by Bill Vidal
‘Not a sound so far,’ said Tavelli. ‘But you know Julio, chief, he’ll turn up.’
Harper wished he could be equally confident of his agent’s safety, but said no more on the subject. ‘Call me again the minute you hear anything,’ he told his deputy. ‘I’ll aim to fly out of here sometime tonight.’
Archer was looking at him inquisitively, so Harper explained.
They were not entirely sure where Clayton fitted in the equation, but they would both go to the hospital, once the American had woken, and press him for some answers. After that, the UK authorities would handle Clayton and Sweeney. Harper would be better employed back home, both to make direct contact with Cardenas and to put the squeeze on Joe Salazar.
Julio in the meantime had started to make plans. He had almost recovered from the beating and his ribs were not broken after all. This could be the biggest break the DEA would ever have. Noriega’s operation was very different from Morales’. In the exuberance of victory the men celebrated, drank, and paid little attention to the new man. Julio had to get away for a day or two to establish a working method with Miami, then he would return and lay the ground. He picked up a beer bottle, to appear normal, and sidled up to Noriega in the house.
‘Hey, Julio?’ said his new employer, slumped in an armchair. ‘You’re not going to sing for us now, eh?’
The others, the twenty or so that stood or slouched around the living room, found this funny.
‘No, boss. I need to go and get my things.’
‘What things?’ asked Noriega, feigning seriousness. The chieftain was still up in the clouds. Smashing Morales had moved him a few pegs up the cartel. The Ortega brothers would have to talk to him as an equal from now on.
‘My maps, charts, routes, contacts. I keep them well hidden, you know? At my place in Bogotá.’
‘So you are good at this route-planning, are you, Nieves?’
‘Never lost a consignment, boss,’ Julio smiled. ‘Well, just one,’ he said quite seriously. ‘A few days ago one of our planes blew up!’
That caused a complete uproar, the skeleton in the box by then forgotten.
‘You do that, my friend. Then come back and show me what you can do. Be here by Monday.’
‘I’ll need some money for expenses, boss,’ he said apologetically. ‘I sort of left my last employer in a hurry.’
Noriega roared with mirth again and had to take a pull at his beer before he could talk. He turned to one of his assistants and ordered him: ‘Give Julio the Snowman ten thousand bucks.’ Then to Julio: ‘See? With Noriega you just have to ask. Go get your things. See you on Monday. Serve me well, and you’ll be taken care of.’
Julio took the train to Bogotá and from there doubled back to Medellín. In the middle of the night he got to his apartment and retrieved his passport, code books and a few personal items he was not prepared to leave behind. By dawn he was back in the capital, where he paid for his ticket to Miami with Noriega’s cash. He could not wait to see Red.
In New York, Joe Salazar was exhibiting signs of rage the like of which only those who had known him in the Bronx days could recognize. He shouted abuse at anyone who came near him, which some of the staff charitably attributed to understandable father’s grief.
Earlier on, two FBI agents had come to see the Banker. They told him that his son, Antonio, had been involved in a serious incident in London, which had resulted in his death. Salazar listened to them quietly, secretly torn by pain, for in his own way he loved Tony, yet forcing his brain to remain alert until he could establish exactly how much the FBI knew.
‘What do you mean, a serious incident?’ he addressed the one who had done most of the talking.
‘Says here he was in a fight with a man named Thomas Clayton,’ Cole replied, reading from his notes. ‘Can you tell us who he might be?’
‘Only Thomas Clayton I can think of’ – Salazar saw no point in denying it – ‘is an old friend’s grandson. Yeah, Tom Clayton. He’s a banker, lives in England.’
‘Old friend?’ queried the other agent, a dapper little guy with a Groucho moustache.
‘Pat Clayton, used to be a friend. Died back in ’43 or ’44. Can’t remember exactly.’
‘What was your son doing in London, Mr Salazar?’ Cole asked.
‘Didn’t know he was there,’ the Laundry Man lied, then changed the subject. ‘How did my son die?’
‘He may have been trying to kill Thomas Clayton,’ Cole said, staring into the Laundry Man’s eyes. ‘Do you have any idea why?’
