The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  Tom tried to make it plausible. The Swiss franc was a bargain at 2.45 to the pound. A good time to look at some Swiss equities, maybe a few currency contracts.

  ‘A window of considerable opportunity. And, well, you know me. I like to squeeze the vine in situ.’

  ‘Your chum Langland still in Zurich?’ Grinholm asked out of the blue.

  My chum Langland. Tom’s heart did a somersault. ‘Yeah. Still there,’ he replied, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Okay. When do you want to go?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later. I already missed over a week – better look at this now before I get stuck in again.’

  ‘Fine by me. Go ahead.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And … Tom …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry about your dad.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Perhaps there was hope after all.

  On Tuesday Clayton went to work as usual.

  He asked his secretary to book him a seat to Zurich on the last flight of the day and get a lake-side room at the Baur au Lac. Like many businessmen, he eschewed the magnificence of the Dolder Grand Hotel in favour of the Baur au Lac’s pole position at the top of Bahnhofstrasse, within walking distance of all the banks.

  Then, seizing a moment when those around him were preoccupied with their own calls, he rang head office at United Credit Bank and made an appointment for the following morning. The receptionist had put him through to a solicitous gentleman in the Private Clients section. Tom explained that he wished to open an account. It would be a personal account, denominated in US dollars. He did point out, however, that his initial deposit would be substantial, a clue that would determine the calibre of bank executive that would receive him. The meeting was confirmed with a Mr Ackermann, fifth floor, 9.30 on Wednesday. He then called his own bank’s Zurich office and arranged to visit late on Wednesday morning. He avoided talking to Langland directly, instead leaving him a message suggesting lunch.

  Tom’s flight left London on time at 19.15 but – with Swiss clocks an hour ahead – by the time he reached his hotel at ten-thirty the restaurants were closing. Nothing much happens in Zurich at night. So he ate a bowl of risotto sent up to his room by the Rive Gauche restaurant, watched the US news on cable, drank two cognacs from the minibar and, trying hard not to think about money, fell asleep by midnight.

  On Wednesday morning Clayton rose early, ate breakfast in the Grill Room and admired the crisp, sunny winter morning through the hotel’s bay windows overlooking the canal. He then walked the full length of Bahnhofstrasse, mentally rehearsing his strategy.

  He reached the bank’s headquarters at 9.25 and passed through the main lobby towards the lifts. A uniformed porter confirmed that Mr Ackermann was to be found on the fifth floor. The upstairs waiting room was quite different from the banking hall; plush chairs and sofas, arranged in the style of an airport lounge, were occupied by visitors of obvious foreign origins; in one corner two African ladies in their finest tribal dress clutched briefcases and whispered to each other in an incomprehensible tongue. This was where much of the world’s funny money came to rest. Tom walked up to the reception desk and announced himself. Immediately, an immaculately dressed, slopes-tanned young man stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  ‘Mr Clayton,’ he said warmly, ‘I am Hugo Alicona. Mr Ackermann is expecting you.’

  Clayton followed Alicona along a sedately lit corridor into an office on the left. It contained a conference table, several wall cabinets, and chairs for half a dozen people. At the far end, a tall, grey man in a grey suit rose to greet him. He was spartan slim, with thinning hair, and the exaggerated good manners of those who acquire them in adulthood. As they took their seats, Tom made his first planned move and handed over his business card. In terms of investment banking, Tom’s employers ranked amongst the top three in the world. His title was not bad either, and the Swiss were suitably impressed: this prospective new client was no third-world government official depositing dubious ‘commissions’.

  ‘First of all, Mr Ackermann,’ Clayton began, addressing the senior man, ‘you will understand that I am here in a private capacity.’ Pointing at the card which his host had placed on the table, he added: ‘And in no way representing my employers.’

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Ackermann.

  ‘What I would like to do is establish two accounts. A deposit account and a current account. Both denominated in US dollars.’

