The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  ‘Well, Julio,’ he said, ‘I hear from Jeremiah you may have cracked something in Medellín.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I believe I have, and I also believe I will crack a lot more when I get back there.’

  ‘Get back there?’ The Administrator looked at Harper, eyebrows raised. ‘You hadn’t mentioned that?’

  ‘A possibility we discussed during the flight up here, sir,’ said Harper cautiously.

  ‘I dislike unnecessary heroics,’ Forbes said directly to Julio.

  ‘I’m not planning to take chances, sir. Just a couple of weeks to finish the job.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Forbes non-committally. Then, addressing Harper, ‘Let’s go over these requests of yours again.’

  Harper repeated the suggestions he had made on the telephone the previous night, this time backing his proposals with hard facts. He took out the transcripts of Sweeney’s tapped telephone conversations and added Julio’s account of his last encounter with the Mayor of Medellín, the particulars of the Morales Foundation and what they had so far on the money trail from Spain and Uruguay to Colombia.

  ‘So, we are going to take this guy for fifty million dollars?’ asked Forbes.

  ‘Just for openers, sir,’ replied Harper. ‘I believe the trail will lead to the source of the money. I believe we shall confiscate or freeze much more than that. When that happens, it’s the end of Morales. And with him, the end of Medellín.’

  ‘Have you got something personal against Morales?’ asked Forbes.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Harper emphatically. ‘But I do see him as the most dangerous Colombian of the lot.’

  ‘Come on, Red! What’s his market share?’

  ‘Five per cent, sir. But that is hardly the point.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘Morales is the only really clever bastard there. He behaves himself, even pays taxes. He’s on his way to becoming a one-man social security system in Medellín. He doesn’t upset Colombia itself. With all the other problems they have on their plate at the moment, they might just be inclined to leave him alone.’

  Forbes nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘And he may well be the link we are missing between drug money and its prime launderer, José Salazar,’ Harper continued.

  The Administrator reflected for a moment. Then he said: ‘Very well. I’ll help with the State Department and I’ll help with the London police. You get over to London if you have to. Go to New York from here and see Judge Kramer yourself. Then you get the wires on Salazar & Co. As to the Cali mob, I’m not altogether happy with your suggestion. I’m not saying no, but neither am I saying yes. Let’s see how things develop.’

  Which was as much, if not more, than Harper and Cardenas had hoped to get that day.

  8

  THE WEEKEND WAS only three days away and Tom was looking forward to it with mixed feelings. Caroline’s parents expected the family in Gloucestershire, a regular event he always enjoyed. He would get to shoot some partridge, the children to ride ponies. Dinner would invariably be attended by interesting and colourful guests, often former regimental colleagues of Caroline’s father with many a tale to tell. There would be a natural feeling of family unity, uncontrived, of genteel normality so unlike his happy but disjointed childhood in a motherless home.

  But first he would have to deal with Ackermann and Sweeney.

  Being at home on a Wednesday introduced an element of uncertainty. He looked around his top-floor study, then at the unfamiliar figures of mothers and children in school uniforms criss-crossing the windswept square. Not for the first time in the past few days he contemplated the viability of life in London without the bank. He was also concerned about Caroline’s behaviour. She appeared cold towards him, oddly distant.

  Though she did not voice her fears constantly, she was scared. The joy of her husband having stumbled upon a million dollars’ worth of his grandfather’s money, and the prospect of the new house, had been dampened by Tom’s admission that the total sum was forty times larger. She had a premonition, which refused to leave her, that something evil was involved. Tom tried to reassure her. At least $5 million was theirs; that was not in question. It only represented a very meagre interest payment over fifty years. Even 50 million was not impossible. Had the money been well invested in securities, it could have yielded that. Tom tried to make a joke of it, pointing out that he often made his own bank 10 per cent per month. But, he conceded, there had to be a clear-cut explanation and surely Dick would be able to provide it.

