Geneva Connection, The (29 page)

“Here are the first few files,” said Johnson as he delivered some of the documents to Kent’s office right after the meeting.

Kent enjoyed the moment of relief now he had complete access to the files without raising questions. He pointed to the corner of his room. “Great. Leave them over there, and I’ll bring them back to you in a few days once I’ve finished with them. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure my office door is kept locked when I’m not here.”

Johnson looked relieved; his compliance files would normally be locked away as they contained sensitive personal information on investors. As compliance officer, his neck was on the line if personal client data was not protected. “Do you want me to stay and help? I’d be happy to.”

“No thanks, Adrian. I’m happy doing this alone. I’d prefer you to concentrate on helping the other partners finish reviewing their own deal files before I see them. We can’t afford not to be ready on all fronts once Wright’s team arrives. We don’t know where they’ll choose to start their work.”

“Okay. That sounds sensible to me.”

Kent spent the remainder of the day leafing through the files. He knew exactly what to look for: any direct evidence linking the investments made by CBC back to Tritona via the multitude of SPVs arranged by Oakham Fiduciary Services. By six that evening, his briefcase was crammed full with original signed documents he’d lifted from the files.

He sent a special text message to the agreed number, locked his office door, and then left the building and jumped into the BMW. Thirty minutes later, he pulled into a large service station on the dual carriageway about a mile from the exit for USAF Alconbury. He filled his car up with gas and took his briefcase in with him to the cashier’s desk. There were a couple of people in the line in front of him, so Kent took the opportunity to scan the room. CCTV cameras were positioned in every corner, and the sign for the toilets pointed to the back of the building, away from the fuel pumps.

He paid for his fuel and walked into the toilet block, where he went to the end one of six cubicles and closed the door behind him. The place smelled badly. He didn’t want to touch anything; it was filthy. He stood in silence and listened for movement, occasionally glancing at his watch.
Come on.

Moments later, there was a tap on the small outside window. Kent slid it open, and Special Agent Whitlock appeared at the opening. Although Whitlock was hidden from anyone else’s view by a thick bank of bushes, as previously agreed, no words were spoken by the two men.

Just as Kent opened his briefcase, he heard someone else walking into the toilets. The footsteps grew louder. Whoever it was chose the cubicle next to Kent’s and closed the door. Kent’s heart was pounding in his chest. He froze. Why had the person chosen that particular cubicle when all of the others were still empty? Had he been followed here? Was he about to be discovered red-handed passing over evidence to the authorities?

Kent kept absolutely still while Whitlock tapped his watch as though he was impatient to get on with things.

“Wait a minute, will you?” Kent mouthed to the agent.

The person in the adjacent cubicle made no noise. What the hell was going on? He waited a few seconds before carefully removing the documents from his briefcase and handing them to Whitlock. As he did so, Kent dropped a handful of papers onto the wet floor. He bent down to pick them up, and it turned his stomach to think of what was now soaking into the papers. Whitlock looked furious as he grabbed the wet documents, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

By the time Kent had closed his briefcase, Whitlock was gone. Kent slid open the door bolt, left his cubicle, and ran past the one still occupied. He was about ten feet from the exit, when someone shouted, “John.”

Kent gripped the briefcase hard, lowered his head in a charging motion, and raced for the door handle. Someone grabbed his shoulder from behind, and Kent braced himself for an attack, swinging the briefcase around as a weapon.

“John. It’s me, Michael.” The man held his hands up to protect his head from being struck by the briefcase.

Immediately, Kent recognized one of his neighbors from their village in Rutland. “Michael, I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice when you called out.”

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Yes, I’m fine. I was just surprised to hear my name called out in here. That’s all.”

“You don’t look okay. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Kent turned. “Great to see you, Michael. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I’m already late for an appointment.” He walked quickly to his car and sped out of the forecourt to avoid having to explain his irrational behavior.

When Kent looked at his watch, driving away, he calculated the whole thing had taken less than ten minutes, but it had felt more like an hour. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, and sweat ran down his face, as he checked his rearview mirror. While it had been a terrifying experience, some part of him felt a sense of exhilaration and excitement, knowing he’d won the first battle in the war against his tormentors. Hopefully, it would get a little easier from here.

Two days later, Kent made the same stop on the way home. This time, as well as handing over a thick bunch of new papers to Whitlock, he collected the fake substitute documents. The forgeries would be placed onto the original files the next morning. They were good-quality copies, and Kent found it difficult to tell them apart from the originals. Merriman’s people clearly knew what they were doing.

It took a week and a half to complete the extraction and substitution of the key evidence on CBC’s files. The process was over without a hitch, and Kent’s confidence was slowly increasing. The plan was working, the hardest steps had been taken, and he was on the way to getting his life back.

Chapter 43

O
NE
W
EEK
B
EFORE
the scheduled start of the CBC investigation, Wright arrived for work at the FCA’s Canary Wharf offices. Swaggering past the front desk, he flashed his ID to the security guard without stopping. He didn’t acknowledge any of the staff as he made his way to the fast elevator for the executive suite. Wright had never had time for the little people. He was not paid to be liked; he had an important job to do.

In the short time since joining the FCA as head of the high-profile investigations unit, Wright had rapidly become the public face of the new proactive regulator. He’d been on the BBC and several cable channels and had appeared in many of the newspapers, setting out how he was going to be using his position to keep the financial services sector in check. He’d make sure they didn’t break the rules, and if they did, he’d be over them like a rash.

