by Bill Vidal
He tipped the bellboy five dollars and left his suitcase untouched where the young man had placed it. Removing his clothes, he flung them carelessly over an armchair while he debated between a shower and bed. Then he caught sight of the minibar, and went over to inspect its contents. He took out the only two Chivas miniatures and considered ringing room service for a proper bottle but, deciding even that was too much effort, he picked up two Jack Daniel’s and placed all four bottles on the bedside table. Pulling back the covers, he piled four pillows against the headboard and threw himself gratefully onto the king-size bed.
He unscrewed the top of the first bottle and drank, not bothering with a glass, before returning to his reflections on the matter of Tom Clayton.
Dick Sweeney was deeply concerned. When Joe Salazar had asked for a meeting the previous Wednesday, the lawyer’s first thought had been of another fat fee. On his way to his client’s office – one always called on Salazar, not the other way round – he dismissed worries about who might be snooping. No doubt the Feds kept a round-the-clock watch on South Street, but even crooks were entitled to a lawyer. It was written in the Constitution and an unspoken truce of sorts existed. The government did not gun for the lawyers, and the lawyers went easy on injunctions.
As Salazar spoke, Sweeney felt relieved. He had always been uncomfortable about the Clayton account in Zurich and was delighted to learn that it was about to be closed once and for all. A few days earlier, after his lunch with Tom Clayton, Dick had a terrible premonition: Tom was nothing like his father and, given half an inkling, he would unearth the secret and all hell would break loose. Sweeney had voiced his fears to the Laundry Man guardedly, for, his own greed notwithstanding, the Clayton/Sweeney friendship went back a long way. He wished Tom no harm if it could be avoided. Perhaps he was being too cautious, Dick had told himself. How on earth could Tom even begin to know? Still, better to put a stop to even the most remote of possibilities. Besides, Dick was not entirely sure about Tom. Could he be bought? So Sweeney hinted ever so slightly, but Salazar stopped him dead.
‘What does he know?’ the Banker had demanded menacingly.
‘Nothing, Joe,’ Sweeney replied, half honestly. ‘You know I always disliked this arrangement. Circumstances demand that I point this out once more.’
Salazar nodded as if in agreement, but then warned: ‘Any problem, I ask Hector to sort it out.’
Sweeney definitely did not want to look over his shoulder at Perez. ‘No problem, Joe. Just close that damn account, that’s all.’
Salazar nodded pensively, then looked at Sweeney again, a plastic smile on his lower face, eyes still cold. He leaned back in his chair.
‘Matter of fact,’ he said soothingly, ‘I been thinking along the same lines. I told Tony to close the account.’
He told Sweeney about Speer’s visit to deliver Morales’ instructions and how that very day Tony had written to United Credit Bank. Since the funds would soon be available, Salazar suggested that Sweeney should fly to San José that afternoon and work out details with Speer. Dick agreed. He would have to juggle one or two appointments, but the thought of finally severing all ties between the Claytons and the Salazars appealed to him enormously. He liked Tom and Tessa and, this way, in future Dick would feel free to see them more often. Last but not least, Sweeney stood to make at least a quarter of a million in fees.
Now, in his hotel room in Baltimore, Sweeney’s stomach stopped flying of its own accord. He got up and made for the shower, twisting the top off the second whisky bottle. The steaming hot water revived his mind and body. Four days earlier Sweeney had told himself this was going to be not just profitable but fun. He had enjoyed Costa Rica from the outset. He had previously imagined heat and dust, straw hats and burros, surrounded by hovels with the odd fenced-in Beverly Hills clone for the privileged few. Instead he had been pleasantly surprised.
Speer had been wearing a suit when he had collected Sweeney from the airport. He drove a Land Rover, not the black air-conditioned saloon Sweeney had anticipated. San José looked healthy and the streets were clean, the moderate temperature encouraging flowers and lavish vegetation.
