The Clayton Account (30 page)

‘
You
!’ he uttered the word as though he had seen an apparition. ‘How dare you come back here?’

Julio pointedly stopped smiling. He had counted on having the initiative, but not for long.

‘I think we need to talk. Right now,’ he said firmly. He had further ammunition to use if the Mayor hesitated, but he seemed broken and in pain. So Julio just pointed at the bandage and asked if there had been an accident.

‘What do you want? Go away, or you’ll get me killed.’

With hindsight, perhaps Julio should have thought that last remark somewhat odd. Killed? Why? If Romualdes had kept his mouth shut, there should be nothing ominous about the Mayor of Medellín meeting the forestry specialist from BID. But Julio’s mind was too focused on the immediate objective to note that vital cue.

‘We must talk. Right now, in private,’ he said firmly, helping the Mayor to his feet. Entering the house, they were both greeted by Mrs Romualdes, who smiled at first and made polite comments – older women always fell for Julio’s handsome looks. But then she gasped – ‘What’s happened, Miguel?’ – as she saw his bandaged hand.

‘A little accident,’ he said dismissively to her. ‘Nothing serious. Please go and phone for Dr Palmiro. Ask him to come now.’

Alone in the Mayor’s den, the door firmly shut, Julio got down to business:

‘I think, Mr Mayor, you have some serious problems.’

‘You swore to leave me alone – why are you back here? I gave you what you wanted, you bastard.’

‘I know, and for that we thank you. And I did keep my word. I never did call your friend at Villa del Carmen to tell him how we snatched his money.’

‘What do you want now? I know nothing else that could interest you.’

‘I haven’t come to take from you, Romualdes. I’ve come to give.’ Julio took a cigarette from the silver box on the ornate desk, put it between the Mayor’s quivering lips, and lit it for him. He looked as though he could use it. Robles then spoke to him patiently, as if talking a child through an adult problem.

‘You obviously haven’t talked, or else you would be dead. Right?’

Romualdes nodded.

‘But unless our friend is about to risk another fifty million, the Foundation will never get to pay those bills.’

Romualdes felt better now. He knew Morales was bringing in another fifty. In cash, he’d said. He had to, or else he was finished in Medellín.

‘But I can tell you that he won’t,’ said Julio firmly.
‘Because
we now have full knowledge of how he ships his money. He moves one dollar, it ends up in Uncle Sam’s coffers. Now that will really make Morales mad!’

‘He is mad enough already. Why did you come back, you Yankee-loving bastard?’

‘To put away Morales for good.’

‘You’ll never get near him.’

‘I shall, let me assure you. And you are going to help me.’

‘Forget it! I’ve had enough! I’ve done what you asked and that’s it. Goodbye.’

Romualdes made to stand up but Julio raised his hand in warning: ‘My friend, you are not thinking clearly.’ He then patiently spelt out the Mayor’s options:

The Foundation would never lay one brick. Whatever money was sent from the tax havens would be seized before it got within a thousand miles of Medellín. As Mayor, Romualdes would be finished. What could he then look forward to? Oblivion as a has-been, even if Morales let him live. Or worse: Julio reminded him he could always make that phone call and let Morales decide the Mayor’s fate.

Romualdes winced and put his good hand on his lower left arm.

‘What happened?’ Robles asked, looking curiously at the bandaged hand.

‘I think I broke my fingers. Caught them in a fucking gate.’ The Mayor still had an instinct for survival, even at his lowest ebb.

Julio laughed. ‘You should be more careful,’ he told him. Then, playing his trump card, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and placed it on the desk.

‘A receipt for fifty thousand dollars. National Bank of Florida, account in the name of one Miguel Romualdes.
Paid
in by the DEA. There is only the one copy. If you want it, it’s yours. The receipt and the money, that is. If you don’t, I’ll mail it to Morales. Now which would you rather?’

‘What do you want for it?’

‘Quite simple really: be a good Mayor for once in your life. You are concerned about the situation. Almost ten million dollars of contractor’s bills unpaid, wages in arrears … there is bound to be civil disorder. A good Mayor should anticipate that,
do
something about it.’

Romualdes stared at him blankly, not following, his hand throbbing.

‘Be prepared. Call a meeting tomorrow, six in the evening, City Hall. Get the entire police force in there, tell them the worst. The building projects may be cancelled, expect riots, looting, mayhem. Invite a response, suggestions for contingency plans. Anything. Just keep them there for two hours. Two hours, okay? That’s all we want.’

‘What do I get if I do that?’

‘Fifty thousand for openers, more to come. You get to stay on as Mayor, and most of all you keep your life.’

‘Are you saying you’ll take care of Morales?’

‘By the time you finish discharging your civic duties, he will be history.’