  So an uneasy truce was reached at home. Caroline would say no more until her husband confronted Richard Sweeney, but some of her usual sparkle was clearly lacking. She wanted no part of this evidently suspect money and made sure Tom was aware of how she felt.

  Clayton judged himself a cool-headed individual, capable of enduring stressful situations and getting on with life as normal. But now? He sensed an ill wind was threatening his family, and this upset him. He felt the intrusion as something alien and uninvited, to be disposed of swiftly before it could bed down. To those who met him socially, or at work, Tom always seemed cheerful. A man without a care in the world; someone to be envied.

  Money mattered to Tom. For all of Caroline’s disdain towards it she had no terms of reference to contemplate a life without. Trust funds, unimpeachable family advisors, would spare her ever having to learn otherwise. Tom often felt like a stranger in her world, and it was no one’s fault but he harboured deeply hidden self-doubt. He wanted Caroline desperately yet often feared she would one day walk away and return to her world.

  But he was also a sensitive man, even if few save Caroline ever got to see that side of him. Sometimes, encased in his innermost self within an area barred even to his wife, he allowed negative thoughts to prey upon his mind. Not in a morose or fatalistic manner, but rather to be prepared for whatever life might deal him. How would he cope in the face of disaster? If he lost his job?

  If Caroline or one of the children were to die?

  If he became seriously ill?

  He would mentally live through those contingencies in an almost detached manner, watching the silent images of Tom Clayton somehow coping and always bouncing back. He also jealously guarded another dark secret: that he could be extremely violent. Perhaps a legacy from his grandfather: an Irish attribute, according to the lore of the New York bars. Nevertheless, he had always, with just one exception fifteen years earlier when he surprised a burglar in his New York apartment, kept his savage instincts in check. Generally he would seek release from pressure through physical exertion. Rowing daily in his student years, or going for a run. Gym or the squash court in his adult life.

  During his last conversation with Dick Sweeney he had felt the demon in him rising but was saved by the facelessness of the telephone and the distance between himself and the object of his wrath. He now worried about his reaction when confronting Sweeney face to face. His indignation at the lawyer’s masquerade of friendship cast a menacing cloud over the impending meeting.

  Since Monday Tom had retreated into his private domain frequently, and each time he felt the anger – never blaming himself for creating the situation he was in. Not for finding out the Zurich secret, not for claiming the account as his. It had been clearly in his father’s name, so it was up to unseen others to come forward with any alternative explanations. And they had better be good if they expected Tom to consider returning even a small percentage of the money. At the root of the problem he saw Sweeney, who had claimed to be his father’s friend, who loved to give off the aura of a benevolent uncle taking care of Michael’s kids, while all along he knew precisely who was up to what.

  Dick had perfectly known the truth as they had lunched together at the Waldorf – that Tom’s grandfather’s money had been kept from his own father – and Tom felt like lashing out at him on just that account. Yes, he would see Sweeney all right. He would make him talk and grovel, answer these and many other questions. And then maybe, just maybe, he might le
t the lawyer’s mysterious client have some money. He would see. He would decide when they met.

  He could, of course, try to get additional information from Switzerland. Copies of bank statements for the last twelve months, for instance. But he was a bit unsure of the legal position in that regard. At the time, the account had been the property of his father. And so it had been closed once the bank learnt that he had died. Technically, giving Tom copies of those statements would be releasing information relating to a third party, even if the principal party in question had been his own father. Tom suspected that the Swiss could be quite pedantic on that point.

  Besides, he did not wish to rock the boat in Zurich.

  He decided to bite the bullet and turned on his desktop terminal. He heard the modem whirring as it dialled the bank. With his heart beating faster than usual, Tom entered his password and called up the Taurus account.

  As the bank’s computer searched its files, he became aware of a telephone ringing. This reminded him of Nanny’s day off, and Caroline taking the children …

  He lifted his extension absent-mindedly as the screen froze and his heart leapt with joy.

  ‘Hello … hello …’ Dick’s voice was a distant bleat as Tom held the receiver in mid-air and incredulously reread Taurus’s balance: $7,500,000.

