The Clayton Account (18 page)

Nevertheless, his third trip had resulted in a close shave and five days in the repugnant Dade County jail. An overzealous security guard at Miami International – paid to
look
for bombs – had opened up Morales’ suitcase and asked him to explain half a million dollars in cash. Luckily, Morales had taken the precaution of making earlier contact with an experienced attorney-to-the-underworld, who put up a vigorous defence, bargained a plea and got him on his way within five days. It had been a good performance and it taught Morales the importance of expert lawyers. His client had come over with a view to buying a house there, the attorney claimed, producing two real-estate merchants who swore they had shown Morales properties. Having failed to find anything suitable, Morales was returning home with his cash. True, he should have declared it on arrival, so he pleaded no contest on the technicality and paid the fine. Five thousand bucks. The lawyer got $50,000 and took care of the realtors. Morales had his US visa cancelled and the DEA, just in case, opened up a file on him.

Escobar had been angry when Morales had explained the shortfall, but by then Carlos Alberto was becoming a valuable lieutenant. So the boss swallowed the lawyer’s fifty thousand and deducted the five-thousand fine from his employee’s pay. Over the next few years Morales saved as much money as he could. He was alarmed by the chaos that the drug business had brought to Medellín. Not out of civic conscience but because he believed – rightly, as events would prove – that Colombia itself would become exasperated and decide to put an end to the drug barons’ bonanza.

He had tried to convince Escobar: spread the wealth around Medellín a little and buy some invaluable loyalty. Escobar had liked the concept. But instead of letting Morales put it into effect, he had made a poor half-stab at it himself, dispensing money in a patriarchal manner to those who came to see him, and donating lump sums of cash to Church and civic projects whose leaders were too frightened to refuse them.

Escobar, in Morales’ judgement, had never evolved away from his roots. He was a bully, a hood. He made all his own decisions, left enforcement to illiterate henchmen, and above all never saw the writing on the wall once the gringos got serious about the Medellín cartel. So he ended up in jail – in the lap of luxury, for sure – but still in jail.

And then he ended up dead.

With Escobar gone, everyone thought the cartel was also moribund, but Morales managed to pick up what pieces were left. In less than a year he had put a complete independent operation together. And now, just three years later, he was adding the final touches to his master plan. He had to, or he would finish up like Escobar. Drugs could be the basis for a fortune, but once the fortune was made you should turn legitimate. That was a lesson to learn from the gringos. Bootleggers became ambassadors, loan-sharks became bankers and numbers runners became chairmen of Las Vegas hotels. Stay legit for five years, be generous with your wealth, and the past will be forgotten. Morales had set himself a target: $200 million. He was now halfway there and the growth at this point became geometric. Another twelve months would easily see him through. Then he would let it be known he had ‘retired’. The youngsters in Cali could keep all the business and Carlos Alberto Morales would sleep in peace, maybe even ask Monsignor Varela to get him a papal decoration.

Meanwhile …

He was blunt on the phone with De la Cruz, annoyed not with the lawyer himself, but at the inability of so many other people to do what they are asked when they are asked. He told De la Cruz he would sort out the banks himself and immediately called Enrique Speer.

* * *

In New York a very tense encounter was in progress. Tony Salazar and Dick Sweeney sat across the desk from the Banker. Hector Perez, as always, was silently unobtrusive in his corner of the room.

‘You,’ said the Laundry Man to Sweeney, ‘are telling me that little motherfucker has got forty-three million bucks’ worth of my money.’ Then, quickly turning to his son before any comment could be made: ‘And
you
,’ he pointed accusingly, ‘are
responsible
for this.’

At that point the telephone rang.

Salazar stared at it in disbelief. He was not in the mood for calls, but lifted the receiver anyway. Then his voice turned soft and charming: ‘Enrique, my friend, how nice to hear from you.’ He listened for a while, then responded genially. ‘I shall attend to it personally. Straight away,
mi amigo
.’

Sweeney swallowed hard – he could easily guess what Speer’s call was about.

Salazar replaced the receiver and remained silent for a while. No one in the room dared disturb his deliberations.

