The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  ‘Was everything all right?’ she asked, dextrously swinging the Mercedes estate on to the London-bound carriageway.

  ‘Yes, thanks. I saw Tess a few more times and sorted out the paperwork with Dick Sweeney,’ he replied, but decided to keep his discovery for later.

  ‘I’m glad. Poor Tess. She’ll miss him terribly.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly, then added: ‘Oddly enough, so will I, though I hardly ever saw him.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, glancing at him and placing her left hand on his knee. ‘I know, darling.’

  * * *

  They had been married six years but sometimes it seemed like six months. Their life together had been like a whirlwind from the first day. Scarcely a pause, never a dull moment, and though Tom’s work demanded long hours, they always had time for each other. For impromptu shopping trips to Paris, weekends on the French Riviera, short breaks on the slopes at Verbier.

  When people asked how he had met Caroline – which they always did, as an oblique reference to their different nationalities – Tom delighted in saying he had picked her up in a bar. Which was true, though he did not mention that the bar had been Annabel’s and that they had both arrived with different but overlapping groups of friends. But he vividly remembered first noticing her and how, towards the end of the evening, they had both deserted their respective escorts and decamped together to Tom’s flat.

  They had been together ever since, and if Tom remained deeply American, for all his Irish roots and established expatriate status, then Caroline was the embodiment of the well-bred Englishwoman: from a six-generation line of soldiers, confident, daring and totally independent. When she had eventually taken Tom to Gloucestershire, to meet her parents, he had at first been received suspiciously. But the ice had soon melted, and today the old Colonel welcomed him with affection.

  As they drove home from the airport that morning, Tom once again thanked his lucky stars and reflected with a smile that, even if he still had an eye for a pretty lady, he had been faithful to Caroline for seven years, which, considering his previous track record with girlfriends, surprised all who had known him as a bachelor. Dressed casually, without make-up, her slight, almost boyish frame looked vulnerable to Tom. He felt a strong urge to embrace her and protect her, reluctant to acknowledge that his emotions stemmed from guilt: from the mess he was about to bring into their lives, and which he still could not admit to openly.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, catching a glimpse of his smile.

  ‘You.’

  ‘Good,’ she said with a mischievous grin. ‘Keep it that way!’

  When they reached the house it was deserted, the children and their nanny ordered earlier to the park. Before Tom had a chance to hang his coat, Caroline had started up the stairs, barely pausing to kick off her shoes and throw her jeans down at her husband. Her mood could not have been more evident.

  Later, lying on the tangled duvet, he told her about the bank account, but even then he could not be entirely truthful. He could not make himself tell Caroline – lest her dream be shattered – that all they owned could soon be taken. That his job, his career, his prospects of ever working in finance again, would go up in smoke. He could not admit that he had gambled, illegally, traded futures to his own account in breach of rules, and lost. He dared not say that, unless he plugged the holes before he was discovered, prison could be a real prospect.

  Instead, for the moment, he continued to live the dream.

  ‘How much is half a million dollars?’ she asked. Though Caroline was neither illiterate nor innumerate, such was her Englishness that all foreign money – even the Almighty Dollar – had no value in her mind until expressed in sterling.

  ‘About three hundred and fifty thousand,’ he replied, then added as if reading her thoughts: ‘Plus interest, of course.’

  ‘How much in total, then?’ she exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and fixing her gaze on Tom’s.

  ‘Dunno,’ he teased, running the back of his hand over her left breast. ‘Half a million. One million. It depends how straight the Swiss want to play it.’

  ‘That’s it, then,’ she said happily and with finality. ‘You get that money, and we’ll have that house!’

  That house was an eighteenth-century manor, sitting on twenty-six of Wiltshire’s finest acres. Caroline had set her heart on it, for after eleven years of the London bright lights, she, like all of her class, longed for The Country. Caroline had little interest in money, having never been without, and though her father had offered the use of a cottage on the family estate, Tom had turned it down. We’ll have our own in time, he’d promised her.

  ‘Was your grandfather a crook?’ she asked conspiratorially, the question of the manor settled in her mind.

