by Bill Vidal
His legal advisors told him not to take this first round too seriously. They believed the prosecution would in the end accept Tom’s plea of self-defence. This was plain, simple police trickery, to keep him cornered while they dug deeper. Perhaps this view was correct, but it failed to afford Tom much consolation.
Later that morning he took the now familiar Underground to Heathrow. He thought of his journey along the same track when his spirits had been high, when he had outsmarted the Swiss bankers and returned home in triumph. This time Tom Clayton felt miserably alone. There was little for him to do but wait for them to come to him, for the inevitable day of reckoning when he must pay with his life. He hoped and prayed that somehow they might spare Caroline and the children. Unless Sean was prepared to shelter them. Sean, the man of violence.
Sean Clayton – family?
Perhaps.
At Terminal 1 Tom bought an Aer Lingus ticket. He sat quietly during the hour’s flight to Dublin and there changed to a Fokker Friendship. Through its large oval windows he took in the beauty of the old country: the Emerald Isle of many a New York fable.
The one place, as luck would have it, he could travel to from England without a passport. Thanks to British shrewdness, originally. Landed gentry, who owned half the island-nation, did not mind the Irish having political independence, but they certainly objected to requiring travel documents for weekend visits to their castles and estates. And Irish cunning in the end: for years their poorer unemployed were able to cross over the water and live off the old enemy’s social services. All this, decades before the European Union was even thought of.
The plane crossed the border into Northern Ireland’s airspace north of Cavan, then flew over Castle Balfour and past the shimmering waters of Upper Lough Erne. The narrow northern end of the lough pointed the way to Enniskillen, and beyond the city the land opened up to the splendour of Lower Lough Erne. On its northern shore, at Pettigo, the flight-path crossed back into the Republic, then started its descent towards the little airport on the isthmus in Donegal Bay.
The hired car was waiting for him and Tom set out immediately in the direction of Mount Charles. Twenty minutes later, at Dunkineely, he turned north. As he drove through the undulating landscape, he kept gazing to his left, to the spectacular peninsula that juts into the ocean between Killybegs and Ardara. Tom Clayton could not help pondering what abominations must have descended upon the Irish in days gone by: that people should have wanted to leave this paradise to start new lives in foreign lands. Nor could he suppress an overwhelming sense of guilt: that he’d never come to visit, not even after promising Tessa and taking her cheque which, he suddenly remembered was still buried amongst the papers on his desk. He could rationalize his behaviour in myriad ways, but still the guilt would not go away.
He finally came to Dungloe, a small but pretty village on the water’s edge. There had been pictures of Dungloe at home, old sepia photographs of narrow streets and burly men raising beer glasses. It looked prettier in the sunlight. Tom went into Cotter’s Inn to ask for directions.
A number of men stood at the bar, a few more sat nursing pints of stout at tables. All turned in unison to study the stranger. He approached the corpulent man behind the counter, presumably Mr Cotter, and asked where he might find Sean Clayton. The room went silent and Cotter continued drying a glass as he slowly walked along the bar until his pockmarked red face was level with Tom’s.
‘And who might be looking for him?’ he enquired assertively, loud enough for all to hear.
‘Thomas Clayton.’
‘You are family, then? You sound American.’ The inquisition clearly was not over.
‘I am both,’ replied Tom. ‘I’m Patrick Clayton’s grandson.’
‘Mikey’s boy?’ said a man, rising from a table. They all turned to him. He wore dark trousers and a thick, checked shirt under an open anorak. He was about the same build as Tom, same curly dark hair and deep green eyes but thirty years older. He smiled at Tom and extended his right hand.
‘Give my cousin a glass, Gerald,’ he said to the publican, then to Tom: ‘I’m Feilim. Sean’s son.’ Just four words, yet they unleashed pent-up emotions.
Tom clasped his cousin’s hardened hand and they met in a half-embrace. This was a man from a land he seldom thought about, yet he felt of his own blood, as if the bond had always been there.
