The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  ‘Just carry on, Dick. You’d got to the bottom of the Hudson when I interrupted.’ Tom was pleased. He’d seen Antonio Salazar at his father’s funeral. He would ask more about him later, but he had scared Dick with that question. It would help to keep him on his toes.

  ‘Like I was saying,’ Sweeney continued, ‘Pat and Joe formed a partnership that lasted well past the end of Prohibition. By that time Joe’s father, Emilio, who’d started the moneylending business in the first place, was dead. Joe now owned it. With the booze racket at an end, he went back to moneylending. Unlike Pat, Joe kept his money. But back then in ’37, these two guys were – in a legitimate world – financially naive. They kept half their stash in notes – at home, would you believe? The rest they spread around in Savings & Loans. So that’s where my dad came in. He was as crooked as any of them in those days, but he was educated. He knew that if you didn’t get sophisticated, sooner or later you’d fall. So he talked to Pat and Joe – your grandad vouched for my father – and Dad went to Switzerland. He opened three bank accounts: at Credit Suisse for himself in Geneva, at Union Bank for Joe in Lugano, and at United Credit in Zurich, for Pat.’

  ‘What date in 1937?’ Tom asked, wanting Dick to feel tested.

  ‘I don’t know. Not without checking.’

  ‘Okay. Carry on. Three bank accounts in Switzerland? Frankly I don’t give a horse’s ass about two of them. Tell me more. 1937, and?’

  ‘Well, the next seven years, until Pat died, went very fast. In ’39 the war started in Europe and with it came black-market opportunities, so Pat reversed the supply circle. With Joe’s money he’d buy wartime commodities in America – cigarettes, stockings, canned foods – and get them across to Ireland. His relatives out there would somehow smuggle them to England. They made good money, but nothing like the liquor. In September ’41 America got into the spoil and by ’44 Pat was dead.’

  ‘What killed him?’

  ‘His heart – just packed in. Truly, Tom. Pat boozed himself stupid every night, lived in constant stress, had no life at home in his last years. Do you know anything about your grandmother?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Mary Finnigan was a stunning seventeen-year-old when she married Pat. They had three children. Your dad, then Magdalene, who became a nun and went off to the missions, and little Thomas. Thomas died at birth and Mary was unable to bear any more children after that. It took her to her grave. Irishwomen were supposed to bear at least six. If you got ten the Pope himself would be godfather. Women with two children were suspect. The old bags in Queens would say it was an act of God. She was spurned even by the priests. That really got Pat in a rage, which is why he pulled your dad out of Saint Dunstan’s primary and sent him off to a Presbyterian prep. Mary aged fast and died heartbroken.’

  ‘Let’s go back to 1944. Pat died, Mary was already dead, my father was alive and kicking and well out of it. Why did your father feel entitled to withhold from him knowledge of the Zurich bank account?’

  ‘I never said that was the case, Tom. Cut it out.’

  ‘I’m saying that was the case, Dick. And kindly recall what I said about giving me bullshit.’

  ‘Because,’ replied Sweeney too quickly, ‘like I said, they were partners. I guess … I assume it was their joint money.’

  ‘Fuck you, Dick,’ said Tom coldly. ‘I am leaving, and you better start packing. You’ll be spending tonight – and a lot of other nights – in goddamn jail.’ With that he started for the door.

  ‘For Chrissake, Tom, I’m levelling with you. You walk out of here, you’re as good as dead. And it has nothing to do with me, I swear it,’ pleaded Sweeney.

  Clayton stared at him purposefully. ‘Tell me about Sean.’

  ‘Sean?’ Sweeney appeared bewildered.

  ‘S-E-A-N, Sean. Think hard, you’ve got five seconds.’

  ‘Sean who? Sean in what context, for chrissake?’

  ‘Sean in the context of Patrick Clayton.’

  ‘You mean Uncle Sean? Pat’s youngest brother?’

  ‘Tell me about him.’ Tom closed the door and started back towards his seat.

  ‘Look, Tom, I’ve never been to Ireland, and you’d do well to stay clear of it. We agreed no bullshit. Okay. I’ll tell you what I know about the family, but this is all hearsay. My dad talking from time to time.’