What troubled the Laundry Man was $47 million. He had to pay it straight away or he was out of business. Permanently. He could raise the sum eventually, no problem. His own assets amounted to over 50 million but most of it was tied up in real estate, securities and long-term investments. Cash he could call his? Maybe 6 million, 7 at the most. And he had promised 47. Today. He could not touch any of Salazar & Co’s money under management. That was too tightly set up; intentionally so. That was how he got his clients to leave funds with him after the legitimizing process. One hundred per cent above board and subject to SEC scrutiny any time they wished, which in Salazar’s case was more often than with more traditional fund managers.

He would have to borrow from funds in transit: the
illicit
money belonging to his clients and currently being laundered. He did not need to consult his computer; he knew the figures by heart. Right up to close of business the previous day. He had access to almost one hundred million in the Caymans at that very moment, which helped him reach a quick decision.

He would take 6 million from a New York prostitution ring and 10 million from the largest numbers runners on the East Coast. Four million he had already provided for – the difference between the Clayton account balance and Morales’ requirement. That was the Colombian’s money anyhow. That left 27 million still to find and Joe Salazar decided to borrow it from the three Cali cartels. Nine million apiece. If they ever found out he used their funds to prop up the competition, they would kill him. But with money in transit they would have no way of knowing. So, as soon as his visitors left, Salazar would call Grand Cayman and ask them to assemble $47 million straight away.

His mind made up, he turned to Sweeney first.

‘Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna lend you forty-seven million bucks. Right now.’

Sweeney wanted to protest. He did not wish to borrow 50 dollars, let alone almost 50 million. The problem was not his, but he chose to remain silent and hear the rest of the proposal.

Tony Salazar sat in silence too, but struggled to conceal surprise. He’d had no idea his father could come up with this kind of money at short notice.

‘And I’m gonna give you seven days to pay it back,’ continued the Banker. ‘Now, if I were you, I would get my ass on the next plane to Europe and grab that banker asshole by the neck. Then I would hold on to that neck and not let go’ – his voice rose to a terrifying roar as his
fist
banged the desk – ‘until the motherfucker
pays you back
. Do I make myself clear?’

‘I was indeed planning to do precisely that,’ replied Sweeney, trying to salvage some professional dignity. ‘I have booked a flight to London and told Tom Clayton he’s got to hand it back. The figure, however, Joe, is forty-three million –’

‘As of now, I hold you responsible for forty-seven. When you get the forty-three million back, we talk again. Now listen to me,’ he continued, reverting to his calmer but equally menacing tone. ‘By this time tomorrow, you will have my money in your Geneva account. That same day you will
ensure
your Swiss bankers make the payments to Spain and Uruguay and
confirm
to you this has been done. You will then call our good and most patient friend in San José, apologise for your fuck-up, and tell him his funds are there. Do I still make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, Joe,’ replied the lawyer. ‘I have no doubt that Tom will hand the money back when the facts are explained to him with clarity. And I must say to you again,’ he ventured in an attempt to shunt the blame in the direction of the younger Salazar, ‘that all this could have been avoided by closing that account years ago. Or, at the very least, immediately Mike Clayton died.’
And this is going to cost you more than the going rate in fees
, Sweeney thought.

Salazar senior glared at him before switching his gaze to his son.

Tony shuddered but said nothing.

‘Leave me your travel details,’ Salazar said to Sweeney without looking at him. ‘And go now. You’ve got work to do.’

When the Irishman had gone the banker addressed his son: ‘You are going to London too. Get a different flight. Find out where this Clayton boy is. If Sweeney hasn’t got
the
money by Thursday, you get it. Kill the banker bastard if you have to. Only, Tony, don’t come back to New York, ever, if you ain’t got that money.’

Julio Cardenas had remained in the office until midnight being debriefed by his boss. He had then been ordered home for a good night’s sleep. When he returned the following morning, he realized that Harper had not slept at all. While Julio rested, the unit’s head had been busy on the telephone. He had called Special Agent Aaron Cole at the FBI and pledged another marker. He needed a tail put on Richard Sweeney, just for a day or so, until the DEA could make a formal request to the British Special Branch. Cole had told him to consider it done. He would call their London station straight away. Harper gave him the flight and hotel details lifted from the wiretaps, and asked him to pay particular attention to any people Sweeney got to meet in London.

