The Clayton Account (21 page)

Clayton stood up and started to leave.

Sweeney followed him. ‘What am I asking for?’ he complained as they entered the lift. ‘You want half a million dollars?’

‘Not exactly,’ Tom replied, then waited until they were crossing the lobby before delivering his demand: ‘I want five hundred and sixty-seven thousand, three hundred and eighty-four dollars and twenty-two cents. Plus fifty-four years’ interest and some kind of serious payment for the use of my dad’s name.’

‘How the hell do you expect me to ask for that?’

‘I don’t know, Dick. You’re the lawyer. My family’s lawyer, as it happens,’ Tom said with a grim smile as the doorman held the cab door open. ‘Get out there and bat for me.’

Sweeney just stood gaping as the taxi pulled away. He did not notice the young man in the dark-blue suit reading a newspaper in the lobby. But Special Agent Drake noticed Tom Clayton and made a note of the visitor’s description, and the fact that he spoke with an American accent.

That same Wednesday, even as Clayton and Sweeney talked, three events were taking place in three other cities, which, had they been known to them, would have put a totally different complexion on their discussion.

In Geneva, an employee of Credit Suisse was allocating inter-bank payments received during the previous night and saw the message flash to notify Guido Martelli of a particular transaction. When the Chief of Security was informed that $47 million had been received from a bank in Grand Cayman, he gathered two payment orders received the previous evening and went to see a director of the bank. After a short deliberation, they both concluded that there was no reason at all why they should not comply with the account holder’s instructions. The director himself initialled the authority to remit $23 and $24 million respectively to Banco Nacional in Montevideo and Banesto in Seville.

The transfers were made at four in the afternoon, Swiss time, and straight afterwards Martelli telephoned Guy Laforge at United Credit Bank in Zurich. Both security chiefs seemed pleased with the outcome, the latter relieved that funds had materialized from elsewhere, and that perhaps no further attempt would be made to remove
those
deposited with his bank, an opinion which he promptly relayed to Director Ulm.

Earlier in the day, the United States Ambassador to Spain had left his residence in Puerta de Hierro on the outskirts of Madrid, but instead of going to the Embassy as usual, had proceeded directly to Santa Cruz Palace, where the Minister of Foreign Affairs had agreed to an early morning audience.

After exchanging diplomatic pleasantries, the Ambassador made his request: that the account of a certain construction company, held at Banco Español de Credito in Seville, be frozen immediately – pending receipt of documentation from Washington that would irrefutably link it to serious international crime.

The Foreign Minister offered his sympathy and explained that such matters were in the domain of the Comptroller General of Banking, and that a high-level approach would perhaps be better directed to the Minister of Finance.

The Ambassador agreed that under normal circumstances that would indeed be the correct procedure and that the American Secretary of State was well aware of this himself. As it would have been a breach of protocol for the Ambassador to go directly to the Minister of Finance, and given the urgency of the matter, he was left with no alternative but to seek the Foreign Minister’s understanding.

The Minister then undertook to personally secure the full cooperation of all the relevant Spanish authorities to achieve the immediate satisfaction of the Secretary of State’s request. It was, he added, always a pleasure to assist an old and dependable ally. He then enquired whether the Ambassador had time to join him for breakfast, as this would provide a propitious opportunity to have an informal
chat
on the United States’ position with regard to the irksome matter of Gibraltar.

The Ambassador, however, though he would have been delighted to accept the Minister’s invitation, regretted that he was under pressure to return to his Embassy and inform the Secretary of State of this meeting’s most satisfactory outcome. Nevertheless, he would immediately request a full and up-to-date briefing on his government’s position on the Gibraltar issue, and would be honoured to call again at the Foreign Minister’s convenience.