  ‘Probably,’ he replied apologetically.

  ‘That’s great! Every family should have a crooked ancestor.’

  ‘Does your family have one?’ he asked, amused by her enthusiasm.

  ‘Of course!’ she laughed. ‘They pillaged and plundered all across the Empire – how do you think one ever got rich? Sometimes,’ she murmured, rolling on top of him and kissing him gently on the mouth, ‘I’m amazed how naive you Americans can be.’

  2

  ENRIQUE SPEER DROVE his hired car from Medellín to Bogotá, where he caught the LACSA flight to Costa Rica. Once in San José, he crossed the road from the airport terminal and retrieved his Land Rover from the car park.

  Speer was fond of Costa Rica, his birthplace, the land of eternal spring. His father, a minor Gestapo official, had fled to Central America in 1945. Arriving with little other than the clothes he wore, and ten gold ingots in his only case, he made a fresh start. He married a local girl, established a timber mill, and lived in sufficient comfort to send his son to law school in Mexico City and eventually buy him a law practice in San José. On his death, Gunther Speer had left his son a house, a business and a case full of documents: fading sepia photographs of Bavarian country folk, a lengthy explanation – in simple language – of life in Germany in the Thirties and Forties, his own justification for having served the Führer, and a venomous tirade against the Americans, whom he accused of the most infamous treachery: joining forces with the Stalinist scum to crush the hopes of the Aryan race. He had also left Enrique an original birth certificate testifying to the birth of Gunther Johannes Speer in Vilshofen, Lower Bayern, on 23 December 1913.

  Years later, when the dust of the World War had settled and dead Nazis were of less interest to the world, it was this single piece of paper that would prove invaluable to Enrique the lawyer, enabling him to obtain German citizenship and with it a second passport. During a visit to Germany he had bought a small apartment in Munich and, using that address, applied for and obtained an American visa, valid indefinitely, as was usually granted to West German citizens in those days.

  A week after his trip to Medellín, Speer had packed a bag with winter clothes and flown directly to the Dutch Antilles. He left San José as a Costa Rican and entered the Dutch colony as a German, his passport perfunctorily looked at and no questions asked: in Aruba they were used to European lawyers visiting the tax havens of the Indies.

  He checked into the Hyatt Regency, where Doktor Speer was a regular and welcome guest, and called Joe Salazar in New York. Later he went down to Neder Gouda’s, a girlie bar in the picture-postcard town, and drank a dozen beers with Marcus, the owner and sometime client whose income from immoral earnings Speer invested in Holland. At ten he announced he was returning to the hotel for a meal, and asked Marcus to send his two best girls over after midnight.

  While dining, alone, he considered the inconvenience of such devious routing just to get from San José to New York. But you could never be too careful. In any event Morales paid handsomely: three hundred dollars an hour, and that meant every hour. From leaving home for Bogotá, to returning home – provided there were no delays – that would amount to 98 hours. $29,400, plus expenses, which Speer knew wo
uld be paid promptly as always, no queries, and in cash.

  The offices of Salazar & Co occupied the third floor of a nondescript five-storey building on South Street. Smart enough to denote ample solvency yet sufficiently discreet to elicit approval from clients who valued discretion above everything. Yet for all its low-key approach, the firm’s premises offered occupants and visitors alike some splendid views over the East River, easy access to and from New York’s airports, and a short walk to Wall Street.

  Hector Perez came out of the Banker’s office and nodded in Speer’s direction, a commanding sort of nod, almost like a bow except that it managed to avoid any suggestion of deference. He held the door open and followed Speer in, closing it behind them before retiring to his usual corner.

  ‘Enrique, que placer amigo,’ Salazar beamed, coming round his desk to exchange a Latin embrace. ‘What a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘And you, my friend, as always,’ Speer reciprocated. ‘The boss has asked me to send you his most sincere greetings.’

  ‘You will, of course, convey mine in due course, I’m sure. Now, how can I be of service?’

  ‘I fear we shall need to make a substantial withdrawal,’ explained Speer.

