The Clayton Account

by Bill Vidal

  Whatever was going to happen when Morales discovered his money was missing, would take place the following week. Meanwhile Harper wanted to find out more about this London connection.

  Who was Clayton?

  Why was he expected to pay Sweeney?

  If Harper could get Sweeney arrested in London, the DEA would have the edge. Sweeney would have neither the contacts nor the resources available to him at home. Isolated from familiar surroundings, people are easier to break. As a bonus, Harper might discover who Clayton was. If he was a Brit, it could make a nice payback for the boys at Scotland Yard. He had promised the Administrator that Cardenas would not interfere in the Cali operation. But if they could crack the money trail from Medellín, they might close in on the other cartel’s treasure chest. Until the army was ready to strike, the best way to impede the narco-traffic was causing havoc along their laundry chain. If the DEA could put a tight circle around the traffickers’ spending, then they would be forced to live in houses stuffed with banknotes and given little chance to enjoy the lifestyle associated with such wealth. That put pressure on them, made them careless. Red Harper would leave for London that night and Cardenas would go and nose around in Costa Rica, then return to Medellín, reversing the same route he had used to get out.

  Six hours later, Harper wriggled in his seat to relieve the numbness in his lower body. Oblivious to the movie being shown in the darkened cabin as they flew east towards the rising sun, he went through the facts they had to date.

  One. Morales was spending big money in Medellín. He needed fifty million dollars for his grandiose scheme and that was coming in two chunks, half from Uruguay, half from Spain.

  Two. The immediate source of the money was Credit Suisse in Geneva, from the account of Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, Attorneys-at-Law.

  Three. Morales was not going to get the money. The Director’s office had been advised by the State Department that the accounts in Uruguay and Spain were frozen.

  But equally there were things the DEA did not know. Who was Tom Clayton? Who was Enrique Speer? Why was Sweeney in London, and how did they all fit into the Morales–Salazar chain? Harper believed that if he could answer those questions, he would be able to damage Morales critically and perhaps put away the Salazars for a very long time.

  From Heathrow he went directly to his hotel, the four-star Britannia in Grosvenor Square, diagonally across the street from the US Embassy.

  After a shower and a hearty breakfast he strolled down Grosvenor Street and entered the large building through the side steps. He showed his Justice Department ID to the marine on duty and was taken to the FBI office on the third floor. Special Agent Drake was already there.

  ‘One visitor,’ Drake said, looking at his notes. ‘Wednesday afternoon. Six-one, about two hundred pounds. Male, Caucasian, dark curly hair. Smart clothes, American accent. No name.’

  ‘How long did they spend together?’ asked Harper.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t see the guy come in. He left by taxi and I got a partial address out of the doorman. Kensington Square, but no number.’

  ‘Thanks. The Brits on now?’

  ‘Yes. Took over last night.’

  Harper would call at Scotland Yard later, but now he needed a bit of help from the FBI. Could Tom Clayton be American? They had already run the name through DEA, FBI and New York City police records and come up with nothing. There were sixty Thomas Claytons holding New York drivers’ licences and three cross-matched with misdemeanours, speeding offences, two bar brawls. They did not have the resources to follow up on all those. Besides, the connection was too tenuous. Harper had assumed that Clayton was a Brit.

  ‘Does the Embassy keep a register of US citizens living in London?’

  ‘That depends,’ explained Drake. ‘They are not required to register. Some do so voluntarily, the big guns go on the mailing lists. Invitations, exhibitions, Fourth of July. That sort of thing. Long-term residents might be on the IRS list.’

  ‘Anywhere else we might look?’

  ‘Sure. Chamber of Commerce members, trade directories – banks, insurance, industries by type – and … the London phone book.’

  They looked at each other, grinning sheepishly. Drake picked up the heavy tome from behind his desk and opened the directory under C.

  ‘Clayton, T. D., 61 Kensington Square, London W8. How’s that for detective work?’

  ‘Let’s check him out. I need to know who this guy is.’

  Tony Salazar rose mid-morning on Thursday and placed the six names and addresses on his desk. He dialled the first number.

  ‘This is the international operator,’ he said putting on his best AT&T voice. ‘I have a call from New York for Mr Tom Clayton. Will you pay for the call?’

  ‘Tom Clayton? This is Terry Clayton. What do you mean, pay for the call?’

  ‘Is Mr Tom Clayton there, sir?’

  ‘There’s no Tom Clayton here, mate. Name’s Terry Clayton. Who’s calling? What do you mean, pay for the call?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, must have the wrong number.’ Salazar rang off and crossed the first address from his list.

  The second call produced a similar result except that Trevor Clayton uttered a few profanities at being woken so early. Salazar looked at the time. Ten forty-five. He almost gave the man a piece of his mind but resisted the temptation and hung up.

  Call number three, no reply. He would try it later. On number four Thomas Clayton came to the phone. Wanted to know who was calling before he agreed to pay. He said he knew no one in New York. Salazar pretended to be asking the caller his name, then apologized and promised to call back.

  Salazar was unsure. The man had not sounded American, but neither did he speak like the English he’d met so far. He would look at that one. He ticked the address.