  ‘Fine,’ agreed Tom, sitting down. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Claytons were eight brothers and sisters. I know little about the girls. Patrick was the eldest but he went to America in 1915. Last ship across before the Lusitania. Then came Declan. Like all the Claytons, he believed in a free Ireland so he joined De Valera’s revolution, which turned out to be too bad. He was arrested after the 1916 Easter Uprising and executed by the Brits in Dublin Castle. Michael and Seamus, the twins, joined the Freedom Fighters in 1919 – the year they became the IRA – and fought for two years in the war of independence. They died together, aged twenty-three. Murdered by the Black & Tans at Croke Park stadium in 1923.’

  ‘How the hell can you recall the dates so clearly?’

  ‘In my father’s home, Thomas Clayton, the dates leading to Irish nationhood were recited at prayers before every meal!’

  ‘Were the Sweeneys Irish patriots too?’

  ‘My father was, and is. As for the rest, I would not know. Nor, for that matter, do I give a damn.’

  ‘That leaves Sean.’

  ‘Sean was the youngest. When the English created the puppet Irish Free State, he would have none of it. He left home, barely a teenager, and went to fight for the IRA. When the IRA became the official army of the Free State, Sean refused to continue serving with them and joined a new group, the Provisionals. He fought for the losing side in the civil war. But a few irregulars survived, Sean included. They kept their weapons and recruited new blood. When they were declared illegal they started bombing in England. He was finally arrested in 1936 and was lucky to escape hanging. By the Forties he was free again and his cause had had its day. Ireland became a Republic, the fighters became Sinn Fein.’

  ‘And he lived peacefully ever after?’

  ‘Not Sean. There was now the issue of Northern Ireland. Sean was instrumental in splitting up Sinn Fein. The Officials are the politicians. The Provisionals – with Sean in the thick of them – became the hard guys of today.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘If he is, he’ll be in his eighties.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the bank account. How did Joe Salazar get his hands on it?’

  ‘He didn’t have to, Tom. Joe always handled the money. Pat did the work, made the connections. Joe took all the payments. Once they had their Swiss accounts, Joe would simply divide whatever cash they wanted to hang on to, split the rest in half and send it off to Europe.’

  ‘Pat trusted Joe that much?’

  ‘No. But each man knew the other would kill him if he put one foot out of line.’

  ‘So what happened to Pat’s account after he died?’

  ‘Joe just carried on using it, signing Pat’s name. But rather than have to copy the signature indefinitely – or be found out on account of Pat being dead – he forged it just once more: he wrote to the bank in Pat’s name and sent a power of attorney in favour of your dad.’

  ‘Are you saying my dad was in business with Salazar?’

  ‘Hell no! Mike never even knew. The Mike Clayton signature on the form was done by Joe. In recent years, Joe just signed a pile of blank sheets and gave them to that scumbag Tony. That’s who operated the account ever since.’

  ‘Where does the money come from?’

  ‘Laundering, Tom. Big-time money-laundering. But I cannot give you any names. I simply do not know them,’ Sweeney lied.

  ‘So you now expect me to give Salazar his forty-three million back, right?’

  ‘If you don’t, they’ll kill you. Whatever you may think of me, I have come here in friendship. I always objected to the use of your father’s name in conjunction with tha
t account. I told my father so when I first learnt about it, which was not that long ago. But you’ve got to believe me, Tom. Salazar will stop at nothing to get it. If he does not put that money back, the true owners will probably kill him.’

  ‘The true owners being who, precisely?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Who, Dick?’ Tom said firmly.

  ‘Who do you think wants money laundered, you ass? Use your imagination for Chrissake!’ Sweeney’s aggression was clearly born of fear.

  Changing tack, Tom asked: ‘How long are you staying in London?’

  ‘Just long enough to sort this out.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘I’m going back. And I guarantee you that if you hand the money over, they’ll leave you alone. There are ways to make sure of that.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. A couple of days. We can meet on Friday.’