  ‘Would these be numbered accounts, Mr Clayton?’ enquired Ackermann, referring to the type of account with no name for which Swiss banks were notorious – just a number known to the bank and the beneficiary, with the latter’s real name locked away in a special vault and accessible only to two designated managers.

  ‘No, not at all. Both accounts would be in my name,’ replied Clayton, watching with satisfaction as the two bankers nodded approvingly.

  ‘As you know, I am a citizen of the United States. And no doubt you are aware that, as such, I am required to declare all my assets worldwide and to file an annual tax return for all my income. In other words, to pay United States taxes on any such income, wherever it may arise.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Clayton. The price of American citizenship!’

  ‘Of which I am proud, gentlemen. Secrecy, therefore, which I appreciate is enshrined in Swiss banking law, is of little value to me. Discretion, on the other hand, and good efficient management, that’s what your establishment is most respected for – which is why I have come to see you today.’

  ‘You are most kind, Mr Clayton. Now, before we discuss amounts and rates, might we enquire, in confidence of course, as to the source of the funds you intend to entrust us with?’

  A standard question, thought Tom. The answer to be duly noted so that the bank could cover itself. Did they really expect, Tom pondered, the likes of President Sani Abacha to walk in with ten million in cash and acknowledge the funds were raised by ripping off Nigeria’s oil?

  ‘Certainly. My father died a few days ago. As the main beneficiary of his will, I have received a substantial inheritance.’

  ‘Please accept our condolences, Mr Clayton,’ interjected Ackermann in his most funereal tone, echoed respectfully by Alicona.

  ‘Thank you. Now, part of that inheritance, real estate and some cash, is back home in New York and, for the foreseeable future, shall remain there. However, a substantial part is here in –’ He was about to say Switzerland but thought better of it. ‘Here in Europe, and it’s …’ He hesitated slightly for effect, now coming to the gamble. ‘It’s that amount that I would like to leave with you.’

  Ackermann remained unmoved. ‘And what figure are we talking about, Mr Clayton?’ he asked, poising his pen over his pad and avoiding Tom’s eyes. A first crack in the Swiss armour.

  ‘Ah, the sum,’ said Clayton, slightly raising his voice, then pausing until both men had to look at him. ‘I expect you gentlemen to be able to tell me that.’

  Hugo Alicona looked at Clayton, then at his superior, then back and forth between the two. He was lost.

  ‘Would you care to explain, Mr Clayton?’ demanded Ackermann grimly.

  ‘My family, Mr Ackermann, have kept their funds with you for a very long time. Most of this century, in fact. Those funds are now mine. I will want them transferred to the accounts you will now open for me.’

  ‘I see. Naturally I will need the details of these accounts.’

  Clayton produced a typed sheet of paper and passed it over to Ackermann.

  ‘The account was originally established by my grandfather, Patrick Clayton. Full name, address, account number, you can see here. I am unable, at this point, to establish when exactly it was first opened, but no doubt you will have that information. Around 1940, I would guess.’

  ‘Well of course, Mr Clayton, neither Mr Alicona nor myself would necessarily have knowledge of this account –’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the account, if it exists, you must apprec
iate, is governed by Swiss law. I mean no offence, but my hands are tied. I must be governed by procedure.’

  ‘I would not want it any other way – for my own protection, since I intend to leave the money with you.’ Tom emphasized that last point and watched it sink in. ‘As to these procedures, perhaps you could elaborate.’

  ‘You say this account was opened by your grandfather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whom we may assume is no longer with us?’

  ‘He died in 1944.’

  ‘And the rightful ownership of this account would then have passed to …?’

  ‘My father, who died last week.’ This was the one area Clayton wanted to avoid, the fifty-four-year gap. He had to create the impression, without actually spelling it out, that this deposit was known to the family all along. ‘But given that, at the moment, you cannot even acknowledge the existence of the account, perhaps we could concentrate on the “procedures” you mentioned, and so save time.’

  ‘Was this alleged account specifically bequeathed to you by your father or grandfather?’

