by Bill Vidal
Robles closed the study door behind him and met with a matronly Mrs Romualdes, who was coming to enquire when her husband would return to the dinner table. He greeted her charmingly – they had met at many social functions – then excused himself, following the servant past the dogs.
Julio Robles drove all night. First he travelled west to Puerto Berrio before turning north along the road that followed the course of the Magdalena River to El Banco. Then five miles further, along the Barranquilla highway. He arrived at the Cesar Platinum Mines just as the sun broke past the tops of the Sierra Nevada.
The security guards noticed the official number plates and inspected the BID credentials. They directed him to a young and pompous night-shift manager. When Robles explained that a plane from El BID was picking him up shortly, the manager replied that he had no notification of the movement. Robles showed him his diplomatic passport and joked about how bureaucrats seldom bothered. He pointed at his car and explained that a colleague from the bank would arrive next week to pick it up. Would the gentleman mind keeping the keys, and did he want anything brought over from Venezuela? The manager said he would be happy to look after the car and that a bottle of Black Label would be much appreciated. They shared a mug of coffee until they heard the sound of the single-engined Centurion coming in to land at Cesar’s strip.
Robles thanked the manager for his hospitality and climbed on board next to the pilot. The Cessna rolled back down the little runway as Robles put on his safety harness, then turned into the wind. Seconds later they climbed eastward to cross the Venezuelan frontier. Within an hour they would land in Maracaibo, where the DEA man would hitch a ride on the Texaco shuttle to Miami.
Satisfied, Julio Cardenas fell asleep.
7
TUESDAY MORNING WAS cold and windy as Tom Clayton reluctantly made his way along Broad Street to work. He competed with other City workers for the line that hugged the buildings, an illusion of shelter from the driving rain. Moments after he had left Liverpool Street station his hair was already soaked and the upturned collar of his trench coat – futilely tightened by his free left hand – failed miserably to stop water trickling down his neck. It was the sort of morning that made him wish he lived in California.
Reflex good manners made him yield the wall to a passing lady. He stepped into a puddle and his left shoe filled with water. But Tom’s sorrowful appearance wasn’t all down to the elements. He had told Caroline all he knew about the Swiss account and, far from joy, she had expressed fear. Tom knew she was voicing the concerns he attempted to suppress: that someone, sometime, would be asking him to hand the money back.
Together they considered possible explanations. Bank error was immediately discounted – too many people would have checked the sums in Zurich before Clayton’s money was paid out. And Tom assured Caroline that half a million could not become 43 million in fifty years, not if the money was left sitting in a bank. Clearly the original sum had been added to. But when? How much? And, crucially, by whom?
Dick Sweeney undoubtedly would have the answers, though Tom now accepted that it was unlikely the lawyer would tell the whole truth. But he was not afraid of Sweeney and he felt confident he could squeeze enough out of him to piece the rest together himself. Caroline had begged him to promise he would not touch the money until he knew the truth, and Tom agreed. Other than the $5 million he had already taken. He had to tell his wife about his speculation with Jeff Langland, but glossed over any suggestion of wrongdoing. And in any case, he asserted confidently, as soon as the markets turned they’d make a profit. Caroline didn’t comment – money matters had always been her husband’s terrain – but her expression betrayed that she was far from reassured.
When Tom got to his office it was already eight-thirty. He removed his shoes and placed them by a radiator, then stared glumly at his rain-drenched trouser bottoms. He caught sight of Grinholm, waving at him from his office door.
Tom slopped over, acutely conscious of his soaking socks.
‘You in all day, Tom?’ drawled his boss casually.
‘I’ve no other plans,’ Tom replied. There was something alarming in Grinholm’s tone of voice.
‘Let’s have lunch, then,’ he said with authority. ‘One o’clock.’ Then he turned back into his office. Somehow it did not sound like a casual invitation.
Tom looked up the Taurus account and what he saw almost made him retch. The $5 million from Zurich had vanished. He had seen the payment on Friday but he also knew that all payments needed confirmation. Had the Swiss withheld theirs? On what grounds? Tom wedged his left arm between his knees and looked up Taurus’s position: £1.65 million down. Their margin deposit covered the loss, but only just.
