Geneva Connection, The (30 page)

Twenty minutes into the train journey, the steward came along the first class carriage pouring out hot drinks and handing out complimentary newspapers. Kent ordered a coffee and took the
Financial Daily
. He’d just settled back into his seat to read the paper when his mobile phone rang.

“John. It’s Joanna.”

“Hi, Joanna. I can’t talk much as I’m on a train, and the mobile reception isn’t great.”

“Okay. I’ll keep it brief,” said Kirkland. “We’ve just completed the HS1 rail deal. Tritona’s winning bid was seventy-six billion pounds. Can you believe that?”

“Well done. Geneva will be pleased. That’s a hell of a price. I’m just glad it’s not in our fund.”

“It’s a wacky price, and I did tell you it would take a very high bid to win the auction. There was a lot of interest in it.”

“So it seems. If they plan to keep the asset for the very long term and just collect the yield, then the price is a little more credible. That’s what they say they’ll do. It certainly won’t sell on at a profit if they wanted to flip it quickly.”

“By the way, I’ve put you and me down as CBC’s directors on the board of the SPV that was used for the acquisition. I hope that’s okay?”

“No problem. Thanks, for letting me know about the deal. See you back at the office in a few days.”

“Good luck with your file review. Rather you than me.”

Kent finished the call. He could only fake his excitement for so long. The High Speed 1 deal was another potential nail in his coffin if his and Merriman’s plans went horribly wrong. He’d just knowingly assisted a criminal organization launder seventy-six billion pounds. The UK authorities would throw the book at him if they ever found out. He’d never be able to explain it away. Merriman’s little scheme had better work.

He picked up his hot coffee with one hand and the newspaper with the other and scanned the front page.

“Christ!” he shouted, spilling coffee down the front of his shirt and tie. The hot liquid burned his skin. One of the train stewards rushed over to help him mop up the mess.

Kent held his shirt away from his chest. “It’s okay, I’ll do it,” he said as the steward began to wipe up the coffee on the table. “Really, I’m okay. I’ll take care of it.”

Kent ignored the onlookers and picked up his paper the moment the steward left. A photograph of Doug Wright was in the middle of the front page. The headline read: “FCA Investigations Head Dies in Freak Accident.” The article started by describing the circumstances of Wright’s death. Apparently, he’d stepped into the executive elevator on the twenty-second floor of the FCA’s building only to find that the elevator was not there. His badly mangled body had fallen the full height of the tower. He wasn’t discovered for two hours as he’d gone missing over lunchtime. Expert commentators were quoted, postulating that Mr. Wright would have died instantly. No doubt about it. He would not have suffered. The article went on to describe how the police were treating the circumstances of his death as highly suspicious; there was early evidence to suggest the elevator control unit had been tampered with. The remainder of the piece gave a summary of Wright’s recent appointment as the head of the regulator’s new investigations team following a successful career building up Henderson Wright as a global firm of accountants.

Kent could feel his heart racing while his mind did overtime. Evidence of tampering. Suspicious death. Then the chilling thought hit him. Had the recent CBC partners’ meeting led directly to Wright’s death? At that meeting, the partners had discussed Wright’s imminent visit. If, as Kent suspected, CBC’s offices were bugged, then Tritona and/or the cartel would know Wright was a threat to them if he came digging too deeply.

The more he thought about the circumstances of Wright’s death, the more he was certain he’d been murdered. His death was not an accident at all. The cartel wouldn’t hesitate to wipe out any perceived threat. Anton was murdered on his way to work and now Wright. Kent was lucky to be alive.
If they find out about Merriman, I’m a dead man
.

Still in a world of his own when the train arrived at King’s Cross station, Kent remained in his seat as the other passengers left the train. Could he really go on with this? Suddenly, the stakes seemed higher and more real.

Kent needed space and time to think this through, so he called Gateley to say his train had been delayed by a power failure on the electric rail line, and he was still stuck on it. He’d be there as soon as he could, but it might be some time.

