The Clayton Account (28 page)

Noriega swore loudly and stomped back towards the house. Morales, that son-of-a-whore Morales, had tried to humiliate him again. The two rivals went back a long way, to when Morales worked for Escobar and Noriega for Gaviria, then the two drug kings of Medellín. They had hated each other’s guts then, but at that time all both men did was obey orders. Noriega had often wished his boss would order a hit on Escobar, for then Morales would have been sure to go.

But the command had never come.

Since then both drug producers had grown rich and powerful in their own right and Noriega despised Morales’ superior attitude: as if he could trace his ancestry back to Pizarro himself. He would have to pay for this open defiance. The only question was how.

He was not frightened of Morales. Sure, he commanded two hundred men, but word was out that the Lord of Villa del Carmen had money problems. If Noriega attacked in force, half the other side’s troops would desert. The
obstacle
was the cops in Medellín. Ever since the Bogotá-led clean-up had taken place, nearly five hundred well-equipped policemen, trained and armed by the military, had been stationed there. They patrolled the Cali–Medellín road and all approaches to the city. Street warfare in Medellín was a thing of the past. To defy the ring, they would have to be prepared to kill policemen and take casualties themselves. Noriega was not worried about the latter, but dead cops would bring the army back. That would be bad for business. Then out of the blue, fate lent him a hand. The phone rang and one of Noriega’s men picked it up.

‘For you, chief,’ he said.

‘Who is it?’

‘Says he is a friend.’

‘Tell him to fuck off.’

The man spoke on the phone then turned back to Noriega:

‘Says it’s to do with Medellín. You’ll want to hear it.’

Noriega stood up and grabbed the phone. ‘Tell that shit you work for,’ he shouted, ‘that I got his message. Now he can sit tight and wait for my reply.’

‘You want to get Morales, I can help you,’ said the voice at the other end.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Call me Julio Iglesias.’

‘You can sing, hey?’ Noriega said mockingly for the benefit of his men.

‘Sure.’

‘You work for Morales?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘I plan routes out of Colombia.’

‘You want money? How much?’

‘I want a job when this is over. My boss has lost a lot of money recently. There’s no future here.’

‘What makes you think I’d want your help?’

‘You give me a job. I’m the best at planning. Never lost a shipment.’

‘I need to know your name.’

‘In time you’ll have it. I’ll come to you and remind you of Julio Iglesias.’

‘Okay. Prove you can help, and you’ve got it.’

‘Hit him tomorrow. Between six and eight in the evening. There won’t be a single cop around.’

‘You think I’m gonna fall for that crap?’

‘You’ve got spies in Medellín. Check it out. There will not be a second chance.’ Then Julio hung up.

12

SWEENEY PACED ABOUT
his hotel suite and kept looking at the time. Tom would be there any minute and he rehearsed all possible arguments through his mind. How could he get the fool to understand that he had no option?

He had spoken twice to Salazar. At first the Banker had agreed to half a million. When Sweeney told him of Clayton’s demands he had gone berserk. Sweeney tried to reason – the legal points were clear. Pat Clayton had left over half a million in 1944, Tom had the proof, and interest was payable. Five million was very reasonable. ‘Think it over, Joe,’ he had said. ‘If I can get thirty-seven million and fly back, you’ll have no more problems from him.’ Clayton had threatened to go to the police and Sweeney believed he meant it. If that happened, all forty-three million would be lost. Was it worth it?

Later in the day Salazar had agreed, reluctantly and with conditions: Clayton must hand over thirty-seven million there and then. Sweeney would make him sign a letter to the bank, transferring the money from wherever Clayton had hidden it to the law firm’s own account in Geneva.
Dick
reminded him they were talking about Pat Clayton’s grandson. He demanded that once the assignment had been done, Tom would come to no harm.

‘I’m giving you my word. Just get my money and we close the book. For ever,’ the Banker replied.

Just after half-past one there was a knock on the door and Sweeney ushered Tom Clayton in. He looked fresh and business-like and with a curt greeting took his position by the coffee table once again.

‘I hope you’ve managed to talk sense into your client,’ Tom said without preamble.

‘It may surprise you,’ replied Sweeney in earnest, ‘but the reason I am here is because I have your and Caroline’s best interests at heart.’