  ‘It’s got to be quicker than that, Tom.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t. And meanwhile you can ask that goddamn Salazar a question from me. Tell him that when Pat died he had over half a million dollars in the account. From what you’ve told me, that was undoubtedly Pat’s money. Also from what you’ve told me, if Salazar had taken it while Pat lived, he, Joe, would now be dead. So maybe you can give him a call. See what he has to offer me.’

  ‘Offer you? Tom –’

  Clayton stood up and started to leave.

  Sweeney followed him. ‘What am I asking for?’ he complained as they entered the lift. ‘You want half a million dollars?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Tom replied, then waited until they were crossing the lobby before delivering his demand: ‘I want five hundred and sixty-seven thousand, three hundred and eighty-four dollars and twenty-two cents. Plus fifty-four years’ interest and some kind of serious payment for the use of my dad’s name.’

  ‘How the hell do you expect me to ask for that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dick. You’re the lawyer. My family’s lawyer, as it happens,’ Tom said with a grim smile as the doorman held the cab door open. ‘Get out there and bat for me.’

  Sweeney just stood gaping as the taxi pulled away. He did not notice the young man in the dark-blue suit reading a newspaper in the lobby. But Special Agent Drake noticed Tom Clayton and made a note of the visitor’s description, and the fact that he spoke with an American accent.

  That same Wednesday, even as Clayton and Sweeney talked, three events were taking place in three other cities, which, had they been known to them, would have put a totally different complexion on their discussion.

  In Geneva, an employee of Credit Suisse was allocating inter-bank payments received during the previous night and saw the message flash to notify Guido Martelli of a particular transaction. When the Chief of Security was informed that $47 million had been received from a bank in Grand Cayman, he gathered two payment orders received the previous evening and went to see a director of the bank. After a short deliberation, they both concluded that there was no reason at all why they should not comply with the account holder’s instructions. The director himself initialled the authority to remit $23 and $24 million respectively to Banco Nacional in Montevideo and Banesto in Seville.

  The transfers were made at four in the afternoon, Swiss time, and straight afterwards Martelli telephoned Guy Laforge at United Credit Bank in Zurich. Both security chiefs seemed pleased with the outcome, the latter relieved that funds had materialized from elsewhere, and that perhaps no further attempt would be made to remove those deposited with his bank, an opinion which he promptly relayed to Director Ulm.

  Earlier in the day, the United States Ambassador to Spain had left his residence in Puerta de Hierro on the outskirts of Madrid, but instead of going to the Embassy as usual, had proceeded directly to Santa Cruz Palace, where the Minister of Foreign Affairs had agreed to an early morning audience.

  After exchanging diplomatic pleasantries, the Ambassador made his request: that the account of a certain construction company, held at Banco Español de Credito in Seville, be frozen immediately – pending receipt of documentation from Washington that would irrefutably link it to serious international crime.

  The Foreign Minister offered his sympathy and explained that such matters were in the domain of the Comptroller General of Banking, and that a high-level approach would perhaps be better directed to the Minister of Finance.

  The Ambassador agreed that under normal circumstances that would indeed be the correct procedure and that the American Secretary of State was well aware of this himself. As it would have been a breach of protocol for the Ambassador to go directly to the Minister of Finance, and given the urgency of the matter, he was left with no alternative but to seek the Foreign Minister’s understanding.

  The Minister then undertook to personally secure the full cooperation of all the relevant Spanish authorities to achieve the immediate satisfaction of the Secretary of State’s request. It was, he added, always a pleasure to assist an old and dependable ally. He then enquired whether the Ambassador had time to join him for breakfast, as this would provide a propitious opportunity to have an informal chat on the United States’ position with regard to the irksome matter of Gibraltar.

  The Ambassador, however, though he would have been delighted to accept the Minister’s invitation, regretted that he was under pressure to return to his Embassy and inform the Secretary of State of this meeting’s most satisfactory outcome. Nevertheless, he would immediately request a full and up-to-date briefing on his government’s position on the Gibraltar issue, and would be honoured to call again at the Foreign Minister’s convenience.