He gathered his things off the sticky table in front of him and folded the newspaper under his arm. When he walked out of the front entrance of the station, he turned right along Euston road. Where could he find a quiet space to sit and think? As he headed west along the busy street, he kept looking around to see if anyone was following him. A few minutes later, he reached the British Library. There had to be somewhere quiet in there he could sit and gather his thoughts.

He found a deserted reading area on the second floor, where he read the
Financial Daily
article again and again. His hands were trembling and he felt cold. The risk of continuing with Merriman’s plan was simply too high. He couldn’t do it any longer. Who would be next? Sarah? Another one of his partners?

On the ground floor, at the rear of the building, was a row of payphones. Kent retrieved Merriman’s card from his wallet and punched in the number.

After several rings, a very drowsy-sounding Merriman answered the call. “This had better be good.”

“It’s Kent. We need to talk.”

“Do you know what time it is over here? Can’t it wait?”

Kent was risking his life, and the man he was risking it for couldn’t be bothered to speak to him because it was in the middle of the night.

“Fuck you. I’m not going through with the plan.”

An elderly man, standing at another payphone, threw Kent a look as if to say: don’t you know this is a library?

Kent no longer cared. “You can find some other idiot to help you. I’ve had enough of all this. I’m out.”

“I’m sorry. Relax, okay? I was woken up by your call,” said Merriman.

“I’m putting my life on the line for you. It’s not worth it.”

“What’s happened?”

“Hold on.” Kent waited for the man to finish on the other payphone and watched him leave. Then he explained the circumstances of Wright’s death and how he was all set to lead an investigation into CBC’s files the following week.

“And you didn’t think to tell us about the FCA? Big mistake.”

“I’ve had a million and one things to think about with all this going on. I’ve not had time to give you a running commentary.”

“I don’t give a squat. Don’t tell me you’ve been busy, like that’s some excuse. You know full well an investigation by the FCA could wreck all of our plans. You should’ve told me.”

“What do you want from me? I’ve told you now, haven’t I? That will have to do.”

“This changes everything. We need to finish this process faster than we thought. We can’t allow a visit from the regulator to fuck up our plans.”

“Are you listening to me? I told you I’m not doing this anymore. Wright’s death was no accident. I don’t intend to be the next victim. I’m out. Finished.” Kent was shaking as he shouted down the phone. People walking by were beginning to stare at him, but he didn’t care.

“Calm down, John.”

“Don’t tell me to bloody well calm down. It’s not you in the firing line. I’m not doing it. Go find some other mug.”

“Look, we already have all we need from the CBC files. All we need now are the Oakham documents and we’re done. It’s only a couple of days’ work. You can’t pull out at this point. You have to finish this thing.”

“You’re still not listening to me. It’s over.”

There was a long pause. “I’m going to level with you, John. If you pull out now, we’ll still seize the assets we know about then we’ll quietly let Caruana know you helped us. Do you understand me? We are that close to breaking the cartel. Do you really think we’re going to let you fuck this up for us? That ain’t gonna happen.”

Kent felt like head-butting the wall. “You wouldn’t dare do that. We have a deal. Remember?”

“Try me, John. We have nothing to lose. You do. The deal was we protect you as our source, but only if you see the whole thing through.”

“That’s not how I saw it.”

“I’m telling you as it is. Your call.”

This duplicitous bastard has got me in a corner. I’m a dead man if I don’t help him.
Kent was a shrewd negotiator and recognized that Merriman had the upper hand. He’d already provided enough help to guarantee his own death should the cartel find out. He realized he had no choice but to see through the end of the process. Merriman had now shown his true colors; the man had no real interest in anything other than bringing down the Caruana cartel and he’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted. That much was clear.
He’d happily feed me to the cartel if it suited him.

“Okay. I’ll finish it. You’d better keep to your side of the bargain when all this is over.”

“We’ll keep to our side of the deal. Provided, of course, you meet all of your obligations.” Merriman’s tone sounded menacing rather than reassuring.

