The Clayton Account (27 page)

‘Which is why I came here in the first place,’ Tom was glad to return to that subject.

‘Do you intend to meet him as arranged?’ Archer asked.

‘You bet.’

Archer’s nod conveyed his approval. ‘In that case,’ he
said
ever so casually, ‘any objection if we listen in? That way,’ he added before Tom could answer, ‘should he repeat the death threat, we would have grounds for an immediate arrest.’

Clayton had not considered that eventuality. If they wired up Dick’s room, Tom would be prevented from playing his trump card: the affidavit that would tell Salazar he could not win even by killing him; that the best option was to accept the thirty-seven million and get lost.

‘Sure, no problem. Let’s get him,’ Tom agreed, apparently eager. But he knew he would have to steer his conversation with Sweeney very carefully indeed.

The preparations were rapidly made. A nerd by the name of Urquhart came up from the basement and fitted a transmitter no larger than a matchbox inside Tom’s coat pocket. A foot-long aerial was wound around the back of Tom’s shirt and fixed in place with sticky tape. Archer telephoned Claridge’s and spoke to a general manager, who was horrified by the notion of eavesdropping on his guest and categorically refused the Chief Inspector’s request. Archer then called a director of Savoy Group – owners of Claridge’s – and a man he knew of old. After several reassurances he secured his support.

Mayor Romualdes’ day had started on a high note and thereafter careered rapidly downhill. He had telephoned De la Cruz at home and asked the lawyer to meet him at the Municipality by seven-thirty to go through all outstanding invoices. The bank had already produced bundles of chequebooks for both Malaga and the Foundation, even releasing them before the accounts were fully in funds, given the high standing of directors and trustees.

With glee the Mayor wrote the cheques personally,
passing
each in turn for De la Cruz to sign and reconcile against the appropriate invoice, then adding his own signature with a flourish. In the space of an hour he had dispensed eight billion pesos. Miguel Romualdes was clearly a man of substance.

By eight the telephones started ringing but this time he did not order his secretary to fend off callers. The Mayor wished to take every call and dealt with all severely, reminding the callers of their little faith and chiding them for their ignorance in assuming that matters of this magnitude could be settled in a day. Patience, said Romualdes in a manner pedantic even for him, was a virtue, a lesson that contractors would be well advised to bear in mind for the next round of construction work. To those who addressed him humbly and suggested they might collect their cheques in person, he gave appointments from five onwards, after the banks had closed. To others, particularly the ones who in times of crisis had denied him the previously offered favours, he elaborately explained that Malaga did not entertain collectors. All payments would be sent that evening, by post.

At nine he called the Director of the Banco de Antioquia and demanded he should ring him the moment each of the two payments had reached ‘his’ bank accounts. At nine-thirty, having heard nothing, he called the bank again and after listening to their apologies – perhaps the funds were coming via Bogotá, it was quite normal – demanded they should call the capital and get the bureaucrats off their asses.

At ten his private-line phone rang and he reached for the receiver with an irate, ‘Well?’ – but was taken aback when the voice at the other end turned out to be Morales’. The drug baron wanted the Mayor to come and see him straight away. Still riding high on his own vanity, Romualdes
replied
that he was quite busy – for a moment forgetting whom he was addressing. The cutting silence that greeted his remark brought him down hard and he corrected himself by adding that ‘But of course’ he would drop everything and come over immediately. He asked the lawyer to remain in the office – he did not intend to be away for long – and to deal with all contractors exactly as he had done. He then dismissed his driver, as always on such occasions, and drove out of Medellín to the Villa del Carmen.

On arrival he was waved through the gates, fully expecting to see Morales on the veranda. Instead, once he reached the house his car door was thrown open by one of the Arawac Indians, who waved a pistol at the Mayor’s face and ordered him into the front seat of a jeep that stood close by. The second Indian, the one that always hung around Morales, was already sitting in the back. Trying to retain some composure, Romualdes demanded to know where Don Carlos was, but his escorts remained silent. Amaya turned the keys in the ignition and drove off into the bush.

They left the jungle road a few miles later and turned left into a narrow track that led up into the hills. At one point, where the track turned sharply right and the vehicle slowed down to a crawl, armed men emerged from the vegetation, recognized Don Carlos’s bodyguards and waved them through. Twenty minutes later they came upon a clearing and there, for the first time, the Mayor set his eyes on a cocaine processing plant. They stopped the vehicle in the centre of the clearing and escorted Romualdes into the largest shack.

