Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

“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 Cayman 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.