  ‘Yes. The will makes specific reference to all the balances of all his bank accounts.’

  ‘Then of course we would need to see the will, which would need to have been legalized by the American and Swiss authorities in your country. These things take time.’

  Clayton opened his briefcase, removed all the documents he had brought with him and placed them on the desk. Then, one by one, he started passing them across to Ackermann. His grandfather’s will and death certificate, duly legalized. His father’s will, birth and death certificates, duly legalized.

  ‘All in order,’ Tom said with finality.

  As Ackermann pretended to examine each document before handing it over to Alicona, Clayton knew what their next move would to be: the Big Stall. The Swiss men suddenly out of their depth; Tom’s turn to take the initiative.

  ‘I expect that you gentlemen will wish to study these documents carefully,’ he said, lifting his briefcase onto the table and making a point of locking it, as if to indicate his impending departure. ‘I can assure you, however, that you will find everything in order.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Ackermann, rising gratefully, collecting Clayton’s card and adding:

  ‘May we contact you at your bank?’

  ‘Mr Ackermann,’ said Clayton firmly, staring hard at the Swiss banker, ‘we are both busy men. I have some business to attend to in Zurich, but I confess I had allowed time to return to you this afternoon and conclude this matter. However,’ he added, raising his left palm to stop Ackermann from protesting, ‘given the time difference between Zurich and New York, I expect that by the time you have answers to your enquiries from the States, this bank will be closed. So I shall remain in Zurich overnight and await your call in the morning. You may reach me at the Baur au Lac. Then I shall come in, sign whatever is necessary, and go home.’

  ‘We shall do all in our power, Mr Clayton,’ conceded Ackermann. Then, to restore his authority in front of Alicona, he added: ‘If the account exists.’

  ‘That, it does, for sure. Look,’ Tom said conciliatorily, ‘as one banker to another: none of us likes losing a deposit. But I said it before and I say it again: most of the money will stay with you. Ten per cent or so you will remit to England. But I shall look upon your endeavours, over the next twenty-four hours, as an indication of the service my family and I can expect from your bank in future. Please do not let me down.’

  ‘We shall do our very best. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr Clayton, I shall start my work straight away. Mr Alicona will accompany you out.’

  * * *

  Morales sat at the head of his dining-room table. Spread out on it was a map of Medellín. He turned it round to face Miguel Romualdes and pushed it in the latter’s direction. The three men present had been in conference for nearly four hours, and though the dining-room’s double doors were open, Morales had told everyone – his family, servants, bodyguards – to go outside, take some fresh air. This conversation was for three pairs of ears only.

  Romualdes he disliked, but the man was useful. He was the Mayor of Medellín, a fat middle-aged politico, who earned an official salary of one thousand dollars a month but managed another five thousand from public-works kickbacks and a retainer from Morales. He wore a crumpled suit over an open shirt; the folds of fat below his chin meant ties were out of the question. The other man was Aristides De la Cruz, Morales’ lawyer – thorough, dependable, bright. A self-made man who once could have reached the top in Bogotá, now in his late forties with a large family, he was resigned to Medellín and grateful to have such a client as Carlos Alberto Morales. In contrast to the Mayor’s, De la Cruz’s suit was well pressed and emphasized his fit, wiry frame.

  The cocaine baron had summoned the two shortly after instructing Speer. De la Cruz would establish the Foundation; this would be done without delay. It would be a charity, dedicated only to the noblest of causes. Naturally, as the driving force behind its creation, Morales would be a trustee. So would De la Cruz and Romualdes. Later, they agreed, they would ask Monsignor Varela to become a trustee as well, for the Church would have an important role to play. De la Cruz had observed that legal, temporal and eternal power would thus all be represented. Morales liked the phrase. He could not, he said, have put it more succinctly himself. The leading objectives of the Foundation would be:

  ‘… to raise the poor and the unfortunate from their undeserved misfortune, assisting with their housing, health and education, so that they may live with dignity and become faithful servants of the Lord and the Republic of Colombia.’

