The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  Their descent into hell had begun the previous Easter when the Claytons joined the Langlands for a week in Gstaad. Cocooned in the splendour of the Palace Hotel, dazzled by the brilliance of powder snow and their own careers, they thought they could do no wrong. Everybody knew that sterling was too high, that the British currency would drop in value as soon as New Labour’s pseudo-socialists found an excuse to let sterling slide sufficiently to kill it off and replace it with the Euro.

  So they played a simple game. Went bull on Swiss francs and bear on sterling. They formed a company in Vaduz – its ownership hidden behind Liechtenstein’s impenetrable secrecy laws. Taurus AG opened a trading account with Clayton’s bank in London. The new client was armed with the best of references, provided by no less than the bank’s own branch in Zurich. They bet on future values and chose the simplest of commodities: not coffee, or gold, or minerals – but cash, specifically the pound sterling. They sold £15 million they did not have, three months forward, at 2.40 Swiss francs. For every cent the pound dropped against the franc, they stood to make over £60,000. As is usual in such trades, Taurus was asked to pay a margin – a deposit – but because of the excellent introduction this was limited to 5 per cent, or £750,000. They sent this money from Vaduz. Split fifty-fifty, it represented most of Langland’s savings and a sizeable portion of Clayton’s.

  But Europe had more financial crises than Britain, and the pound held firm. Not even reducing interest rates could take the shine off sterling. By the time Taurus closed its books they had lost £625,000, virtually all their margin.

  Langland was devastated. He had been born rich, grown up poor, started on the path to wealth once more and suddenly he had less than $50,000 to his name.

  ‘We do it again,’ Tom had told an incredulous Langland.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Langland had protested. But he would cling to any prospect, however nebulous, if there was a way out. ‘What with?’

  ‘I’ll stick my neck out,’ Tom replied, ‘I’ll send $2.5 million from the bank to Zurich. A mistake,’ he explained. ‘It should have been a debit for the new margin, instead I sent a credit.’ He paused for his friend to digest the enormity of what they were about to do, ‘We double up. £30 million. You move the money from Zurich to London, and I do the deal.’

  When Langland said nothing, Tom went on: ‘Don’t you see? Anyone asks you, you say you sent the money back, realizing it had been paid in error. I get asked, I say I thought it was the proceeds of the debit I had applied against Zurich. Chances are the “error” won’t be picked up for at least three months. By then we’re home and dry.’

  ‘And if the pound doesn’t drop?’ Jeff asked reluctantly.

  ‘Hey, Jeff,’ Clayton replied dismissively, ‘you got cold feet, I go alone on this one. What’s it going to be?’

  So the deal was done.

  But all that seemed like aeons ago now. As they downed their second brandies in an empty Zurich restaurant, the pound stood at 2.64 francs. They were $2.2 million in the hole. If the pound moved up one more cent they would have to increase their deposit. Even worse, the theft might be discovered.

  ‘What are we going to do, Tom?’ Langland begged for reassurance.

  ‘Nothing. Not yet. There’s a month to go. Maybe the pound collapses,’ Tom added with little hope. ‘Meantime, stay cool, do nothing. I’ll think of a way,’ Clayton concluded, with more bravado than conviction.

  That afternoon, unwilling to spend another minute with Langland and with no desire to sit in his hotel room, Tom hired a car and took the scenic route to Lake Constance. He dined on beef fondue in a tourist inn complete with Alpine band and yodellers and returned to Zurich at midnight, feeling totally drained.

  While Clayton was killing time, the bank managers had been busy. Before Tom even left the building, Ackermann had requested an urgent meeting with Dr Karlheinz Brugger, a corpulent senior vice-president, responsible for private clients. Once Dr Brugger had listened to Ackermann’s account of the earlier meeting – and checked some facts – he glanced at the clocks on his office wall and set the wheels in motion. It was 12.15 in Zurich, 5.15 in the morning in New York. Brugger called in his secretary and sent two confidential faxes: one to the security officer of the United Credit Bank in Manhattan, directing him to telephone Dr Brugger immediately, and another to the Second Commercial Officer at the Swiss Embassy in Washington, advising him that Dr Brugger would be telephoning him at 8.00 a.m., DC time.