‘Tony? Kill Tom Clayton?’ He snorted at the preposterous suggestion. ‘You gotta be out of your mind!’
‘You do know Mr Richard Sweeney, don’t you?’
‘Dick Sweeney? Sure. He’s my lawyer.’ Joe had expected that question. The point was, had the law got hold of Sweeney? How much did the bastard tell them?
‘Why was Mr Sweeney in London?’
‘Hey, listen here.’ Salazar raised his voice: the nigger was getting seriously on his nerves. ‘Like I said, he’s my lawyer. You wanna know what he’s doing, you ask him. Got it?’
‘Mr Salazar,’ persisted Cole, ‘according to the information we received from England, your son first abducted Mrs Clayton and then tried to kill her husband. He was also in possession of an illegal gun. It would appear Clayton was the stronger of the two and in the ensuing fight Antonio lost his life. Now, is there anything you can tell us which might help us, sir?’
Poor Tony, thought Joe, he had balls all right but in the end he was quite dumb.
‘Yeah,’ said Salazar dismissively. ‘Yeah. You guys get that fucking Clayton and nail him for my son’s murder.’
‘The British police might do just that,’ Cole replied in the same vein. ‘There again, we expect Mr Clayton will tell us why he had to kill your son, and what the hell the confrontation was about.’
‘Well, you do your thing,’ Joe said with finality as he stood up. ‘In the meantime I’ll do mine. So unless you have something else you wanna tell me I suggest you both get out of here and leave me alone to mourn.’ He looked at Perez to signify that his visitors were leaving.
Once the FBI men had left the premises, Salazar sat Hector down and closed the door. The Laundry Man reluctantly accepted that the $43 million were as good as lost. The money had become extra-hot money. Too hot. With half the UK and US authorities in the know, further attempts to squeeze Clayton were too risky. But the word would soon be out that Salazar & Co had been robbed. That was bad for business, sometimes terminally bad. So he gave Perez clear and precise instructions. First he was to deal with Sweeney, the minute the lawyer got back. Then, once the business of Tony’s death had faded from the front page, the Cuban was to visit Europe briefly and stiff that goddamn Irishman.
With business and paternal duties thus discharged, he announced he was leaving the office at lunchtime. Joe Salazar was not looking forward to telling his wife of their loss.
Tom listened to Archer and could not believe what he was hearing. Gone was the soft gentility of the Agatha Christie character he had met at Scotland Yard. Had that been only yesterday? Now Archer was behaving as if Tom was guilty of a crime.
‘The question here, Mr Clayton, is did you really need to kill him?’
‘I believe my client has already answered that, Chief Inspector.’
Stuart Hudson had been with Tom and Caroline for twenty minutes when Archer and Harper arrived. Tom had related what had taken place at Corston, and Stuart had advised him to be careful of how he put it to the police. Only Stuart, besides Tom, had seen the contents of the affidavit.
‘Stick to the essential facts,’ he counselled. ‘You were there reacting to a threat on your wife’s life. You arrived first. This chap took a shot at you and missed, then took another shot and injured you. He still had his gun as you wrestled on the floor. You shoved his face in the fireplace and all along you were fighting for your life. And that’s it, Tom.’
Archer ignored Stuart’s
interruption and pressed on: ‘I know what you told me, Mr Clayton, but I would still like to go over it one more time. From the beginning. We do, after all, have a dead body here.’
‘If you must,’ Tom conceded wearily.
‘And let’s try to make it brief, Chief Inspector.’ Hudson was not going to let him have it all his way. ‘My client is still suffering from trauma and the doctors have ordered that he should rest.’
This time Archer looked at the solicitor and nodded. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket thoughtfully. ‘You arrived at Corston Manor first, you said?’
‘Yes. About fifteen minutes before Salazar.’
‘And in that time you did what?’
Tom explained how he had removed some fuses in case he needed the protection of dark. How he gathered a few self-defence weapons – a crowbar, a couple of knives – since at the time he did not know whether his wife’s abductor would be armed.