And with a sudden sharp pang Tom Clayton realized that he really had no friends. Caroline? His wife. Tessa? His sister. Stuart … And that was it. Forty years old, and no other true friends. Meanwhile the patrons cheered and chanted sounds of Welcome Home.
‘I’m sorry about your father, Thomas,’ said Feilim. ‘We were all devastated when we heard.’
‘Did you know my father?’ asked Tom, surprised.
‘He was here once,’ Feilim nodded sadly.
The door opened and Sean walked in. Looking quarter of a century younger than his grand old age, he was not tall, five seven at the most, but his walk was firm, his shoulders still commanding and his eyes like open windows to an overpowering inner strength.
‘Well now, Thomas Clayton,’ he bellowed for everyone’s benefit, ‘you finally decided to come and see us, hey!’ He spoke amiably, in a north-western brogue, as the others joined in the merriment of the moment. Gerald Cotter automatically reached for a bottle of Jameson and poured Sean a double. Sean observed Tom’s near-empty glass of Murphy’s and chided the landlord: ‘And one of those for Tom as well, give the man a decent drink! You do drink whiskey, I take it, Thomas?’
Tom nodded with a grin. That I do, he said to himself. A few more rounds of drinks followed and a score of people were introduced. But though he stood there right next to Tom, Sean said little, just listening to the talking and looking at Tom with a knowing smile. Then the old man took him by the elbow and ushered him towards the door.
‘Now, we better let my nephew get some rest,’ he announced as the others bid good day in agreement. ‘Perhaps this evening we’ll come back,’ Sean winked with a wicked eye.
When they stood outside the inn, he asked if Tom had a car. As the American pointed at it, Sean nodded and suggested a short drive. They left Dungloe behind and drove up the hill towards Burtonport. From there they climbed on foot along a rocky path where Tom could sense and smell the ocean before he saw it. Sean walked in front, his step sure and sprightly. From behind, watching his movement, Tom chuckled on recalling Sweeney’s conjecture about Sean: ‘… if he is still alive.’
They reached a small promontory, a cluster of rocks on Ireland’s edge, and Sean invited Tom to sit down. Both remained silent for a while, feeling the wind come in from the Atlantic – the same Atlantic, Tom reflected, that he had observed while lying on the sand dunes in Long Island.
Another world, another life.
‘Over there,’ said Sean, pointing at the rising land to the south, ‘is Crohy Head. Beyond it, Gweebarra Bay.’ He stood, as if to get a better view, then turned around to face the north. ‘That,’ he said pointing a gnarled finger at a small island a mile offshore, ‘is Golal. And the jagged bit, that sticks out from the mainland yonder, is Bloody Foreland.’
‘And this?’ asked Tom, looking towards the larger island straight in front of where they stood.
‘That,’ said Sean smiling mischievously, ‘is Aran Island. Where we used to load the whiskey in the old days.’
Tom smiled and nodded.
‘So, what brings you here at last?’ asked Sean, sitting down again without looking at Tom.
‘I have problems, Uncle Sean.’ Tom surprised himself with the spontaneous form of address. ‘Serious problems.’
‘When I was a young boy,’ said Sean, for the moment ignoring his grand-nephew’s admission, ‘I used to come and sit here. Most days. I would just look out to sea and squint my eyes. I thought, perhaps if I tried hard enough, I would see America.’
‘Was it really bad?’
‘Ah, yes. ’Twas bad, all right.’ For a moment his
eyes were misty with memories. ‘Sometimes I would stand up on that rock and shout Patrick’s name, begged him to come back and take me with him.’
‘I’m sorry, Sean. I never knew much until recently. What happened when my grandfather came back? Why did you not go with him?’
‘I was grown up by then. I had a job to do. I don’t regret it.’
‘Did Pat send money?’
‘That he did. Always. Until the day he died. He was a hard man, but when it came to Ireland he was never found wanting.’
‘Did my father ever send money?’
‘Just for the family. He was a true man of peace, young Michael. Rare quality, that. Never really understood, and Pat never pressed him. What about you? Where do you live? Have you a family?’
