Geneva Connection, The (15 page)

“I couldn’t agree more. In years to come, we’ll look back at this time and see it as a golden buying opportunity.”

Baumgart was indeed a kindred spirit as far as investment timing was concerned. It had always baffled Kent how most investors reduced their investment rate during recessions and increased it again in the boom times. A savvy investor would do the opposite, buying cheaply in downturns and selling high in upturns. He couldn’t understand why most investors didn’t get this. Baumgart was a notable exception.

“We’ve been very impressed with your handling of Henderson Wright. That would have been another one within our direct portfolio, had you not been able to take on its management for us.”

“We were delighted to help out on that one.” Kent meant it. Not only did he enjoy completing a good deal, but also he’d taken great pleasure in removing Wright. That was a real bonus.

“As you can imagine, these direct investments take up a lot of our management time, and we’re not really set up to do this properly, attending monthly board meetings, dealing with consent matters and so on.”

“I know how much time they take up. More than people imagine if the job is being done properly.”
Where’s Baumgart going with this?

“We’d like to hand over the management of all our existing direct investments to the team at CBC. We know you’re best placed to extract maximum value out of these companies on our behalf.”

“That’s great news.”
More money.

“Of course, CBC would receive the usual monitoring fee income and some form of performance-related reward linked to the increase in their value under your stewardship.”

“How many companies are we talking about?”

“Currently, we own sixty-five companies directly, with a combined investment cost of almost two hundred billion dollars.”

That’s an incredible portfolio
, Kent thought. It was many times the value he would have guessed. Taking it on would more than quadruple CBC’s assets. The carried interest and monitoring fee income on the investments would be enormous. His team would have to expand; maybe even move into larger offices to accommodate the extra staff.
This achieves ten years’ growth for CBC in a single move.

“We’d be delighted to take on this portfolio for Tritona. With such a large number of investments, there’d need to be a transition period while we expanded our team, but this needn’t take long. I’m sure we can handle it.”

God knows where we’re going to find enough good people quickly.

“I’ve already given this some thought, as you can imagine. The most effective way to deal with this is for CBC to acquire Oakham Fiduciary Services, which handles much of our group structuring and the administration of our holdings. You dealt with them briefly on the Henderson Wright deal. They could take over much of the additional admin work for you. In this way, CBC could continue to focus on what it does well, leaving the routine administration to Oakham.”

“That makes sense. They came across to us as good people, but is Oakham actually for sale and would the team be happy to join CBC?”

“There’s no problem with Oakham. Tritona acquired that business last month. We’ll simply transfer it to CBC. We can discuss the details over dinner this evening. I have another great restaurant to show you.”

On the flight back to London the following morning, Kent pondered the events of the previous day. He thought how fine the line was between business success and failure. Just a few months earlier, he’d been facing the very real prospect of losing his business and having to let his staff go. Now, he was the CEO of what was about to become the largest private equity firm in the world by far. With the certainty that Tritona would invest as much as he could ever need, there was no deal too large for him to consider. He’d be able to go hunting for targets among the largest companies on the planet.

Kent smiled as he gazed out of the plane’s window. This would be a poke in the eye for all of CBC’s competitors and those who’d written him off after the Grampian disaster. Now he’d show them all how wrong they’d been underestimating him. He was about to become a truly global player and, just as important, he was on his way to becoming a billionaire. Of that, he was certain. He could almost taste it.

Chapter 21

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, a few miles north of El Paso International Airport. Dressed in a black suit, Merriman felt the intense heat the moment he left the aircraft. Halloran and Camplejohn came down the steps behind him. A black SUV drove up to within fifty feet of the jet, and the three of them climbed in. There was little conversation during the one-hour drive north to Las Cruces in New Mexico.

Merriman gazed out of the window as the car turned into a street off University Park. The houses were all single story with parched, brown lawns and pickup trucks parked on some of the drives. A small Catholic church sat at the end of the street, next door to a two-story motel that had seen better days. The paintwork on the white wooden balcony running along the length of the upper floor was peeling, and the driver had to take care to avoid the potholes as he pulled up in the motel car park. Merriman and his two colleagues walked across to the church where they joined the back of the line of people filing in. The place was packed with more than one hundred worshippers. Merriman’s team stood out as the only white faces in a crowd of Hispanics as they made their way to the few remaining seats at the back.

It had been four months since they’d learned of the death of Special Agent Luis Santiago, who’d been known as Arturo Vargas when working undercover. Since receiving the package of body parts on Merriman’s birthday, there had been no further contact with the agent. Merriman’s other undercover agents had learned through their networks that Vargas had been killed shortly after he transferred from Corolla Currency Exchange in Monterrey. None of them had actually seen a body, but the intelligence was clear. He’d been killed by the cartel. Merriman needed no further proof; the diamond stud earring in the bloodied ear had been the Caruana cartel’s way of showing him they knew who he was. There was no information on how he’d been compromised, something that troubled Merriman since he had others still working undercover.

