Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street

by Offit, Mike

  Warren had accumulated enough frequent-flier miles to upgrade to two first-class seats on Lufthansa, which Sam insisted had the best little cosmetic kits of any airline. He also splurged and bought a bottle of Grands Échézeaux along in his carry-on bag, which added a touch of extra civility to the perfectly acceptable in-flight dinner, not to mention deepening the sleep afterward.

  In Munich they picked up a sleek, black Porsche from a rental agency, and Warren rechecked the route. It would only take about three hours to make it to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and they would be there not long after its bankers unlocked their forbidding office doors.

  The drive was beautiful, the snow cover fresh and clean, the roads clear and dry. They made such good time that they lingered over strong Kaffee in a charming Bavarian inn, and Sam sampled a few of the rich breakfast pastries for the extra energy. They went over the details they had rehearsed again and again before leaving and on the plane. Sam knew a lot about the banks from her expensive forensic accounting lesson at Artie’s hands, but Warren took her through the intricacies of how they calculated and talked about interest rates on big, important accounts. It was hardly eleven o’clock when they pulled into Vaduz’s tidy central square and parked, just about twenty yards from the august entrance to the Wilhelmsbanken. Sam levered herself out of the low-slung car, looking elegant in a fur-lined, leather duffel coat, and tight stirrup pants tucked neatly into a pair of Hermès snow boots. Warren simply wore gray flannels and a white dress shirt under the shearling coat he’d bought at Barneys for the occasion. They looked healthy, wealthy, and very much in their element, their black sunglasses glinting in the clear mountain air.

  A portly doorman in a black cutaway allowed them to pass, and Sam led the way to the inner sanctum. At the reception desk she did not remove her glasses, but in an imperious voice and perfect German, fine-tuned with a half dozen classes at Berlitz, addressed the older woman who looked up from her seat inquisitively.

  “Herr Schlusmann, bitte. It is important.”

  “Ja. Ja. A moment, I will ring him. Please sit, if you wish.” The woman gestured to two wing chairs and lifted her handset. She started speaking only moments after punching in an extension.

  “Herr Schlusmann, there is a young woman and a gentleman to see you at reception.… Ja. I will tell them. Ja.” She put the receiver down and turned her face to Sam. “Herr Schlusmann has asked that I take you to his office.” Sam nodded and gestured to Warren to follow.

  “Ah, good. Then we will get this problem straightened out.” Warren couldn’t believe Sam’s accent, and though he hadn’t a clue what she was saying, she sounded convincingly pissed about something.

  They followed their guide into a surprisingly bland office, where a round, well-dressed gentleman sat behind a large partner’s desk, making notes on a report of some sort. He looked up pleasantly. “Yes. Hello. How can I help you?” His accent was clipped.

  “Help me? I will tell you. I am quite upset.” Sam still had the pissed-off tone, in what Warren assumed was excellent German. “There is a serious irregularity in my account, and I want to correct it right away.”

  “Irregularity? Of what sort? I’m certain we can correct it.” The man sounded genuinely solicitous, and Warren couldn’t help but think Sam’s legs had something to do with it.

  “When my brother passed away, his estate was held only in US dollars. Every account. Every bond. It is simply not possible. Not possible.” She was now speaking to the man as if he were an idiot and actually banged a fist on the desk for emphasis.

  “But I don’t understand? What is not possible?” His voice was unctuous, soothing, practiced in assuaging the petulant demands of the rich.

  “Some moron has responded to my inquiry by insisting that my account is held here in Swiss francs. That is absurd. It is dollars. Dollars only. Who is responsible for this stupidity?” Warren was sitting there, nodding gravely. He understood the part about dollars, and something about Swiss francs. He tried to look annoyed. “This is my solicitor, Herr Markus. We wish to address this problem right away.” She gestured to Warren, who rose and shook Herr Schlusmann’s hand.

  “Well, that is a concern. There is quite a difference. Let me investigate. What is the account number, if you please.” He was speaking to Warren now, but Sam butted in.

