by Bill Vidal
‘You know where to find me. Meanwhile, what’s mine stays mine.’ Tom put the phone down before Dick could reply.
Sweeney sat motionless with the dead receiver still against his ear. He heard the blip as the international call was terminated, then heard another blip but paid no attention to it. The men of the fifth floor had just completed their loop. Sweeney’s exchange with Tom had been the last call, in or out of the attorney’s office, that had gone unrecorded.
‘What was that all about, Tommy?’ asked Kreutz nosily.
‘A little hassle in New York. Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Making money, then?’
‘Lots of money, Vlad, and I ain’t rubbing your head.’
‘Selfish bastard.’
Tom looked at the time. Five-thirty, and he’d had enough. Time to get out. He was angry with Sweeney, euphoric over his fortune and cocksure in the belief that the $5 million had gone into Taurus. He had noticed the pound was down two centimes in Zurich, which pleased him, and decided to call it a day. It would be Tuesday before he realized the $5 million payment had been cancelled.
He next called his friend Stuart Hudson to propose a game of squash. Stuart had been having a lousy day himself, he said, and jumped at the suggestion. Hudson was a partner in the law firm that acted for Tom’s bank. The two had met shortly after Tom arrived in London and soon established that they shared the same passion for its nightlife. The Englishman’s connections had opened every door in town for the American, and it had been Stuart who introduced Tom and Caroline at Annabel’s. On that night, lying in bed exhausted, following the intense lovemaking of first nights, Tom had asked her how she knew the lawyer.
‘Went out with him for two years,’ she replied.
‘With Stuart?’
‘Mm.’
‘Odd he never mentioned you,’ Tom said, inexplicably irked by the revelation.
‘He wouldn’t. He’s a gentleman,’ Caroline teased.
And that he was, thought Tom. Stinking rich, handsome, bright, and his father a peer of the realm.
‘How come you let him slip?’ he asked, surprised by a creeping jealousy.
‘He was fun. It wasn’t love.’
She had said it with unquestionable finality. Tom was not about to argue with that.
He took a taxi to Fulham Road and pretended to read the Evening Standard to avoid talking to the driver. He tried to detach himself from emotional issues and address the facts. He had collected forty-three million dollars. Fact. The money was his. The bank in Zurich had double-checked and agreed it was his. Had there been the slightest doubt, they would have sent him packing. There could be no doubt. Fact.
But did Dick really mean Tom’s life was threatened? London was a long way from New York, but still Tom had to accept that for forty million bucks one could be murdered anywhere. Whose money was it supposed to be, anyway? Tom felt a sudden chill along his spine. ‘Not the goddamn IRA.’
There was something in the diaries he had read. Something he did not understand but which Dick might be able to explain. Sean. Where did he fit in? Who was he? Uncle Sean? Every month his grandfather had made a little note. Sean 5,000. Sean, 4,000. And so it went. Once it had been ten thousand, but normally it was less. Was Pat Clayton in business with his brother? Was that the problem? Did Sean claim that the money was his? He would wait and see. At a push, if someone could convince him, Tom might share some of his windfall. That would be his bottom line. But there was no way he would part with all forty-three million. That was his legally established inheritance.
Hudson took the first two games 9–4 and 9–6 and was leading 6–3 in the last. Though shorter than Tom, he covered the court with equal competence.
‘Having an off day, old boy?’ Hudson prodded, adjusting the bandana that held his long, fair hair in place as his muscles tensed for the serve.
‘Shut up and play, Stuart,’ Tom replied angrily, crouching in readiness.
The ball bounced high over Clayton and died in the corner. Tom heard Stuart chuckle ‘Seven–three’ as he got up. He just stood there staring at his friend for a moment, then unwillingly imagined Caroline in Stuart’s arms. And that did it. Not one more serve would Hudson win. Clayton hit the ball as though he hated it, and leapt about the court as he had not done in years. He never said a word or looked at Hudson, just smashed and viciously sliced until he won 9–7.