‘Leave my wife
out of this
,’ Tom hissed, then regretted his lack of calm.

‘As you wish, but like it or not I’m here to help. And I’m your only chance.’

‘My only chance, Dick?’ Tom saw his opportunity to get the threat on tape. ‘Or else what?’

Sweeney just looked at him and ignored the question. There was no further need to get into that.

‘Bottom line is you keep five million,’ asserted the lawyer. ‘And my advice is you accept that and hand the rest back. It has taken all my powers of persuasion to convince my client. Don’t rock the boat, Tom.’

‘Dick,’ said Tom patiently, with the covert listeners in mind, ‘you seem to forget how this got started. You, or your client, hid the money in my dad’s account. I was given that account. I have no knowledge of where the money came from. Apologies would be more appropriate than advice.’

‘Okay, Tom, let’s cut the crap. What are you going to do about my client’s money?’

Tom opened his briefcase and took out the agreements that Hudson had drawn up. He handed one copy to Sweeney and glanced through the other as the lawyer read it.

‘It seems in order,’ Dick said after a while. ‘Now, where’s the money held?’

‘My five million is here in London. The rest I haven’t touched.’

‘So it’s still in Zurich?’

Tom nodded.

‘In whose name?’

‘Before we get down to details, I want to get one thing clear: is the threat off?’

‘Threat?’ asked Sweeney, suddenly sensing something wrong. ‘What threat?’

‘Yesterday you clearly stated that if I failed to hand over all the money, I was as good as dead. Your words, counsellor.’

‘Well, allow me to correct you, young man. I make no threats now, nor have I in the past. I’m here to resolve a serious misunderstanding. Funds that don’t belong to you have been given to you by mistake. My client wants them back. I have stated that he is angry, very angry, which is easy to understand.’

In the room above, Harper and Archer looked at each other and shook their heads. It was not going to work, but they still had enough linking Sweeney with Salazar. They could arrest him anyway; he might crack.

‘I know what you said, Dick. Deny it if you wish. Let’s sign these papers and part company. I’ve had enough of you.’

‘Sure. As soon as you show me exactly how you intend to return the money.’

At that moment the telephone rang. Sweeney stood up
and
answered it, glancing anxiously at Tom as he heard Salazar rage. Tom wondered if the police were listening in. Archer and Harper had also heard the ring and cursed the fact that they were not. They had tried, but the hotel’s general manager had insisted on playing by the book. His guests were paramount, whatever might be alleged about them. He could not prevent the police from taking a room, he had been ordered to provide it, but listening in on other people’s telephone conversations required a court order. Otherwise, no dice. The Yard was getting one, Archer had explained – to which the manager replied that they were welcome to start listening when the order arrived. Like Tom, they could only hear what Sweeney was saying and from that alone they became alarmed.

Sweeney put the phone down and turned to Tom with a look of panic in his eyes.

‘I’m afraid the deal is off, Tom,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Now they want the lot back.’

‘They want
my
money?’ asked Tom incredulously.

‘The lot, Tom. And my advice is hand it back.’

‘You, a lawyer, are telling me to give a hoodlum in New York five million, knowing damn well that the money is mine?’

Sweeney looked at him nervously. ‘Just give it back.’

‘And you say I’m not being threatened?’

‘Not by me, son. Just give the goddamn money back.’ Sweeney could not tell Tom what Salazar had said. The Banker had been furious. Something else must have come up since yesterday because Joe now spoke of being down 50 million of his own money and in a minute another 70 million would walk out. He blamed the entire fiasco on Tom Clayton and told Dick to get all 43 million out of him today or get back to New York. The firm would take over collections after that.

‘The answer is no,’ replied Tom firmly, reaching into his pocket and pulling the antenna loose from his transmitter. He assumed the police would walk in within one minute and told Sweeney what he wanted off the record. ‘And one more thing, a little message from me to goddamn Salazar: tell him I have signed an affidavit. It tells the whole story, names, dates, amounts, you name it. It has been nicely filed away in a lawyer’s vault. Anything ever happens to me, or any of my family, and there’s enough there to sink his entire house of cards. Your role, you might care to know, features prominently.’

Before Dick could reply, there was a knock at the door. Tom walked up to it and let the two men in.