Six thousand miles away, the United States Ambassador to the Republic of Uruguay, faced with a similar mission, had a much easier task. When he received his instructions from Washington he smiled, for that very Wednesday, at ten in the morning, he had a scheduled private meeting with the Uruguayan Minister of Economy to discuss unresolved matters arising from the MERCOSUR Economic Integration targets. Asking to speak to the Minister in private, he put forward his government’s request. He also pointed out that the United States Government was not at this stage laying claim to those funds and was perfectly happy to see them remain in Montevideo. He assured the Minister that, within a matter of days, high-ranking law enforcement officers would arrive from Washington with all the necessary supporting evidence, and that any action to be taken thereafter would be entirely at the discretion of the Uruguayan courts. The Ambassador was here in friendship, to advise a friendly nation that its banking system was being misused by foreign criminals whose activities both Uruguay and the United States would undoubtedly wish to stamp out.

The Minister, who could see no intrinsic harm in a large sum of foreign currency being forced to remain in Uruguay indefinitely, assured the Ambassador that he would speak
to
the President of Banco Nacional, and not one cent would be allowed to leave the bank.

The Ambassador conveyed the gratitude of the Secretary of State and then got down to other business.

Thus the little bit of information that Julio Robles had extracted a few days earlier, from a disturbed Mayor Romualdes, had slotted neatly into the puzzle and upped the damage to the enemy – to close on one hundred million dollars.

9

TONY SALAZAR ARRIVED
in London on Wednesday evening. Except for a few visits to the border towns of Mexico and the Caribbean money-runs, this was his first real trip outside the United States. He travelled on a morning flight and made a point of being at Kennedy Airport well ahead of the scheduled departure time. He needed to do some research.

After checking in his only bag he had walked over to the Hertz counter and asked what was the best car they had available for hire at London Heathrow. A chauffeur-driven Silver Seraph he rejected with disdain. He wanted something with a little more pizazz and certainly no driver. A Ford Probe fell well short of what he had in mind, so without thanking the employee he turned away and tried the Avis desk, where an XJ8 became a possibility should nothing better come up. Alamo offered a Vauxhall Calibra Coupé which Tony laughed at, and Budget a Mercedes saloon which he judged far too boring. Then at the Eurosport office he struck gold: they could offer a Bentley Continental R Coupé. Seven hours later he collected the
keys
at the Heathrow arrivals lounge and after getting directions from the clerk he set out for central London.

He booked into the Intercontinental Hotel and called his father at home. He learnt that Sweeney had met with Clayton, who was demanding a big cut before handing back the rest. Joe Salazar had authorized Sweeney to let him have half a million.

‘Half a million? You crazy or something?’ Tony had protested.

‘There’s a reason for the figure and it’s none of your business. Now listen to me …’ The Laundry Man explained that Clayton was out of town and Sweeney would see him on Friday. Tony was to do nothing. Just lie low for a couple of days. If the offer was accepted and the money handed back, Tony was to remain in London until Sweeney had collected. If, however, Dick failed, Tony was to get the money out of Clayton by whatever means, then kill him anyway.

‘Is that clear?’

‘Sure, but no half million if I collect, right?’

‘Hell, you get the dough, you can keep the half mill for yourself, son.’

Tony liked that. He hoped Sweeney would fail miserably. Killing the guy would be easy, just as easy as bringing a gun to London had been. He had packed it inside a hollowed-out volume of
Webster’s Dictionary
and sent it to himself, through couriered overnight service, care of the hotel. If it turned out to be the one-in-a-million package that got opened by customs, Tony would deny all knowledge. Could be awkward, but a lawyer would soon get him off. But the parcel had not been checked and it was waiting at Reception when Tony arrived. Before killing Clayton he would have to get the money, and to do that he would have to find out where the guy had hidden it.

What if the stash was still in Switzerland?

That could create a lot of problems.

Tony Salazar knew, from his own handling of the account, that Clayton was unlikely to have signed an indemnity allowing the bank to accept telephone instructions. Not for such a large amount. How then to close the account? He could stick a gun to Clayton’s head and force him to sign a letter to his bank, but then what? If he popped him there and then, and later the instructions turned out to have been deliberately screwed up – or even phoney, wrong bank, wrong account number – Tony Salazar would be in trouble.