  ‘Enrique! Why fear?’ laughed Salazar. ‘It’s your money, eh!’

  They both laughed, but behind the light-heartedness Salazar was making calculations. The Morales account was big, over one hundred million. ‘Substantial’ had to mean at least ten or twenty. Still, such was the nature of Salazar & Co’s business. They accepted the dirty money, cleaned it up and returned it legitimized to their rightful owners. En route they deducted their fee of 10 per cent, extremely reasonable in laundry operations; but then Salazar & Co dealt only with men of substance.

  And, of course, no interest.

  While money made its tortuous way from hot to cold, it parked here and there, sometimes for days, sometimes for a few months. Any notional interest earned was one of Salazar & Co’s perquisites. ‘In place of expenses,’ was how they explained it to those few clients who asked.

  Once the money was invested ‘clean’, the owners derived their full benefit. It became ‘under management’, and at that point Salazar’s fees dropped to 2 per cent a year. Cheaper than the nation’s finest Mutual Funds.

  ‘The figure our respected friend has in mind is fifty million.’

  ‘In one lump?’ asked the Banker as his mind continued to race. Morales had over seventy million under management, the rest was being cleaned. Fifty was a lot, but fresh income was coming in at not less than five million a month. Significant, but not likely to shake a firm with three-quarters of a billion under management at the last count.

  ‘Not necessarily one lump, but we need it within thirty days.’

  ‘That may require drawing mostly from money in transit. It would be subject to the usual 10 per cent.’

  ‘What’s Malaga got clean at the moment?’ enquired Speer, glancing at the file he had brought along.

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Salazar, tapping keys on his computer. ‘In dollars, we have … just shy of a million in Spain, two million in Montevideo, two-fifty grand in Grand Cayman.’

  Speer thought for a moment and scratched some figures on his pad.

  ‘Okay, Joe, leave the Caymans out. We don’t want to involve off-shores on this one. Get me forty-seven million, split between Spain and Uruguay. Plus your fee, that’s a total debit of fifty-one point seven, agreed?

  ‘Correct. Thirty days, then.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Should I know what this is for?’ enquired Salazar.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ And Speer told him: about the Foundation, about Morales’ desire to give to his people.

  Salazar whistled, then almost immediately saw the point.

  ‘My admiration for our mutual friend increases daily,’ he said sincerely. He did not admit that he feared for the Morales account. Rumour had it that he was being cornered. That others – the Cali Cartel in particular – might be ready to move in for the kill.

  Once Speer had left, Salazar turned to Perez.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘In his office,’ replied the watchdog.

  ‘Get him in here, now.’

  Three minutes later he was there, looking flustered, wondering what next.

  ‘What have you done about the Clayton account?’ demanded the father.

  ‘Hey, you only asked me the other day,’ replied Tony Salazar defensively. ‘I was about to disperse –’

  ‘Good,’ interrupted the father. ‘For once I’m glad of your lazy ways –’

  ‘Jesus, Dad! I only –’

  ‘Shut up and sit down.’ His father waved away the usual queue of excuses. ‘Now here’s what you’re gonna do.’

  Tom Clayton took the Underground from High Street Kensington to Liverpool Street and was at his desk by seven-thirty. Soldiers, priests and bankers, they used to joke. At work each morning at the crack of dawn, and for no discernible reason. But that was the culture. If you didn’t cover your patch from sun-up till sun-down, some young turk would take it and make sure he got noticed.

  Dog ate dog, and Clayton loved it.

  ‘Hey, Tom, how was New York?’

  Vladimir Kreutz. Junior trader, irritating little man, wearing thick-framed designer glasses and brightly coloured dealer’s braces. He didn’t ask, ‘How was the funeral?’ Or, ‘How’s the family?’ Just, ‘How was New York?’ No room for sentiment here, thought Clayton, but what the hell. He ignored Kreutz – in any event no reply was expected. It was just a passing remark, a brief attempt at civility to punctuate the serious business of earning this year’s bonus.

  ‘Hey, Tom, you’re back! How’s your dad?’

