The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  The people he picked to open bank accounts, his ‘ghosts’ he called them, were nobodies. If, unlikely though it was, the authorities ever caught up with them, they could reveal nothing, because they knew nothing. If, per chance, any ghost ever wised up to the deception, what the hell. At this stage in his life Salazar would have neither difficulty nor compunction in having them meet with fatal accidents before they even started to comprehend.

  The scheme worked perfectly for years, but everyone has an Achilles heel and Salazar’s was Pat Clayton’s account. In 1944 he also filed a power-of-attorney form, giving full access to an unsuspecting Michael Clayton, whose signature he did not know, but then neither did the bank. Joe exercised the power of attorney and kept the account going in the son’s name. Michael had unwittingly become the first of Salazar’s second-generation ghosts. Fifty years later the account had become a crucial staging post along the laundry chain. Salazar secretly mocked the Swiss who ripped him off with their miserable interest payments. Little did they know that Joe’s real return was 10 per cent. Not per annum. Per remittance.

  Eamon Sweeney never objected to the arrangement. He felt that Pat would have approved, imagining the Feds expending their energy tracking down illegal money only to find, if anything, that the culprit was dead. But Eamon’s son, Richard, was not happy. He was fond of Michael Clayton and though he knew that ultimately his friend would always be able to prove his innocence, he remonstrated with Salazar to close this particular account.

  Now he cursed his failure to press Salazar harder, and decided to approach Tom first. He would have to tell him some of the truth, perhaps frighten him a little, but above all Dick hoped he could get to Tom before the latter had a chance to rock the boat.

  He looked at the clock on his wall and picked up the telephone. His first call was to Credit Suisse in Geneva. After identifying himself with the agreed passwords he enquired about a forty-three-million-dollar transfer from United Credit Bank. The bank officer told him that as of that moment no funds had been received. He asked if Sweeney would wish the bank to enquire with UCB, but Dick declined, saying he would call again after checking with the remitting party.

  What the bank officer did not tell him was that, as he called up the Sweeney Tulley McAndrews account on his computer, the message had flashed before his eyes that any movement or communication connected with this account was to be reported immediately to Mr Guido Martelli.

  Dick cradled the telephone and thought awhile. Salazar had said the transfer instructions were sent a week ago. A letter to Switzerland took three days, seven at the outside. The domestic transfer would have been actioned the same day as instructions were received. There was therefore a chance that the order could have been received today. Perhaps this was wishful thinking on his part, but anyway he would give it until Wednesday. Then he would have to either prevent Tom from doing anything silly or, as a last resort, tell Salazar. He decided in the first instance to wait until it was five in Geneva. He would check again then and call Tom if no money had arrived. He had, after all, the excuse of returning Tom’s call.

  Within a minute of Sweeney putting down the telephone, the bank officer at Credit Suisse had made contact with Martelli. He did not question the reason for the security chief’s interest, merely reported the time and content of the call. Martelli thanked him and sent his secretary to the basement to retrieve the tape recording of the relevant conversation. Then he called Laforge in Zurich.

  ‘I’m very grateful, Guido,’ Laforge acknowledged appreciatively.

  ‘My pleasure, Walter,’ replied Martelli. ‘Will you be involving the authorities at this stage?’

  ‘My own feeling is no,’ confessed Laforge, ‘but I need to clear this. I shall call you back once I’ve spoken to my director.’

  ‘Good,’ said Martelli approvingly. ‘And I shall continue to keep you informed.’

  Laforge called Dr Ulm on his private line and requested an immediate meeting, which was granted, then took the lift to the top floor.

  Ulm leaned forward in his chair, resting the tip of his nose on his hands which were joined together as if in prayer, his elbows wide apart on the desk. He looked down into the blotter and listened to Laforge. When the security chief had finished speaking, the Director leaned back and looked at him.

  ‘What do you recommend, Walter?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Laforge chose his words carefully, ‘as I see it at the moment, our customer, Thomas Clayton, does not appear to have done anything improper. His title to the account is in order.’

  Ulm nodded non-committally and motioned Laforge to continue.

  ‘If that assumption is correct,’ he looked at his notes, ‘this Richard Sweeney is hoping to receive funds that do not belong to him or to whoever sent us the instructions to remit them.’

  ‘Have you double-checked the signature on that letter, Walter?’ Ulm asked, referring to their prior conversation.

  ‘I have, sir, it checks out. There is no doubt that it was signed by Professor Michael Clayton.’

  ‘Who was dead at the time he wrote the letter?’ enquired Ulm rhetorically.

  ‘Quite. Which leads me to believe that perhaps my other theory was correct,’ ventured Laforge. ‘That somehow Professor Clayton’s lawyers were in possession of an undated letter, or even a signed blank sheet. People often do that with their trusted advocates. On their client’s death, they decided to take this money for themselves.’