‘What was that all about?’ Stuart asked later, as they shared a drink in the club’s bar. So Tom told him, in general terms, about the money in Switzerland, and the possibility that it might not be his.
‘If the Swiss gave it to you, dear boy,’ he said quite seriously, ‘my guess would be that it really is yours. Those rascals do nothing out of the kindness of their hearts.’
‘Well, there’s this lawyer coming to see me Friday,’ Tom explained. ‘I’ll hear what he has to say.’
‘Should you need my help with lawyers, you only have to shout.’
‘I know. Thanks,’ said Tom sincerely. ‘I may well do that.’
6
MORALES LOOKED LEFT towards the hole, then back at his feet. He swung the putter gently and struck the ball cleanly, allowing himself a smirk of satisfaction as he watched it travel along a perfect line. Then without warning the ball shuddered, moved off its course and came to rest two inches left of target. He swore loudly and turned to confront his gardener.
‘You idiot!’ he shouted.
The man just stood there, petrified. He had been working on the putting green for weeks, rolling every square foot, then on his hands and knees, cutting unwelcome weeds with scissors. He could not understand.
‘You don’t see it, do you?’ yelled Morales, walking towards the offending clump and striking a deep gash through its centre with the club. The fear-stricken gardener remained silent.
‘There, you idiot! There, there, there!’ he repeated, rhythmically slashing the lawn as he spoke. Then he threw the putter at the gardener and walked away towards the house. He was surrounded by imbeciles, he thought as he strode – how was he supposed to run a business when every little detail needed his personal attention?
‘Where’s Romualdes?’ he asked a bodyguard as he crossed the veranda towards the living room.
‘On his way, Don Carlos,’ replied the stocky Arawac Indian. ‘With Mr De la Cruz.’
Morales ordered a whisky from no one in particular and sat down. Almost a month had elapsed since he had first voiced his plans to Speer. Now he was ready for the next round and he wanted results in a hurry. Since the coke business had moved to Cali, Morales had been following developments there with keen attention. The once-seigneurial southern city was degenerating into chaos. One or two families such as the Ortegas were emerging as leaders but thugs ruled the streets of Cali. They spent money brazenly and local merchants matched the sudden prosperity with their own greed. In Cali’s shops one could buy the most extravagant clothes and jewellery, and restaurant bills eclipsed the best of Bogotá. But many of Cali’s old residents had left. Traditional landowners sold their estates, fearful of denying the cocaine merchants airstrips for their planes. Armed thugs roamed the city’s streets and dead bodies in the gutters were the norm. Morales could see Cali going the way of Medellín. One day soon the troops would come in earnest, and there would be carnage.
They were ignorant fools, risen from nowhere and unable to contend with the headiness of sudden wealth. Morales was different. His parents had been relatively humble schoolteachers, but from an early age Carlos Alberto had aspired to more. He achieved the highest grades in high school and left Medellín for the capital, where he enrolled in the Faculty of Law at the National University. But reality soon caught up with him and he dropped out after a miserable year in squalid student digs with the other poor boys from the provinces. A year of endless menial night jobs to finance his education, watching children of the rich leaving for plush suburbs after class, driving cars bought by their parents. A year of seeing his lecturers attempt to ingratiate themse
lves with wealthier students, for lecturers were also lawyers who hoped their classroom contacts might draw a more prosperous clientele to their humble offices. It only took that one year for Morales to understand with clarity that a young lawyer without family connections could at best look forward to a mediocre life.
So he went home to Medellín, and there discovered a new world of opportunity. A few enterprising farmers were making money out of weeds. The new Colombian Gold planted for a few pesos in the Aburra Valley was bringing in the most bountiful of harvests. The police turned a blind eye: it was harmless, a passing fancy in America and Europe which brought the country some badly needed cash.
The nineteen-year-old Morales went to work for one such farmer, at a wage five times higher than his parents’ combined income.
