The Clayton Account (11 page)

From his window – with the radiant bay, boats coming and going, their slipstreams like white lines on an Impressionist’s canvas – the southern Florida paradise looked truly idyllic. Yet from the Everglades to Daytona Beach deals were constantly being made. Goods would arrive and reach the customer and bags full of cash would find their way to the offshore banks. Harper caught sight of his reflection on the smoked curtain walling and ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. The sight of drooping eye-bags above his freckled cheekbones made him wonder: when next could he hope for a decent rest?

He shook his head in resignation, took another pull at his beer, and turned to Cardenas’ fax once more. Morales was up to something that required spending lots of money. That was a good lead. If Harper’s team could intercept the money, Morales would hurt. They might also be able
to
chart some of the money trail, maybe link a few new names to the laundry chain.

So it was time to go to work.

Salazar in New York would be a good start. The DEA knew he handled Medellín money, though proving it was something else. His New York office was already watched twenty-four hours a day. Red would ask for more men to be put on the job. Log all visitors and follow them. He would need approval for that, for a few weeks at least, or until something tangible came up. He had tapped their phones before but in three months got nothing, and the federal judge had rescinded the authority. His agents had searched rubbish bins, but returned empty-handed. They had placed a constant tail on the son, Antonio, but all they had to show for their expensive efforts were the names of a dozen floozies.

Zilch.

But you never gave up. So Harper sent a fax to Julio: ‘Good work. Dig deeper. Report as it happens. And sorry to tell you, your sister unwell.’

Just a code for the activation, on call, of a pre-defined escape plan.
We are ready to pull you out at short notice
, it meant.
Just shout
.

Red Harper did not like losing men.

5

WALTER LAFORGE TOOK
an early afternoon train from Zurich Central to Geneva. From the station he hailed a taxi for the short ride to the Hotel d’Angleterre. Avoiding the hotel’s main entrance, he went down the steps that led directly into the Leopard Lounge. The sumptuous bar was an ideal meeting place: dimly lit, with the tables sufficiently apart to keep conversations private, clear of prying eyes in hotel lobbies, yet a perfectly acceptable venue for business meetings.

Laforge paused, his eyes adjusting to the penumbra, and spotted Martelli’s dapper figure, habitually gauging the bar’s clientele from a sofa along the left-hand side, with a commanding view of the entrance.

‘Walter!’ The Credit Suisse man stood up, his hand extended. ‘Nice to see you again,’ he added, casually moving towards one end of the settee, inviting his colleague to sit alongside.

‘My pleasure, Guido,’ answered Laforge sincerely. In their world there were few with whom they could afford the luxury of a personal rapport. Earlier in the day, over
the
telephone, Laforge had not revealed too much, merely hinted that something not entirely acceptable might be in the air. He had given Martelli the name of the Credit Suisse customer and agreed to meet that evening. Security chiefs, even in Switzerland, were not nine-to-five men.

‘The party in question,’ opened Martelli, ‘is well known to us. Lawyers, New York based, longstanding account. Their complete details are listed in the State Bar directory. They are perfectly genuine.’ Neither man had brought along any papers; their exchanges of information would be purely verbal.

Laforge nodded his understanding and offered something in return. A letter had been received at UCB requesting a large transfer to CS. Laforge believed the letter to be a forgery. Would large transactions be the norm for CS’s client? Martelli had raised his shoulders in a noncommittal way. Ten, twenty million US, would not be uncommon. But it was almost always clients’ money, and did not stay at CS very long. A percentage was retained at times, the rest moved on to other parties. Not an unusual pattern for a law firm.

‘Thank you, Guido,’ said Laforge sincerely. ‘You should know that for the moment we are not going to act on the instruction received.’

It was Martelli’s turn to nod.

Laforge continued: ‘So it is possible that your customer might enquire from you whether or not the funds in question have arrived.’

‘You would like me to let you know if that happens, right?’

‘I would be grateful.’

‘Are you involving the police?’

‘Not at this stage.’

‘Should you decide to do so, will you let me know in advance?’