‘Why didn’t you call us?’ Harper spoke for the first time.
‘Salazar had my wife. I was not prepared to take chances. He said he would kill her if I was not alone. I believed him.’
‘So you thought you could do a better job?’ Harper’s voice was loaded with sarcasm.
‘Well, it would seem as though I did. The body we have here’ – he looked at Archer, parodying his earlier phrase – ‘is, thank God, not my wife’s.’
‘Tell me, Mr Clayton,’ Archer pointed his pipe stem ominously at Tom, ‘is there any reason why you may have wanted Antonio Salazar dead?’
‘That’s enough!’ Hudson cut in before Clayton had a chance to reply. ‘I think, Chief Inspector, this is overstepping the mark. I am advising my client’ – he looked at Tom as he continued – ‘to say no more. Your implied suggestion is preposterous. I remind you that Mr Salazar abducted Mrs Clayton at gunpoint and then attempted to murder Mr Clayton. I shall confer with my client – both my clients,’ he corrected himself, casting a glance at Caroline, ‘and as soon as they have recovered from their ordeal, we shall make a full statement.’
‘Mr Hudson,’ Red Harper addressed the solicitor, ‘right this minute I have men risking their lives on account of the Salazars’ activities. Your client is not telling us the full story, and if this was America I’d have him arrested right now for impeding a Federal –’
‘We are not in America, Mr Harper,’ replied Hudson equally forcefully. ‘And you are only speculating when you suggest my client is holding something back.’
‘Are you seriously expecting us to believe you have no idea why Salazar would wish to kill you?’ asked Archer, staring at Tom.
‘I already told you,’ Tom said angrily. ‘He was trying to get money. Money which I do not have.’
‘Bullshit!’ Harper rose to his feet. ‘We may be in England, sonny, but you are still a US citizen and I shall indict you in a US court if I have to.’
‘Chief Inspector, I believe I have stated my clients’ position clearly,’ Hudson was becoming irate himself. ‘And for the moment it is plain that my clients have had enough.’
‘If that’s the way you want it,’ said Archer, standing up and replacing the pipe in his jacket pocket. Then he turned to Tom.
‘Thomas Declan Clayton,’ he droned solemnly, ‘I hereby arrest you for the manslaughter of one Antonio Emilio Salazar. You do not have to say anything but …’ He recited the standard caution as Red Harper betrayed a self-satisfied smile. Caroline looked on in dismay but nevertheless noticed twin flashes of anger in her husband’s and her former lover’s eyes.
It was agreed that Tom would remain in the hospital, under police custody, for another twenty-four hours. After that he would be formally arraigned, though Hudson placed on record his client’s denial of the charges and informed Archer he would apply for bail. Archer agreed he would not contest the bail application, merely the amount of the surety. He also demanded Tom Clayton’s passport, which Hudson agreed would be a bail condition.
After the law enforcers left, Hudson remained behind briefly to assure Tom and Caroline that the charge was totally misconceived and that he would have it quashed before it got to court. He then made his excuses and left.
‘You have no intention of giving it back, have you?’ Caroline asked when they were alone. She sat by the window, arms folded, her silhouette blurred by the last of the day’s light.
‘I intended to,’ Tom said imploringly. ‘I wanted to. The problem now is who do I give it back to?’
‘The police?’ she suggested.
‘What for? I doubt that would buy us any peace.’ Which was not entirely untrue.
‘What about Dick?’
‘I tried to, I swear. I even got Stuart to draw up an agreement.’
‘Dick wouldn’t take it?’
‘He was about to, then he got a phone call and the whole thing died.’
‘You are a bloody fool, Tom.’ She sounded both frightened and irate. ‘From the moment you told me the full story I told you to give the money back.’
‘I promise I’ll give them all the money if they’ll leave us alone – but I must first be sure of that.’
‘So, what’s next?’
Tom raised his arms and asked her to come near. He held her close against his chest and spoke through her hair. He asked her to take the children to her parents for a while. Tom would ask for police protection until the whole thing died out. Caroline agreed it would be best to get away from London for a while.