He glanced surreptitiously in the direction of Grinholm’s office. The boss was on the phone but he caught Tom’s eye. Through the glass his face betrayed no emotion. The rules on futures trading were simple: if the margin was used up before the term expired, the deposit would have to be increased. Was this the purpose of Grinholm’s lunch invitation? Or was it something more sinister?
Tom had to leave the bank and find a public telephone. He grabbed a sheet of paper and stood up, slipping into his wet shoes and leaving without looking back, muttering something about needing a cigarette as he went past security, and ran out into a rain-soaked Broad Street.
He was put through to Ackermann immediately. The banker sounded surprised to hear Taurus had not received its money. Perhaps, he said, as this was the first transaction, procedures were taking a little longer than expected.
‘Please spare me the details, Mr Ackermann,’ Tom said firmly. With nothing to lose, he could afford to play the irate customer whose bank is not up to scratch. ‘You undertook to make that transfer on Friday. And you did not. If you want to retain my business, you will make that payment right now.’
‘I shall do my very best, Mr Clayton.’ Tom sensed the nervousness in Ackermann’s voice. ‘May I call you back?’
‘No, you may not,’ replied Tom a shade too quickly. Then he explained: ‘I’m out and about all day. I’ll call you after lunch.’
‘As you wish, Mr Clayton –’
‘And while I have you on the phone’ – Tom pressed his advantage – ‘I want to sell twenty million sterling. Forward contract, thirty days. I’ll take the sterling and Swiss franc rate quoted in Zurich at,’ he looked at his watch, ‘noon today.’
‘That is outside my sphere, Mr Clayton,’ protested Ackermann. ‘I would need to get authority.’
‘Then get it,’ replied Tom curtly. ‘I’ll call you after lunch. Please don’t let me down.’ He then hung up and ran back to the bank.
Ackermann reported Clayton’s instructions to Dr Brugger immediately and was told to wait for an answer. The Vice-President in turn went to consult his Director.
Dr Ulm tapped his fingers on his desk and considered the alternatives. If the lawyers in New York felt they really had claim – being lawyers, and American besides – they would by now have bombarded UCB with faxes and phone calls.
The £20 million trade presented UCB with no risk – they had $37 million on deposit, so 125 per cent margin. And if UCB did not respond immediately, and assuming Clayton’s claim was in order – of which Ulm had little doubt – there could be hell to pay.
So all they were risking was $5 million, and even that was on the chance that a new claimant might appear in the future – which now seemed most unlikely. And now Dr Ulm had a second motive for maintaining a relationship with Clayton. He had heard from his intelligence people on Monday that Clayton’s employers had gone 500 million short on sterling.
Little snippets like this could be worth a fortune in the right hands. Hands as dependable, discreet and knowledgeable as his own. Mr Clayton, he was certain, was no fool and must be privy to valuable information. Why else would he be risking his own money, doubtless without the knowledge of his bank? He would keep a close watch on Clayton’s actions and, if appropriate, make a move himself before th
e markets could react.
He authorized Brugger to give Ackermann the okay on both counts. He also altered the manager’s orders temporarily, which probably displeased Brugger, but that was just too bad. Ackermann was to report all Clayton’s transactions directly to the Director, in person, the moment they took place. He then sent for one of his best analysts and asked him to find out everything he could about sterling sales by Tom’s bank.
Tom and his boss left the bank together at 1.15, Grinholm making small talk as they walked down Threadneedle Street. The rain had stopped but it was cold and damp and people’s faces spoke of English winters. They crossed Leadenhall Market, Tom very much a follower as he had no idea where they were going, until they reached Beauchamps. There were people queuing at the entrance but Lucy had booked Grinholm’s table in advance.
‘You get extra Air Miles when you eat here,’ Grinholm whispered as the waiter showed them to their table.
Tom nearly failed to suppress a snort of derision. The Head of Derivatives had earned over one million pounds last year, but could not bear to miss any chance of collecting a fraction of a free ticket to Paris.
