by Bill Vidal
That same morning Tom Clayton went to work in his study one floor above his bedroom. He sat at his desk at seven-thirty and drafted two documents. The first was an agreement for Sweeney to sign. It made reference to the Clayton Account and recognized that this account had been held by his grandfather and a partner, a client of Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, who did not wish to be named. It further recognized that, on his grandfather’s death, title of the account had passed to his son Michael Clayton and, upon the latter’s death, to Tom. As executors to the wills of both Patrick and Michael Clayton, Sweeney Tulley McAndrews attested to these facts.
The agreement further recognized that the balance of the Clayton Account was not shared by the parties to it equally, but that the portion to which Thomas Clayton was entitled amounted to five million US dollars. As this amount had already been disbursed to Thomas Clayton, the remaining balance was now the property of Patrick Clayton’s unnamed partner and Richard Sweeney accepted responsibility for its safe delivery to that client. The agreement made clear, and Tom underlined that point, that neither Michael nor Thomas Clayton had any dealings with the silent partner, nor did they know his name or the nature of his business. Due to banking technicalities, the funds would be released to the attorneys in ninety days’ time.
The second document was a personal affidavit. In it Thomas Clayton stated that while exercising his rights under the provisions of his father’s will, he had visited United Credit Bank in Zurich to collect a balance held there in his father’s account. He had been surprised to find that, in addition to the $5 million he expected, a further $38 million had been paid into the account. Unable to understand the source of such a vast sum, he had left it untouched and asked the executors of his father’s will, Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, in the person of Richard E. Sweeney, to provide an explanation. Mr Sweeney had confessed that one of his clients, José Salazar, had been using that account for years by forging the signatures of Patrick Clayton and Michael Clayton. Mr Sweeney further stated that the funds in question originated from criminal activities. Mr Sweeney, who was a party to the deception, had arrived in London to collect not 38 million but $43 million from Thomas Clayton, stating that his client wanted all of it and failure to deliver this would result in the taking of Thomas Clayton’s life.
By eight-thirty Tom had finished both drafts. After a second reading he placed them in his briefcase. He returned to his computer and noted with some puzzlement that he still had access to the bank. The Swiss franc was up another six cents on the pound. This pleased him on two counts. In the first place, the £25 million authorized by his employers had been leveraged into 500 million and was showing a paper profit of nine cents. That was a return of £18 million sterling, or 72 per cent of the money put at risk. It would give Tom further ammunition when confronting Grinholm.
It also meant Tom’s own potential losses through Taurus were now reduced by over one million dollars. He wished he had the guts to double up immediately, but opted for caution. There was still time.
At nine Tom called Stuart Hudson, apologized for the short notice and asked for an urgent appointment to discuss a couple of documents he needed right away. They agreed ten-thirty at Stuart’s office.
He then phoned Scotland Yard and eventually got put through to Chief Inspector Archer. He explained who he was, that he had an urgent matter to discuss, and that Pete Andrews had suggested his name. Archer sounded friendly, asked about Pete, and said he would be very happy to receive Tom Clayton at the Yard around two.
Tom did not wish to argue with Dick Sweeney over the phone, so he scribbled a fax to him saying he’d be there at three-thirty, marked it Urgent across the top, and sent it to Claridge’s.
‘Not bad,’ said the solicitor with a smile after reading the first document. ‘Not bad at all. For a banker, that is.’
‘As I said on the phone, Stuart, I need it now,’ Tom reminded him.
‘No problem,’ replied Hudson and set about marking up the agreement with his pen. He crossed out a few lines and rewrote them, changed a word here, a sentence there and after a short explanation to his secretary he sent it off to be typed. As she left the room, he turned to the affidavit and the smile gave way to a frown. All along, Tom tried to make light of it and amused himself by throwing darts at the board that hung on his friend’s office wall.
‘What do you intend to do with this?’ Hudson asked, putting Tom’s draft down.