‘Mr Richard Sweeney?’ asked the shorter of the two rhetorically. ‘I am Chief Inspector Archer from Scotland Yard. I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Who are you?’ Sweeney asked the taller man, who did not look to him like an English policeman.

‘My name is Harper, Mr Sweeney. United States Department of Justice. I too have a few questions to ask.’

Speer got to Medellín at dusk and went directly to Villa del Carmen. He read out and explained all the papers that would give him full authority over his client’s funds, and one by one Morales signed them. There were no problems associated with any of the investments; title was held by a string of companies controlled and managed by Salazar. A deed of trust existed too, and that would be annulled. At San José airport Speer had bought a
Wall Street Journal
and a two-day-old copy of the
Financial Times
. From the information they provided, and the last update received from the Laundry Man, Speer had made an estimate of the portfolio’s total worth.

‘What do you reckon, Enrique?’ asked Morales, as if reading his mind.

‘At least sixty-five million.’

‘Look after it,’ said Morales.

Speer put forward his recommendations. He had touched upon them in the past. Best to be out of America altogether, he repeated. Europe was safer and comfortably far away.

Morales signalled his approval. If the Americans had clearly got a line on him, it was best to cut clean before he ran.

There was no time to waste, said Speer. If Salazars were in any way compromised, they should sever all connections straight away. Morales pointed to the telephone and the lawyer called New York. He would be there mid-morning, he said, to make substantial changes to the way Don Carlos’s investments were run. He would need sight of all securities, titles and accounts. Then he asked Morales if his pilot could run him to Aruba. It was too late to make a connection that evening through Bogotá.

Before leaving, he handed Morales an invoice: $146,000 for work done to date. And perhaps, he suggested, a further sum on account?

Morales frowned at the implication, but Speer pointed out that until the dust had settled it would be best for him to keep at a distance. Morales had no choice. Only Speer could sort this out for him. He opened his cupboard and counted out bundles of banknotes, which Speer graciously accepted and put away in a shoulder bag. In the morning, before leaving Aruba, he would ask his friend there to introduce him to his bank. Heinrich Speer would open an account with ten thousand dollars and rent a safe deposit box to temporarily park the rest. He was not about to go in and out of Kennedy Airport with two hundred thousand in cash.

They landed at the Dutch territory before midnight.
Speer
booked a flight to New York for the following morning, called the Hyatt for a room, and then went directly to Neder Gouda’s. Marcus and his girls greeted him warmly and he asked for the little favour he required from his friend. They agreed to meet at nine in the morning outside the ABN bank.

Next day, he reached Kennedy at 9.30 and called Salazar to say he was on his way. By eleven the two men sat opposite each other, ready for the game of chess.

‘I have all you requested, my friend,’ said the Banker arrogantly. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

‘I could not say it over the telephone, Joe,’ said Speer firmly. ‘But the money you sent to Don Carlos never reached him.’

Salazar remained silent for a minute, trying to understand. ‘Are we talking about the payments to Malaga?’ He appeared genuinely stunned.

‘Yes.’

‘Enrique, that is impossible!’ exclaimed the Banker. ‘After our last telephone conversation, I took care of it personally.’ He explained how he had transferred forty-seven million dollars to Sweeney Tulley McAndrews in Geneva and that Sweeney in turn had wired the two agreed sums to Uruguay and Spain. Sweeney had confirmed this had been done. ‘In fact,’ said the banker, ‘I specifically asked him to notify you after instructing his bank.’

‘He did, Joe. Wednesday night,’ said Speer appeasingly.

‘So where’s the problem?’

‘When the funds got to Spain and Uruguay they were seized. Frozen. Not a penny made it to Colombia.’

‘We paid out, Enrique. Salazar & Co always pay out. As a lawyer, you must agree that we cannot be liable for your client’s carelessness.’

‘I make no such suggestion, and I’m glad to hear you
always
pay out, Joe,’ said Speer pointedly. ‘Because that is the next subject I wish to discuss. However,’ he said emphatically before Salazar could reply, ‘for the moment I agree with you. You gave the money to Sweeney. Sweeney sent it to Malaga. I am not so sure about my client being careless. The question is, who fingered Malaga?’