The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  A cool total of $73.7 million, representing eighteen months of Morales’ surplus cash. Cocaine exports were undoubtedly good business.

  When Salazar returned, Speer expressed himself clearly. He was taking over full control of Morales’ assets as of now. He showed Joe the Colombian’s letter of authority and the Banker knew there was no point in disputing it. That was the disadvantage of running a legitimate side: if a depositor wanted to terminate the arrangement, there was nothing to do but cash him out.

  Together they went through all the documents. Bearer shares were handed over, administration mandates revoked. Nominee directors always signed an undated resignation on appointment. Speer checked them all and added them to his mounting pile. Within an hour Salazar had signed everything he was asked to, and congratulated himself on managing to remain calm. They then discussed the monies still ‘in transit’ and Salazar estimated these to amount to about 7 million. He would need thirty days to remove these funds from Grand Cayman then make the balance available wherever Speer wished, after the usual deduction for commission, of course.

  Their parting was coolly courteous. As he stood outside the block waiting for a taxi, Speer did not see the man with a telephoto lens taking pictures of him. The DEA man had been told to photograph everyone moving in or out of Salazar’s building. At the end of the day he would send the film by FedEx to an address in Miami.

  Speer went straight back to his hotel and called a downtown law firm. He had dealt with them before on matters relating to Costa Rica, and now he needed to instruct them. They would have his power of attorney to dispose of all the companies’ US assets. His clients, the beneficial owners, who were neither Americans nor US residents, he explained, wanted to move out of US dollars. The entire portfolio was to be converted to cash and remitted to Dresdner Bank in Germany. They agreed fees and undertook to prepare all papers straight away. Speer told them he would be in New York for one more day. He was aware that some investments, mainly the properties, would require time to realize. Shares and bonds, however, could be disposed of fairly rapidly and he would wish to see the cash for these, plus the rest already in cash, on its way to Germany before he left.

  He then called Dresdner Bank’s Munich office and told them what to expect. Speer explained that he and a group of investors were moving out of the US dollar – something which the Germans understood – and he would be visiting them in the near future to discuss investment possibilities. Herr Doktor Speer, they said, was most welcome any time.

  They spent over an hour questioning Sweeney in his suite but he refused to comment, save to deny all allegations of wrongdoing. He went on the attack against the DEA man, querying his right to be there in the first place. He was a lawyer, he reminded him, and all communications with his clients were privileged. If the Department of Justice had illegally obtained any such information, his firm would deal with them in federal courts.

  He acknowledged that Salazar & Co were his clients and refused point blank to talk about their affairs. They were private bankers, duly licensed, and Sweeney would not comment beyond that. Asked by Archer the purpose of his London visit, he replied that Thomas Clayton was also a client. He had come to advise him on a serious matter but equally declined to divulge its nature, quoting lawyer–client confidentiality.

  Archer pointed out that it had been Clayton who had asked for their assistance, citing threats made by the lawyer, but Sweeney held fast. He denied the allegation and regretted that Mr Clayton had been so foolish; the matter upon which he was advising him was financial and commercial and in no way had violence of any nature ever been suggested or implied.

  Harper made reference to drug money being transferred from Geneva. Sweeney replied that any such movements, if they happened, would have been from clients’ accounts and pursuant to instructions. Again, a confidential matter which he was not prepared to discuss.

  When Clayton was invited to comment, he repeated the story as he had told it to the Chief Inspector. He produced the agreement he had brought with him and maintained that all its contents had been accepted, in fact they had been about to sign when the telephone rang. Immediately thereafter Sweeney had changed his mind.

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Harper.

  ‘A client,’ replied Sweeney without hesitation. ‘And that’s all I will say – for the same reasons I have cited so far. I also categorically deny any suggestion that I had agreed to sign that.’ He pointed at the agreement that Stuart Hudson had drawn up.

  ‘How long are you intending to remain in London, Mr Sweeney?’ asked Archer, knowing the lawyer was lying on at least one count, as he had heard the chat with Clayton from upstairs.

  ‘Since I have clearly failed to prevail with my advice,’ Sweeney replied, looking at Tom before turning back to the policeman, ‘I shall go back to New York tonight.’

  ‘No, Mr Sweeney. That, I must tell you, will not be possible.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’

  ‘You may remain voluntarily, to assist with our enquiries. If not, yes. I will arrest you here and now.’

  ‘On what charge?

  ‘Oh, obstructing justice. Making threats against Mr Clayton’s life.’

  ‘I have done no such thing.’

  ‘Allegations have been made, Mr Sweeney, and we need to investigate them. Will you stay of your own volition, or will you accompany me to Scotland Yard?’

  ‘I’ll stay twenty-four hours. I’ll also see a solicitor. By this time tomorrow, you come up with proper charges or I’m out. Count on that.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sweeney. We would be grateful if you could stay in your hotel tonight. We may need to speak to you again.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And to avoid any misunderstandings, Mr Sweeney, may we have your passport, perhaps?’

  ‘I take it you’re not just asking?’

  ‘Let us just say it’s part of the arrangement. A token of mutual trust.’

