Geneva Connection, The (25 page)

He walked over to the taxi rank, just beating a crowd of tourists to the front of the line. He took a cab to Paternoster Square, some fifteen minutes away. Since he had an hour to kill before meeting the Adderley Dickins people, he’d arranged to meet Jonathan Gateley for a coffee at the Caffé Zero near his offices. Whenever Kent had spare time in London, he’d try to meet up with Gateley to get an update on Oakham Fiduciary Services. After all, following Baumgart’s prompt, it was now a subsidiary of CBC, so Kent was ultimately responsible for it nowadays. Besides, Gateley always welcomed a coffee break out of the office.

“How’s it going, Jonathan?” Kent asked, shaking hands. Gateley had already grabbed two leather chairs near the window overlooking Cheapside. He had two coffees ready and waiting.

“Pretty hectic, actually. Tritona keeps us busy.” Gateley rolled his eyes. “They keep acquiring companies and asking us to set up all sorts of esoteric structures for them. They’re a very demanding client.” He broke into a smile. “They pay well, though.”

Kent was convinced Gateley knew nothing sinister about Tritona. He would have received the same compliance information as CBC did about the three families. Unless they’d heard from Henning’s Swedish contact, which was unlikely, there’s no way they’d have any suspicion.

“They’ve kept us busy too.” Kent sipped his skinny latte. “Do you see Baumgart much?”

“Not often. Mostly, we deal with him over the phone. There’s not really much reason for him to visit us in London. All we hold here are the original records on the various corporate and trust structures we’ve set up for them. The real decisions are still taken by them in Geneva.”

As they spoke, Kent was decided.
Oakham’s just a pawn, being used as much as CBC
.

Half an hour later, Kent stood up to leave. “Well, I must be going. I have another meeting at ten.”

It was only a ten-minute walk from Cheapside to the offices of Adderley Dickins at Tower Fifty-Four on Old Broad Street, so Kent decided to walk it. He arrived at five minutes before his appointment.

The building was one of those tall, modern office towers that Kent really couldn’t stand. Soulless places full of corporate drones. He pushed by the obligatory huddle of smokers outside the building and, as soon as he walked through the automatic doors, spotted the long line backed up at the security scanner. Wayne, the outsourced security operator, whose badge said “Here to Serve,” was milking his five minutes of power over the executives entering the tower. He kept asking inane questions and took ages to pass briefcases and laptops through his machine. Every now and then he’d even look in the direction of his screen to see what was being scanned. That delay, and the hassle of obtaining his visitor badge from a separate reception, meant Kent arrived at the thirty-second floor offices of Adderley Dickins at 10:08. Arriving late made him appear sloppy and inefficient, which was the last impression he’d want to create; he was a professional.

He stepped out of the elevator and, immediately, was struck by the bright marble and sheet glass reception area. Adderley Dickins appeared to occupy the whole of the thirty-second floor, and it seemed no money had been spared on their surroundings. Expensive pieces of modern art hung on pale walls, and what looked like individually commissioned pieces of furniture were arranged around the waiting area. Kent thought Cartwright had said Adderley Dickins was a small corporate finance house doing only a couple of deals a year.
Those deals must pay really well.

“I’m from Cambridge Buy-Out Capital. Here to see Mr. Cartwright,” Kent said with a smile to the pretty receptionist. She smiled back at him.
Nice teeth.

“You must be Mr. Kent. Please take a seat, and I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

Kent sat on the sofa at the back of the vast space, furthest away from the noisy sixty-inch flat-screen Panasonic. He shook his head; yet another TV blaring out at visitors, broadcasting mindless drivel.

“Do you think you could turn that thing down?” he shouted across to the receptionist while pointing to the TV.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Kent,” she said as she walked over and turned it off.

He immediately felt guilty for causing such a fuss. He’d always been impatient, but lately, with all the strain he’d been under, he was increasingly quick-tempered and critical. There was a time when he would have been ecstatic about the money he was now making, but not any longer. The nightmare of the past few months had changed everything for him. Kent felt dirty and used.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling at the young woman, hoping she’d forgive him.

He took a scribbled file note from his briefcase and scanned it to remind himself of the key aspects of the investment opportunity: Adderley Dickins’ client was a profitable insurance broking group in urgent need of two hundred million pounds, or else it would fail; the bank was about to withdraw the company’s short-term overdraft facilities; the cash was needed for three months only; and a large equity stake was up for grabs for CBC if it could move quickly. In Kent’s old life, this would have been a good one—a great company at death’s door, desperate for rescue finance. Back then, he would have been salivating over the enormous return on the transaction if it all stacked up, though that would depend on the caliber of the management team he was about to meet.

“I can take you through now,” said the receptionist as she came to collect him.

Kent combed his fingers through his hair, smiled at her again, and then picked up his briefcase. He followed her shapely figure, her tight, short skirt revealing long, attractive legs. Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt.
You bloody fool. That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.

They walked along a wide, glass corridor past several empty rooms. It seemed strange there was no one else in any of the offices; no telephones ringing, no tapping of keyboards, none of the regular sounds of a busy work environment. The only sound was the echoing of the young woman’s high heels as they clicked against the white marble floor.

At the end of the corridor was a large meeting room with a view over the London skyline. Kent took his eyes off the woman’s rear and looked through the glass paneling. Three men were sitting at a boardroom table. He assumed two of them were members of the management team and one must be Cartwright.

“Mr. Kent, thanks for coming,” said the man in the dark blue suit as he stood up, power-shook Kent’s hand, and then closed the meeting room door.