They both ordered fresh lobster, to be followed by sea bass.
Grinholm chose a ’79 Chablis, leaving Tom in no doubt that the bank was paying. As soon as they’d ordered, Grinholm got down to business.
‘I’m a bit concerned about you at the moment,’ murmured Grinholm, appearing to be deeply involved in buttering a piece of bread. He then looked up and asked: ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
Since receiving the lunch invitation, Clayton had speculated on his boss’s motives. Taurus was still in order. The latest losses were projections, not yet due for settlement. And if Grinholm had wised up to the game with Langland, it would have been handcuffs, not lunch.
On the positive side, year-end was bonus time. Good or bad news was always discussed in advance, and on current performance this would be a vintage year.
Or could it have been his telephone conversation with Dick Sweeney? All calls were recorded, that was one of the rules. Ostensibly to settle disputes if two parties to a verbal contract offered different versions of what had been agreed, though this was rare. At Tom’s level the players were supremely professional. So, in effect, the recordings were to dissuade unethical behaviour, to prop up Chinese walls and deter insider dealing. But while everyone was aware of the situation, a tacit pledge of privacy was also in place. Personal matters were never referred to, and in time one became used to the snoopers and spoke freely. Like Tom’s conversations with Caroline. He just wished Grinholm would get to the point. The lavish lunch meant nothing, they were just as likely to invite you out to give you the sack as to announce a pay rise.
‘Could you be more specific, Hal?’ Tom asked mildly.
Grinholm was not known for his shyness. He had the self-assuredness of a man who had made it close to the top from a humble start. But he was no Ivy Leaguer and sometimes Tom could detect a slight chip on his shoulder.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘First of all I am truly sorry about your dad. I lost mine not long ago, and I know –’
‘That’s okay.’ Tom had no wish to let Grinholm into his private life. ‘I’m fine on that count.’
‘Also,’ Grinholm continued, a touch of impatience now in his voice, ‘as I told you: if you need some time off to take care of private matters, that’s fine by me.’
Tom shook his head emphatically.
‘Well,’ Grinholm leaned forward and lowered his voice, ‘if that’s not it, what is the problem?’
Before Clayton could answer, the waiter arrived with the wine. Hal Grinholm waved him away, took the bottle himself, and poured two glasses. His eyebrows were still arched to emphasize the last question. For a moment Tom felt certain Langland must have confessed all. He cursed himself for not calling Jeff since Zurich.
‘What problem are we talking about here, Hal?’
Grinholm was ready for that and started counting points on the fingers of his left hand. ‘One, apart from those Swiss futures, you have not done a decent deal in a month. Two, you are not working your usual hours. Three, you are screwing up your bonus and therefore mine. Four, I think you’ve got money problems. Okay? So what’s going on?’
‘Money problems?’
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said Grinholm a bit more calmly. He then referred to the tapes, to Tom’s heated conversation with Sweeney and the latter’s demands that money be paid back.
‘Jeez, Hal, you got the wrong end on this one,’ Tom shook his head in feigned disbelief. Sweeney was a lawyer, he explained. An executor of his dad’s estate. The bastard, said Tom emphatically, had power of attorney on some money belonging to his dad, and, thinking that Tom had no knowledge of it, had kept quiet. So Tom had simply taken it, all kosher and above board, and the bank had been completely satisfied.
Grinholm appeared to accept that. ‘You got the money, then?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Is that why you went to Zurich last month?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Tom sheepishly. ‘But I was sincere about the business I wanted to do for us there. In fact if you look, we are up –’
‘I know,’ agreed Grinholm. ‘One point eight. How much was involved, on this account of your dad’s?’
‘Three million bucks,’ lied Tom.
Grinholm whistled. ‘And this, uh, this bent lawyer? He wants it back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It seems Dad may have had a partner. We’ll see. I asked Sweeney to prove it, and he said he’d come to London and explain.’
‘What if he did have a partner?’
‘Then, Hal,’ said Tom, shrugging, ‘then I want to meet him. Talk it over. If he convinces me, I’ll give him his share. That’s what.’