Tom told him all about himself, his home in England, his years in banking. And then he told of his problem, the money he had found, the man that had taken his wife before Tom killed him, and how he now realized his days were numbered. They would come back and take him one day, and though he did not frighten easily, he feared for his family. Tom was afraid to stay in London, he confessed. But America would be even worse.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested cautiously, ‘we could settle here for a while. Rent a house, or something.’
‘How much money did you take?’ asked Sean bluntly.
‘Forty-three million dollars,’ Tom replied, smiling sheepishly. ‘Some of that belonged to Pat. Most of it didn’t.’
‘And what have you done with this money?’
Knowing no hedging would help him here, Tom told his great-uncle the truth. The five million he had transferred to London, the 38 million still in Zurich.
Sean wanted to know how he had managed to claim the bank account and as Tom relived that triumphant day in Zurich, Sean laughed.
‘They had it in Pat’s name?’ he asked incredulously.
‘And later they transferred it to my father’s.’ Tom explained how he had tried to hand back 38 million but had been refused. The message was that whatever he did, Tom would be killed anyway. Sean asked who the threats were coming from and Tom recounted what he had learned from Dick Sweeney about the Salazar money-laundering operation.
‘What’s it like, living amongst them?’ Sean asked unexpectedly, then added as he noted Tom’s perplexed stare: ‘The English?’
‘Oh, they’re okay,’ he said, afraid it was the wrong thing to say. ‘My wife is English, you know.’
Sean nodded understandingly and stood up. He bent his elbows tight and pushed his arms back, his gaze far out to sea.
‘You think these men are going to kill you, now?’ He said it almost casually.
‘Yes.’ Tom had no doubts left.
‘Are you a man of peace, then? Like your father?’ As Sean turned round to face him, Tom saw that any trace of warmth had disappeared from his great-uncle’s eyes.
‘No,’ Tom replied holding his gaze. ‘No, I’m not. Not like Dad.’
‘I did not think so, Thomas Clayton. You’re like the rest of us. You’ll do as you have to do. And bloody your hands if need be.’
‘Are you asking me something?’ Tom ventured, unable to keep a tremor of fear from his voice.
‘I’m telling you something,’ Sean bellowed and unexpectedly burst into laughter. ‘And I’ve a good mind to put you to work. How’s that? Your life in return for service?’
Tom stared at him, speechless.
‘You don’t approve of me, do you, now?’ Sean was no longer laughing.
‘No,’ Tom thought of his father and found denials pointless. ‘Not really. Not of the way you go about –’
‘You’ve a lot of balls coming here begging for help,’ Sean interrupted him fiercely, ‘then passing judgement on matters you don’t understand. D’you think I’ll stop those dagoes with persuasion, now?’
‘Just this once, Sean?’ he pleaded. ‘For my family? For myself I do not care –’
‘And for my sins I do believe you,’ Sean said into Tom’s eyes. ‘Look behind you, Thomas Clayton. Tell me what you see.’
Tom turned and looked down along the rolling hills. The village they had come from was not visible, but beyond, to the east, he could just discern the skyline of some large town or city. He described all as he saw it, without names, of course, for he did not know them. When he finished, Sean spoke up: ‘I never look east. You know why?’
Tom remained silent.
‘To be sure to never see that bloody Union Jack flapping arrogantly in the wind. On Irish soil, across their border! And that sight,’ he said, slowly now, turning to face Tom, ‘I do not wish to see. It might just kill me!’
‘But you’ve already won, Sean,’ said Tom appeasingly. ‘The peace formula for a united Ireland –’
‘It is only words, Thomas. Just words. We Irish are supposed to be good at talking, but when it comes to words, it is the English that always look to have the final say. They are both clever and deceitful.’
‘All the same, I do believe you’ve won.’
‘That’s what they say in Dublin also. That the fight now is political. And that it will cost more money than the war. But I’ve heard it all before. So I shall help you, Thomas Clayton. I’ll sort out your little problem in New York.’
‘I am grateful, Uncle Sean. Eternally grateful.’
