The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  ‘Maybe it means something, maybe not,’ thought Robles, as he watched the sheet pass through the fax machine. He remembered his training officer in Quantico several years ago. ‘You look at one bit of a puzzle,’ he had said, ‘and it probably tells you nothing. But you ain’t got the goddamn board! Remember that. You find a bit? You send it across. Maybe it fits, maybe it don’t. But that ain’t your business. You mothers just send it. Any piece could complete the puzzle, and might even save your ass.’

  So Julio Robles always sent his bits. And, in this instance, while it would by no means complete the puzzle, it would trigger a sequence of events that would shake the entire cocaine business in Colombia.

  Bruno Hoechst’s title was Accounts Manager, Private Clients, at UCB Zurich. He was one of several employees in similar positions at Head Office. As he sat at his desk reading his mail on Friday morning, he was feeling upset. Earlier in the week he had been ordered by his divisional vice-president, Dr Brugger, to hand over one of his good accounts to Julius Ackermann, a colleague of equal standing with barely a year’s seniority over Hoechst.

  The Clayton account was considered good in banking terms. Money moved in and out regularly yet at any given time in recent years it contained an average of thirty million dollars. Of course a modest rate of interest was always paid to customers on such balances, but modest was the key word: leaving ample margins for the bank to earn from overnight deposits and money-market lending – and for Bruno to take the credit in his superiors’ eyes.

  Then he read the letter.

  Each day the post office delivered mail three times. At eight in the morning, at noon, and finally at four in the afternoon. All mail went first to the bank’s post room for sorting. From there it reached the right section by internal messenger, so that Hoechst’s first post was always with him by 8.40 a.m. The letter from Professor Michael Clayton had arrived with the first post and as he read it Bruno smiled, barely able to conceal his excitement. It consisted of a single paragraph above the writer’s signature, instructing the United Credit Bank to close the account in question and transfer the entire balance to Messrs Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, Attorneys-at-Law, c/o Banque Credit Suisse, Geneva. His joy only increased as he envisaged that bore Ackermann having to inform Brugger that he had managed to lose the entire deposit within forty-eight hours!

  His first reaction had been to take the letter to Ackermann in person, but then he thought better of it and adhered to the system. On a little memo sheet he wrote Ackermann, J., Room 543. This he appended to the letter and placed it on his out-tray, ready for the 12.40 collection. He then got on with the rest of the day’s business, still smiling. Maybe, he thought, he would time his departure for lunch to coincide with Ackermann’s and get in the lift with him – just to see the look on his face.

  But Ackermann would not be in the lift at his usual time that day. In fact he would not be taking a lunch break at all, for at one o’clock he was sitting across the desk from a stern-faced Brugger and worrying about his prospects. The Vice President of Private Clients motioned him to sit down, then totally ignored him as he contemplated the papers on his desk. Whatever this turned out to be about, Ackermann thought, it would be most unjust to blame it all on him. But he also knew that if a scapegoat was required, he could well be it.

  The door opened and two men came in. They were not preceded by Brugger’s secretary, as etiquette dictated. Nor had they bothered to knock. For these were men who walked about the bank as though they owned it. Ackermann recognized Walter Laforge, Chief of Internal Security, in step with the towering Dr Ulm, a Management Board Director and Head of Retail Banking. Brugger stood up immediately and moved away from his plush chair. It was evident that Dr Ulm would preside. As he eased down his six-foot-six frame he stared at the others in turn. His steely eyes did not betray emotions. His dark grey suit had been tailored by London’s best, his discreet Patek Philippe crafted by Switzerland’s finest. Laforge, in stark contrast, wore an olive-green suit and a summery yellow tie. A touch of silver at his temples hinted at an age beyond his youthful appearance. Unlike the others, he was not a banker – he simply worked for a bank.

  ‘So, Ackermann, explain to me what this is about.’ Ulm’s tone was amiable but his body language was not.

  Ackermann explained everything from the beginning, leaving nothing out, from the moment he had been advised of his first appointment with Clayton, until the American had left the bank after the last. He did not dwell upon, but certainly mentioned, that he had cleared all steps with Dr Brugger. Avoiding the latter’s gaze, he then recounted the results of the checks carried out in New York, complete with names, times, and copies of all communications.

