Geneva Connection, The (27 page)

Sarah stared at the table in silence for a few seconds. “Are we safe?”

“I think CBC still has a great deal of value to Tritona. We move a lot of their illegal money into legitimate assets. They need us. I think we’re safe for as long as we cooperate with their money laundering. But if we go to the authorities, if we stop complying…”

“My God! What are we going to do?” Sarah’s eyes were welling up.

“I’m sorry, Sarah.” Kent reached across the table and held both of her hands. They sat in silence for a while.

“You still have to go to the authorities.”

“Don’t underestimate the threat if these people discover I’ve talked. I’m certain Anton was killed as a deterrent. The last thing I’m going to do is put your life at risk.”

The waiter came back to clear their plates and asked if they’d like to order dessert, but they’d both lost their appetites. They paid for the meal and left. As they drew near to the hotel, Sarah said, “Promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll not keep all this to yourself from now on. Share everything with me, even if you think I won’t want to hear it. I can’t believe you’ve been holding onto all this for months and you kept it to yourself.”

“I promise. I didn’t want to frighten you. I wanted to protect you, but once I found out who we were dealing with, you had to know.” He hugged her. “I’ve been so bloody stupid.”

Kent decided not to share with Sarah the conversation with the DEA. He’d already scared the life out of her. What good would it do to heap on more pressure?

Chapter 40

K
ENT
H
AD
B
EEN
B
ACK
from vacation only a few days when his compliance partner, Adrian Johnson, asked to meet with him.

“What’s up?” asked Kent, recognizing the familiar look on Johnson’s face.

He looked as though his world had come to an end. Johnson was the firm’s worrier, which is why Kent had made him the compliance partner in the first place. Compliance partners are paid to worry about the rules and regulations, acting as counterweights to the risk-taking activities of the deal-doers. Kent needed someone in the team to control the worst excesses of his other partners and to keep them out of trouble.

Johnson sighed. “We’ve been selected for an FCA active review.”

“Is that a problem? We’ve had them in the past. Our records are always in good shape, so what’s there to worry about?”

“This is different. We’re the first private equity firm in the country selected for this particular type of review.”

“What do they involve?”

“Active reviews have only recently been introduced by the FCA’s new investigations department. They’re part of the regulator’s response to not having been sufficiently prepared when the financial crisis hit. They took a lot of bad press for being behind the curve when problems first surfaced among supposedly healthy banks and other institutions.”

“I can’t see why we should be concerned about this.”

“When I took the call from the FCA this morning, the chap from the new unit said we ought to set aside at least two weeks for their visit, and that it would not just be about us providing evidence we’ve followed our own internal systems and controls.”

Kent angled his head. “What else do they expect?”

“He said they’ll be checking a number of matters back to source documents and they want to speak to a number of our investment clients. As we only have one main client, this will involve troubling Tritona with a lot of admin.”

Kent now understood why Johnson was troubled. Sure, the work would cause an admin headache for Tritona but, much worse, there was also a real risk the review would uncover the problem with Tritona’s documentation. What if the FCA people decided they wanted to speak to Tritona’s own investors as part of their work? As they didn’t exist, that would be a complete disaster.

Kent stood, walked over to his window, and looked toward Cambridge, deep in thought. Someone was bound to be listening to this conversation. By now, they’d know there was a potential problem if the FCA came crawling over Tritona’s records.

“When did they say the review will take place?” Kent asked.

“Four weeks from today. They wanted to come in earlier, but I knew you’d want time to make sure all of our files are in order and to lay the groundwork with Tritona. I pushed them back as long as I could.”

Four weeks is nothing.
“Do you think they would allow us any more time?”

“I doubt it. They seemed keen to start.”

Kent shook his head then turned to face Johnson. “Okay. I’ll speak to Baumgart and settle things with Tritona.”

“Thanks. That would help.”

Johnson still looked as if his life was over. Did he know more than he was letting on? Had he been examining Tritona’s files?

“Is there anything else?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Fire away.”

“It’s more bad news, I’m afraid.”

“What is it?”
If you’ve discovered the fake passport, for God’s sake don’t blurt it out. They’re listening to us.

“You’ll never guess who’s heading up the new investigations team at the FCA.”

A wave of relief washed over Kent as he realized his partner was not about to put their heads in a noose. “Some idiot who couldn’t cut it on our side of the industry, no doubt. Who is it?”

“Your best friend, Doug Wright.”

Kent slumped into his chair, flooded with panic.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
That’s why CBC had been chosen as the first private equity firm to undergo an active review. It all made sense. It was no coincidence. That bastard, Wright, was out to make trouble for them. He was bound to dig deep into the files at CBC and would go out of his way to disrupt Kent’s business. What if Tara mentioned the suspicious activity report she thought Kent had filed with the NCA? As it was never sent, Wright would assume he was trying to hide something and would then involve the authorities. When that happened, the whole shitty mess would be discovered.
Christ, what if the cartel think I’ve tipped off the authorities to cause this?