Sweeney and Speer had spoken on the telephone before, but this was their first meeting. From the accented but grammatically perfect voice, Dick imagined a dark Latin, but the man who approached him, as he searched for the stereotype in the airport, was fair and tall, his manner and deportment refreshingly civil.
They drove the ten kilometres to Speer’s house, making light conversation, starting with the usual small talk about the trip and the mandatory question: ‘Your first time in Costa Rica?’
Sensing, as natives always did, a visitor’s first impressions were good, Speer spoke about the country, about its coffee and flower industries, about its peaceful history compared with the region as a whole, and of the quality of life that, in Speer’s view at least, was unsurpassable. It appealed to Speer the German, of course, because, unusually for the region, almost all its population was white. And unlike every other country in the American isthmus, Costa Rica had no army, which perhaps explained fifty years of democracy – while its neighbours, with their revolutions, tore themselves apart.
‘Speer?’ Sweeney said, warming to the man and venturing a personal question. ‘German? Dutch?’
‘My people came from Germany. I’m Costa Rican,’ he replied firmly.
‘Well, my people came from Ireland,’ responded Sweeney quickly, ‘but, for my sins, I’m American.’
Speer laughed and cast him a sideways glance. He too felt they could work together. In their line of business, such repartee was not essential, but it made life easier. After all, they were supposed to be on the same side.
They agreed not to talk much business that evening. They touched on the matter at hand briefly, as they walked around Speer’s property, Sweeney admiring the gardens, L-shaped swimming pool and the beautiful single-storey house with its four-sided veranda. Sensing a kindred spirit, Speer took Sweeney to dinner at San José’s finest restaurant and then to the sort of night club where they served only champagne. The drinks, however, were mainly for the girls. Both men nursed one glass all evening as they continued to gauge each other, aware of the work that lay ahead. At midnight they went back to the house, girls in tow, and frolicked to their heart’s content, Sweeney noting that even the hookers were nice in Costa Rica. Perhaps it was spending a night in such sumptuous surroundings, or Enrique’s undoubted generosity. In any event, they appeared to lack the mercenary instinct that Sweeney was more familiar with: at no time did any of them check the clock. They made a welcome change from his frigid wife.
Thursday and Friday, they got down to work in Speer’s office. Any two lawyers representing either side of a fifty-million-dollar deal would have their desks littered with contracts and argue a thousand dollars’ worth of billable time over each clause. But these attorneys had different terms of engagement. They were simply asked to get results. Their principals were not interested in technicalities. No agreements were ever signed. When things went wrong, they were given the chance to offer explanations but if these were not acceptable, no writs would ever be served. Settlement was always out of court and, if appropriate, payable in blood.
So they talked and agreed the points to the finest detail. The Banker would release the money to Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, into their clients’ account in Geneva. Entirely clean funds would then be available to Speer’s client. On Speer’s instructions, Sweeney would in turn transfer those funds to the accounts of Malaga Construction in Uruguay and Spain. Malaga’s new branch office in Medellín would act as main contractor. It would select and pay the subcontractors out of the fifty million it would receive from abroad, in turn invoicing the Morales Foundation for the entire project. In time, the Foundation would pay Malaga back. Some of the capital required to do this would be raised by collecting donations in Medellín. But when a firm donated ten thousand, Morales would pay in twenty or thirty thousand, in that firm’s name,
using the ever-increasing stream of banknotes that came in with each new shipment of cocaine. In Speer’s estimate, if the total cost of the project came to fifty million, at least ten would have been raised from local contributions. In the process, Morales would have laundered a further forty million without paying any intermediary a single cent.
‘When do you think your end can be in place?’ Speer asked, once details were agreed.
‘I understand instructions for the transfers have already been sent.’
‘Excellent. In that case I shall start the ball rolling straight away,’ replied Speer, satisfied.