‘Have we exchanged on the house yet?’ she asked him suddenly.
‘Not yet,’ he admitted, then added anxiously, ‘But we can – straight away, I should think.’
‘Leave it for the moment, Tom,’ she said, holding back a tear.
There was a moment’s silence, then she raised her head and looked closely into his eyes. ‘I have to think. Please.’
Tom could think of nothing to say. Once again he had the agonizing premonition that the price of the Zurich windfall might be Caroline’s hitherto unqualified love.
Tom was discharged from hospital on Saturday. In the afternoon he drove to Gloucestershire with his family. He still hurt from his injuries but remained adamant not to alter his plans. The M4 appeared different now, but he kept the observation to himself. No one spoke as they passed the sign to Corston village. Until the police had completed their assessment of the scene, Corston Park was out of bounds to everyone. Jack Hornby was enraged when he learnt of the police refusal to provide protection for his grandchildren. He harassed the local constabulary, the top brass at Scotland Yard, even telephoned his MP at home. All in vain. In the end he turned to the adjutant of his former regiment, and once he had explained the circumstances a simple solution was found. Two lieutenants from the Parachute Regiment would be given two weeks’ leave. They would be delighted to accept Colonel Hornby’s invitation to fish and shoot on his estate. The Colonel had no objection if the young men wished to bring along their service pistols. A further pair of subalterns would be on standby, should another two weeks’ hospitality become available in a fortnight’s time.
With the peace of mind that the armed soldiers afforded, Tom returned to London, alone, on Sunday night. He started to play the messages on his answering machine, then struggled with the top of a Rémy bottle as he listened to Grinholm’s speech:
‘Sorry to learn about the rough time you’ve been through – such a ridiculous charge. The Directors have decided –’ decided, Tom noted, not suggested ‘– to let you take all the time you need … unpaid leave of absence … Vladimir Kreutz is looking after all your stuff.’
Tom turned the tape off. He knew the form. If he came out clean as a whistle – Snow White clean – they would all congratulate him and break out the vintage champagne. If not, by the time the trial was over, Tom would have been gone from the bank three to six months. In the financial world that made you ancient history.
As a matter of reflex he flicked on his computer and was amused to see the bank had as yet neglected to close down his real-time
access. He looked up the currency movements and the Zurich futures. The pound was down again. One and three-quarter cents. Good news for Tom and for his bank.
His ex-bank.
If Kreutz didn’t screw up.
Meanwhile Tom wished he had more money: he would sell sterling short with the lot. Anyway the fact remained that the pound was seriously overvalued. Industry was screaming, exports static and interest rates politically sensitive. At worst, sterling might creep down slowly. Unless something happened, or impatient speculators brought the currency into play. Then smart money would move into dollars. Or the new lovely: the Euro.
Or Swiss francs.
Perhaps, it occurred to him, the time was approaching for the gamble of a lifetime. Tom had the nerve, he knew, and it had been easy money bar the business with that punk Salazar. Now he felt the money was more his than ever.
Well, perhaps next week.
But first there was Sean.
On Monday morning, as expected, Tom was taken for a brief court appearance and formally charged with the manslaughter of Antonio Salazar. Stuart Hudson was there, accompanied by an eminent Queen’s Counsel who argued that the accusation was without merit and moved that the court dismiss the charges there and then. The police maintained that there were aspects to this case that linked the accused to international crime syndicates, evidence of which would be produced at the full hearing. Tom’s QC denied the allegation and assured the court this was a clear case of self-defence, but in the end the court ruled that a trial would be appropriate, to take place at the Old Bailey at a future date.
Bail was set at £200,000 with the additional condition that Tom Clayton should continue to surrender his passport and report to the police once a week. A further request for police protection was denied. Given that Clayton refused to state why the deceased Salazar should have wanted to kill him in the first place, it was deemed unreasonable to spend public money when no evidence existed of further threats to the accused’s life. His second request, that he be issued with a firearms permit for personal protection, was refused and even backfired. It drew attention to the fact that Clayton already held a shotgun certificate, which was instantly revoked, with an order that he dispose of his guns.