  ‘Dead,’ replied Clayton, his gaze still fixed on his computer screen, looking up the deals made in his absence.

  The enquirer was Grinholm, Tom’s boss. He spoke with the relaxed dulcet tone of his native Georgia and was taken aback, for once.

  ‘Hey, sorry, must have got it wrong. Heard he was ill, or something.’

  ‘Nope. Dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. Look if you need a few days …’

  ‘It’s okay, Hal.’ Clayton looked up, sensing Grinholm’s genuine embarrassment. His boss was standing there, in his cheap suit and worn shoes, stroking his goatee. You’d never guess he was the highest paid member of the department. ‘Really. I’ve sorted things out already,’ said Tom, adding kindly, ‘He went suddenly. No pain.’

  ‘Right. Okay …’ Grinholm faltered. ‘Well, like I said, if you need any time, or anything …’ And with that the boss departed for the relative comfort of squeezing money out of people.

  ‘Thanks, Hal.’

  Tom Clayton was number two in Derivatives. They dealt in big sums and often sat on the fence. Heads I win, tails you lose. There were millions to be made, provided you got it right. When told of his father’s death, the first thing he had done was rush to the bank to tidy up all his positions. One did not leave an exposure unattended for ten days; all deals were firmed up and locked away before departure. Last year Tom had grossed $860,000. Over $3,000 per day worked, 80 per cent of it made up of a performance bonus, since his basic salary amounted to just $120,000 a year. Ten days away meant $25,000 opportunity-cost and, since he wanted to go to Switzerland this week, it would be best not to start too many deals until his return. So call it forty grand down the pan. But that was only the official version. In Tom’s secret world the onslaught continued relentlessly: sterling rising, markets rising … and the Clayton–Langland gamble was millions in the hole.

  It’s all a matter of bulls and bears. Like the rising horns of a charging bull, bull markets drive prices up. Bear markets, thrusting down like an angry grizzly’s claw, send prices tumbling. The speculator’s game is guessing market moves on the outcome of which fortunes changed hands. Tom bet heavily against sterling. He was picnicking with the bears, and so far only bulls had come to his party. He cl
osed his eyes briefly to will away the ghosts, then turned his attention to Zurich. He selected a computer program and entered: ‘$567,384.22.’

  The cursor moved and asked for a Value Date. Tom keyed in: ‘30–06–1944’.

  The date was accepted and the cursor moved a line. ‘MATURITY DATE?’

  Clayton wanted fifty-four years. He entered the date.

  The cursor moved into another box. ‘COMPOUND?’

  He did not know. How was the account set up? Did the Swiss pay interest monthly, quarterly, annually? He took the worst-case situation and punched in ‘A’.

  The cursor moved to: ‘RATE?’

  That was difficult. Somewhere he would be able to get UCB’s average interest rate for every year from 1944 onwards, but not now.

  ‘RATE?’

  He felt his hands sweating as he keyed his first figure: ‘3 per cent’.

  ‘$2,718,003’, came the answer.

  He noted the figure and keyed: ‘4 per cent’.

  ‘$4,535,697’.

  He made a note again, took a deep breath and tried 5 per cent.

  ‘$7,531,993’.

  ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed involuntarily. Maybe, just maybe, here was the answer to his prayers.

  ‘Hey, Tom, losing money already?’ jibed Kreutz from his station.

  ‘Making money, sonny boy. Making money,’ replied Clayton without looking at him.

  ‘Rub my head, Tommy,’ bantered his neighbour, returning to his own screen with renewed vigour.

  Tom chuckled and exited the software.

  He had to go to Switzerland without delay, and he chose to make the trip official in deference to his own First Rule of Banking: Never use your own money if you can be spending someone else’s.

  Tom’s stomach suddenly lurched as it struck him that his present problems stemmed precisely from having broken that same rule. He looked in the direction of Hal Grinholm’s office and could see through the glass that he was alone. Might as well do it now, he decided.

  ‘Hal, mind if I go to Zurich for a day or two?’

  ‘What have you in mind?’