Kent slammed down the phone. Merriman was no longer an ally; he was an adversary. Kent would have to take as many precautions as possible to protect his own interests from now on. He couldn’t rely on Merriman to have his back. The American couldn’t be trusted, and Kent owed him no favors.

It was just after eleven a.m. when Kent arrived at Oakham Fiduciary Services. He made his apologies, blaming the train for his long delay. Gateley set him up in a large meeting room where he had a whole bunch of files already waiting for Kent’s review.

“Did you see today’s
Financial Daily
piece on Doug Wright?” asked Gateley, as they sat down for a chat over coffee before Kent started his work.

“I did. What a dreadful accident,” replied Kent.

“An awful way to go. Can you imagine falling twenty-two floors to your death?”

“I can’t even begin. At least it would have been quick.”

“Do you think our investigation will still go ahead?”

“It’s hard to say. We ought to assume it’s still on, but we shouldn’t be surprised if they postpone it. I’m down here now so I might as well complete the file review as planned, just in case.”

“That sounds right. I’ll leave you to it, John. Let me know if you need any drinks or whatever bringing in. If there’s anything you don’t follow, just let me know. Some of the corporate structures are a little esoteric, shall we say.”

“Thanks. I will do.”

When Gateley left, Kent closed the door behind him and started wading through the files. Most of them contained original documents which were signed by Baumgart. The documents were those needed to establish offshore holding companies and trusts which were then used to hold both the direct investments made by Tritona and those made through CBC and its funds. They would definitely provide the evidence Merriman needed to tie Tritona to the underlying assets. He looked around the room, checking for CCTV cameras before dropping the relevant original documents into his briefcase. The main risk now was if Gateley checked the files before Kent could replace the missing papers with fake substitutes, but there was no choice.

At the end of the day, Kent took a cab over to the Marriott Hotel on the south bank of the Thames, overlooking the Houses of Parliament. Tara had booked him in there for the few nights he estimated it would take to complete his review. After checking in, he made his way to the top floor where there was a large gym facing out over the river. He left his briefcase in one of the secure lockers in the changing room and went for a run on one of the many treadmills. He built his pace up quickly while he stared down at the commuters making their way back and forth across Westminster Bridge. He envied them for their mundane, predictable lives. At least they were safe and could sleep at night.

Kent was a few minutes into his run when Special Agent Whitlock finished his workout on an adjacent treadmill and left the gym. There was no eye contact between the two men; they were two strangers, exercising after work. Whitlock returned to the changing room to get dressed, using the locker next to Kent’s. When it was clear that he was not being watched, he used a special key to open Kent’s locker and removed the contents of the briefcase, slipping them into his holdall. He was gone before Kent was halfway through his routine.

Chapter 45

K
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of the Marriott Hotel having a quiet drink after dinner. He stared out of the window as he ran over recent events in his mind. The city lights were reflecting off the Thames, and late night revelers were making their way across Westminster Bridge to the tube station on the opposite bank.

So far, Merriman’s plan appeared to be working and the dangerous part would soon be over. Even the initial shock of Wright’s murder was beginning to fade. Now, Kent felt more angry than fearful—angry he was being used by Merriman as a pawn in his vendetta against the cartel, angry he’d been duped by the cartel into their money laundering scam, and angry about the future that had been stolen from him. What lay ahead now was uncertainty and pain. Once the publicity came out about Tritona and the cartel, there would be no future for CBC. The whole market knew Kent’s firm handled all Tritona’s investment activity. Even if it was made clear that CBC was a victim in the whole affair, no sane investor would commit new investment funds to the firm. The reputational risk would be simply too high for them. And once Merriman had seized the cartel’s assets, there’d be nothing left, not even a portfolio management role to play. Where once Kent had been counting on the management fees and carried interest on Tritona’s vast portfolio to make his fortune, there would be zilch. His dreams of becoming private equity’s first European billionaire would be ruined. It would never happen, and he’d have no opportunity to make it all again. How could he when his personal reputation was about to be put through the shredder?