  At three in the afternoon, Swiss time, Guy Isler of UCB New York called Dr Brugger and received his instructions. At three-fifteen, the Embassy took Dr Brugger’s call and he made his requests. But Switzerland is the perfect epitome of a military-industrial complex, a country with some of the world’s most effective and productive corporations run by men (seldom women, who until recently were not even allowed a vote) who spend their adult life, by law, serving in the armed forces. Although the service is very much part-time – fifteen days a year on average – their rank applies throughout the year. Thus, when a vice-president of the country’s second largest bank talks to a second attaché (commercial) at a Swiss Embassy, it is also understood that a serving colonel is asking a favour of a serving lieutenant. It is not an order, yet the subaltern would be wise to treat it as such.

  So, when Clayton was admiring the shoreline at Konstanz, Brugger was leaving for home. This was an hour later than his usual five-thirty, which annoyed him, but he had his answer from the Embassy. The New York Consulate had indeed legalized the documents the previous week and a full set of photocopies were awaiting collection by Mr Isler.

  And as Switzerland slept, Isler visited the New York Bar Association, the State Department, and the Register of Births and Deaths, before faxing his report back to head office in the evening. When Brugger got to the bank at 8.00 a.m. precisely, on Thursday, he had the confirmation that the signatures were all genuine and that the documents in question were valid and correct. The only part that fell short of total satisfaction was the contact with the firm of Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, in that the senior partner in question, Mr Richard Sweeney, was unavailable until the following Monday. But his associate, Mr Weston Hall, was able to confirm that Professor Michael Seamus Clayton had indeed died two weeks earlier, that his only son was Thomas Declan Clayton, and that the firm were executors of the will. All this information was in the public domain. Nevertheless, before answering any questions, the assistant had taken down the details of the enquirer, as well as the reason for the enquiry, then typed a memo which he left on Dick Sweeney’s desk.

  Satisfied, Brugger summoned Ackermann and told him to call Clayton. When Ackermann did so, at ten that Thursday morning, he said he would be pleased to see Mr Clayton again at eleven, if that was convenient. In a moment of spontaneous perversity – he had hardly slept at all the previous night – Tom insisted on eleven-fifteen.

  Brugger, before handing over the Clayton files, reminded Ackermann how much the bank valued the accounts of substantial depositors, and the dim view it took of executives who lost these deposits to the competition. Glancing one more time into the file, before closing it and pushing it across his desk with finality, Brugger pointed out that the account balance was marginally higher than Ackermann’s previous upper limit, the tacit implication being that its management could be taken as – if not quite a promotion – then as an increase in status.

  Grateful for the opportunity, Ackermann set about preparing the necessary papers, meticulously observing his beloved procedures, so that, when he met with Thomas Clayton all would be ready to hand. Disclaimers, indemnity releases, fiduciary agreements and of course the account opening forms – with instructions, mandates and signature cards. He then reserved one of the premium conference rooms and instructed Alicona to be at Fifth-Floor Reception at 11.10 sharp.

  At ten-thirty Clayton walked out of the Baur au Lac, having settled his account. Once again he walked the length of Bahnhofstrasse, determined to argue as forcibly as necessary y
et aware that by simply denying all knowledge the bank could call his bluff.

  Accounts that lay dormant for years had a way of going into suspension for a while, before being absorbed as patrimony of a bank. He knew banks in America that would keep them alive for five years or so, then re-assign them with a different number for a further decent period and eventually, if no claimants were forthcoming, use the proceeds to massage the bank’s balance sheet at will. And it was well known that Swiss banks were the supreme beneficiaries of such bonanzas. Many depositors were so secretive about their Swiss nest-eggs that often, after their untimely demise, nobody would be any the wiser as to the fund’s existence. Every time a Third World despot encountered sudden death, a few more million rang up on the Bahnhofstrasse’s tills. Each time a war shook any corner of the planet, and the leaders of the losing side paid with their lives, their ill-gotten gains quietly found their way into the coffers of an Alpine wonderland.