  Ackermann had come up trumps.

  With newfound vigour he took Sweeney’s call.

  His plane had just landed, the lawyer said, and he expected to be in his hotel within the hour. Would Tom meet him there at nine? Tom said no. He would be going to work shortly, he lied. Maybe, he added frostily, they could meet in the afternoon. Sweeney protested but Clayton was not about to be moved. He would make him wait – perhaps that way the lawyer would be more forthcoming.

  Tom put the phone down, took a deep breath and called Ackermann. The Swiss banker was more amenable this time and elaborately confirmed that both Mr Clayton’s orders had been complied with. Tom was polite but short. Strictly speaking, he remarked, he could claim the bank had been less than satisfactory in its diligence. His tone indicated the lapse was forgiven, not forgotten.

  But the main point was that the bank was accepting his instructions. There was no doubt now as to who controlled the proceeds of Pat Clayton’s bank account.

  One final step remained to tidy up the Taurus business. Tom corrected the ‘error’ made two months earlier. He tapped out a payment order from London to Zurich in the sum of $2.5 million and sent it through the appropriate department. By noon, he congratulated himself, the ill-advised gamble, upon which he had staked his entire career, would be history.

  Marking time before calling Sweeney, he looked up future contracts he was running for the bank. The pound had eased off a few more cents – they were now 4 million up.

  At eleven, he called Claridge’s. ‘What’s your room number?’ he asked Sweeney without preamble. ‘Be there at one,’ he then added, and hung up.

  He took a taxi to Bishopsgate and kept it waiting while he had a quick word with Andrews, the bank’s head porter. Formerly a sergeant in the Metropolitan Police, Andrews often passed the time of day with Tom in the bank’s lobby. This time Tom approached him with a definite purpose.

  ‘Pete, you used to work at Scotland Yard, didn’t you?’

  ‘Certainly did, Mr Clayton. Why?’ he enquired in jest. ‘Problems with wheel clamps, sir?’

  ‘Hardly ever drive, myself,’ Tom replied in the same vein. ‘No. It’s … just that I may be on to something. And I need a name. Someone in authority I might talk to.’

  ‘Care to tell me the sort of enquiry, sir?’

  ‘Nothing to do with the bank, of course,’ Tom stated firmly. Then, lowering his voice a little, he continued: ‘It’s more a case of a seriously bent lawyer, I have reason to believe. So a preliminary chat with the right man –’

  ‘That would be Chief Inspector Archer,’ nodded Andrews. ‘Used to be my gaffer at the Yard.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Pete.’

  ‘Any time, sir.’

  As his taxi pulled away for the twenty-minute ride to Mayfair, Tom should have looked back. If he had, he would have seen Jeff Langland getting out of another cab, straight in from Heathrow and about to drive a bulldozer through Tom’s life.

  Tom walked into Claridge’s lobby and made for the lift.

  Sweeney let him into his room, a suite in fact, with a beautifully appointed drawing room and large windows framed by patterned silk curtains, overlooking Brook Street. The decor emanated an aura of understated opulence which many hotels tried to copy but seldom got right. Tom guessed that Dick had just showered and changed. He was dressed in his preppy finest, jacket on, plain gold cufflinks barely showing. But he looked tired and worried and Tom assumed it was not entirely due to jet lag nor the lawyer’s professed concern for Thomas Clayton’s welfare.

  ‘I don’t want to beat about the bush, counsellor,’ Tom said bluntly. ‘So I suggest we sit down and you tell me the whole story from the start.’

  ‘Fine by me, Tom. That is precisely why I’m here.’