  When Ackermann had finished, Ulm looked at Brugger, who nodded his confirmation of the facts.

  ‘This letter?’ asked Laforge. ‘When did it arrive?’

  Ackermann cleared his throat, ‘It was received by one of my colleagues this morning, sir. Mr Hoechst. He passed it to me with the second mail.’

  ‘Who is Hoechst?’

  ‘He used to manage the Clayton account, sir,’ replied Ackermann, ‘until Dr Brugger instructed me to take it over last Wednesday.’

  ‘I shall want to speak to him,’ said Laforge, addressing no one in particular, as this was a statement not a request.

  Ulm, who had been studying the papers on Brugger’s desk, pushed them across to Laforge and turned to Ackermann.

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’

  ‘Only to Dr Brugger, Director.’

  ‘Good. You are not to discuss this with anyone else. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Director.’

  ‘What I want to know,’ said Laforge, extracting a sheet from the file, ‘is how a dead man wrote this letter?’

  They all looked at him, not quite understanding, then at Ulm.

  ‘Please explain, Walter,’ prompted Ulm.

  ‘November eighteenth,’ he said, waving the letter. ‘The letter from Professor Michael Clayton, instructing us to close his account, is dated November eighteenth.’ He passed it back to Ulm. ‘And so is the postmark on the envelope.’ He showed this to Ulm as well.

  Before anyone could ask the obvious question, Laforge pulled out the copy of Michael Clayton’s death certificate. ‘November fourth!’ he said. Then, turning to Ackermann: ‘Did you check the signature?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course. The moment I got the letter. It is … it appears to be perfectly genuine.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Laforge. ‘We shall of course check it again.’

  ‘What do you think, Walter?’

  ‘It could be forgery, Director. Then again, it could have been an undated letter.’ He scrutinized the typeface closely, adding, ‘Sometimes people do that. Death duty avoidance, and so forth. But of course,’ he said with emphasis, ‘in such cases the holder of the letter would backdate it, which is clearly not the case here.’

  ‘Actually, sir, there is one thing,’ ventured Ackermann.

  ‘Speak up,’ interjected Brugger quickly, welcoming the chance to show some authority.

  ‘The intended beneficiary of the transaction, the account holder at Credit Suisse –’

  ‘Sweeney Tulley McAndrews,’ said Laforge, reading from Michael Clayton’s letter.

  ‘Yes, sir. They are the same firm, the law firm in New York, that confirmed Professor Clayton’s death to Mr Isler.’

  ‘Isler?’ asked Ulm.

  ‘He works for Walter in our New York office,’ said Brugger. ‘I instructed him to verify all facts in person, which he did.’

  ‘So. A forgery then, Walter?’

  ‘I must check, sir,’ replied the security man. ‘I will also speak to Martelli at Credit Suisse.’

  They all understood that. Secrecy is deeply embedded in Swiss banking law and to divulge anything about an account is an offence. But there is no greater offence in Switzerland than to commit a fraud – in Switzerland. Frauds abroad do not count, but in this case someone was clearl
y attempting fraud in Zurich. Either their new customer, Tom Clayton, was not entitled to the money, or whoever wanted this money sent to Geneva was a thief. So if Laforge wanted a quiet and unofficial word with his opposite number at a rival institution, he would get it. Martelli had asked for similar help in the past.

  ‘What about the five million dollars?’ Ackermann’s voice broke as he said it.

  ‘What five million dollars?’ Ulm asked menacingly and all eyes turned to Ackermann.

  ‘I transferred five million to London this morning.’ Ackermann explained the circumstances, his body shaking with fear. Automatically Ulm and Brugger glanced at the wall clock. It read 13:20, one hour and forty minutes until the close of the foreign-exchange day.

  ‘Reverse the transaction, now!’ Ulm ordered. ‘We shall see how Mr Clayton reacts. If he has nothing to hide he will complain. If he keeps quiet we might reconsider the whole business of his account.’