  ‘I am, of course, going to see a solicitor in the morning,’ he said handing over his passport.

  ‘That will be fine,’ smiled Archer. ‘And if you notice someone following you, please don’t be alarmed. It will be us.’

  Julio Robles had rehearsed his lines before going to the town hall just after ten. He suspected that at first the Mayor would refuse to see him, but if that happened Robles would simply wait. Sooner or later Romualdes would worry himself sick about Julio’s motives and receive him. Romualdes would be intensely aware of having betrayed Morales, and he could not afford to antagonize the only other person who knew that.

  But as the DEA agent was walking up to the Municipality he had seen the Mayor leaving, seen his driver hold open the car door and the man depart alone. Julio returned quickly to his own car and followed him, hoping he might be going home – that would be better than the office, for the confrontation Julio had in mind – but he headed away from town.

  Then Robles realized where his prey was going: the road led to the Morales estate. He could not risk following in that direction, so he pulled over, turned the car round and drove back to Medellín. Since returning to Colombia, Robles had become aware that Morales had problems – fifty million problems, he thought with satisfaction – and word was out that bills for the Foundation’s grandiose programme remained unpaid. Julio still believed that Romualdes had kept quiet about their last meeting. He assumed that the visit to Morales was a regular affair and thought no more about it. He also guessed that by the time he left Villa del Carmen, the Mayor would go home for lunch.

  He parked his car across the street from the Mayor’s home and fifty metres past it. Three hours later his patience was rewarded when he saw Romualdes’ car coming up the road, its horn blaring. Oblivious to the neighbours, the Mayor turned the car hard up to the gate, then leaned on the horn once more.

  Seeing his opening, Robles slid out of his car and walked towards the house as an anxious servant struggled with the gates. With twenty metres still to go, he saw t
he Cadillac jerk forward and past the entrance.

  Then the gates started to close.

  Julio speculated, correctly, that Romualdes was not the type to look in his rear-view mirror. One gate was closed and the second closing as Robles reached them and pushed through. He greeted the servant, who recognized him immediately, then kept walking up the drive. The mayoral car’s door was open and Romualdes was slowly getting out, still unaware of Robles’ presence. Julio noticed the coarse bandage on the left hand as the corpulent man held it away from his body and tried to push himself to his feet using his right hand and left elbow.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Mayor,’ he announced, then stood there smiling, rapidly gauging possible reactions.

  Romualdes stared at him in disbelief. Initial trepidation and anxiety yielded to a momentary flash of anger, which in turn gave way to abject fear.

  ‘You!’ he uttered the word as though he had seen an apparition. ‘How dare you come back here?’

  Julio pointedly stopped smiling. He had counted on having the initiative, but not for long.

  ‘I think we need to talk. Right now,’ he said firmly. He had further ammunition to use if the Mayor hesitated, but he seemed broken and in pain. So Julio just pointed at the bandage and asked if there had been an accident.

  ‘What do you want? Go away, or you’ll get me killed.’

  With hindsight, perhaps Julio should have thought that last remark somewhat odd. Killed? Why? If Romualdes had kept his mouth shut, there should be nothing ominous about the Mayor of Medellín meeting the forestry specialist from BID. But Julio’s mind was too focused on the immediate objective to note that vital cue.

  ‘We must talk. Right now, in private,’ he said firmly, helping the Mayor to his feet. Entering the house, they were both greeted by Mrs Romualdes, who smiled at first and made polite comments – older women always fell for Julio’s handsome looks. But then she gasped – ‘What’s happened, Miguel?’ – as she saw his bandaged hand.

  ‘A little accident,’ he said dismissively to her. ‘Nothing serious. Please go and phone for Dr Palmiro. Ask him to come now.’

  Alone in the Mayor’s den, the door firmly shut, Julio got down to business:

  ‘I think, Mr Mayor, you have some serious problems.’

  ‘You swore to leave me alone – why are you back here? I gave you what you wanted, you bastard.’

  ‘I know, and for that we thank you. And I did keep my word. I never did call your friend at Villa del Carmen to tell him how we snatched his money.’

  ‘What do you want now? I know nothing else that could interest you.’

  ‘I haven’t come to take from you, Romualdes. I’ve come to give.’ Julio took a cigarette from the silver box on the ornate desk, put it between the Mayor’s quivering lips, and lit it for him. He looked as though he could use it. Robles then spoke to him patiently, as if talking a child through an adult problem.

  ‘You obviously haven’t talked, or else you would be dead. Right?’

  Romualdes nodded.

  ‘But unless our friend is about to risk another fifty million, the Foundation will never get to pay those bills.’

  Romualdes felt better now. He knew Morales was bringing in another fifty. In cash, he’d said. He had to, or else he was finished in Medellín.

  ‘But I can tell you that he won’t,’ said Julio firmly. ‘Because we now have full knowledge of how he ships his money. He moves one dollar, it ends up in Uncle Sam’s coffers. Now that will really make Morales mad!’

  ‘He is mad enough already. Why did you come back, you Yankee-loving bastard?’

  ‘To put away Morales for good.’

  ‘You’ll never get near him.’