  Number five was Tanya Clayton and number six had an answering machine. Female voice, English. He left no message and noted to call that one later as well. Three down and three to go. If his target lived in town.

  At noon he went down to the coffee shop for a snack and then bought a small shoulder bag from the hotel store. He took it up to his room, where he filled it with toiletries, a couple of shirts and some underwear. He collected his A-to-Z and his gun and took his Bentley for a drive.

  He checked into the Skyport Motel near Datchet, saying he would remain there for three nights. Tony’s father had given Sweeney until Friday. He spread the contents of his bag around the rear-facing room and ruffled the bed a little. Then he tried the telephone once more. T. Clayton number two answered the phone this time and, ‘Sure,’ he said, he would pay for the call.

  Tony Salazar was slightly taken aback but quickly realized that the man was drunk, so he hung up. In any event the address was, according to that sexy hotel manager, one of the less salubrious ones. He would only come back to that one if he failed to score on the other two. The last one still had the answering machine on, and once again he left no message, but that still left two addresses to investigate: Thomas Clayton, London SW7, and T. D. Clayton, London W8.

  In his book he saw they were quite close together. Confident he would find them easily, he locked his room and drove back to London.

  He parked his car in Queensgate Gardens and took a casual walk along the street. As he passed number 57, he observed the house. It stood three floors high with elegant columns on the front porch and no name on the doorbell. Tony Salazar had nothing to do that day except find the bastard who had stolen his money. So he bought a newspaper, returned to his car and sat there, patiently in his terms. Sooner or later someone would come in or out.

  He did not have to wait long. A black Jaguar pulled up outside the house and the chauffeur stepped out briskly to open the rear door. They alighted and made for the front door: husband, wife, and two young boys. All smartly dressed and distinguished-looking. The kids ran up the steps to the porch and the man took out his keys.

  ‘I’ll be damned!’ Salazar said to himself. ‘Fucking coons!’

&nb
sp; Shaking his head in wonderment, he looked at the map again and turned the ignition key. One more shot. He drove past number 61 Kensington Square. A very smart house in a very smart square. He’d bet ten to one this was his man. He was unable to park around the square as every place was taken. Predominantly by Mercs, BMWs and Volvos. On the corner, across the square from number 61, he found a public telephone.

  ‘Tom’s out right now. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Name’s Terry, from New York,’ Tony said casually. ‘He at the bank?’

  ‘No. He’s got the day off. Should be home around nine-thirty.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. I’ll call him back.’

  ‘You got a sexy voice, Mrs Clayton,’ he said out loud after replacing the receiver. ‘Can’t wait to see the rest of you.’

  He would come back later. I know your number Thomas Clayton, he said to himself as he walked back to the car. I know where you work and I know where you live. All you need to tell me now is where you keep my money.

  Meantime he would cruise around a bit and see what he could pull. Might as well make good use of the Bentley.

  Julio Cardenas travelled from Miami to Costa Rica and took a room at the Hotel Colón in San José. Harper had given him a free hand but there was no point in confronting Speer. Preliminary enquiries had come up with a likely candidate, a prosperous commercial lawyer and in any event the only Speer in town.

  Julio’s mission was more a case of digging up some background information. The US presence in the Central American republic was not particularly strong, a CIA man maybe, diving in and out of neighbouring countries, but not likely to volunteer any help. The country posed no threat to America, the drug men by and large kept clear of it, and the Justice Department’s presence at the Embassy was non-existent. Some years back, when Vesco had ripped off the IOS investors and popped up in Costa Rica, the US had leaned on that country with the usual diplomatic threats. The fact that there was no extradition treaty between the two countries made it look like tempting pastures to some who sought to avoid the US authorities. But words had been exchanged on matters of trade and US aid. Vesco had been forced to find a new home and few followed after that.

  In the morning, Cardenas went to the Embassy and was received by the Second Secretary. He explained that the Justice Department had an interest in Enrique Speer but made no reference to the DEA.

  The diplomat gave him what little he could find.

  Speer was apparently an upright citizen. Costa Rican by birth, with a Mexican law degree and a thriving practice. Commercial work, as far as they knew – many companies retained his services. He travelled, occasionally, around the Caribbean and the subcontinent and had never applied for a US visa.

  ‘Why is Justice interested?’ asked the Embassy man.

  ‘Not in him especially,’ explained Julio. ‘We know one of his clients to be a criminal and we know he deals with a suspected money launderer in New York. Speer? Doesn’t sound too Costa Rican.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said the Second Secretary superciliously. ‘Most have Spanish names but there are a fair number of descendants from other Europeans. East and West. Quite an influx after both wars.’

  ‘So what’s Speer? German?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Describe him?’

  ‘Forty-something. Six-two, slim, fair. Always wears a suit, no matter what the weather. Single, does the full social rounds.’

  ‘His parents born here too?’

  ‘That I don’t know, and I can hardly ask the authorities here without a reason.’

  ‘Could you keep an eye on him for us? Send us anything you find?’