  “Three oh eight seven six six three four two dash three is the first. The one with the problem.” There was only one account at this bank, but she thought it was a nice touch. Herr Schlusmann jotted it on a slip of paper.

  “Ja. I will see.” He swiveled in his chair to a small computer terminal. Then paused, almost as an afterthought “Of course, if you will, I must have the pass code.”

  “The pass code?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, of course, the pass code.” Schlusmann swiveled imperceptibly back toward the desk.

  “I will not give you my pass code. I will enter it on the computer in private as I always have. What is this lunacy?” She had a condescending bite that transcended language. She had committed to memory all the numbers in Anson’s spreadsheet, and the moment of truth had arrived. If they didn’t match up, they could have real trouble.

  “Yes, of course, as you wish.” The servile tone had returned. He spent a moment at the keyboard, then swiveled back. “At your convenience…”

  Sam stood abruptly and stepped to the console behind the man, who did not turn to observe. She tapped the keypad a few times and stepped away. “Ja,” she muttered.

  Schlusmann turned again and spun through a few menus. His back stiffened slightly as a screen full of tiny numbers appeared, which even Warren could see contained an awful lot of zeros. Sam had to struggle not to show any reaction.

  “But, as you can see, this is all in United States dollars! I cannot understand how you were ever told otherwise. Do you—”

  “Ach. Idiot. I told her. Well then, good. Tell me, Herr Schlusmann, was the interest paid in last month, as scheduled? Twenty-five basis points under LIBOR, I presume?” The information Warren had gotten from one of the traders at Credit Suisse had been spot-on. This would apply only to a highly preferred account—most deposits here paid no interest.

  “Yes, of course. But we have modified your rate to only twenty last September.” The man was being so polite as to border on obsequiousness.

  “So generous, Herr Schlusmann. I am sure it must cause you a great deal of discomfort.” Sam was smiling now, deciding the time had come to ease up. She motioned to Warren, as if he were a servant, to follow her. He tried to look the part as he nervously snatched her coat and helped her into it.

  “Bitte,” he muttered. He thought he sounded like Lili Von Shtupp in Blazing Saddles.

  “Danke. Danke schön, Herr Schlusmann. I will notify you of where I wish my account transferred tomorrow. This bank should be most ashamed of itself. I do not blame you, but this is intolerable.” The man looked crestfallen, shocked. He started to renew his apologies, to explain that the bank never made such errors.

  She cut him off. “Herr Schlusmann, I do not blame you. Not at all. I will write a letter to your director complimenting you. I will even recommend you to the Faaringsbank. But I do not suffer such treatment easily. Now, I must be going. I will be in touch with you tomorrow.” She tossed her Hermès scarf around her shoulder, and she and Warren exited briskly past the receptionist, whom Warren nodded to, and the doorman.

  “Of course, madame, as you wish.” Schlusmann walked behind her, looking dejected. He was clearly accustomed to brutal treatment at the hands of the extremely wealthy.

  Outside, Sam looked a little dazed. They walked to the car quietly, and Warren held the door for her, then clambered to the driver’s side and in.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t believe it.” She had a smile as wide as the Alps on her face.

  “What? What was it?” Warren was dying.

  “Oh, only ninety-two million dollars. And the account is registered under a Klaust AG with a post office box in Grand Cayma
n for the address. No people’s names at all. That means the pass code is the only ticket in and out.”

  “You’re kidding me. Ninety-two million dollars? Dollars?” Warren had started to pull away from the curb, and he had to concentrate to make the shift. His hand wasn’t steady.

  “And change. A lot of it. Warren, that was just one account.” She had an awed tone in her voice. “And he never even asked for my name! Can you believe it?”

  “I know. It’s scary. Jesus. What do we do?” His mind was racing. Where the fuck did 92 million bucks come from?

  “Let’s open the account, then think about it for a while, okay?” She smiled at him.