The man was a good five inches shorter than Kent’s six foot.
No doubt the viselike grip is to make up for his lack of height
, Kent thought
.
He had an American accent too. Cartwright didn’t have an accent when he called about the deal last week. The other two men didn’t bother to stand or introduce themselves, hardly the best way to impress a prospective investor, here to rescue their business.
The price of the deal just went up.

“Good to meet you,” said Kent, looking at his host and deliberately avoiding eye contact with the bad-mannered peasants.

“Can I get you a coffee?”

“No. Thank you. I’ve just had one. Water would be fine.” Kent walked to the far side of the room and placed his briefcase on the mahogany table. “Which one of you is Mr. Cartwright?” The three men looked at each other as though Kent had asked a difficult question. “They get harder from here, guys.” There were no smiles; the wit seemed lost on all of them.

“The thing is, we’ve brought you here on a false pretext,” said the American.

“I don’t understand.”

Kent looked across the table and scrutinized them. The three men were wearing almost identical white shirts and dark blue suits. Something was wrong, but Kent couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The one doing the talking had a military-style buzz cut, a style that struck Kent as hardly corporate professional. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, very lean, and clearly worked out. He had an intense frown, and kept glancing at the smartphone in his left hand, as though he was expecting an important call, or needed to be somewhere else soon. The man appeared in a desperate hurry to get down to business.

“Is the deal off?” Kent said.

“There is no deal,” said the American. “Take a seat.”

Kent remained standing. He didn’t appreciate the aggressive tone. “Then what am I doing here?”

“Please, sit down and I’ll explain.” The American poured Kent a glass of water.

Kent sat, but left his unopened briefcase on the table; he wasn’t planning on staying long. “Which one of you is Mr. Cartwright?”

“None of us.”

Kent bolted upright. “So who—”

“Cartwright doesn’t exist.” The American looked like he wanted to fight.

Kent forced a laugh. “I must be in the wrong office.”

“That’s funny. If you just give me a moment, I’ll explain.”

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I’m out of here.”

The American put down his phone, leaned forward on his elbows, and clasped his hands together. He glanced at his colleagues before staring at Kent.

“My name is Mark Merriman.” He paused. “I’m the Head of Intelligence at the DEA.”

Chapter 38

K
ENT
W
ENT
C
OLD
I
NSIDE
. “The DEA?” he said, deep furrows forming across his brow. He knew something was wrong from the moment he’d set foot in reception. Was this how it all ended?

Merriman nodded. “The US Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“I know what it means.” Kent paused, then said, “You people must have me mixed up with someone else.”

“There’s no mistake.”

“There has to—”

Merriman raised his right hand. “Just hear me out.”

“What’s the DEA got to do with me?”

Merriman ignored the question. “These gentlemen here are Special Agents Whitlock and Young.” The others lowered their heads a little as their names were mentioned.

Kent gave them a condescending once-over. That’s why they’d never bothered to introduce themselves earlier. They looked like a couple of well-dressed bruisers, nowhere near as polished as the one doing all the talking.

“I don’t care who you are. I came here to discuss a deal. Now is someone going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“There never was a deal. The firm of Adderley Dickins doesn’t exist. We’re the only ones here.” Merriman pointed to the offices. “All this you see around us is made up.”

Kent stood. “I’m leaving. I don’t know who you people think I am.”

“Sit down, John. You’re gonna hear this.” Merriman’s tone made it clear it wasn’t a request.

Kent sat. He looked at his watch, shook his head and exhaled loudly through his nose. “This had better be good.”

Merriman paced the room. “What we’re about to share with you is confidential. You can’t speak to anyone about it, not even your wife, Sarah. Understood?”

Kent flinched and uncrossed his arms.
Jesus, these people must have been monitoring me as well.
“How do you know my wife’s name?”

“We know everything about you,” said Special Agent Whitlock with a self-satisfied smirk.

Kent instantly disliked him and the way he kept cracking his fingers and playing with the oversize silver fraternity ring on his right hand, as though he wouldn’t think twice about using it as a knuckle-duster.

Special Agent Young jumped in to with his two cents’ worth. “Where you live, your family, everywhere you worked before you started CBC. We know you’re a bright boy, a first at Cambridge and an MBA from Harvard.”

Kent didn’t think much of him, either.
Another muscle-head.

“Okay.” Kent’s mouth was dry as he spoke. “You have my attention, now get to the point; I haven’t got all day.” He gulped down some water.

“The reason we brought you here under the pretext of a new deal was to avoid any awkward questions from your team at CBC,” said Merriman. He stopped pacing. “Or from the people at Tritona.”

These guys have done their homework,
thought Kent. “I’m listening.” A bead of sweat ran down his brow. He wiped it by pretending to smooth back his hair.

“We know all your investment funds come from Tritona in Geneva. Without them, you don’t have a business.”

“And that’s your business because?”

“Because, wise guy, the people at Tritona don’t get their money from where they say they do.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll spell it out for you.” Merriman walked over to Kent’s side of the table and pulled up a chair next to him. He sat facing Kent, leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his knees. “Tritona isn’t what it appears to be. It’s a front for the Mexican Caruana drug cartel, the most powerful organized crime group on the planet.” He paused and stared right into Kent’s eyes.

Kent maintained eye contact and tried not to blink, his heart pounding in his chest as the news began to sink in.
Fuck!
This is far worse than I’d imagined. There’s no backing out now. I’m in too deep. They definitely killed Anton, so they’d think nothing of killing me or Sarah.