He needed some leverage. Something that would make Clayton do as he was told and stay clear of the cops. The guy had a wife and kids, he’d seen them at the funeral. And where the hell did he live anyway? Sweeney, of course, could have answered all these questions, but Tony was not about to ask him. He did not trust the lawyer. Everyone knew all those Micks stuck together – and anyway Tony wanted to sort out this mess on his own. That would show the old man. He also added Sweeney to the list of changes Tony would make when he became boss at Salazars. He knew where Clayton worked, so as a last resort he could follow him home on Friday. Assuming the guy was dumb enough to keep working for a salary after coming into forty-three big ones.

So he started with the telephone book. There were sixty-nine Claytons listed in central London. Six with the initial ‘T’. That was manageable. He took a sheet of hotel writing paper, copied down the six addresses and put them in his pocket. Then on a separate sheet he wrote down the full names with addresses and telephone numbers and placed that copy in his briefcase. It was nearly midnight in London. He went down to the lobby, which predictably was fairly
quiet
. He saw a duty manageress working away quietly at her desk and went up to her.

‘My name is Tony Salazar,’ he said with his most charming smile. ‘I’m up in room 853. Can you assist me with something?’

‘Glad to, Mr Salazar,’ she replied, pointing towards a vacant chair. ‘How may I help?’

He explained that it was his first time in London. His employers, a New York bank, were setting up a branch in town which he would manage, but he needed to organize somewhere to live pretty quickly. An estate agent had given him a list of properties to look at. Of course the addresses meant nothing to him, he said, showing her the list he had made.

‘Do you know where your office will be?’ she asked, reading the list.

‘Bishopsgate,’ he replied, giving the location of Tom’s office. ‘But what I’m looking for is a really good neighbourhood. Classy. I’m not bothered about the cost.’

‘Well,’ said the manageress, ‘the best residential area is Mayfair, which is where we are now,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Then perhaps Knightsbridge, Belgravia, Kensington or Chelsea. Some of these are within those areas,’ she said looking at Tony’s list. ‘Do you have an
A-to-Z
?’

‘Excuse me?’ enquired Salazar.

‘A very useful little book if you are going to be in London. If you wish I can get one from the shop’ – she looked in the direction of the hotel’s newsagent – ‘and mark these addresses for you. They cost about five pounds.’

Salazar thanked her and handed over a twenty-pound note, conspicuously peeled off a wad from his pocket, then watched her walk towards the shop.

Nice ass, he thought – too bad I’m busy.

She ruled out three of the addresses, doubting very
much
that Mr Salazar would wish to live there, and marked the other three. She also pointed out that many Americans preferred to live just outside the capital and advised Mr Salazar that he might consider places like Richmond or Wentworth, if he found nothing to his liking in town.

The next thing Tony Salazar needed was a base. He was working on an idea which was starting to make sense but the Intercontinental was not suitable. He went out to the street and asked the doorman to fetch his car. After consulting the
A-to-Z
, he drove up Hamilton Place to Park Lane, then turned left towards Hyde Park Corner. Following the map, which he put on the passenger seat, he drove past Harrods, its brightly lit facade almost incongruous in an otherwise deserted West London, then continued along Cromwell Road towards the A4, parallel to the motorway. An hour later and to his growing frustration he still had failed to find a suitable motel. Earlier, on the way in from the airport, he had noticed a few familiar signs. Now he passed all the airport hotels again: Ramada, Sheraton, Holiday Inn. Not one single traditional motel, the kind where you could drive your car and park it right outside the door to your room. Every single hostelry he examined required guests to pass through the lobby to reach their rooms.

He was about to turn round in despair – didn’t the goddamn Limeys ever go for a quick bang with their secretaries, lousy bunch of faggots? – when he saw it. On the left-hand side, tucked away from the road, a single-storey motel just west of Heathrow, with two rows of rooms, one block conveniently facing the back and beyond it only fields. That would do. He was pleased to see few cars. He noted the name and then returned to town. He had a gun and he had found a base. Next he needed to find that bastard Clayton.

Tony Salazar was sure Sweeney would fail, just as he was certain that he himself would not.