  “You got it.” He made a right-hand turn and drove a few blocks, pulling up outside another formidable-looking building, the modern, white, glass-and-steel offices of the Faaringsbank. This time, he went in alone. The tone of the bank officer was hardly as solicitous as Herr Schlusmann’s had been, and when Warren asked to open a private account, he was treated to a long wait. A secretary dropped a sheaf of papers on the desk, and Warren started filling them out. Sean Sennet with a mailbox address at the General Post Office in New York. The falsified passport Artie had left behind had been in Sam’s drawer for two years, and changing the picture had not been hard. God only knew what name Artie had used when he’d left. Finally, the woman escorted him into a small office and introduced him to a Vice President, Jurgen Dohlmerr.

  “Ja, Herr Sennet, and what will the opening deposit be?” The conversation was in English, which the banker spoke with a magnificent British accent.

  “If it is not too much trouble, Herr Dohlmer, I would like only to open the account today. Once you have provided me with the number and codes, I will have my bankers transfer in a substantial sum within the week.” Warren was purposefully speaking quite slowly and formally. “I would like to register the account in the name of a confidential Liechtenstein trust, please, if you can complete that for me? I am only here in Liechtenstein to attend to several private matters, and this is not a sum I wish to carry in any negotiable form.” Warren pursed his lips and put the bank’s pen into his breast pocket.

  “I see. You understand of course that the bank has a minimum account balance of two hundred thousand Swiss francs.” The older man was letting a hint of superiority creep into his voice.

  “I would prefer an interest-bearing account, Herr Dohlmer. LIBOR even, if you could.” Warren smiled at the man.

  “That would require a rather substantial balance, I am afraid.” Dohlmer obviously thought this American was an idiot. “This is not, after all, Citibank.”

  “Herr Dohlmer, I have not seen fit to insult you. No, this is not Citibank, but neither is it Credit Suisse or even Wilhelms. I attended to this matter myself because it is a private one, or I would have had it handled by my family’s fund managers. I am certain you will be pleased with the balance, which will be extremely substantial. I plan to keep it here for quite some time and add to it as other funds come available. Faaringsbank will do well with me. If you would, please, the numbers. I must be on my way.” Warren adopted Sam’s regal tone and folded his gloves. “I would appreciate it if you would move quickly.”

  Dohlmer paused, sizing Warren up, then nodded and walked to another desk. The man there perused the papers, stamped them, tore off a slip, and then consulted a register. In a moment, Dohlmer was back. He handed the sheaf of papers back to Warren, less only the small slip. They’d never even taken the passport. Dohlmer then pulled out another folder and swiftly executed the paperwork to create a private trust, which Warren named Sporty AG after his neighbor’s annoying Lhasa apso. The trust would own the bank account, and the records of the trust, like the account, would be completely protected by the country’s secrecy laws—laws all sorts of despots, criminals, and the occasional legitimate businessman relied on. If somehow the records were released, they would lead to a post office box taken out in the name of someone who didn’t exist. No paper statements were sent out, so Warren doubted he would even need to maintain the box for more than a few months.

  One of the sheets of paper held wire-transfer instructions, and an authorization for transfers out. The only record the bank now had was an account number and a pass code. That slip and the trust paperwork would be kept in a locked vault, and only the commission of a crime in the nation of Liechtenstein itself was grounds for its release to any law enforcement authority in the world. The transfer of funds out of the bank would require a telephone call, telex, or fax, and so long as the pass code was correct, the money could be sent anywhere in the world by instantaneous wire transfer. Warren nodded, shook the man’s hand, and stood.

  “Herr Dohlmer, I will contact you tomorrow evening, to be certain you have received the transfer. I will allow you to set the rate you feel appropriate for the account balance, but if it is not fair, I will take my business down the street. My family looks forward to a long relationship with this bank.” The older man thanked him, and Warren left, meeting Sam, who was on foot at the corner. They walked around the block to the car, without seeing another soul. Liechtenstein was, after all, a small country. Money, it seems, really takes up little room at all.