  Without the old bank statement and the account number, Tom knew his chances would have been poor to non-existent. With them, however, the bankers would have to assume he knew more than he really did. That’s what he would assume, in their place. If the money had remained untouched since 1944, it would probably have gone into suspension by 1950 at the latest, with no interest paid thereafter. If they acknowledged the account, he would not accept that stance. He would demand interest, ask for 4 per cent compounded annually, and haggle down, a quarter of one per cent at a time, to settle at three million. Then he would call Interflora and order an obscenely large wreath of flowers, the sort you can buy only in New York or LA, to be placed on his grandfather’s grave. In that positive frame of mind he entered the large building near Paradeplatz and took the lift to the fifth floor, to be greeted by a smiling Alicona.

  This time he was ushered in a different direction. The conference room they entered was clearly of a different status, he observed immediately: the kind that all banks had for valued clients. Gone were the recessed, diffused-light fittings. Here were chandeliers. The plush pile carpets had given way to Persian rugs, and the conference table had twelve chairs round it. Ackermann was already standing as they entered the room, a semblance of a smile – at least by Ackermann standards – on his lips, his right arm extended in welcome.

  Clayton’s heart leapt: it had to be at least three million.

  As they took their seats around the gleaming mahogany table, Tom noticed the neatly placed files. The name Thomas D. Clayton was already printed on the covers.

  ‘I am pleased to tell you, Mr Clayton,’ said Ackermann opening the meeting affably, ‘that we have been able to complete all our procedures within the short period which you requested.’ He said it as if congratulations were in order, but Clayton just smiled and nodded.

  ‘I would assume from the instructions you gave us yesterday,’ he continued, looking up his notes so as to preempt any challenge, ‘that you will not be wishing to retain your father’s account number, but rather’ – he opened two new files and passed them over to Clayton – ‘to have two new accounts established as of now.’

  He means my grandfather’s account number, thought Clayton, but remained silent in deference to his Second Rule of Banking: If you are told something you do not know, keep quiet, pretend you know and carry on listening.

  He nodded at Ackermann and turned his attention to the files. They were standard account-opening forms, though very different from those presented by American banks: fewer questions, more instructions.

  Clayton took out his pen and started signing. The current account, in US dollars as requested. He signed four times and Alicona nodded approvingly. It made things simpler, dealing with a fellow banker. Tom then turned to the deposit account, and added another four signatures.

  ‘You stated yesterday,’ Ackermann read from his notes again, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice, ‘that you would be requiring 10 per cent right away. Are we to put this into your new current account, perhaps?’

  ‘If you could give me the exact balance as of today, Mr Ackermann?’ Tom hoped no nervousness showed in his voice.

  ‘Forty-two million, eight hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars,’ replied the Swiss banker punctiliously. ‘Plus accrued interest, of course, which will be credited …’ – he looked at the calendar on the desk – ‘tomorrow, in fact. That will be $124,909 for the current month.’

  Clayton’s left arm started shaking involuntarily and he quickly feigned a pain in his left knee, dropping the rogue arm towards it and rubbing it to hide the tremor. ‘An old sports injury,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘Troubles me sometimes in winter.’

  He too was used to big figures. Forty million, four hundred million. They were amounts he discussed regularly in the course of his job. Stay calm, Thomas, he told himself. Think: other people’s money, telephone numbers, just another deal.

  ‘About 10 per cent, yes. To be precise’ – he paused to take the speculative sheet from his case while Alicona made notes – ‘I would like you to transfer five million dollars to the order of Taurus AG, care of my bank in London.’ He passed the account details to Alicona. ‘There is to be no reference to the source of this transfer.’ Then, turning to Ackermann: ‘That leaves thirty-seven point eight-two-six.’ The figures rolled off his tongue easily now. ‘What is your best rate for thirty-seven million dollars, ninety days?’