  ‘Then go ahead,’ said Tom, settling into an armchair. From the way Sweeney had laid his papers on the elegant low table – were lawyers ever capable of conversation without a pile of paper in front of them? – it was obvious where he intended to sit. He had picked a fine but stiff and uncomfortable upright chair. No doubt because on it he would sit taller and – in his contriving mind – in a commanding position. Had it not been for the seriousness of the matter at hand, Tom would have laughed. In the taxi to the hotel, Tom had recalled how he used to think of Dick Sweeney. A good friend to his father. Successful, confident, dependability personified; the Manhattan big gun. Now he looked at the man and saw right through him. Sweeney had inherited a law practice on Fifth Avenue, a blank cheque for anyone with half a brain and a fair share of ambition. But not for Dick, a two-bit ageing crooked lawyer: devious, frightened and perhaps not all that bright. The signs had always been there, Tom realized now.

  ‘As you know, Tom,’ Sweeney began, ‘your father –’

  ‘First, a few ground rules.’

  ‘As you wish,’ replied Sweeney affecting an air of superiority, but picking up his pad and pen to avoid having to look Tom in the eye.

  ‘As you may have surmised, I know a lot more than you thought I did. How much, of course, you don’t know. But let me assure you that I know enough for you to be well advised to tell the truth. I catch you in one lie, Dick,’ Tom growled, ‘one lousy fucking lie, and I walk out of here. Understood?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Thomas. Any more ground rules?’

  ‘Just a fact. A fact that may help clarify your thinking. I have an appointment with Chief Inspector Archer, Scotland Yard. If I have to walk out of this meeting because you bullshit me, I’m going straight to that meeting. Convince me otherwise, and I’ll cancel it.’ Tom mentioned Archer’s name on purpose. Dick was the sort who would check it.

  ‘What time is your appointment?’ asked Dick casually, writing on his pad.

  ‘Five-thirty,’ replied Tom. ‘But he will be there until late. If this meeting breaks up, you’ll not make it to the airport.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice. Anything else before I start?’

  ‘Yes, there is. A check on your bona fides. You say I’ve got some money that does not belong to me. Tell me how much and where I got it from.’

  ‘The sum in question is forty-three million dollars, give or take a few thousand. You took it – I presume – from the account of Michael Clayton, your father, held at United Credit Bank, Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich. Any more?’

  ‘That will do for now. Please start from the beginning, with my grandfather.’

  Sweeney nodded and put down his writing pad. He stood and walked across the room to the small bar and poured himself a whisky. He looked enquiringly in Tom’s direction as he did so, but the latter shook his head. When he returned, Dick sat on the sofa, diagonally across from Tom. His body language contrived to seem relaxed and
benevolent.

  ‘Your grandfather,’ Sweeney started after taking a sip, ‘was a bootlegger. I told you that, as gently as possible, when you asked about him in New York. An importer of illegal booze between the years of 1920 and 1933. His building company did okay, but it never came to much. He was also a bully, a drunk and a womanizer, who could make and spend money equally fast. He may even have murdered a few people, that I do not know for sure. But my father spent half his time getting him out of trouble. During Prohibition, Pat linked up with a young Hispanic called Joe Salazar, a vig man.’

  ‘Vig?’

  ‘Call yourself a New Yorker?’ Sweeney made a poor attempt at a superior smile. ‘Trouble is, your dad sheltered you and Tess from the world he’d been raised in. Happy home and swanky schools! You don’t even know your roots.’

  ‘I expect you’ll tell me.’

  ‘I’m trying to. Vigorish man. Loan shark. They flourish in every working-class neighbourhood. Put money out during the week, take it back on payday. Usurers raking in a few thousand per cent a year on short-term loans. Would make your current bosses’ mouths water. Only, if you are late with your payment, they break your legs. If you can’t pay at all, they drop you in the river with your feet in a bucket of concrete. Well, this nice kid Joe became partners with your grandad. He funded purchases, he delivered on seven-day credit to the speakeasies. Most of his customers always paid on time. The few that didn’t are at the bottom of the Hudson.’

  ‘Does this Joe Salazar have a son?’

  ‘Sure does. A wretched little gangster by the name of Antonio. Why?’

  ‘Describe him, please.’

  ‘Five eight, hundred and seventy pounds, slicked-back black hair. Your regular Made-it-to-Manhattan spick.’

  ‘Drives around in a purple Stingray, right?’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’