Morales stood there waiting.

The hut was a laboratory: wooden benches littered with glass beakers, scales, packing equipment. Five-kilo bags of produce were stacked against one wall.

Amaya pushed the Mayor onto a large wooden chair and sat him down.

‘I really must know what this is about, Don Carlos!’ he protested, his voice cracking.

Morales remained silent.

Tupac started to tie Romualdes’ right arm to the chair’s flat armrest. As the Mayor attempted to wriggle his arm free, the Arawac struck him a hard blow on the chest, then continued with his job. In a few minutes both arms and legs were tied to the chair, then three more coils of rope were wrapped around the captive’s chest. Morales gave a signal and his two bodyguards left the cabin, closing the door.

‘What is it? What have I done?’ the fat man pleaded in desperation.

‘You tell me, Miguel.’ The drug baron’s voice ground like Arctic ice. ‘Someone has just
stolen
,’ he hissed into Romualdes’ face, ‘fifty million dollars – from me.
Fifty million
.’

‘Not me. Jesus, Don Carlos, not me!’ The Mayor begged for understanding that this was all a terrible mistake. ‘The money hadn’t even arrived when I left to come and see you.’

‘Tell me, Miguel. Do you know just how much is fifty million dollars?’

‘I had nothing to do with it. I swear!’

‘How would you feel if
you
had that fortune stolen from
you
, hey?’ Morales put a rubber glove on his right hand and the Mayor watched in horror as he picked up a small beaker and filled it with steaming acid from a large tank.

‘
Please
, Don Carlos, I swear, not me!’

‘Oh, I’m sure you didn’t take it, Miguel,’ Morales said, smiling. ‘But maybe you can help me establish who did.’

‘Yes. Anything you want.
Please
,’ he replied, a glimmer
of
hope on the horizon, but still staring at the acid beaker in Morales’ hand.

‘As I see it,’ explained the drug baron, ‘three people knew where the money was coming from. The bank manager, Aristides, and yourself.’ He watched the Mayor gulp, then continued: ‘Aristides? You think he robbed me?’

‘No, Don Carlos. No. He is very loyal to you.’ There was pleading in his voice.

‘I agree. Not De la Cruz. The bank then?’

‘Maybe,’ Romualdes said enthusiastically. ‘Maybe the bank betrayed you.’

Morales moved the beaker over the Mayor’s hand and tipped it ever so slightly. A few drops dripped on the top of Romualdes’ left hand. He let out a piercing scream and stared in disbelief as the acid devoured his flesh before the hydrochloric fumes made him retch with revulsion.

‘You are not thinking very clearly, my friend,’ Morales said, bringing the beaker forward for another drop.

‘I swear by the Virgin Mary,
it was not me
!’

Morales now poured a generous amount. It caused havoc on the captive hand, rolling down between the extended fingers, almost sinking to the bones.

Romualdes screamed like a trapped animal, his howls echoing along the valley below.

‘Was it you, you filthy bastard?’

‘No, not me!’ he insisted as tears rolled down his face.

‘Who then?’ lifting the beaker towards the other hand.

‘It was Robles! That son-of-a-bitch Robles!’ Romualdes shrieked in desperation.

Morales placed the beaker on a bench and pulled up a chair for himself, closely facing the Mayor. He looked at Romualdes’ fetid hand and shook his head in disapproval, then leaned close and whispered: ‘Robles, you say? Who is this man?’

‘Julio Robles.’ He sobbed: ‘He works for
El BID
.’

‘What makes you think he robbed me?’

‘He’s been asking questions … About your bank accounts.’

‘Asking you?’

‘I told him to fuck off,’ he pleaded, ‘but I think he’s been also asking at the bank.’

‘I’m glad you kept your mouth shut, Miguel. We are friends, are we not?’

‘Of course, Don Carlos. Always friends.’

‘Where do I find Robles?’

‘He’s gone. Scared off. I threatened him.’

Morales signalled at Amaya to come in and untie the Mayor. Then he walked over to a cupboard, took out a first-aid kit, and busied himself putting some antiseptic cream on a large wad of cotton and placing it tenderly on the Mayor’s hand. He took out a bandage and fastidiously measured a good length, then carefully wrapped the injured hand.