  They made the scenic drive to Zurich, where they checked in using Sennet’s name again. The Dolder was a grand old hotel in the forest, and the couple indulged in a lengthy session with their spa staff. Over the next two days, they checked the balances of all six accounts and transfered the three largest to Faaringsbank. It had been a bit of a letdown after the first, but Account 83713847 now had a balance of $224,622,400.39. It was earning interest at 4.5 percent, a highly preferred rate. When he had spoken to Herr Dohlmerr on the phone, his manner had changed remarkably, and he offered to take Warren to lunch anywhere in Europe, at any time. Warren had upgraded to a huge suite at the Dolder, the tall windows commanding a beautiful view out over the hills and the lake from one of the dramatic towers. Sean Sennet was a wealthy man.

  That they controlled such a vast sum of money seemed momentous, and they had a feeling that the combined forces of Interpol and the FBI were certain to break in on them at any moment. Of course, except for the false identity and passport, shown only to the bankers and not to any government officials, they hadn’t done anything wrong. As with all private accounts in Swiss and Liechtenstein banks, the papers executed by Anson or his cohorts when they’d opened the original accounts stated clearly, in any language you required, that the holder of the pass codes had full legal right to the funds. The signatures waived the bank’s liability if the codes were inadvertently stolen or passed on by the depositor. Now that money was gone, transferred into another bank, with an electronic trail they would never divulge and would be expunged from any record within two years. Besides, no one seemed to be looking for any missing money, and the putative Sean Sennet was completely and absolutely guaranteed secrecy by the laws that supported Liechtenstein’s entire economy. The small nation’s only economic engine protected Sam and Warren from any prying eyes. It was strictly personal business, and the very soul of discretion.

  They finished out the week and returned to New York and the hurly-burly world of commerce. Both Bill’s and Anson’s deaths were still unsolved, and Detective Wittlin didn’t even call Warren anymore. He had brought up the coincidence that Ken Hament had been in town the day that Anson got killed as well, but, again, nothing linked him to the scene, and he had been at his hotel in Midtown having a drink with another tennis pro at about the time of Anson’s murder.

  Warren tried not to think too much about the money, but he spent weeks researching every deal that Anson Combes had done over the past seven years. Surprisingly, many of the deal files had been moved to an archive warehouse. Warren had filled out the retrieval requests and noted on the forms, in case anyone was curious, that he was working on devising a new structure for similar deals. He also ordered up unrelated deals by other people to cover his tracks.

  There was only one noticeable trend in Anson’s files. Almost
every sizable deal Anson did was with Warner or Golden State, and almost every one of them involved a massive profit participation by the broker Scholdice. Welson would work for a point or two—great by normal standards. But Warren had added up over $375 million in the first two years alone paid out to Scholdice–about ten times what Weldon had netted. The total could eventually have been close to a billion dollars. The pattern had become pretty clear: Scholdice was working with the men at the banks and Anson to turn the banks’ losses into huge payoffs for all the men involved. The money must have gone from Scholdice maybe first to the Caymans and then to Liechtenstein.

  Warren went to Weldon’s library of financial statements and, a check of the two banks’ reports revealed extremely large loan-loss reserves stretching back over at least five years. The losses were covered by profits from other investments—junk bonds, real estate, and so on. The banks’ losses were taken on the loans Anson bought, repackaged, and sold, at massive profits. Weldon earned a nice fee, but the bulk of the money went to Scholdice, who was clearly sending a share to Anson’s account, keeping his cut, and, no doubt, sending a big chunk to the men at the banks as well. Warren was willing to bet that some of those European banks had accounts set up by Scholdice, with Karlheinz Beker and Pete Largeman participating in the spoils. They’d devised a brilliant scheme to sell off blocks of the banks’ perfectly good assets, replace them with shaky, but not high-yielding ones, and skim the profits off the top. The plan also allowed the banks to avoid paying taxes on their profits on these questionable assets. Anson was a hell of an investment banker, after all. The financial press hailed these men as geniuses—they’d saved their institutions from the ruin of poor lending practices with brilliant investments. Their shareholders should be thrilled.