  ‘In the mistaken belief,’ Ulm completed the scenario, ‘that the son was not aware of the account’s existence, bearing in mind that it was not specifically mentioned in the will.’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘How do you see the legal position, Walter?’

  ‘As of now,’ stated Laforge with conviction, ‘no crime has been committed in Switzerland.’

  Again Ulm nodded approvingly.

  ‘But we cannot ignore the fact that an attempt to commit a crime is being made.’

  ‘So, should we notify the police?’ Ulm could not hold back a grimace at the prospect.

  ‘Well, Director, I considered that. But what could we say? We do not know who sent us this letter. It would be unwise to reveal that Credit Suisse is passing information to us, and the criminal – if there is one – is not in Switzerland. All our authorities could do, even if willing to do anything at all without evidence, is pass the enquiry to the American police.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Ulm, shaking his head. ‘That would not achieve anything.’

  ‘So, if Mr Sweeney truly believes that this money should be in his firm’s account, then it is up to him to make the necessary representations.’

  ‘So we do nothing, eh, Walter?’

  ‘That would seem to be wise, sir,’ said Laforge slowly.

  ‘Except …?’

  Then Laforge made a suggestion. While agreeing that the bank was under no obligation to do anything, it was always best to have it on record that it had. The result Dr Ulm would want was for the deposit to remain where it was; forty-three million dollars was a drop in the ocean to UCB. But still it was better to keep such drops in one’s own ocean than to pass them to another institution when not compelled to do so. That was how banks got large and remained large. If Sweeney Tulley McAndrews were attempting something untoward, there were discreet ways of letting them know one knew, and at the same time curry favour with a very important organization: the Government of the United States.

  Back in the 1960s the Americans had come down hard on Swiss banking secrecy. In the land of capitalism, the regulators were determined to clean up Wall Street’s act. What later came to be known as insider dealing was then common practice, not just in the New York Stock Exchange, but in London, Paris, Tokyo or wherever people in the know had a chance to make use of confidential information. The US public was getting restless, and the Securities and Exchange Commission had the teeth to act. The United States was first to outlaw insider trading and the penalties instituted were draconian. But old hab
its die hard, and those who could not pass up the chance of a quick killing set up offshore companies and instructed their Swiss bankers to buy or sell securities on command. All behind the impenetrable curtain of banking secrecy. Insider dealing and tax evasion in America were not Swiss crimes.

  So the SEC and the IRS spoke to the State Department, who briefed their diplomats to whisper to the Swiss: play ball or we outlaw all US dealings with countries where financial information is not available to our authorities. To some degree the Swiss cooperated. Subsequently all those wishing to deal in US securities through Switzerland had to sign an authorization for the Swiss to pass their details to the US Government. By and large it worked, so the crooks moved their offshore business to the newly independent Cayman Islands.

  But ever since, the Americans had based some of their people in Switzerland, fraud experts from the FBI and SEC, and every now and then their host country fed them bits of useful information.

  Laforge knew one such man quite well; he could talk to him in confidence. At least, he told Dr Ulm, it would frighten Sweeney if he was up to no good. They would probably never hear from him again.

  Ulm liked that idea. He authorized Walter Laforge to go ahead. Verbally, of course.

  On the third floor of the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington, DC, there are two sparsely furnished adjoining rooms whose role is undefined by any nameplates on the doors. Broadly speaking they house a signals operation. Working round the clock to cover all time zones, they coordinate intelligence received from foreign stations and offer support in turn. One bright spark at FBI headquarters once referred to those assigned this duty as the ‘Foreign Legion’ and the name stuck. The Bureau is, of course, a federal entity whose activities are confined, according to its charter, to the territory of the United States. Yet a substantial portion of matters that fall within its jurisdiction originate overseas. So the FBI has special agents based outside the country – liaison officers and observers, strictly speaking – who gather and relay information which could assist in the investigation of federal crimes. A number of these agents are based in Europe and their reports are sent to the Foreign Legion.

  Special Agent Cole drew the night duty on Monday. As the intelligence from Geneva purred out of the fax machine, he was alone in the office, feet on his desk, reading Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking Peoples.

  Aaron Cole was not a typical Hoover man. For a start he was black, and the legendary chief would never knowingly have hired anyone black. He was also a homosexual, and Hoover did not hire homosexuals either, even if he was said to have been one himself. Cole had joined the Bureau courtesy of the Affirmative Action Program, but took pride in the fact that he was as good an operative as they came. Having already proved the Hoover policies wrong on two counts, he was now proving them wrong on a third: Cole shared his information with other government agencies. And it paid.

  He read the fax and immediately ran Richard Sweeney through the Bureau’s database. A match was made. He scrolled the three pages up the screen, revealing that the FBI had a peripheral interest, but that most of the hard data had been drawn from DEA files. He took out his address book, looked under T, and called a friend and onetime lover at Drugs. He asked some questions, made some notes and blew him a kiss before hanging up. Special Agent Cole had earned a Congressional Medal, a Purple Heart and a law degree from Tennessee State. Of the three, he considered the last his greatest accomplishment. He did not give a horse’s ass about bureaucratic rules. He was an American, loved his country with passion, and hated the drug dealers who tore America apart and sank black people even further down. He looked at his notes briefly, then dialled Harper’s number in Miami.