‘I think you should go home now. See a doctor. Explain your accident.’

‘Thank you, Don Carlos.’ Romualdes avoided eye contact.

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘No. I guess America.’ He spoke clearly but the pain showed in his voice.

‘So it was the gringos who robbed me?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Well, we still need to pay contractors, don’t we?’

Romualdes looked up expectantly on hearing this and Morales smiled. ‘I’ll get another fifty million. This time in cash. A week, I expect. Will you keep everyone quiet for me until then, my friend?’

‘I shall do so. Leave it to me.’

‘I like having good friends. You’ll get what’s due to you.’

The Indian walked Romualdes to the jeep and set off down the mountain. Morales remained there for another half hour, checked the books, spoke to his men, then went home.

Back in his private den, he opened the Medellín telephone book and called the BID.

‘Mr Robles, please?’ he asked.

‘He is out at the moment,’ answered the telephonist. ‘May I know who’s calling?’

‘Mayor’s office. Out of the building, do you mean, or out of the country?’

‘I can only say, sir, that he should be back this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, I’ll call again.’ Morales slammed the telephone down and for a moment wished he had thrown Romualdes in the tank. Then he calmed down; he had a reason for not killing the Mayor. If Morales was to start a new life elsewhere in South America, ‘alleged drug-trafficking’ was an accusation he could live with. But murder of a government official was extraditable. Alleged gangsters with plenty of money were tolerated; killers of politicians were not. They could turn against their new hosts next. So … let Tupac sort out the Mayor.

After Morales had gone.

Meanwhile, the drug baron had more important business to attend to. He sent for his bodyguards and ordered them to find Julio Robles. They were to get him alive and bring him to the house. Then he sat on the swing in the veranda, asked for a whisky and waited for Speer to arrive.

At a large
finca
six miles west of Cali, Ricardo Noriega was eating a mid-morning snack. His appearance belied his wealth and power as he sat in his house on a tatty
wicker
chair, sipping beer from a bottle and biting into a French loaf stuffed generously with ham. He wore dirty jeans and Reebok trainers, a Texas Cowboys T-shirt and a three-day beard. He had come a long way from being an Ochoa henchman in Medellín. Now he controlled his own operation, but his lifestyle had not changed. At thirty-six he commanded three hundred men and ranked fourth in Cali’s hierarchy. He had no family, and the estate he had acquired – by suggesting to its fifth-generation owners that they would live longer if they moved to Bogotá – was his home, office and cocaine distribution base. Thugs milled in and out of the colonial villa, put their feet on valuable furniture and soiled delicate fabrics with their automatic weapons’ grease. Six whores brought in from Buenaventura played musical bedrooms in various states of undress.

Noriega spoke with his mouth full as he ordered his lieutenants. A 300-kilo shipment was being trucked to Barranquilla that night. He stood up as he saw the mail van arriving. He walked out to the terrace and watched his men stand in a circle as the mailman unloaded a wooden box.

‘
Qué mierda es
?’ he shouted at them, and they shrugged.

Three feet long by about eighteen inches wide and the same depth, it just lay there on the ground as the men stared at it while the mail van drove away.

‘Open it,’ he commanded.

It was not a popular task. Cartel members were not averse to bombing one another, but Noriega stood menacingly on the terrace with a Hechler & Koch machine pistol dangling, apparently casually, from his hand.

One man went to the garage and returned with a small crowbar. The rest took a judicious pace backwards as the tool was pushed under the lid. The timber creaked as the nails slid out in the still noon air, and as the top started
to
lift, the man got on his knees and peeked inside. He pulled away suddenly with a grimace and the others threw themselves to the ground – but Noriega did not flinch.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘
Huesos, jefe
, bones!’ exclaimed the man.

‘Take the lid off,’ said Noriega, starting down the steps as the group, slightly embarrassed, got back on their feet. They stood in a tight circle and peered inside. The acid-eaten skeleton was neatly arranged and the attendants did not need much knowledge of anatomy to realize that all those bones added up to one human body. Neatly perched at one end was the skull, some tissue still attached to it. Noriega squatted down and looked at it closely. He reached in the box and took out a small piece of laminated cardboard: a National Identity Card.