‘You have my word.’

‘Good. I’ll keep you posted. Anything else I should know?’

‘Merely a suspicion, you understand? Your customer, the law firm? They may be doing something, hmm … improper.’

‘Thank you, Walter.’

‘Thank
you
, Guido.’

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, enquired about each other’s families, and then parted. Walter Laforge went straight back to the railway station. Dr Ulm had been very clear in stating their bank’s position: in his view, the letter was a forgery. Maybe the lawyers were behind this. Perhaps they thought the younger Clayton did not know about the funds in Zurich. After all, he did not seem to have all the information when he first spoke to Ackermann and Alicona. But Clayton’s documents were in order. His claim to the account was unchallengeable.

So, Ulm speculated, if we are right in this version of the facts, no doubt this was the last we would hear from the dead man. If, on the other hand the American lawyers believed they had a genuine claim to the money, undoubtedly they would contact UCB again. Technically the letter received referred to an account that no longer existed and so, according to Swiss law, the bank was not compelled to even acknowledge having received it. It was Thomas Clayton’s money and he wanted it left at the United Credit Bank. The bank agreed. As the seven o’clock Zurich-bound train started to pull away from the station, Laforge instinctively looked at his watch and grimaced. It was two minutes past the hour. He would have to get his watch checked.

Back in his office that evening, Laforge took advantage
of
the time difference and telephoned Columbia University. He asked to speak to Professor Michael Clayton. He was put through to his disconsolate former secretary. Was the caller not aware of the sad news? she asked.

‘I’m sorry, no.’ Laforge feigned shock, adding that he was an old friend from the Sorbonne. ‘When did he die?’

‘November fourth, sir. It was terrible. Took everyone by surprise.’

‘How absolutely awful,’ he said. ‘I must send my condolences. Do you know if his son still lives in Europe?’

‘Yes, sir. In London. Would you like the address?’

‘No, thank you. I have it at home. Thank you very much.’

Conceivably, Dr Ulm was right.

On Saturday morning Caroline Clayton got up early and went to breakfast with Nanny and the children. There was excitement in the air – Caroline’s enthusiasm was contagious.

‘Is it a really nice house, Mum?’ young Patrick asked.

‘You’ll see,’ she replied, smiling. ‘I’m sure you’ll like it.’

At half past eight her mother had phoned for a chat. Caroline told her they’d be setting off for Wiltshire very shortly and happily accepted her invitation to lunch after the viewing. It was only a further twenty-five miles to Stroud.

By nine Tom had joined them. His hair still wet from the shower, he was dressed casually for a day in the country. He had decided not to mention the five million to Caroline. Having kept his covert losses from her, he reckoned the one cancelled out the other. He would, of course, tell her about the thirty-seven million dollars in due course. But not yet. Not until he learnt the truth about his windfall. He could not be sure of Caroline’s reaction.

The estate agent, who was London-based, had given them their keys. He had shown the house to Caroline a few months earlier, but this time he agreed to her request to view it unaccompanied, relieved not to have to drive to Wiltshire on a Saturday. On that earlier occasion the agent had asked some pointed questions, polite probing into a prospect’s financial viability, and subsequently learnt of Tom Clayton’s standing in the City.

The property was currently unoccupied. The agent acted on the instructions of a Lloyd’s syndicate which now held title to it, its previous owners having decamped to a new life in Bermuda after all their British assets had been wiped out by Mid-Western asbestosis.

Within fifteen minutes of leaving their Kensington home, they were on the motorway. Caroline kept to a constant eighty miles an hour, ten higher than the speed limit but five below that at which the police took an interest. It took just over an hour to reach the Chippenham junction, in a typical November light drizzle and moderate traffic. Turning north towards Chipping Sodbury, they drove through the village, then followed a country lane leading up to Corston Park.

The gates were closed: heavy wrought iron between two stone pillars. A chain and padlock proclaimed that the estate had seen better days. Once through the gates, the private road curved between fenced paddocks, now devoid of livestock and starting to look untidy. A few new potholes bore silent witness to the recent decline. When the spring came, thought Caroline, the place would turn into a wilderness. Fifty yards beyond the gates, the road went through a wood, then emerged into a spacious clearing in the middle of which stood Corston House.