He called the DEA Administrator and made his pitch. Red was told to get up to Washington and bring all the available evidence. So he and Cardenas left their office in Miami and drove directly to Opa-Locka airfield, where the Department’s Learjet waited. During the two-hour flight Harper briefed Julio and laid out his strategy. Together they compiled a report on the field agent’s findings in Medellín, tapped it into a notebook computer onboard the aircraft, then copied the file to a disk which Harper dropped in his briefcase.

Julio offered to make some coffee and Red gratefully accepted. ‘You know, boss, I was thinking last night – after I left you,’ he said, standing in the small forward galley.

‘I thought you were going to sleep,’ replied Harper in a tone that conceded he knew better.

‘Well, yeah. I did sleep, but here’s what I dreamed of,’
Julio
said, returning to the seats with two steaming mugs. ‘If we are going to hit Morales, maybe I would be more useful in Medellín.’

‘You must be mad!’ exclaimed Harper, his coffee frozen in mid-air.

‘Not really. Think about it. If Romualdes went to Morales and told him about me, then I guarantee you that Morales would have got the full story out of him. By now we would have one dead mayor of Medellín. And I’m betting that the Mayor knows that too, and has kept his mouth shut.’

‘So?’

‘So I go back like nothing happened. I’m supposed to be away for my sister’s funeral, remember? So I go back to my job at BID. Only now I’ve got a very cooperative mayor at my disposal.’

‘He could still go to Morales.’

‘He won’t, Red. I know the man. He’s a rat. No loyalties except to himself. I’ll make him a good deal. Tell him I’ll only be around for a couple of weeks. He gets me copies of any document I say and we deposit fifty grand for him in Miami. He betrays me, I squeal on him. That way we both end up dead. He won’t care about my skin, but he loves his own.’

Harper was silent for a moment, seemingly absorbed by the view of the Gulf Coast as they continued their northward progress. Then he decided: ‘First, let’s see how we get on today. If it makes sense, okay. You go back to Colombia. But before that we check whether Romualdes has kept his mouth shut.’

‘You mean –?’

‘Just one phone call. See if the Mayor still enjoys good health.’

The Learjet landed at Washington National in gusting
wind
and freezing rain, reminding its two passengers that neither had brought along a winter coat.

The inbound traffic to the city centre had abated by mid-morning and within fifteen minutes of leaving the aircraft they crossed the bridge over an icy Potomac. They drove along 14th Street then turned right, along Constitution Avenue, to enter the Department of Justice building from the back.

Julio looked up at the imposing edifice, its physical presence bringing back memories of his only previous visit, soon after completing basic training nearly seven years ago. From that day he had always been a field man. Miami, Naples, Tampa, until he gained experience. Then on to Mexico, the islands, and finally Medellín.

Walking into the Department, Julio felt proud of the organization he worked for. Proud of being one of a select bunch of men and women who risked their lives daily to bring down the most despicable of enemies. The kind that, for the sake of money alone, spared no thought for the lives wrecked, the families destroyed, the children denied a decent future. Half the kids from Julio’s schooldays in Little Havana had dropped out, turned to crime to support a habit. Maybe a third, all told, ended doing time in jail or simply dead. Murdered by dealers, shot by the cops, overdosed, killed by filthy needles in forlorn alleys. Save for the broken hearts of the parents they left behind, not a trace remained of their passing. To Julio Cardenas, drug dealers at any level were the scum of the earth. He would go back to Colombia any time.

His own parents had come across from Cuba in an early wave of refugees. Respectable shopowners fleeing Castro, glad of a new start in the poorer neighbourhoods of Miami. They were good, honest people who helped their American-born children with their homework and took
them
to Mass on Sundays. Julio had been one of only three from his high-school class who had made it through to college. It had been there, at the Tampa campus, that he had been recruited by the DEA. The risks, the hardships, his nomadic existence during the seven years since joining did not worry him at all. He was totally fulfilled by his job.