‘I would like to leave it with you, just in case,’ Tom replied, launching another three darts.
Hudson read the four handwritten sheets once more.
‘Tom,’ he enquired gravely, ‘do you think Sweeney meant it? What he said about this man Salazar? That he would kill you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tom answered frankly. ‘I expect I shall find out.’
‘Is it worth it?’
‘Hey, five million bucks! It’s bloody well mine.’
‘I could lend you five million, if you’re short,’ Hudson offered half-jokingly.
‘Piss off, Stuart,’ replied Tom, feinting in his direction with a dart. ‘Write the thing up.’
‘Have you thought of going to the police?’
‘I’m going there after I leave you. I have an appointment at Scotland Yard.’
‘Are you intending to give them copies of these documents?’
‘No,’ said Tom firmly. ‘And I’m just going to show Sweeney the affidavit so he can tell Salazar that a copy of that will surface if I cease to be around. I would wish to leave it with you, actually. Let you do the honours, if it came to that.’
‘In that case,’ declared Hudson positively, ‘and if all this is for insurance, I think you need to fill the gaps.’
It was Tom’s turn to look puzzled.
Hudson explained: ‘I mean that you should tell me the lot. Names, addresses, dates, amounts. Then show Sweeney you mean business. If they’re as nasty as you say, it might help to keep you alive.’
Tom agreed. For the next thirty minutes he spoke into his friend’s dictaphone. He told the story from the beginning, Pat’s bootlegging and his partnership with Salazar, the deceiving of his father and the manner in which Tom had come across the bank account. He showed Stuart the statement from United Credit Bank and narrated all his conversations with Sweeney, holding nothing back.
As soon as he finished speaking, Stuart’s secretary arrived with the printed agreements. Hudson gave her the recorded tape and asked her to get it transcribed. Tom looked uneasy but Stuart assured him she had heard much worse in her time. They examined the first document once more and Stuart handed Tom two copies: one for Sweeney to take to New York, the other for Clayton to keep for himself. A third copy was to be filed in Hudson’s office.
‘Strictly speaking,’ said the solicitor, ‘it should be signed by Salazar. So I have drawn it up for Sweeney to sign on his client’s behalf. For your purposes, it should do the job.’
When the secretary had closed the door behind her, Hudson remained passive for an instant.
‘Caroline called me,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘Caroline? What about?’ Tom sounded irate.
‘Take it easy, Tom. She’s just worried.’ Stuart fidgeted with a stapler.
‘So she turns to her old mate, right?’ Tom said ambiguously, and immediately regretted it.
‘Listen to me,’ the solicitor said firmly this time. ‘You find a pile of suspect money, you play silly buggers with futures. You get suspended from your job. And you hit her with all that lot in one week. Be reasonable, Tom. She’s worried for you. I’m an old friend, you know that. I’ll do nothing without your say-so, but maybe I can lend a hand.’
Old friend, old lover. Old?
Tom looked vacantly at Stuart for a moment and he felt angry with himself for even thinking it. Caroline did not deserve it.
‘Let me try it my way, Stuart,’ he said. ‘If I need help with either of the problems, I’ll come back to you. Maybe … if you talk to Caroline, you could reassure he
r …’ His words faded.
‘Sure, I promise.’
‘I don’t want to lose her, Stuart.’
‘You won’t,’ Hudson said sincerely.
Tom wished he could be as sure.
There was little left to say or do while the affidavit was prepared, so for the next hour they played darts.
11
MORALES LISTENED TO Speer in relative silence. When he did speak, his voice did not betray his inner feelings. He asked one or two questions, then told Speer to remain by the phone. He would think about the implications for a moment and call him back.
He looked at the architects’ models vacantly – they had somehow acquired a different connotation. Deep in thought, he went outside and took a walk in his garden. The guards in the woods were told the boss was strolling and they redoubled their vigilance. Tupac followed quietly a few paces behind.