It was a substantial mansion, built in Cotswold stone, with two main floors and an extensive attic. The
surrounding
flower beds showed signs of neglect but might yet be resurrected. They pulled up by the main entrance and Tom busied himself with the front door as the children, released from the restrictions of the journey, ran noisily on the gravel.

The oak creaked slightly and the characteristic stale air of untended houses issued forth. Inside, the first impression was of darkness, but Caroline was at once pulling blinds open and the bland winter daylight nevertheless brought the rooms slowly to life. Allowing for its bareness, the interior was even more imposing than the outside. The square main hall led to five reception rooms right and left and was dominated by a grand staircase, rising first towards the back of the house, then splitting at right angles to double back overhead to the upper gallery. A long corridor on either side provided access to the six main bedrooms and two bathrooms. At each end a simpler staircase climbed to the top floor, once intended to house staff and provide storage.

Caroline opened the double doors to the right of the entrance hall and ebulliently called Tom to join her as she went about rolling up blinds and pulling back tatty curtains.

‘Look at this!’ she shouted excitedly.

It was a magnificent room. Fifty feet long – the entire length of the building north of the front door – and thirty feet deep, with elegantly ornate walls and ceilings. At the far end an enormous fireplace surrounded by Carrara marble bore witness to a gracious past, yet on the floor, incongruously next to it, a pile of dry logs, kindling and newspapers served as reminder that, not so long ago, this mansion had also been a home. Sadly, even the chandeliers had vanished, the former owners having sold everything they could before their ignominious exit.

But for all its sad aspects, the house was sound. A few
years
back, with the recession and the Lloyd’s debacle, Corston Park might have been bought for half a million. Now the asking price was a million and if someone had bothered to present it better it might have fetched a higher price. But the owners were long gone and the receivers distant in their interest. To them Corston Park was no more than a debtor’s asset that required turning into cash. So a million was a relative bargain and Tom was prepared to pay the asking price.

He heard his wife’s steps as she went through the upstairs rooms one by one, shouting about the need for more bathrooms, and thus pre-empting the most American of objections. Tom grinned and walked under the staircase to the kitchens. There was a vast scullery and a main kitchen devoid of all appliances except a large Aga, too majestic to remove. An open door revealed stone steps descending to the cellars.

The children saw him through the window and banged on a rear door.

‘There’s a tennis court!’ exclaimed Patrick.

‘And a swimming pool!’ added Michael.

Tom joined the boys outside and followed their eager steps. The court had weeds growing through the hard surface and the pool was coated in algae.

‘Well?’ called Caroline buoyantly from an upstairs window. ‘Don’t tell me it isn’t just perfect!’

‘It’s going to need some work,’ replied Clayton lightly, to mask his ongoing worry. Was all that money
really
his?

‘Oh, we can do a bit at a time. Hang on, I’m coming down.’

She joined them at the back and all four walked down the overgrown footpath towards the lake. The children ran ahead as soon as they caught sight of it, ignoring admonitions to take care.

‘Just think,’ said Caroline. ‘You could invite people to shoot here, instead of always hoping to be asked.’

Caroline’s set had introduced Tom to the English way of shooting and of late he had become a devotee.

He laughed and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘You don’t have to sell it to me. I do like it. A lot.’

‘I think we should make an offer,’ she insisted.

‘Okay. Tell them nine hundred. Cash. And ask them to let us keep the keys. We must have a proper survey.’

On the way to Stroud the children asked what would happen to their house in London. Tom explained that it would be kept. He still had to work in the City, and they still had school. So, for a while, Corston Park would be for weekends and holidays. Later it could really become home.

In the next half-hour Patrick and Michael easily spent a further hundred thousand in planning to modernize the house and argued about which room each would have. It began raining again before they reached their destination but Caroline didn’t even turn on the windscreen wipers. She would not allow clouds of any sort to mar this blissful day.