built in 1820, it had accommodated Europe’s glitterati and power brokers for decades. It was the finest hotel in Geneva and looked across the water to the Alps beyond. Tritona had reserved two adjacent suites on the fifteenth floor. Kent wondered who was selling to whom when he saw the hotel.

“It’s six fifteen now. Shall we meet in the lounge bar at, say, seven forty?” he said to Tara as they stepped out of the elevator.

“Okay. This place is amazing,” she replied. He was reminded that this was all very new to Tara. He’d long taken for granted international travel at the highest level. Sarah had often said he lived in a bubble, far removed from the real-world experience of most people.

Kent unlocked his door, placed his overnight bag on the king-size bed, then walked over to the large window to take in the view. It was getting dark, and the lights of the city hugged the lake. Snow covered some of the higher peaks in the distance. He was reminded of some of the recent ski holidays he’d taken with Sarah. There would be fewer of those luxuries if CBC failed.
Is Tritona really considering making an investment commitment? They sounded interested at the meeting and seemed satisfied with my answers. They certainly have the financial capacity with their massive resources.

If nothing else, Kent was a realist. After a few minutes enjoying the dream, he remembered he’d been here before. He knew from experience that an investor meeting could go well, only to find no commitment is made, and then again he’d known situations where the opposite was true. He sat on the corner of the bed, grabbed a pen, and noted down a list of institutional investors his team had approached since the Grampian Capital disaster had hit. The list ran to more than forty names, and not one of them had made a commitment. Many of them had known CBC for years and knew of its excellent investment record but, as a result of the recession, most had the same problem: they were overweight in private equity and needed to reduce commitments, not increase them. No—Kent knew in his heart Tritona was likely to decline a commitment, particularly in the absence of an existing cornerstone investor.

He rang Sarah.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Okay, I think.” He didn’t want to share his pessimism with her.

“Did they say whether they’re interested?”

“No, but we haven’t finished yet. They want to continue over dinner.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It does, but we’ve been here before, remember.”

“I understand. I know you’ll give it your best shot.”

“I should know more when tonight’s over.”

“Whatever happens, John, we’ll be okay you know. CBC isn’t everything. Keep that in mind.”

In spite of his effort to sound upbeat, Sarah must have realized from his tone that he was expecting this to be another wasted trip.
CBC is everything
, he thought; everything he’d worked for and the physical manifestation of his success. If it failed, he’d make his fortune again, no matter how difficult the challenge. Anything else was unthinkable.

“The hotel’s good.” He didn’t want to discuss his company failing right now.

“Where is it?”

“On the edge of the lake. They’ve put us in suites on the top floor. Great views. It’s a shame you’re not here with me.”

“Sounds lovely. Don’t enjoy it too much without me.”

“I’ll try. Well, I’d better get ready. I still need to shower and change before dinner. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Good luck.”

Kent made a quick call to the office to check in with Johnson. He was always the last to leave the office. Since his divorce, a few years back, Johnson had struggled to find another partner, which Kent thought was strange given he was such a sociable animal. Johnson spent most evenings sat at his desk. On the few occasions when Kent had to work very late, he’d insist on throwing Johnson out of the office to make sure he didn’t become a complete hermit.

“Have we set up any more potential investor meetings?” asked Kent.

“A couple, but we’ve had a load more polite rejections today. It’s not looking good,” said Johnson.

“Grampian couldn’t have failed at a worst time.”

“How’s it going with the Swiss?”

“Hard to tell, really. They’ve got plenty of money. Whether they want to use it is another matter. We should learn more tonight as we’re seeing them again for dinner.”

“Sounds good. Who’s paying?”

“They are.”

“Make sure you order something expensive. At least get something out of the trip. Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’d rather come back with a big commitment, but don’t hold your breath.”

Kent jumped in the shower, had a quick shave, then caught a few minutes of the news on CNN, before making his way to the lounge bar next to the main restaurant. It was seven forty, and he was the first to arrive. He sat in an armchair facing the entrance so he could spot Baumgart and his weird assistant coming in. He scanned the room. The usual bunch of international business people. He could be sitting in a luxury hotel anywhere in the world and he’d see the same collection of people. In one corner was the usual group of loud Americans. There was always at least one group of them.
Why do they always need to shout at each other so the whole room can hear their conversation?
He gave them a sneering glance, but it made no difference. They were oblivious to him and everyone else in the room.