  ‘You are a saint, Don Carlos!’ exclaimed the Mayor, a genuine tear emerging from his left eye, followed by a flood as it dawned on him that, as the fortuitous incumbent, he would probably remain in office for ever.

  Morales dismissed the show of emotion; it was time to get down to practicalities. Land was needed: good, dry, accessible land in town. The hospital and the schools would need to be sited centrally, the housing required more space. Morales had suggested three residential subdivisions: two to the east, along the road to Bogotá, and one to the north, just inside the city limits, on the road to Cartagena. Romualdes, still under the influence of his emotions, suggested that the city might donate the land, but the lawyer advised against it: such actions could be questioned in Congress. There were senators in Bogotá with sufficient courage left to present bills reversing such transactions. Years ago Morales would simply have had them killed – indeed he had resorted to such measures more than once, at first leaving an intangible calling card, later blaming FARC guerrillas. But now, with the Americans in up to their necks in Colombia, it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, that behaviour belonged to another era, when Morales worked for other people, short-sighted fools who lived and died by a different set of rules.

  ‘I shall expropriate the land!’ proclaimed the Mayor, with more bravado than thought.

  ‘No, Miguel. We shall pay for the land,’ said Morales magnanimously. ‘But what this city can do – and here is where you can help – is to provide the services. Water, electricity, roads.’ He banged his fist on the table and stared at the Mayor. ‘These we must have. I’m not building the hovels of tomorrow!’

  Romualdes felt uncomfortable. Donating land was easier. It belonged to the state, so it cost nothing to him personally, or to his city’s budget, to give it away. But laying down services was something else. Contractors needed to be paid. Where would the money come from? He was already overspent for fiscal ’98, and dipping heavily into ’99, bridging shortfalls with commercial loans.

  Morales read his mind. ‘I shall help you,’ he said, to the Mayor’s intense relief.

  When the time came, Morales would let it be known. Friendly newspapers would lend a hand. Collections would be taken. From businesses, in churches, from the people in the street. The money would be found to give the poor people heat, light and water. And contractors would be told that the
Morales Foundation was underwriting the project.

  ‘It will be done at cost,’ he said, glancing meaningfully at the Mayor. ‘And in this instance, none of the public works will be subject to “commissions”.’

  So they turned to the map once more to determine the exact areas in question. It was also agreed that De la Cruz, using names or vehicles of his choosing, would make the purchases and transfer them to the Foundation. The prices offered would be fair.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Morales. ‘The three residential sites we have chosen are currently worth little. Five hundred bucks a hectare, tops. The city sites, well, they have more value, but the prices offered must reflect these uncertain times.’

  He paused, then stood up, staring at Romualdes, ‘Only the three of us know about this.’ He looked deliberately in all directions, to drive his point home, then stared at his visitors in turn, inviting them to dare deny his words. ‘So, if the price of land in Medellín rises as much as one peso between now and the time we have completed our acquisitions, it can only mean that one of us three opened his mouth. Given what’s at stake, I’d be very, very angry. Are we all clear?’

  After leaving UCB, Tom Clayton had gone to his bank’s office. There he spoke to analysts and tried to gauge what they thought of sterling. At one-thirty he left for lunch with an evidently anxious Jeff Langland.

  Tom chose a quiet restaurant away from the business district. A good choice since, predictably, the lunch had not gone well. Langland’s Ivy League style of dress was unchanged, but he looked haggard, stressed. He had even started smoking again and bore little resemblance to the old Langland renowned throughout Cambridge for his Nordic good looks.

  ‘We’re done, Tom.’ Jeff had hardly touched his food. ‘Our only hope is to own up. Maybe we just get fired, maybe the bank doesn’t want scandals,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ Tom growled from between clenched teeth, leaning forward. ‘It’s jail, goddamn jail for both of us. Don’t you read the papers any more? Wall Street wants to screw rogue dealers! The Old Boys prove their honesty and integrity by throwing rotten apples in the can!’