The memorial service lasted an hour. Santiago’s father spoke about the family’s move from Mexico before Luis was born and how he and his wife were so proud when their American son graduated from college. He recalled how excited Luis had been when he won a place at the DEA’s Intelligence Center in El Paso. They’d watched his career develop with such pride.

Merriman spoke of the important work their son had been involved in, and how he was much respected by his colleagues. Luis had been a rising star, and would be missed by all who knew him. He was one of the best. He meant every word. Merriman felt a strong sense of personal responsibility for Santiago’s death. He’d trained him and assured him he was ready for the difficult and risky challenge of working undercover. Too many good people had paid a heavy price in the war against drugs.

“I promise you, your son’s life was given for a noble cause. His sacrifice will not have been for nothing. I will do everything in my power to finish his important work,” said Merriman before leaving the podium.

As he walked back to his seat, he made eye contact with Mr. Santiago. Merriman knew his words would never make up for the loss of his son. He promised himself he would not stop until he’d seized all of the cartel’s assets and wiped them from the face of the earth. That would be the way he’d honor Luis and the others who’d made the ultimate sacrifice.

Merriman and his two colleagues stayed for an hour at the Santiagos’ home after the service. It was difficult to share in any detail the work their son had been doing. They seemed to understand; they told Merriman they knew Luis was involved in sensitive work. Merriman found it hard to explain why there had been no body. He did his best to strike a balance between telling them enough without compromising security, but he found it challenging. As he talked to Mrs. Santiago, he could tell she was hanging onto a slim hope that Luis would return one day. She kept telling him that because there was no body, there was no certainty her son was dead. He had to tell her he was certain Luis was not coming back, but he hated himself for removing her last shred of hope.

“I give you my word, we’ll stop at nothing to bring your son’s killers to justice,” he said, hugging Mrs. Santiago.

“You’re a good man. Luis spoke about you all the time. He looked up to you, and I can see why,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

Merriman met the local DEA team at the El Paso Intelligence Center later that afternoon. He knew most of them personally, and many had served with him on overseas missions. They shared stories about the past; there were plenty of them.

Eight years before his promotion to Chief of Intelligence, Merriman had been assigned as the Country Attaché for Colombia, where he achieved a massive reduction in the availability of cocaine. From there, he’d been promoted to Country Director for the Mexico Division, where he was responsible for bringing down major drug trafficking organizations, including the Artis-Laramo and Castro-Estrada cartels. The DEA field teams respected his achievements and, even though he was now their ultimate boss, considered him one of them. More than anyone else on the DEA leadership team, Merriman understood the challenge of the work on the ground and how difficult it was to make sustained progress against the rising power of the cartels.

He gave them a presentation on the results achieved so far, particularly in seizing physical money movements using the satellite reconnaissance technology run from El Paso. He went on to share with them the DEA Leadership’s agreed new strategy of focusing increasing resources on tracing the cartels’ assets. He told them this would involve sophisticated electronic monitoring combined with many more agents on the ground, pursuing the network of advisers and financial middlemen who were helping the cartels acquire assets and keep them hidden.

“I promise you, we will win this thing. Nothing is more important,” he said, wrapping up his presentation. They gave him a standing ovation.

The three agents were back in the air by five p.m.

“That was a hell of a day,” said Halloran soon after takeoff.

“You never get used to losing agents, Frank. They put their lives on the line every day and the sad thing is the value of their work goes completely unrecognized. You saw today that not even the parents can fully appreciate the contribution they make,” replied Merriman.

“I admire their courage. It takes a special type of person to do it,” said Halloran.

“The toughest job we ever ask people to do.”

Camplejohn turned in her seat to join the conversation. “I understand they’re all volunteers,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Merriman. “We never compel our agents to work undercover. It has to be something they choose to do.”

“How many do we have working undercover?” asked Camplejohn.

“Outside of the leadership team, we never disclose the identities or numbers of agents in the field, but we have enough to achieve our goals.” Merriman knew exactly how many agents he had working undercover; he had an army of them. It was dangerous and painstaking work, but he was confident that progress was being made. It was only a matter of time before a major breakthrough.
We’ll get there
.

The three-hour flight back was quiet. There was little appetite for conversation. Merriman’s mind was already working on how to step up the search for assets. Ideally, he needed to apprehend or turn a senior Caruana cartel insider. That way, he’d have a roadmap; he’d know where to look and could focus his resources. He didn’t underestimate the scale of the challenge ahead, but he was confident of ultimate success.

If we need to cut a few corners, or bend a few rules, so be it. We owe it to the Santiagos.

Chapter 22

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than the E20 motorway but, at this time of year, the extra forty minutes journey time was well rewarded. Lucas Stromholm loved how the road changed from agricultural scenery, complete with red farmhouses and barns, one moment to stunning views of the rocky coast in another. Besides, he was in no hurry; he’d left in plenty of time. He had made this journey many times before, leaving his offices in Molndal and always arriving at Falkenberg at lunchtime for his client meeting. This special client preferred a working lunch session at his office complex on the outskirts of Falkenberg when discussing personal matters.