‘And I shall tell you just how grateful,’ Sean’s craggy old features had turned granite-hard. ‘As you have no business with that money, you will hand it over to my people.’
‘What? All of it?’
‘All of it, indeed. Pat would have liked that. Yes, very much.’
‘What about the five million I took? I told you … I used it to cover …’ Tom said nervously.
‘Well, you’ll just have to steal it back again. You are a banker, are you not?’
‘How … do you want the money?’
‘Is it still in Switzerland?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I expect we’ll take it there. I shall let you know when the time comes. Meanwhile, I imagine you’ll have it invested, yes? Earning interest and the like?’
Tom swallowed hard and admitted it.
‘Very well, then you keep the interest – for your troubles!’ Sean chuckled. ‘And some notice, I suppose?’
‘Ninety days.’
‘That’s settled then. Three months from this day you’ll pay up. Until we are done, some of our London people will protect you. You’ll not see them, but they’ll be around.’
‘Thank you, Sean, thank you …’ Yet even as he spoke Tom was calculating how much would be left of his five million.
‘Just looking after our investment, young Thomas. But you may care to remember that, when all others deserted you, it was your homeland that lent a hand. In the future, you must come and see us every year. Bring your children, and your English wife. We’ll talk again then. Right now,’ he yelled against a sudden gust of wind as he set off back down the path, ‘it’s yourself will be buying the drinks. For the whole village, like a good Irish boy from America. I’m not a money man myself, of course. But I would have thought that three months’ interest, on forty-three million dollars, should be good for a round or two.’
17
AT ELEVEN IN the morning Sweeney was let out of jail. He was accompanied by one of England’s finest criminal lawyers, who had called the police’s bluff. All charges against his client, a respected New York attorney, were based on the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence. Richard Sweeney’s version of events, that he had come to London to give a client some advice, was the more plausible. The rights or wrongs of the actions of Mr Sweeney’s clients, be they Clayton, Salazar or anyone else, had no bearing on these charges. And, in any event, it was preposterous to even suggest that counsel to a criminal could in any manner be impeached.
‘If that were possible, Mr Archer,’ the QC had stated with authority, ‘I myself should be jailed for the rest of my natural life!’
Then he became seriously threatening: about t
he court action that would be taken against the police and the formal protest that would undoubtedly be lodged by the American Bar through the Foreign Office for this total disrespect towards the most fundamental of rights, that of individuals to be legally represented whatever their alleged crime. Then, and speaking strictly off the record, he suggested that, if anything, the matter would be best dealt with by the American courts. Since his client wanted nothing but to return home, a lot of unnecessary embarrassment could be avoided by letting him do precisely that.
Once back in his hotel Sweeney saw the message to call a Mr Salazar. A mobile phone number in America was given and he went out to the street to use a public box. He learnt that Joe had been visited by agents from the FBI who explained that his son had been involved in a kidnapping and extortion and lost his life. Salazar had told them nothing, though this had been the worst month of his life. One hundred and seventy million had marched out of his front door, and now he had lost his son.
‘So I want you in New York,’ Salazar stated ominously. ‘Now.’
Sweeney, anxious to leave London in any event, caught a flight home that afternoon. He declined the six-course lunch and instead asked for a second whisky, noting gratefully that the seat next to him was vacant. Sometimes first-class cabins were good for drumming up business, but that was irrelevant today. He had six hours to do some serious thinking before braving Salazar.
He could try buying his life with blackmail. Sweeney kept secret records in his vault, each file containing sufficient ammunition to put away most of his clients for a long time. But the Banker was endowed with that volatile Latin temper – he would probably cut his own nose if it came to it.
No, reasoning with Joe would never work. Sweeney would have to swallow his pride and seek help from his own father. Eamon Sweeney was old and frail but Salazar would have to listen to him; there were still outstanding debts from the old days. Yes, that was it, Sweeney felt. And it was not just the whisky. He called the steward and said he had changed his mind about the lunch. He felt better as he waited and pulled deep on his fifth Chivas.