Walking by the lines of employees waiting for the staff elevators, an arrogant smirk filled Wright’s face. The main elevators stopped at every floor, but the executive one was much faster. It served only the executive suite so there was no line. He pressed the call button, and the doors opened immediately. When he walked in and hit the only button for the twenty-second floor, nothing happened. He punched it several times, but still there was no response. Shaking his head and cursing, he walked over to join the crowd at the other elevators. No one let him jump the line; he could wait his turn like everyone else. While he collected the that-showed-him stares, Wright vowed heads would roll for the indignity he was now suffering.

After stopping on every floor, Wright arrived at the top of the building six minutes later; he’d timed it. A complete waste of his valuable time. Outside his own corner office, he barked an order at his PA to “get someone to fix that bloody elevator and fast” then walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

At ten o’clock, Wright welcomed a journalist from the
Sunday Post
into his office. In previous interviews, he’d set out what his priorities were going to be and what style he would adopt in carrying out his department’s new investigations. Today’s interview was an in-depth session to get to know the man who was Doug Wright. The article allowed him to remind the world how he’d built one of the world’s powerhouse accounting firms almost single-handedly. Of course, he chose not to dwell on the fact that Henderson Wright was almost brought to its knees by his aggressive deal-making, or the fact that he was fired as a condition of the rescue financing deal. According to Wright he had finished what he set out to achieve at Henderson Wright and was looking for his next challenge. He’d received many lucrative offers, but had only accepted the FCA executive position so far.

The journalist asked what appealed to him about his new role.

Wright thought carefully. “When you’ve reached the top, it can be hard to find another challenge commensurate with one’s skills. The FCA role offered me the opportunity to give something back to the financial services market. After all, the market has been good to me.” He spoke each patronizing word slowly so the journalist could capture every pearl of wisdom in his pre-prepared answer.

The journalist didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she made a few scribbles on her pad. He waited until he judged she’d captured his all sage pronouncements before continuing.

“Too many financial services firms made a killing in the boom markets without properly recognizing the risks they were building up. My role will be to use my considerable experience and skills to investigate firms before they run into trouble, before it’s too late. My aim will be to ensure financial services firms properly recognize and address risk. This will be achieved through a series of proactive and intense investigations before things go wrong.”

During the rest of the interview, he didn’t once mention his team of fifty staff. He acted like this was a one-man investigations department. A modern day Eliot Ness.

Wright power-posed for a couple of photos before escorting the journalist to the elevator lobby. Ordinarily, his visitors would be left to find their own way out, but Wright always found time for journalists. They were useful to him. They helped maintain his high profile and so had something he wanted. As they approached, a sign in front of the executive elevator doors read: Out of Order. He apologized and called one of the others, but didn’t wait for it to arrive; he was too important to waste more of his valuable time standing in the corridor.

When he returned to his office, he instructed his PA to call the offices of CBC and put Mr. Kent on to him. A call Wright had been dreaming about for days.

“John Kent speaking.”

“This is Doug Wright.” Wright left an awkward pause. He’d once been on the other end of Kent’s silent pauses. It felt good to be giving some back.

Kent wasn’t going to play the game and quickly filled the silence. “How can I help you, Mr. Wright?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re going to be ready for our visit next week.”

“Yes. We’ll be ready. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing for the moment, but you ought to allow plenty of time for our investigation. It will be thorough and unrelenting.” A self-satisfied grin spread across Wright’s face.

“We’re always happy to make time for visits from the regulator, Mr. Wright. We’ve nothing to fear from administrators and bureaucrats. Cheerio.” Kent terminated the call.

Wright stared at the handset then slammed down the phone. He’d just been getting started, but it would look weak to call back, as much as he wanted to. He’d extract his pound of flesh the following week when he’d make sure Kent would forever regret removing him from Henderson Wright. He would not be satisfied until he had ruined CBC one way or another.

By twelve thirty Wright wanted some fresh air. He’d developed a habit of taking a short walk at lunchtime before having a lavish, full-service, three course meal in the executive dining room. When he walked toward the executive elevator, a man in blue overalls was just removing the Out of Order sign as he approached.

Wright peered at the engineer. “I assume that bloody thing’s fixed? I can’t believe it has taken you so long.”

“Yes, sir. It’s now working perfectly. I’m really sorry for the inconvenience. Let me call it for you.” The engineer punched the switch and stood back.

Wright didn’t bother to acknowledge him. He stepped forward and waited for the bell to indicate the arrival of the elevator. When the doors opened, instinctively, Wright inched toward the unit. Before he realized the elevator was not actually there, it was too late. He fell forward then felt a lunge in his back as the engineer shoved him. Wright plunged twenty-two floors down the dark shaft.

The engineer closed the doors and positioned the Out of Order sign back in place. By the time Wright’s dead body was discovered, the man in the blue overalls was long gone.

Chapter 44

K
ENT
C
AUGHT
T
HE
S
EVEN
T
HIRTY
commuter train to London. The extraction of evidentiary documents from CBC’s deal and compliance files had gone better than he could have hoped; there’d been no awkward questions, and the substitutes provided by Merriman’s people looked convincing. However, he was less confident about the plan working as well at Oakham Fiduciary Services. He’d hardly spent more than an hour at their offices during his previous visits. They were bound to be curious about his inquiries. He’d used the same cover story—he needed to ensure the files were in good shape ahead of the FCA’s visit the following week. Jonathan Gateley, Oakham’s CEO, hadn’t questioned the arrangements when Kent called him to set up his visit. He accepted the reason Kent gave him and appeared to understand the rationale behind it. Kent had emphasized that he was subjecting his own firm’s files to the same high-level review, which seemed to go down well. But the fact that Kent was not going to be working in his own office environment made him nervous. He wouldn’t be in control. Something could easily go wrong.