How do you get a drink in this place?
At that moment, Baumgart entered the lounge. His assistant was tucked in behind him. Kent waved so Baumgart could see him, and he came trundling over, taking up the most of a three-seat sofa. Kulpman sat upright on a hard-back chair. Kent couldn’t understand why he didn’t choose to sit in one of the many empty armchairs.

“Is the hotel satisfactory, Mr. Kent?” asked Baumgart.

“Wonderful, thanks,” replied Kent. “Such great views.”

“We always entertain our visitors here. I don’t think any of them have been disappointed. The food is good, too.”

Tara walked in, and Baumgart smiled. “Over here, Ms. Sanderson,” he said, patting the cushion next to him on the sofa. Tara duly obliged by sitting next to him.

Bright girl, but you’ll struggle to squeeze on.

The headwaiter came over.
“Gut, Sie wiederzusehen, Herr Baumgart. Was kann ich für Sie und Ihre Gäste zu bringen?”
Baumgart must be a German Swiss, thought Kent.

“Ich würde sehr gerne einen Kir Royale haben, wenn das möglich ist, bitte,”
replied Tara.

“You speak German?” said Baumgart. He looked astonished.

“Yes. Also Spanish and French.”

Bull’s-eye!
Kent was reminded of how many men saw only Tara’s beauty and underestimated her as a result. He’d lost count of how many times he’d seen this happen. She was his secret weapon. A smart hire.

Baumgart placed the drinks order. “I want you to make the best Kir Royale possible for Ms. Sanderson.”

He’s smitten. Now he’s flirting with Tara. Maybe she’ll be able to coax an investment commitment out of him
.

“Please, Mr. Baumgart, call me Tara.”

“Then I insist you call me Dieter.”

“Let’s all use first names,” said Kent, breaking up the love-in.

At eight o’clock, they were shown to their table. Kent looked around the dining room as he sat.
Baumgart must have some pull in this place. We’re in the best hotel in Geneva and now we have by far the best table in the restaurant
. The waiters fussed over Baumgart and his guests as though they were the only table in the room.

Baumgart was slow moving the conversation back to the business in hand. Kent couldn’t work out why. They talked about the economy, politics, and even the weather; anything but a potential investment commitment to CBC. Kent tried several times in vain to steer the conversation round to his firm and its search for new investors. By the time they were halfway through dessert, the night was almost over, and Kent was dismissing the whole trip as a waste of time.

Why is Baumgart still flirting with Tara? Was he always out just to have a good time with no real intention of making a commitment? Does he understand how critical this is to CBC?

There was another possible explanation: Kent had seen other investors place a lot of store on whether or not they liked the CBC team as people.
Maybe that’s Baumgart’s style
.

Every now and then, Kent glanced at Kulpman. Baumgart’s assistant had continued to scribble notes all evening.
There’s been no discussion worth noting. He hasn’t uttered a single word; what’s the point of him being here?

“What’s your own professional background, Dieter?” Kent thought he’d try one last time to turn the conversation over to a business level, although he’d pretty much written off the evening by now.

“My career was based around international law for twenty years.”

Finally, Baumgart is actually prepared to talk business.

“How did you find yourself managing Tritona with that background?” asked Tara. Kent smiled at her, grateful for the help.

“One of my clients was the Kvarnback family. As we got to know each other better, I became the Kvarnback family counsel on a full-time basis. When they established their family investment office, I was asked to run that, and so it was natural for me to end up running the multifamily office, when they linked up with the other families four years ago.”

The waiter came and took their coffee order. Baumgart suggested they all move into the lounge to continue the conversation in comfort.
Just as the conversation gets interesting, the bloody waiter ruins the moment. It’s going to be difficult to move the conversation back on track. Besides, it’s probably too late. The night’s virtually over.