  ‘If a formal request was made by Justice,’ replied the diplomat distastefully, ‘it would be up to State and the Ambassador. Hasn’t your department got its own people to do that sort of work?’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Julio with a wry smile. He had come across that sort of diplomat before. They lived cocooned in a world of political intrigue and cocktail parties and forgot who paid the bills.

  Cardenas went along to Plaza Independencia and sat himself in a café near Speer’s office. Everyone in Costa Rica went home at lunchtime. At 1.15 Speer left his office and walked to the Land Rover parked outside. He looked preoccupied, perhaps even angry or upset. Cardenas took three pictures of him. For the moment that would have to suffice. He put the film in an envelope addressed to BID in Miami and mailed it from his hotel, then picked up his bag and caught a taxi back to the airport. When he reached Caracas three hours later he cleared customs and immigration as Julio Robles, using his official passport and BID credentials, then caught the Aeropostal turboprop to Maracaibo, where the DEA pilot in the Cessna Centurion stood by to take him on the penultimate leg of the journey.

  They took off to the east and then turned back on themselves, flying towards the setting sun over a metropolis of oil rigs in the shallow waters of the massive lake that gave the city its name. They gained height to clear the Sierras de Perija, marking the border with Colombia. Equipped with a satellite navigation system, even the little Cessna had no difficulty locating the small landing strip at Cesar’s Mines. The same manager was on duty and his face lit up when he saw the two bottles of Black Label, delivered with a smile by the man from EL BID.

  ‘Park here any time,’ he said jovially, handing over the car keys to Julio.

  For Robles a long drive lay ahead, almost four hundred miles on bad roads, but already he was looking forward to rekindling his friendship with the Mayor of Medellín in the morning.

  Speer was very preoccupied indeed.

  He had telephoned Banesto in Seville and he knew from Sweeney that the transfers from Geneva had been made. Though annoyed by the unexplained delay, he decided not to make an issue of it. But Speer had told Morales all was well and that morning he had wanted to make sure.

  Then the bombshell dropped.

  Twenty-four million dollars had indeed arrived from Switzerland to complete the required twenty-five. Unfortunately, the account of Malaga Construction was frozen – not one duro could be withdrawn – by order of the Ministry of Finance. Speer had asked why, but the manager was unable to be precise. There was an allegation, he said guardedly, that certain funds might have a connection with illicit money-laundering. The matter was being dealt with from Banesto’s head office in Madrid. Dr Speer should really direct his questions there.

  Speer took down the number and the name of the person he should speak to, but did not intend to follow it up immediately. Next, he called Banco Nacional in Montevideo. The situation there was the same, though the manager he spoke to was more blunt: ‘The authorities here believe it is hot money. Drug money, to be precise. No funds may be removed until the investigation is concluded.’ He did, however, corroborate that the funds from Geneva had arrived and that at the time the account was blocked its balance stood at over $25 million.

  Speer put the phone down and considered the implications. Malaga had been clean; there was nothing that could link it to Morales. Speer himself had set up the company early on in his relationship with the Colombian. He had purposely chosen Spain as he did not believe in obscure offshore companies once the money had been laundered. Serious banks viewed such firms with suspicion and, in most countries, would answer any questions put to them by the authorities. Spain and England were the best. In the former, the administration was second-rate and no one cared what a Spanish company did outside the country. Money could be remitted from different parts of Latin America masquerading as proceeds from bogus projects and so long as some profit was shown and a little corporation tax paid, you were left to get on with your business.

  In England you could set up a company in five minutes with an outlay of less than a hundred pounds. Name-plate offices in London were a penny a score, and genuine administrators would not ask too many questions when given names of non-existent directors all residing outside the United Kingdom. The companies would file accounts on time, maybe show a profit of 6 per cent on turnov
er, and pay 20 per cent of that in tax. A real cost of one and a half cents in the dollar for giving dirty money a credible pedigree. Speer had anticipated that over the next year Morales would need to find a home for another hundred million. Malaga was only one of a dozen hollow companies Speer needed for that purpose.

  Now it was all going wrong and he could not understand how. At the most, four people were aware of the Malaga connection: Speer, Salazar, Sweeney and Morales himself.

  At the moment the bulk of Morales’ money was managed by Salazar. He was useful and had ways of cleaning money. Morales would deliver his suitcases to a bank in Grand Cayman and three months later the cash would turn up elsewhere. Having made what journey?

  Speer did not know. Nor did he care. But Morales had also left his legitimate money with Salazar, and that aspect Speer believed he would be able to change. He was as smart as Salazar any day and his schemes were better. One day he hoped to see Morales transfer the management to him. Let Salazar do the laundry by all means, but after that leave it to Speer. He had served Morales well and was sure that eventually it would happen. Then Dr Heinrich Speer would establish a low-profile office in Bavaria and make his fortune investing clients’ money in Europe. The opportunities were vast; Morales would merely provide the launch funds.

  But now this.

  Someone had established the link between Malaga and cocaine money and it had not been him – nor Morales, for that matter. That left Sweeney and Salazar. Had they been careless? There was nothing left to do but tell Morales his money would not come. Speer did not relish the prospect. He could easily guess how his client would react to the loss of fifty million dollars.