  ‘I shall, let me assure you. And you are going to help me.’

  ‘Forget it! I’ve had enough! I’ve done what you asked and that’s it. Goodbye.’

  Romualdes made to stand up but Julio raised his hand in warning: ‘My friend, you are not thinking clearly.’ He then patiently spelt out the Mayor’s options:

  The Foundation would never lay one brick. Whatever money was sent from the tax havens would be seized before it got within a thousand miles of Medellín. As Mayor, Romualdes would be finished. What could he then look forward to? Oblivion as a has-been, even if Morales let him live. Or worse: Julio reminded him he could always make that phone call and let Morales decide the Mayor’s fate.

  Romualdes winced and put his good hand on his lower left arm.

  ‘What happened?’ Robles asked, looking curiously at the bandaged hand.

  ‘I think I broke my fingers. Caught them in a fucking gate.’ The Mayor still had an instinct for survival, even at his lowest ebb.

  Julio laughed. ‘You should be more careful,’ he told him. Then, playing his trump card, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and placed it on the desk.

  ‘A receipt for fifty thousand dollars. National Bank of Florida, account in the name of one Miguel Romualdes. Paid in by the DEA. There is only the one copy. If you want it, it’s yours. The receipt and the money, that is. If you don’t, I’ll mail it to Morales. Now which would you rather?’

  ‘What do you want for it?’

  ‘Quite simple really: be a good Mayor for once in your life. You are concerned about the situation. Almost ten million dollars of contractor’s bills unpaid, wages in arrears … there is bound to be civil disorder. A good Mayor should anticipate that, do something about it.’

  Romualdes stared at him blankly, not following, his hand throbbing.

  ‘Be prepared. Call a meeting tomorrow, six in the evening, City Hall. Get the entire police force in there, tell them the worst. The building projects may be cancelled, expect riots, looting, mayhem. Invite a response, suggestions for contingency plans. Anything. Just keep them there for two hours. Two hours, okay? That’s all we want.’

  ‘What do I get if I do that?’

  ‘Fifty thousand for openers, more to come. You get to stay on as Mayor, and most of all you keep your life.’

  ‘Are you saying you’ll take care of Morales?’

  ‘By the time you finish discharging your civic duties, he will be history.’

  Romualdes liked that. Suddenly his hand was less painful. At the end of the day, the gringos were the strongest. If he could become their man in Medellín, it could be worth a lot of money.

  Mrs Romualdes looked in to announce that Dr Palmiro was waiting.

  The Mayor waved her away, saying he needed two more minutes with Mr Robles.

  ‘One hundred thousand,’ he said, his mind made up. ‘Then consider it done.’ The sum had a good ring to it. Yes, the Mayor thought, he was back on his way up.

  Robles was seen to the gate and walked over to his car. He had done it. There was no time to clear this with Washington. Tomorrow the men from Cali would do what no US agent ever could. Quick, blunt justice – with the bonus of heavy casualties on both sides. Cali was another problem, but that would keep. They too would get their dues in good time. Julio started the engine and fine-tuned the radio as it played one of his favourite cumbias. While the vocalist sang of the wonders of Santander, Julio Robles felt the cold steel of a .45 automatic pressed to the back of his neck.

  ‘Take the first left and then keep going,’ he heard the hard Arawac voice say.

  And from the general direction they were heading in, the American had little doubt that he was about to meet Morales at long last.

  13

  AS RICHARD SWEENEY slumped in his Claridge’s suite nursing a large Scotch, Tony Salazar prepared to leave the Intercontinental. He called Clayton’s number at the bank and learned he was not expected back. He dialled Tom’s home number and a female voice answered, though not the one Salazar had spoken to earlier. Salazar had already concluded it would be impractical to intercept Clayton as he left the bank. The City’s streets were busy and narrow and, even if Tony accosted his prey at gunpoint, they offered no clear getaway, not even in a Bentley.

  But Kensington Square w
as dark and quiet and more conveniently located on the west side of town. After seven the traffic would ease off. Tony believed he could easily make it to the freeway inside ten minutes. In the hotel lobby Salazar hired a pocket telephone and charged it to his room, then got the car and drove off. When he reached the square he was worried about finding a strategic parking space. As in all major cities, any space was at a premium. The square consisted of three-storey houses on four sides around a central garden, and by the look of them they were the sort of households to have at least two cars. He took it as a good omen when he found a space in front of number 63. After neatly parking the Bentley he called the number once again. The same woman answered and was sorry to say Mr Clayton was not yet back. As before, Tony left no name or message, saying only that he was a colleague from the bank.

  The nanny thought nothing of it. She was used to American callers, many of whom could be short with words.

  In his rear-view mirror Salazar saw the headlamps of a car turning into his side of the square. He sat still as it went slowly past him, coming to a halt outside number 61. He quickly felt for the revolver in his right coat pocket, pulled the lever that released the Bentley’s massive trunk, and, timing his movements carefully, started to alight. Then his heart leapt. For this was not Clayton but a very attractive female. Her looks somehow matched the voice on the answering machine, and Tony Salazar knew instinctively he had found a better way.