“Then you’d better make sure our files are in good shape, Adrian. We can’t afford to give him anything to go on. He’ll go for the jugular.”

Chapter 41

T
HAT
N
IGHT,
K
ENT
T
OOK
S
ARAH
out for dinner in Stamford. He rarely had time to eat out, other than with clients, during the week. Only when they were in the noisy Italian restaurant was he confident their conversation was not being heard. When they were in Capri, he’d told her they couldn’t discuss Tritona in the house or car in case they were being monitored.

Over their bowls of penne arrabbiata, he explained what had happened earlier in the day and what it all meant if Wright dug too deep into CBC’s affairs.

“I’m certain Wright will probe until he finds something. He won’t stop until he does.”

“How long have you got before his people come in?” asked Sarah.

“Only four weeks.”

“You can’t delay any longer, John. You have no choice now. You must go to the authorities.”

Kent pushed his half-eaten dish to one side.

“The alternative is you lose control of the whole situation and it becomes really ugly,” Sarah continued.

“I know. I’m already there. It’s the only choice I have left.”

Sarah was right; there was nothing else he could do. At least, if he went back to Merriman, he stood a chance of laying down some conditions so he could protect himself. After all, Merriman wanted something from him, so there would be room to negotiate.

“I’m just going to use the bathroom,” Kent said, rising from the table.

He made his way to the back of the restaurant. In the corridor just outside the men’s room was a payphone stuck to the wall. He stopped at it, retrieved a business card from his wallet, and punched in the number. When it connected, he recognized the US ring tone and, immediately, his stomach muscles tightened.

“Merriman,” said the voice from the other end of the line.

“It’s John Kent. I’ve decided to help.”

“Okay. We’ll be in touch.” The call ended.

Kent shook the handset to check the phone was still working properly.
That’s it?
Here he was, putting his life on the line, and that’s all the man had to say? Was this some kind of game to Merriman? He took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Maybe the American was just being cautious, avoiding a long conversation over an unsecure phone line. How long would he leave it before he made contact again? They only had four weeks, so it needed to be very soon.

“You were a long time,” said Sarah when Kent returned to the table. She was already halfway through her coffee.

He whispered in her ear before he sat. “I’ve done it. I’ve taken the first step. I just used the payphone in the corridor.”

Sarah squeezed his hand and managed a thin smile. “You’re doing the right thing, John.”

He hoped she was right. He’d never been more frightened in his life.

Three days later, Kent was on his way to the office, driving down the A1M motorway, when a police car raced by, lights flashing. Instinctively, he hit the brakes. He hadn’t seen the car in his rearview mirror; he’d been in a world of his own, thinking about Merriman and whether he ought to call him again. He was certain he’d been speeding, but no more than eighty miles per hour, surely?

As the police car passed him, its rear lights lit up the words Pull Over.

“That’s all I need,” said Kent, under his breath. “A bloody speeding ticket.”

He slowed down behind the patrol car and came to a stop on the hard shoulder of the motorway. The police officer sauntered up to Kent’s car window. Before he could say anything, Kent said, “I’m really sorry, officer. It’s not like me to be racing along the motorway. How fast was I going?”

“Too fast, I’m afraid, sir.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can I see your driving license?”

Kent reached into his briefcase and handed his license to the police officer. The officer examined the document carefully then compared the photo on the license with Kent.
He’s making a meal of this.

“Mr. Kent, I’d like you to follow my vehicle as we cannot deal with this safely while we’re on the motorway. It’s too dangerous here.”

“I hope this won’t take too long, officer. I have a meeting at the office shortly.”

Kent did not have any meetings that morning, but he wanted the policeman to know he was dealing with a busy executive, who didn’t have time to waste.

“Just follow me in your car, sir.”

The officer jumped into the patrol car and drove off the motorway and onto the A14. Kent followed at a safe distance behind, wondering why the police didn’t focus their efforts on catching real criminals like Tritona.

After half a mile, the patrol car took the first exit. “Where’s this bloody idiot taking me?” Kent grumbled.

When both vehicles approached the crossroads at the end of the exit, the patrol car went straight across the junction and toward a large set of metal gates. Kent read the sign to the right of the gates. It said: “USAF Alconbury.”

Now he understood. They were taking him to a safe location for a meeting with Merriman. What would be safer than a US air force base?

Kent followed the patrol car for a few hundred yards until it stopped outside an old redbrick building. The police officer led him inside.

“Please wait here, sir,” he said, pointing Kent to a small waiting area with two worn out leather chairs.

Kent did what he was told and took a seat. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor.

“John, please forgive the cloak and dagger arrangements,” said Merriman as he shook Kent’s hand. “It was necessary to protect you, just in case. I don’t think you were followed. Our instructions were to hold you for long enough on the motorway to ensure no other car slowed down behind you. If the police officer was less than certain, he wouldn’t have led you here.”