He had been stung for $50 million. He might as well accept that. If the accounts in Spain and Uruguay were frozen simultaneously, the Americans had to be involved. The question was, how?
How did they link him to the Spanish company?
The leak had to be either in New York or Medellín. He did not think Salazar could be responsible. Sometimes Morales worried. What if the Laundry Man got blackmailed by the Feds and made a deal? Speer had assured him that was impossible. The Banker’s firm handled lots of clients, including Mafia money. If Salazar turned State’s evidence, he was as good as dead. Morales believed that. Salazar was not the type to endure a life of menial anonymity under the Witness Protection Program.
Speer?
Unlikely. Enrique was an ambitious man and, like himself, hoped for a peaceful future. Morales knew that the money in his pocket was enough to send a man to Costa Rica and blow up Speer, house and all, to kingdom come. Enrique Speer would be aware of that. No, not Speer. Romualdes? De la Cruz? They wouldn’t dare. Then who?
He would come back to that question later. First, he had to work out his next move. Unless he came up with another fifty million, the Foundation was stillborn. But to do that would require doing something that was anathema in his trade: using his legitimate money and turning it back to where it came from. In the process he risked leaving a trail connecting his immaculate investments with his work in Medellín. In the past month he had sent another six million to the Caymans, and that was now in the Laundry Man’s hands. He had another half million at home and two in Nassau. Not enough. By now Romualdes would have told all the contractors that their payments were on the way. By the weekend the word would have reached Cali that the cheques would be dishonoured. Then Noriega or the Ortegas would smell blood. Within days all his men would have heard rumours that Morales could not pay his bills. They would depart in droves and the pick-up trucks would come in the middle of the night. They would take Morales and his family. It was ironic, he reflected, that the only protection he would be able to count on was the police ring the authorities had thrown around Medellín.
So it boiled down to two choices. Pay up now, or run. The Salazars still had well over sixty million of his money. All legitimately invested for long-term growth. Even if Morales asked for it immediately, it would take days or even weeks to bring it in. And if the leak was with the Laundry Man, he might never get his cash.
He had to leave Colombia, there was no other choice. He would take his own plane to Panama and catch the first flight going south. Rio or Buenos Aires would do initially. After that he would see. A man with $60 million dollars could buy expensive lawyers and make friends. But first he had to deal with Medellín. If the Americans had got this information from someone there, the whole city would need to understand it did not pay to cross Don Carlos. That slob Romualdes would be his starting point.
He called Speer back and asked him to withdraw all his investments from Salazar & Co’s control.
Tom Clayton reached New Scotland Yard five minutes early and was escorted to Archer’s room. It was on the fourth floor, a spacious modern office with a clear view of the Thames. The Chief Inspector looked just as he sounded on the phone. Of an age close to retirement, he was tall and slim. He wore an understated double-breasted dark suit that somehow went with his unassuming manner. He greeted Clayton genially and offered him a chair. A large leather-upholstered mahogany chair that, like the Sheraton-style desk, did not look like government issue. Archer tapped his pipe into a large ashtray quite deliberately, as if this were a routine – offering his visitor a last chance to object – then busied himself lighting it after asking Tom how he could help.
Clayton gave him a potted version of the story. He explained that the firm Richard Sweeney represented had acted for his family for over half a century, but that they also acted for another party, whose name he did not know and who now demanded money from Tom. He explained that he had received some funds, believing them to be part of his inheritance, but now it seemed that some of those funds were claimed by someone else. Tom was quite happy to hand over anything he was not entitled to, but was concerned about the other party’s willingness to be reasonable.
‘How’s Pete Andrews getting on?’ Archer surprised Tom with the question.
‘Fine. He’s a good man.’
‘You say you don’t know the name of Mr Sweeney’s client?’ Archer asked the question very casually, in between pulls at his pipe.
Tom heard an alarm bell.