‘Seems fair to me,’ replied the boss thoughtfully. ‘Three million bucks, eh?’
Tom smiled and Grinholm refilled their glasses. Tom’s superior had an obsessive love for money. His respect for other people was directly proportional to their net worth.
‘This, uh, client of yours. Taurus,’ said Grinholm unexpectedly, as he wrestled with a lobster claw. ‘Who are they?’
‘Krauts, I think,’ Tom replied, willing his arm to hold steady. ‘Out of Vaduz.’
‘Your chum Langland put you on to them?’ Grinholm gave up on the lobster with a grimace and reached for the finger bowl.
‘Yeah. Wanted some distance.’
Grinholm nodded understandingly. Germans liked to deal with London. Zurich was too close to home.
‘Margin’s getting tight.’
‘I know. I asked them to push across five million if they want to go on playing.’
Grinholm nodded approvingly.
Tom quietly prayed that Ackermann would come up trumps.
‘And the lawyer? Sweeney? When’s he coming over?’
‘Flying tonight,’ Tom replied, happy for the conversation to steer away from Taurus.
‘Take tomorrow off, then. I’ll get Vlad to cover for you. After that I want one hundred per cent from you.’
‘You’ll have it, Hal. Thanks.’
Mac McDougal sat with his feet on a table, listening through his headset, his eyes focused on the Evening Post’s sport pages. He had the finest equipment in the world available to him and he enjoyed using it. Others in the DEA could not understand how he could sit for hours listening to other people’s conversations. But Mac saw it differently. This was legalized snooping. Sticking your nose into other people’s business and getting paid for the pleasure. It was astonishing what you could learn just by listening in on telephone conversations. This law firm he was on to right now had twenty lines on their switchboard, so Mac had the kit to record twenty tracks simultaneously. They no longer used tapes, all the stuff went straight to DVD these days. Much neater, clearer and with massive capacity. A digital display told Mac which lines were being used at any given moment. All calls would be r
ecorded but at the flick of a switch Mac could select any track and listen to the conversations, live. In a couple of days he had learnt a number of interesting things: that some of those lawyers made five hundred bucks an hour; that a famous store down the Avenue was about to change hands; that next Saturday’s 3.30 at Flushing Meadows was rigged; and that a typist named Talulah was hoping to get laid that night.
But Mac never acted privately on information gleaned. Whatever his enjoyment of eavesdropping, he only ever did what was expected of him. Every two hours, in this particular assignment, he replaced one disk on his dual recorder with a fresh one and then inserted the latest data disk in the tray of his PC. Mac would then click on a telephone number in Miami and the PC-modem connection transferred the disk’s contents off to Red Harper’s own computers fifteen hundred miles away.
There, Harper’s team made new discs, then transcribed and compiled the data into files grouped by telephone extension should it be needed for court use. The full transcripts of all calls to and from extensions 24 and 25 – those in Dick Sweeney’s private office – were handed to Red Harper personally. It was early afternoon in southern Florida as he started reading the day’s second lot of transcripts. Immediately he raised both arms in triumph, fists clenched:
‘Gotcha!’
His staff looked up and walked over to his desk.
‘Our learned member of the New York Bar just placed a call to a famous banker, guys,’ he exclaimed jubilantly. ‘Who’s gonna guess the name?’ he beamed.
‘Salazar!’ all three exclaimed in unison.
‘Bang on!’
‘Hey, Red. Listen to this,’ called a fourth agent, rising from her desk and walking over with a CD player. ‘From extension 20. Mary Cullen, Big Dick’s PA.’ She pressed play. ‘Looks like the man is going to Europe!’
Red Harper heard Sweeney’s secretary’s conversation with United Airlines: Reservation – First class, of course. New York to London. Request for a suite, two nights at Claridge’s.
‘There’s more,’ the agent added, holding up her hand before anyone could speak. She clicked on the next track, the attorney’s brief exchange with Salazar. When it had finished they all cheered. Sweeney wanted an urgent meeting with the Laundry Man.