  Six thousand miles away, the United States Ambassador to the Republic of Uruguay, faced with a similar mission, had a much easier task. When he received his instructions from Washington he smiled, for that very Wednesday, at ten in the morning, he had a scheduled private meeting with the Uruguayan Minister of Economy to discuss unresolved matters arising from the MERCOSUR Economic Integration targets. Asking to speak to the Minister in private, he put forward his government’s request. He also pointed out that the United States Government was not at this stage laying claim to those funds and was perfectly happy to see them remain in Montevideo. He assured the Minister that, within a matter of days, high-ranking law enforcement officers would arrive from Washington with all the necessary supporting evidence, and that any action to be taken thereafter would be entirely at the discretion of the Uruguayan courts. The Ambassador was here in friendship, to advise a friendly nation that its banking system was being misused by foreign criminals whose activities both Uruguay and the United States would undoubtedly wish to stamp out.

  The Minister, who could see no intrinsic harm in a large sum of foreign currency being forced to remain in Uruguay indefinitely, assured the Ambassador that he would speak to the President of Banco Nacional, and not one cent would be allowed to leave the bank.

  The Ambassador conveyed the gratitude of the Secretary of State and then got down to other business.

  Thus the little bit of information that Julio Robles had extracted a few days earlier, from a disturbed Mayor Romualdes, had slotted neatly into the puzzle and upped the damage to the enemy – to close on one hundred million dollars.

  9

  TONY SALAZAR ARRIVED in London on Wednesday evening. Except for a few visits to the border towns of Mexico and the Caribbean money-runs, this was his first real trip outside the United States. He travelled on a morning flight and made a point of being at Kennedy Airport well ahead of the scheduled departure time. He needed to do some research.

  After checking in his only bag he had walked over to the Hertz counter and asked what was the best car they had available for hire at London Heathrow. A chauffeur-driven Silver Seraph he rejected with disdain. He wanted something with a little more pizazz and certainly no driver. A Ford Probe fell well short of what he had in mind, so without thanking the employee he turned away and tried the Avis desk, where an XJ8 became a possibility should nothing better come up.
Alamo offered a Vauxhall Calibra Coupé which Tony laughed at, and Budget a Mercedes saloon which he judged far too boring. Then at the Eurosport office he struck gold: they could offer a Bentley Continental R Coupé. Seven hours later he collected the keys at the Heathrow arrivals lounge and after getting directions from the clerk he set out for central London.

  He booked into the Intercontinental Hotel and called his father at home. He learnt that Sweeney had met with Clayton, who was demanding a big cut before handing back the rest. Joe Salazar had authorized Sweeney to let him have half a million.

  ‘Half a million? You crazy or something?’ Tony had protested.

  ‘There’s a reason for the figure and it’s none of your business. Now listen to me …’ The Laundry Man explained that Clayton was out of town and Sweeney would see him on Friday. Tony was to do nothing. Just lie low for a couple of days. If the offer was accepted and the money handed back, Tony was to remain in London until Sweeney had collected. If, however, Dick failed, Tony was to get the money out of Clayton by whatever means, then kill him anyway.

  ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Sure, but no half million if I collect, right?’

  ‘Hell, you get the dough, you can keep the half mill for yourself, son.’

  Tony liked that. He hoped Sweeney would fail miserably. Killing the guy would be easy, just as easy as bringing a gun to London had been. He had packed it inside a hollowed-out volume of Webster’s Dictionary and sent it to himself, through couriered overnight service, care of the hotel. If it turned out to be the one-in-a-million package that got opened by customs, Tony would deny all knowledge. Could be awkward, but a lawyer would soon get him off. But the parcel had not been checked and it was waiting at Reception when Tony arrived. Before killing Clayton he would have to get the money, and to do that he would have to find out where the guy had hidden it.

  What if the stash was still in Switzerland?

  That could create a lot of problems.

  Tony Salazar knew, from his own handling of the account, that Clayton was unlikely to have signed an indemnity allowing the bank to accept telephone instructions. Not for such a large amount. How then to close the account? He could stick a gun to Clayton’s head and force him to sign a letter to his bank, but then what? If he popped him there and then, and later the instructions turned out to have been deliberately screwed up – or even phoney, wrong bank, wrong account number – Tony Salazar would be in trouble.