The Wolf of Wall Street

What would I do if Al cooperated against me? Most of the cash he had withdrawn from the bank had gone to me. He had once told me that he had some ratholes in the jewelry district, for whom he was making money in new issues and they were kicking him back large amounts of cash. Never once had I considered that he was taking money out of the bank. He was too smart for that, wasn’t he? He was the most careful man on the planet. One mistake—that was all it took.

Would I share the same fate? Was Switzerland going to be my one act of stupidity? For five years I had been incredibly careful—never giving the FBI a single head shot. I never talked about the past; my home and office were constantly swept for bugs; I papered every transaction I’d ever made, creating plausible deniability; and I never took small amounts of money out of the bank. In fact, I had withdrawn over $10 million dollars in cash from various bank accounts, in increments of a quarter million or more, for the sole reason of having plausible deniability if I was ever caught with a large amount of cash. In fact, if the FBI ever questioned me I could simply say, “Go check with my bank and you’ll see that all my cash is legit.”

So, yes—I had been careful. But so had my good friend Al, my first mentor, a man I owed a great deal to. And if they had caught him…well, the odds were definitely stacked against me.

And that would be my second dark premonition of the day. But at this particular moment I had no way of knowing that it wouldn’t be my last.

CHAPTER 13

MONEY LAUNDERING 101

The private banking firm of Union Bancaire Privée occupied a gleaming black-glass office building that rose up ten stories from the Frog-infested marrow of Geneva. It was located on rue du Rhône, which, I assumed, translated into Rhone Street. It was in the very heart of Geneva’s overpriced shopping district, merely a stone’s throw away from my favorite geyser.

Unlike a U.S. bank, where you walk through the entryway and find smiling tellers hiding behind bulletproof glass, inside this particular lobby there was only a single young lady surrounded by about forty tons of gray Italian marble. She sat behind a solid mahogany desk that was large enough to land my helicopter on. She wore a light-gray pantsuit, a high-necked white blouse, and a blank expression. Her hair was blond and had been pulled back into a tight bun. Her skin was flawless, not a wrinkle or a blemish on it. Another Swiss robot, I thought.

As Danny and I walked to the desk, she eyed us suspiciously. She knew, didn’t she! Of course she did. It was written all over our faces. Young American criminals looking to launder their ill-gotten gains! Drug dealers who made their money selling to schoolchildren!

I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to explain to her that we were just plain old stock swindlers, who were only addicted to drugs. We didn’t actually sell them, for Chrissake!

But thankfully she chose to keep her opinion to herself and not address the exact nature of our crime. All she said was, “Might I help you?”

Might? Jesus H. Christ! More wishes! “Yes, I’m here for a meeting with Jean Jacques Saurel?*2 My name is Jordan Belfort?” Why the f**k was I phrasing everything as a question? These Swiss bastards were rubbing off on me.

I waited for the female android to answer me, but she didn’t. She just kept staring at me…and then at Danny…eyeing the two of us up and down. Then, as if to reinforce how poorly I’d pronounced Mr. Saurel’s name, she replied, “Ah—you mean Monsieur Jean Jacques Saurel!” How beautiful she made his name sound! “Yes, Mr. Belfort, they would all be waiting for you on the fifth floor.” She motioned to the elevator.

Danny and I ascended in a mahogany-paneled elevator that was operated by a young man dressed like a nineteenth-century Swiss army marshal. I said to Danny in hushed tones, “Remember what I told you. No matter how this goes down, we leave the table saying we’re not interested. Okay?”

Danny nodded.

We exited the elevator and walked down a long mahogany-paneled hallway that reeked of wealth. It was so quiet I felt like I was inside a casket, but I fought the urge to draw any conclusions about that particular thought. Instead, I took a deep breath and kept heading toward the tall, slender figure at the end of the hallway.

“Ahhh, Mr. Belfort! Mr. Porush! Good morning to both of you!” said Jean Jacques Saurel in warm tones. We exchanged handshakes. Then he fixed me with a wry smile and added, “I trust that your stay has improved since that nasty business at the airport. You must tell me over coffee about your adventure with the stewardess!”

He winked at me.

What a guy! I thought. He wasn’t your typical Swiss Frog, that was for sure. He was definitely a piece of Eurotrash, but, still, he was so…suave that there was no way he could be Swiss. He had olive skin and dark brown hair, which he wore slicked back tight, like a true Wall Streeter. His face was long and thin, as were his features, but everything fit together nicely. He wore an immaculate navy worsted suit with chalk-gray pinstripes, a white dress shirt with French cuffs, and a blue silk necktie that looked expensive. His clothes hung on his frame oh so sweetly, in a way that only those European bastards could pull off.