In time a more profitable crop was discovered, from plants that grew most happily in the even higher regions of Bolivia and Peru. The coca plants were lush and bulky and in their native habitat not worth much. Indians, miners and peasants chewed the leaves to help them exist in the high altitudes, but the Colombians learnt how to extract the active alkaloid and convert it into hydrochloric salt. They already had in place the means of distribution and a new white powder would follow the marijuana trail. It was a dream come true, a real Eldorado, and the birth of the cartels. In the years the dream lasted, Morales had done well.
All he wanted now was a year at the most. Medellín would never be allowed to return to the old ways. So he shipped as much as possible, saved his money and raced to make himself a pillar of the city. Then he would become untouchable.
But today he had another problem. Somewhere in his business a traitor was hidden, a fool on Cali’s payroll. Scattered around the bush at a dozen nomadic sites were some two hundred men employed by Morales, remnants he had rescued from the fallen Escobar. They manned refineries, assembled cargoes, and cleared land for precarious landing strips. Morales used only light aircraft – he could buy those for $200,000 or so. Stripped of non-essentials and fitted with long-range tanks, they would make the thousand-mile journey, past Haiti and on to the islands, sometimes carrying half a ton, often more. There he sold his produce. Other groups would take it to America – the price doubled after the final journey – but that way Morales’ planes always came back, ready for another load and then another. The millions just rolled in.
That week he had lost a plane. Blown up over the jungle, smithereened by a thousand pounds of fuel just three minutes after taking off. The distinctive hand of Cali. The stupid bastards wanted it all. But there had been no strangers at the landing strip. So one of his own men must have planted the bomb. The drug baron knew he had no choice but to go into the jungle and deal with the matter in person. It was a question of respect.
The Mayor and the lawyer arrived just as Morales started to sip his cool Scotch. Romualdes wore a new suit and an imitation Panama. Looking like a man who had gone up in the world, he carried a large set of rolled-up plans with him, while De la Cruz brought a case full of papers. They all shook hands and moved into the dining room.
Romualdes was pleased to report that the purchase of all sites had been completed. One, he said, had proved difficult. The Angelini widow had not wanted to sell, but Romualdes had talked to her patiently, he boasted, and won her round. He started to spread the plans on the table as the lawyer pulled out the contracts.
‘I believe the agreed prices are good, Don Carlos,’ expounded De la Cruz, who then read from his typed list:
‘Durante’s three hectares off the Bogotá road, $10,000, and the other two hectares next door, $8,000. The Angelini land, ten hectares, $25,000. Those three will be for the housing sub-divisions.’
Morales nodded approval and waited for the lawyer to continue.
‘Likewise the city sites.’ He looked towards the Mayor for support. ‘Miguel and I agreed some low valuations but not so low that they would cause trouble in the capital. As you said,’ he added, returning his gaze to Morales. ‘Five thousand square metres, the telephone company’s land, will accommodate the hospital and we agreed $80,000 for that. The Krugger plots are two and a half thousand metres each. They wanted $45,000 apiece but we were able to negotiate there. Krugger’s boy needs money, so it’s $35,000 and $40,000, agreed.’
‘Fine,’ said Morales impatiently. ‘What’s the total?’
‘$198,000 plus taxes.’
‘Good. Now show me the drawings.’
The Mayor spread his hands over the sketches proudly. His brother-in-law was an architect who felt privileged to be involved with the Morales Foundation, so his fees would be most reasonable. Romualdes would guarantee that, he added gravely.
Morales looked at the sketches and was immediately impressed.
The hospital was a simple yet imposing building on three floors, with a total surface of 15,000 square metres. Above the canopy, in deep blue letters the sign read: Hospital General Fundación Morales.
He nodded approvingly and turned to the schools. The hardened drug baron was genuinely moved: the two edifices were almost identical, each on two storeys and cleverly named. The Don Pascual School for Boys, and the Doña Luisa School for Girls, after Morales’ deceased parents. Romualdes could on occasion display political flair. The Church would prefer segregated sexes, he explained, and they were sure to provide Brothers and Sisters to teach.
The houses were of a simple design, to keep costs down, but certainly, as demanded, they were dignified. Bungalows with red-tiled roofing, each ninety square metres, with little front gardens and paved streets in between.