  Everyone nodded approval.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Ulm said to conclude the meeting, ‘we do nothing. If your client calls, or gives any instructions,’ he told Ackermann, ‘you respond normally. But you do nothing, nothing at all without first clearing with Dr Brugger. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Director.’ Ackermann was glad the meeting ended. He felt reprieved, albeit temporarily.

  4

  GIVEN THE HOUR’S difference between Britain and Switzerland, Tom Clayton made it back to his London desk by three. He had travelled from Heathrow to the City by Underground – a fast forty-minute journey at that time of day – still trying to come to terms with his new wealth.

  Where could a pile of that magnitude have come from?

  One thing was certain, Tom concluded without much difficulty, it had not resulted from interest on his grandad’s half million. He would have to press Sweeney. Dick knew more than he let on, for sure. Tom’s immediate problem was to tidy up the mess at the bank. The five million he had asked Ackermann to transfer would take care of that. Then he would decide what to do with the rest of his fortune. His fortune? The train screeched to a halt at Earls Court and Tom watched as most passengers alighted. Whose money was it really, and how had it got into his grandfather’s – or was it his father’s – account?

  Four and a quarter was a good rate yielding $130,000 a month. But leaving cash in bank deposits was for old matrons in Palm Beach. Tom was a dealer. He knew that, with hardly any risk, he could double the return. And what if he played the markets seriously? He shook his head and smiled. Better not even think about it. Not now. Not until the present mess was tidied up.

  Should he quit his job?

  At nearly a million a year, what was the point of continuing?

  The truth was that he enjoyed his work, the risks, the satisfaction of reading the markets correctly. Maybe it was the unique, boisterous camaraderie at the sharp end of the financial world. He would miss all that. Then again, he had to admit he did it mostly for the money. If ever his employers cut the bonuses – it had happened at other banks – he would definitely walk out. With his savings, investments, assets, the proceeds of his inheritance and the new bonanza, Tom Clayton was currently worth over fifty million dollars. Would he, he asked himself, continue putting in twelve-hour days, taking piecemeal holidays and working for someone else?

  Caroline’s friends were different. They’d always had money. They were capable of filling their lives without careers, they’d practised for generations. Tom’s banking friends – Langland excepted – were self-made individuals. High earners. It took Tom some time to realize that a single painting or a set of cutlery tucked away in the many ancestral homes was worth more than all Tom’s assets.

  On the other hand, what else would he do? What else could he do?

  After leaving Harvard with a decent MBA he had joined Salomons in New York. Tom loved it. The pay was good, the job was fun and the clients he dealt with were his kind of people. He remained with the firm eight years before the present offer came along. Tom had been to Europe many times – he remembered his first visit quite vividly, to Henley-on-Thames with the Cornell eight in the summer of ’78 – and had developed a profound fondness for the Old World and for England in particular. Surprisingly, he had not once visited Ireland; never carried out the traditional Irish-American pilgrimage in search of family roots. But Tom had never dwelt upon his Irishness. He was an East Coast American and never saw himself in any other light.

  Now he had to think of Ireland. There was his promise to Tessa. And he had to consider – however reluctantly – the possibility that the Clayton money in Switzerland might in some way be connected with ‘the Cause’.

  The train pulled up at Liverpool Street. Suddenly he was on familiar ground again: walking briskly along Broad Street, into the bank with a quick greeting to and from the porters, and through the august double doors of the dealing room.

  ‘Tom!’ Lucy, the girl Friday, raised her arm to catch his attention. ‘Wife on three!’

  No greetings. No ‘Mr Clayton has just this minute stepped in’. None of the niceties one might expect in a law office or a publishing house. But in Tom’s world, money was king. Deals were personalities. Whether a person was there today or gone tomorrow was a minor issue, seldom noticed and never discussed. So he raised a thumb at Lucy and with his coat still on made for his desk and punched line three.

  ‘Well?’ enquired Caroline excitedly. ‘Did you get it?’

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘How much?’ Even monosyllabic words were unable to curb her excitement.

  ‘A very substantial sum,’ said Tom in his best banking tone, for the benefit of prying ears.

  ‘Exquisite phrase!’ interjected Vladimir Kreutz, without removing his eyes from his own screen.