We had a brief conversation in the hallway, during which I found out that Jean Jacques wasn’t actually Swiss but French, on loan from the bank’s Paris branch. That made sense. Then he impressed the hell out of me by stating that he was uncomfortable having Gary Kaminsky attend this meeting but since it was he, Gary, who had made the introduction, it was unavoidable. He suggested that we take things only so far and then meet personally either later today or tomorrow. I told him that I was already planning to end the meeting on a negative note for that very same reason. He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly, as if to say, “Not bad!” I didn’t even bother looking at Danny. I knew he was impressed.

Jean Jacques escorted us into a conference room that looked more like a men’s smoking club than anything else. There were six Swiss Frogs sitting around a long glass conference table, each dressed in traditional business attire. Each of them was holding a lit cigarette or had one burning in an ashtray in front of them. From top to bottom the room was filled with a giant cloud of smoke.

And then there was Kaminsky. He was sitting amid the Frogs with that awful toupee lying on his skull like a dead animal. On his fat round face was a shit-eating grin that made me want to smack him. For a brief instant I considered asking him to leave the room, but I decided against it. Better he should witness the meeting and hear with his own ears that I had decided against doing business in Switzerland.

After a few minutes of small talk, I said, “I’m curious about your bank secrecy laws. I’ve heard many conflicting things from attorneys back in the United States. Under what circumstances would you cooperate with the U.S. government?”

Kaminsky replied, “That’s the best part of doing business in—”

I cut him off. “Gary, if I was interested in your opinion on this matter I would’ve fuckin—” I stopped myself, realizing that these Swiss robots probably wouldn’t appreciate my usual fuck-speak. Then I humbly said, “Excuse me, everyone—I would’ve asked you for it when we were back in New York, Gary.”

The Frogs smiled and nodded their heads. The unspoken message was: “Yes, this Kaminsky is as great a fool as he looks.” But now my mind was racing ahead. Obviously, Kaminsky was going to get some sort of finder’s fee if I decided to do business with the bank. Why else would he be so anxious to mollify my concerns? Originally I had thought that Kaminsky was just another schnook who liked to show how much he knew about an obscure topic. Wall Street was full of those sorts of people. Dilettantes, they were called. But now I was convinced that Kaminsky’s motivation was financial. If I were to actually open an account at the bank, he would be alerted through the receipt of his finder’s fee. That was a problem.

As if he were reading my mind, Jean Jacques said, “Mr. Kaminsky has always been quick to offer his opinion on matters such as these. I find that rather odd, considering he has nothing to gain or lose on your decision. He has already been paid a small finder’s fee just for bringing you here. Whether or not you choose to do business with Union Banc does not bear on Mr. Kaminsky’s pocketbook one way or the other.”

I nodded in understanding. I found it interesting that Saurel didn’t speak in wishes. He had a complete command of the English language, idioms and all.

Saurel plowed on: “But to answer your question, the only way the Swiss government would cooperate with the U.S. government would be if the alleged crime was also a crime in Switzerland. For example, in Switzerland, there is no law regarding tax evasion. So if we were to receive a request from the United States government regarding such a matter, we would not cooperate with them.”

“Mr. Saurel is entirely correct,” said the bank’s vice president, a thin little Frog with spectacles, who went by the name of Pierre something or other. “We have no great affection for your government. You would please not take offense at this. But the fact remains that we would cooperate only if the alleged crime is a penal offense, or, as you would say it, a felony.”

Then a second Pierre chimed in, although this one was younger and was bald as a cue ball. He said, “You would find that the Swiss penal code is far more liberal than that of your own country. Many of your felonies are not considered felonies in Switzerland.”

Christ almighty! The word felony was enough to send a shiver down my spine. In fact, it was already obvious that there were huge problems with my preconceived notion of using Switzerland as a rathole…unless, of course…well…could ratholes be legal in Switzerland? I ran the possibility through my mind. No, I strongly doubted it, but I would have to inquire about it when I met with Saurel in private. I smiled and said, “Well, I’m really not concerned about that sort of thing, because I have absolutely no intention of breaking any U.S. laws.” That was a bold-faced lie. But I loved the way it sounded. Who cared that it was a boatload of crap? For some inexplicable reason it still made me feel more at ease about being in Switzerland. I soldiered on: “And when I say that, I speak for Danny as well. You see, our sole reason for wanting to have money in Switzerland is for asset protection. My primary concern is that in my line of work there exists a great likelihood of getting sued—wrongfully, I might add. But either way what I’d like to know—or, to put it more bluntly, what’s most important to me—is that under no circumstances will you turn any of my money over to a U.S. citizen or, for that matter, any person on the planet who happens to get a civil judgment against me.”

Saurel smiled. “Not only would we never do that,” he mused, “but we don’t even recognize anything that is—as you say—civil. Even if we were to get a subpoena from your Securities and Exchange Commission—which is a civil regulatory body—we would not cooperate with them under any circumstances.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And that would be even if the alleged offense is a felony under Swiss law.” He nodded to drive his point home. “Even then we would still not cooperate!” He smiled a conspirator’s smile.