‘We shall build four hundred on the Angelini land,’ said Romualdes proudly. ‘Plus one hundred and twenty, and eighty, respectively, on the other sites. We thought,’ he said to his host as his confidence was boosted by his own self-satisfaction, ‘that you might care to name the subdivisions yourself, Don Carlos.’
‘Have you got quotations, Aristides?’ he asked the lawyer.
‘I have, Don Carlos,’ he said, pulling out more sheaves of paper. ‘A syndicate of local companies. This is too much for any one builder in Medellín, but I assembled them in my office and we thrashed out a deal there and then. They are all proud of what you are doing and honoured to be a part of the project.’
‘How many people know about this?’ he asked.
‘We swore all four to secrecy, Don Carlos,’ interjected Romualdes. ‘But of course drawings and estimates were necessary –’
‘How much?’ he interrupted.
‘Eighty thousand square metres of construction, Don Carlos! Costing thirty-five and a half million dollars total. Right down to the last detail!’
Morales was pleased. It worked out at around four-fifty a metre.
His own house had cost ten times that amount. Morales stood up and walked to a sideboard, collected a pocket file that lay on its top and returned to the table. He extracted some documents and passed them to De la Cruz.
‘Constructora de Malaga,’ he said. ‘These are its statutes and certificates, issued by the Government of Andalucia in Spain.’ He paused whilst the lawyer looked at the papers. Then he continued: ‘That will be the main contractor. All the local firms will act as subcontractors to Malaga.’
‘I foresee no problems there, Don Carlos. This company?’ he said, looking at the Mayor. ‘Malaga? It will need a commercial licence to operate in Medellín –’
Romualdes raised his hand with characteristic pomposity. It went without saying that the necessary permits would be issued that very day.
‘You will draw up agreements between Malaga and all the builders, Aristides,’ Morales continued. ‘Usual terms. Staged payments and so forth. I leave the details to you. Now, the Morales Foundation? Have you drawn up the papers?’
‘I have everything here,’ replied the lawyer, pulling them out of his case.
Morales looked through the documents and nodded approvingly. Since the three trustees were present, he said, they would sign the statutes today. De la Cruz asked tentatively how
the project would be funded. Morales looked at him with that casual pride that only very wealthy men exhibit.
‘Tomorrow you will go to the Bank of Antioquia and open two accounts. One for Malaga – you will find a power of attorney there,’ he said pointing at the document that Speer had drafted. ‘And one for the Foundation. Next week, Malaga will remit fifty million dollars to that account. It will advance the money for the entire project.’
Morales looked at the Mayor, watching the man digest the figure that had so easily issued from his lips. ‘In time Malaga shall want to be paid back. I shall make donations to the Foundation and I sincerely hope,’ he looked piercingly at the Mayor, ‘that the business community of Medellín shall not be found wanting in making their own contributions.’
‘I assure you my citizens shall support you, Don Carlos,’ stated Romualdes impulsively. ‘I shall see to it in person.’
‘Good. And as soon as you have been to the bank, let me have the account details and I shall pass them on to Malaga’s attorneys.’
Morales clapped his hands and ordered a round of drinks, then took out a gold-capped pen and handed it to each man in turn, before adding his own signature to the statutes of the Morales Foundation. As of that moment, Medellín’s most notable institution was in business.
He then stood up and asked his visitors to follow him into his study. As they stood watching, he opened a wall cabinet and let them gaze at its contents. Two whole shelves were piled high with US currency and the bottom, larger tier was stuffed with well-worn Colombian notes. The guests could not help noticing that the cabinet was not even locked, such was Morales’ self-assurance within his private fiefdom. He picked out some neat bundles and placed them on his desk.
‘There’s two hundred and fifty thousand there,’ he said to De la Cruz. ‘Use that as my initial donation to the Foundation. Put it in the bank. Then use it to pay for the land.’
The lawyer started pushing the notes into his case. Morales took a smaller envelope from the cabinet and handed it to Romualdes, who eyed it with glee, but resisted the urge to open it before pocketing it.