  ‘In view of your family’s long association with the United Credit Bank, Mr Clayton, I am authorized to offer four and one quarter. Fiduciary deposits, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, that is acceptable,’ replied Clayton with a smile, knowing that was well above anything his own bank would offer. ‘Please give the transaction tomorrow’s value date. You can add the one-twenty-five interest to the remaining eight-two-six …’ – he paused briefly to make the mental calculation – ‘… making that a total of $950,909 to go into my current account.’

  Alicona nodded agreement, looking up from his calculator.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Tom, to end the matter. ‘I shall expect to see five million dollars in the London account.’

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Ackermann, hugely pleased with himself.

  They agreed that interest would be credited to Tom’s current account, that statements would be sent to his home address in London and that his wife would be given power of attorney over both accounts – Tom took the forms for her to sign – so that she could access them without formality in the event that Tom Clayton should be unavailable.

  As he stood to leave, Tom’s legs started to feel wobbly and he blamed his left knee again. Walking out into the sunlight, he quickly crossed Paradeplatz and rushed into the Savoy Hotel. Finding the bar, he ordered a large bourbon and gulped it down in one. He waited until his arm stopped shaking, paid with a fifty-franc note and walked out without waiting for the change. The bartender was nonplussed. Foreigners, he told himself, were strange. What bliss to be Swiss.

  Within the hour Tom Clayton boarded a British Airways flight to Heathrow. On his way to Zurich airport he considered calling Langland to tell him the good news – but decided against it.

  ‘Let him stew for another day,’ he told himself. ‘After all, he now owes me two and a half million bucks.’

  3

  DICK SWEENEY GOT back to New York on Sunday afternoon after a most frightening journey.

  His flight had left San José the previous day in beautiful conditions but an hour later, over northern Florida, the turbulence had started. Strong winds from the Atlantic, the captain said, asking passengers to fasten their seat belts and the cabin crew to take their seats. As they descended from their 37,000-foot cruise and entered the clouds, the shaking and jolting became worse. In a few minutes the brilliant sunshine was replaced by the deep darkness of dense stratocumulus, broken only by eerie lightning flashes, sometimes several in succession and no thunder, just the monotone hum of the engines.

  By the time they reached Norfolk, Virginia, and in spite of the captain’s pro
testations, air traffic control had assigned them to 27,000 feet, where the turbulence became even more extreme. The cabin service manager addressed all passengers, asking them to keep their seats upright, seat belts tightly fastened and trays and video-screens retracted. Kennedy Airport had its problems too. The weather was worse than forecast, aircraft separations had to be increased, and Saturday evening traffic was now heavily stacked. Long-range flights with fuel reserves reaching marginal levels had to be given priority and 404 from Costa Rica could expect at least an hour’s delay. The captain weighed company money against passenger satisfaction and opted for a flight diversion.

  Twenty minutes later they touched down smoothly at Baltimore-Washington International.

  Sweeney felt sick.

  He had eaten excessively while cruising in the sunshine, filled with a self-satisfied warmth, partly derived from some premier cru wines, without an inkling of the storm ahead. He had been thinking of his meeting with Speer. It was the first time the two had spoken face to face, but it had not taken Sweeney long to perceive that they both spoke the same language. Though Sweeney had practised law fourteen years longer than the Costa Rican – no more than their age difference – both had chosen the profession for their personal advancement and the opportunity to earn large sums of money, rather than out of concern for justice or morality. Reliant upon their legal expertise to protect them, they saw themselves as lawyers above the law.

  Now Sweeney stood half dazed in an airport terminal that showed all the signs of delays: nowhere to sit, people milling aimlessly about and loud voices complaining to airline staff about their evident inability to combat Acts of God. He made for the telephones and waited his turn for a free booth. First he called his associate at home but got through to an answering service. He hung up and called his secretary instead, explained where he was, and gladly listened as she assured him that nothing had come up that wouldn’t keep until Monday. Relieved, Sweeney went back to the airline desk, showed his first-class ticket and demanded a room for the night, which was given without question: at the five-star Peabody Court, free of charge, with a complimentary limousine in both directions.