‘Frankly, Chief Inspector,’ he replied, just in case, ‘a name was mentioned. But only as hearsay. I do not know whose money it’s supposed to be for sure. Just that Sweeney is here to collect it.’
‘This money, your inheritance, where is it now?’
‘The part that’s mine, right here in London. The rest I left in Zurich, where I found it.’
‘Zurich, eh?’ the policeman said the name disdainfully as he took a deep puff. ‘That’s always a complication.’ Watching the whirls of smoke rise, he continued: ‘It would seem to me, Mr Clayton, that you really should be talking to a lawyer, not the police. Have you seen one?’
‘Yes, I have. And he suggested I should see the police.’
The policeman moved his head as if to signify agreement. He was not too sure about Mr Clayton. His story did not entirely stack up.
Two hours earlier, Archer had received a visitor from America. Jeremiah Harper of the Drug Enforcement Administration had been referred to Archer by Special Branch. Harper briefed the Chief Inspector on the Morales–Salazar connection, the money-laundering operation, and his own strategy to pin down Sweeney in London. Towards the end of the meeting Harper mentioned the possible involvement of one Thomas Clayton, an American banker living in London, who was believed to somehow fit into the money chain, though at that precise moment Harper admitted he had no idea how. Archer smiled knowingly at the mention of Tom Clayton and started emptying the residues from his pipe. He told a surprised Harper that the man in question was coming in to see him at two, at his own request, presumably to ask for some sort of help – which was why Harper had been steered to Archer’s section. They decided they would hear him out first. Harper would stay in the room next door, initially, and let Clayton tell his story to Archer. He could listen to the conversation on the intercom. At the appropriate moment he would join in.
‘Did your solicitor explain why he saw this as a police matter?’ asked the Chief Inspector.
‘Because I told him that Mr Sweeney, when we met yesterday, said if I did not hand over all the money, mine included, his client would have me killed.’
‘Ah now, that’s more like it,’ exclaimed Archer, livening up. ‘No witnesses to the threat, I expect.’
‘No, but I’m seeing Sweeney at three-thirty and I’m sure he will repeat it.’
‘Where is this meeting taking place?’
Tom told him and Archer made a note of the room number.
‘Yes, Mr Clayton,’ said Archer reassuringly, putting his writing pad to one side. ‘I am sure we can be of help here.’ He then stood up and walked towards the door. Unsure where th
e policeman was going, Clayton made a move as if to follow – but Archer indicated he should remain seated. ‘There is someone you should meet,’ he said as he opened his office door.
The man who entered was about six-four, with strong broad shoulders and an athlete’s gait. The thick neck and greying ginger crewcut might have fitted more naturally in a Marine’s uniform than in the present sober middleweight suit. He stepped forward, no-nonsense fashion, right hand extended.
‘I’m Red Harper, Mr Clayton. United States Department of Justice.’
Tom shook his hand without enthusiasm.
Harper did not beat around the bush. He told Tom his name had come up during an investigation and he had flown across the Atlantic just to follow it up.
‘You better get this clear from the outset, Mr Clayton,’ he emphasized. ‘That you would be well advised not to hinder the Department’s work.’
‘Are you accusing me of something, Mr Harper?’ Clayton felt his temper rising but endeavoured to keep it in check.
‘Not yet,’ answered the DEA man just as firmly. ‘But I need some questions answered.’
‘Fire away.’ He said it calmly, making no effort to hide his displeasure.
‘Let’s start with you. Who are you? What do you do?’
Tom gave him straight answers. Name, address, occupation.
‘You work at that bank?’ Harper asked, impressed.
Tom just nodded.
‘What’s your position there?’
Tom described his job, hinting at his level of pay. That usually made government employees cringe. He also mentioned his five years in Wall Street before coming to London, that his father had been a professor at Columbia, and that his sister and her husband mixed with senators, the odd president, that sort of thing. Three generations was old money in America.