On Friday night they drove off the central plateau to the coast at Puntarenas and ate fresh lobsters by the Pacific Ocean. They drank a passable Mexican Chardonnay and accompanied the best coffee Sweeney had ever tasted with a few rounds of smuggled Chivas Regal. They then drove back to San José, collected girls from the club – just two this time – and returned to Speer’s place. Mid-morning on Saturday, Enrique drove Dick to the airport and watched him board the fight back to New York.
The difference between a secret and an item of common knowledge is no more than the degree of openness with which information spreads. In Colombia, even under threat of Morales’ own version of justice, the most closely guarded of secrets will still reach those for whose ears it was never intended. Such is the power of gossip.
Julio Robles, like his predecessors and those who undoubtedly would succeed him, bought secrets. Everyone in Medellín knew Julio, the Forestry Sector Specialist from the Inter-American Development Bank. EL BID, as the bank was commonly known – an acronym of its Spanish name – loaned billions of dollars that might never be repaid. In theory the bank was funded by all the governments of the American continent. In reality most of its resources were provided by the United States, which is why its headquarters were in Washington, DC. The majority of its staff was Latin American and all of its money was ‘loaned’ south of the Rio Grande, where politicians and businessmen perceived it as a soft touch: the source of hard currency for the grandest of infrastructural projects.
It made sense to be close to the men of EL BID.
So Julio Robles had no problem making friends. He was a familiar figure. Dressed in jeans and carrying a rucksack one day, as he went off into the jungle. Back in a suit or tuxedo the next evening for the city’s social rounds. Always sought after, invited to lunch here and receptions there; the jovial young Guatemalan could dispense large cheques for forestry conservation and job creation. A strikingly good-looking, dark-haired bachelor, Robles had Caribbean-blue eyes and a smile which broke many a Medellín heart. But whereas most Sector Specialists in the BID were posted for two years at a time, the incumbent in Julio’s job would be pulled out every six months or so, because that was how long his masters judged their envoy could remain alive.
In truth he was neither named Robles nor a Guatemalan, and the salvation of the tropical rainforests was only of passing interest to him. Julio Cardenas was a US citizen in the employ of the United States Department of Justice and totally committed to the aims of its Drug Enforcement Administration. How the DEA got its men into the BID, Julio did not ask. But they did, and so far not one had been exposed. Perhaps, he thought, this was thanks to the power of money. One man lost, whoever was at fault, and the host country would see a number of official-enriching projects suddenly targeted for budget cuts. So Julio just got on with his job – both his jobs – and took care.
He left the Peruvian consul’s cocktail party before nine, having exchanged greetings and embraces with at least a quarter of the guests, then drove his car out of Medellín towards Cartagena. Two kilometres out of town, where the road turned sharply left and right, he checked his rear-view mirror, then brought the vehicle to a sudden stop. A small man in his thirties, simply dressed in peasant garb, stepped out from the bushes and into the car.
‘You have something for me, my friend?’ Julio enquired lightheartedly as they drove off.
‘I have something very good for you, Don Julio,’ replied the man guardedly, his weather-beaten face betraying his anxiety. ‘You will reward me, of course?’
‘Hey!’ interjected Robles. ‘You question my generosity?’
The man shook his head, embarrassed. Everyone knew that the man from BID would give you fifty dollars – in greenbacks – for any information to do with land, especially land containing trees. And while there were relatively few trees on the land in question, trees were trees and stories could always be embellished. So he told him. Mayor Romualdes was buying up land in Medellín: the old Krugger lots in the town centre, and the telephone company’s derelict yard, which had been vacant for over a year.
Robles shrugged. Interesting, but so what? Did he know what the land was for?
‘No,’ said the man, ‘but there’s more.’ There were three large tracts being bought as well. Two of them on the Bogotá road: ‘Lots of trees there. Used to be part of the Angelini finca. And the bit we just passed,’ he added, waving his arm in the direction of the city. ‘About ten hectares by the side of this road.’
Julio nodded appreciatively and slowed the car down. He gazed into the darkness straight ahead, then checked the rear-view mirror once more. Taking advantage of a wide shoulder on both sides of the single carriageway, he turned the car right round and headed back towards town. His informer took the cue and looked at Robles expectantly.