  ‘That’s what I love to hear,’ said Caroline, her excitement rising by the minute.

  ‘You are not alone in that,’ jested Tom, casting a glance at his colleague.

  ‘That’s the way to treat them, Tommy,’ declared Kreutz. ‘Mention my name too.’ Then he laughed exuberantly, never abandoning his vigilant hold on the market updates flashing in front of him.

  ‘What I might suggest,’ said Tom, loud enough for Vladimir to hear and jovially enough for Caroline to get the message, ‘is that you speak to the party in question and propose we meet this weekend with a view to doing a deal.’

  Caroline was silent for a second, then asked – she wanted no misunderstandings on this one: ‘You do mean the house, don’t you?’

  ‘I most definitely do,’ he replied, amused by her anxiety. ‘I believe we could have a deal by next week.’

  ‘Rub my head, Tommy,’ shouted Kreutz as he continued to attack his keyboard.

  ‘Thomas Clayton,’ sparkled Caroline, ‘I do love you!’

  ‘For the kind of money we are talking about,’ said Tom forcefully, ‘I expect to be loved.’

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ shouted Kreutz enviously.

  ‘You come home, young man,’ whispered Caroline in her most feline voice, ‘and I shall leave you in no doubt.’

  ‘How?’ asked Tom teasingly.

  ‘Just get home, sir,’ she purred, ‘and leave the rest to me!’

  ‘I look forward to that,’ said Tom, and hung up.

  By seven Tom had had enough of the bank.

  Grinholm wanted a full report on his trip to Zurich and that had been tedious but easy. Clayton had been tracking the Swiss franc for weeks before his father died. Officially and unofficially. He was certain a window of opportunity was there to get out of sterling. If the pound were to drop by only 5 per cent, which Tom was certain it would, there was a fortune waiting to be claimed. So he asked for ten million to bet on margin.

  Grinholm gave him twenty-five and he started selling short.

  His personal problem would have to wait until the funds arrived from Zurich. But he checked the Taurus account and noted that no flags had yet come up. By tomorrow Taurus would be in the clear. Tom thanked his lucky stars and thought about Langland. He
and Tom had met at Harvard. The Langlands had once been wealthy – very wealthy – but Jeff’s father had squandered his entire fortune in less than fifteen years. Yachts, mansions, racehorses, travel and hangers-on had seen to it. Tom had been surprised to learn, during his first semester at Business School, that Harvard had taken Jeff for free. Perhaps they could not deny him access to a chair that bore his surname.

  Langland had been fun to room with – his social connections and hectic party circuit had been an eye-opener. Starsky and Hutch, the pair had been nicknamed by Cambridge wits. Yet in subsequent years Jeff had never quite matured. He had found work in Wall Street with ease because the older banks still recruited names like Langland’s. But he would never rise to the top. Tom knew that and so did Jeff. In the world of banking, Centre Court was in New York and No. 1 Court in London. Switzerland was a minor player, yet Jeff Langland might have been happy there. Good pay, short working hours and every weekend on the ski slopes. After two or three years he would move on, to Brussels or Frankfurt, and eventually back home until retirement.

  But the memories of youth refused to fade. New England summers, wind on canvas in Nantucket Bay, art collections in Manhattan brownstones; waking up each morning with not a care in the world. So he leaned on Tom. His friend became his crutch and Jeff drew comfort from Tom’s wisdom. Tom Clayton, close buddy, financial whiz. When Tom gambled, Jeff joined him, certain that the outcome would provide him with the means to regain his rightful place in American society.

  But then things turned sour and Jeff started to crack. Tom felt sorry for him – he had, after all, lost all his savings – but angry at the same time. Jeff was supposed to be a banker. He had known the risks all along. Tom had no option, for his own sake, than to make good Taurus’ losses, but one way or another Jeff would have to pay. Three and a half million is not chicken feed. That’s the way it goes.

  Before leaving the bank, Tom put a call through to Dick Sweeney. He was told that the lawyer was out of the country, expected back on Monday.

  ‘Nothing urgent,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll call him then.’ Then he phoned Caroline, told her he would be leaving shortly and how about drinks, dinner and then a review of her earlier promises?