  ‘Banco Interamericano.’

  ‘Red Harper, please.’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Mr Harper, this is Special Agent Aaron Cole, FBI. I want you to put your phone down, then call FBI headquarters in DC and ask for me.’ Then he hung up.

  Two minutes later, Cole picked up his phone on the first ring.

  ‘Are you satisfied you are talking to the FBI?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I have some information, Mr Harper, which I would like to make available to you. Unofficially, that is.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Harper guardedly.

  ‘Because we are both after the same bastards, only in this case I believe you may be in a better position to hurt them than I am.’

  ‘Why do you believe that, Mr Cole?’

  ‘Because a mutual friend has told me so. Unofficially.’

  ‘Has this mutual friend got a name?’

  ‘Trevor Linskey, unofficially.’

  ‘And have the bastards got a name?’

  ‘Two names. Richard Sweeney and José Salazar.’

  There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Harper changed his tone of voice. ‘Thank you, yes, I’m interested. What can you tell me?’

  So Cole told him what he had. Sweeney was expecting megabucks in Geneva, and in the FBI records Sweeney’s name was linked to Salazar’s. The problem was the funds were not forthcoming and Mr Sweeney might get careless over that. End of message. ‘Doesn’t mean much to me,’ he confessed, ‘but I thought you might want it.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ replied Harper sincerely. ‘What does the Bureau want in return?’

  ‘The Bureau would cut my balls off if they ever heard about this conversation.’

  Harper laughed and rephrased the question. ‘What does Aaron Cole want in return?’

  ‘Just a marker, Red. That would do fine for now.’

  At five minutes to ten, EST, Dick Sweeney called Geneva again but the result was the same: no transfer had been received. The bank officer notified Martelli and the latter passed the information to Laforge.

  Unknown to anyone in the law office, down in the basement of the Fifth Avenue block two engineers wearing Bell Telephone anoraks were working through a maze of cables attempting to identify Sweeney Tulley McAndrews’ lines. They had sophisticated toolboxes and, in his inside pocket, one of the technicians carried a wiretapping authority signed an hour earlier by District Judge Howard J. Kramer. They found the relevant wires and placed bridging clips on them, then attached the other ends to those cables they knew serviced room 507. The DEA had held the lease to that suite for a year but for the past nine months the offices had remained empty. Something was happening now, the technicians guessed, for they had been ordered back in. They gave their work a final survey, double-checked against the telephone company’s diagrams, locked the cabinet, packed their bags and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

  Sweeney asked his secretary if there were any messages for him, repeated his instruction not to be interrupted and dialled Tom Clayton’s number in England. The bank’s switchboard put him through to Clayton’s extension. Before Dick could say one word, he heard Tom asking him to hold while he continued dealing with a call on another handset. Sweeney could hear him talking and his heart missed a beat as he listened to Tom agreeing to spend millions. Then he heard him close the contract and realized he was only doing his job.

  ‘Tom Clayton,’ came the lively voice across the ocean.

  ‘Tom, Dick Sweeney here.’

  ‘Hey, Dick! I’ve been trying to call you!’ said Tom light-heartedly.

  ‘I know, just got the message. So, what can I do for you, Tom?’

  ‘It’s to do with my grandad,’ Tom said carefully. He had noticed the concern in Sweeney’s voice.

  Dick cleared his throat. ‘Your grandad? What about him?’

  ‘I think you know damn well, Dick. Please don’t bullshit me.’ Tom let his words hang in the air.

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. Tell me about Pat’s little nest egg in Switzerland.’

  ‘Jesus, Tom. You are out of your depth here. What the hell have you been up to?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  Sweeney wiped the sweat from
his forehead with the back of his left forearm.

  ‘Tom,’ he started conciliatorily, ‘stay away from all that. Pat’s been dead fifty years, for chrissake! This has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion. I now know what Pat left when he died. And you kept fucking quiet about it. Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, his executors. I wonder what the New York Bar would have to say about that.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ erupted Sweeney, suddenly standing. ‘Don’t touch it! It isn’t worth it. It’s not worth your goddamn life, you ass!’

  ‘Don’t touch it?’ Tom was getting angry now. ‘Too late for that, counsellor! And who precisely is threatening my life?’

  Dick slumped back on his chair. ‘Tom, we need to talk. You’ve got to believe me, it’s for your own good,’ he pleaded.

  ‘You want to talk, I’m listening,’ Tom replied calmly.

  ‘Not over the phone.’

  ‘I’ve just been to New York, Dick. You had your chance. I can’t go back there now.’

  ‘Then I’d better come to London.’