‘How do you know?’
‘Qué?’
‘How do you know this is taking place, amigo?’
‘My wife told me,’ replied the man reservedly.
‘Your wife works in the town hall?’ Robles asked firmly.
‘No, not my wife.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘Her sister.’
The South American grapevine, thought Julio. Dribs, drabs, but woe to him who ignores it. It can be more reliable than the Reuters wire.
‘What does your sister-in-law do there?’
‘My what?’
‘Your wife’s sister,’ explained Robles patiently. ‘What’s her job at the town hall?’
‘She … she works for the Mayor – you know?’
A cleaner, Robles guessed. He decided to change tack: ‘So who is buying these lands? Romualdes or the city?’
‘No, not them,’ said the man eagerly. ‘It’s the Morales Foundation.’
‘I heard of it,’ said Robles, concentrating hard to appear nonchalant while his entire body tensed up at the very mention of the name.
‘Yeah,’ volunteered the man, mistaking Robles’ sudden silence for an invitation to continue. ‘They say it’s a charity from Don Carlos, help the poor like –’
‘Interesting story, Alberdi,’ commented Julio, trying to sound dismissive. ‘Not much, but thanks. I always appreciate the odd bit of gossip. Now’ – he lowered his voice conspiratorially – ‘what I cannot understand is how your wife’s sister knows that. She’s not a secretary there, is she?’
‘No,’ Alberdi had to concede.
‘Is she good-looking, then?’
‘You want to meet with her?’ the man’s quick wit had spotted another potential avenue of income.
‘No,’ replied Robles angrily. ‘I want to know how the hell a cleaner in the town hall can have this information.’
‘She fucks the Mayor.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Big breasts,’ smiled the man, cupping his hands, fingers fully expanded several inches out from his chest as he smiled to reveal dirty teeth. ‘Skin like olives, ass like a watermelon.’
‘Getting poetic, eh?’ Robles had to laugh.
‘I’d fuck her myself, but my wife would cut my throat!’
‘Listen, my friend,’ lied Robles, now in a serious tone. ‘The Krugger plots I don’t give a damn about. But the other land, well, that’s rural, technically speaking. And if anyone is asking for money to develop it, then that’s my business. You understand?’
Alberdi did not understand, but what did that matter? His payment was clearl
y coming closer, so he told all he knew. Alicia, his wife’s sister, had been sleeping with Romualdes for some time. No, the Mayor did not talk business in bed, and in any event Alicia was not interested. But yes, she was a cleaner, and only she was allowed to clean the Mayor’s office. When she went in to do her work the Mayor would not interrupt his business. He talked on the phone to everyone and discussed affairs of government as though the woman were not there. To Robles this made sense, for that fat slob Romualdes possessed all the shortcomings of the Latin macho and none of his virtues. Therefore, the woman he thought he was giving such a heavenly time through – in his mind at least – his virtuoso humping performance, had to be totally, unquestionably loyal and subservient to him. And Alicia repeated nothing with disloyal intent. Nonetheless, at home, where her sister disapproved of her, she would as a matter of course recount those matters of state that she knew of. She felt this restored some dignity to her status in the family.
Julio Robles’ mind was racing. The information was worth at least five thousand, but paying that sort of money to Alberdi would be crazy. So he thanked the man, gave him eighty dollars in four bills, then drove straight to the office of the Banco Interamericano de Desarrollo in Medellín. There he looked up his code books – more as a precaution, for Julio Robles was a professional who carried all the agreed phrases in his head – and then typed a memo to the head of the DEA’s Medellín unit. After double-checking its contents, he dialled a number in Washington and sent the message through.
And though the area code he dialled was indeed that of the US capital, the numbers that followed it were a code in themselves, sufficient for the AT&T computer in Jacksonville, Florida, to intercept the transmission and divert it to whichever of Julio’s team-mates was on duty that evening at the DEA’s field office in Miami.