Romualdes liked that. Suddenly his hand was less painful. At the end of the day, the gringos were the strongest. If he could become their man in Medellín, it could be worth a lot of money.

Mrs Romualdes looked in to announce that Dr Palmiro was waiting.

The Mayor waved her away, saying he needed two more minutes with Mr Robles.

‘One hundred thousand,’ he said, his mind made up. ‘Then consider it done.’ The sum had a good ring to it.
Yes
, the Mayor thought, he was back on his way up.

Robles was seen to the gate and walked over to his car. He had done it. There was no time to clear this with Washington. Tomorrow the men from Cali would do what no US agent ever could. Quick, blunt justice – with the bonus of heavy casualties on both sides. Cali was another problem, but that would keep. They too would get their dues in good time. Julio started the engine and fine-tuned the radio as it played one of his favourite
cumbias
. While the vocalist sang of the wonders of Santander, Julio Robles felt the cold steel of a .45 automatic pressed to the back of his neck.

‘Take the first left and then keep going,’ he heard the hard Arawac voice say.

And from the general direction they were heading in, the American had little doubt that he was about to meet Morales at long last.

13

AS RICHARD SWEENEY
slumped in his Claridge’s suite nursing a large Scotch, Tony Salazar prepared to leave the Intercontinental. He called Clayton’s number at the bank and learned he was not expected back. He dialled Tom’s home number and a female voice answered, though not the one Salazar had spoken to earlier. Salazar had already concluded it would be impractical to intercept Clayton as he left the bank. The City’s streets were busy and narrow and, even if Tony accosted his prey at gunpoint, they offered no clear getaway, not even in a Bentley.

But Kensington Square was dark and quiet and more conveniently located on the west side of town. After seven the traffic would ease off. Tony believed he could easily make it to the freeway inside ten minutes. In the hotel lobby Salazar hired a pocket telephone and charged it to his room, then got the car and drove off. When he reached the square he was worried about finding a strategic parking space. As in all major cities, any space was at a premium. The square consisted of three-storey houses on four sides around a central garden, and by the look of them they
were
the sort of households to have at least two cars. He took it as a good omen when he found a space in front of number 63. After neatly parking the Bentley he called the number once again. The same woman answered and was sorry to say Mr Clayton was not yet back. As before, Tony left no name or message, saying only that he was a colleague from the bank.

The nanny thought nothing of it. She was used to American callers, many of whom could be short with words.

In his rear-view mirror Salazar saw the headlamps of a car turning into his side of the square. He sat still as it went slowly past him, coming to a halt outside number 61. He quickly felt for the revolver in his right coat pocket, pulled the lever that released the Bentley’s massive trunk, and, timing his movements carefully, started to alight. Then his heart leapt. For this was not Clayton but a very attractive female. Her looks somehow matched the voice on the answering machine, and Tony Salazar knew instinctively he had found a better way.

The taxi pulled away and she started to cross the ten metres to her front door.

‘Mrs Clayton?’ he asked, smiling as he moved in her direction.

‘Yes,’ she replied, unsuspectingly smiling back. She did not recognize the face but the American accent was unmistakable.

Salazar came up to her, still smiling as she stood half-turned in his direction, her hand still reaching for the keys inside her bag. He took her firmly by the forearm with his left hand and pressed the gun into her stomach.

‘Keep very quiet and come with me,’ he said in a low, commanding voice, the artificial smile still broad on his face. He gave her just two seconds to recover,
to
let the situation sink in. Salazar had done this before. You had to give the target time to think, otherwise they panicked and made a stupid bid to run. He concentrated on her eyes, When he saw her look of comprehension he continued: ‘Otherwise I’ll start shooting in the house.’

That registered and Tony knew it. For sure she would have kids in there, and mothers the world over were alike. She walked with him, docile, murmuring incoherent questions. When he lifted the Bentley’s trunk lid he noticed the expected hesitation, so he stopped smiling and pressed the gun barrel into her side.

‘Get in there,’ he ordered fiercely and Caroline complied.

He looked at her as she curled up in the spacious boot, then gently started easing the lid down. ‘Stay quiet, just relax. We’re going somewhere, twenty minutes at the most. I’ll be driving. One move and I’ll blow your brains out, understand?’ Then he firmly closed the trunk until he heard it click shut.

The abduction had taken less than a minute.

Tony Salazar turned left towards Kensington High Street and there left again, merging with the few cars heading towards Hammersmith. In ten minutes he would be on the freeway. He was extremely pleased with his performance and now had his leverage on Tom Clayton. A fair swap for forty-three million bucks.

What Tony did not notice in his elation, as he drove off, was the small face peering out of the window of number 61. Patrick Clayton frowned and wrinkled his nose in puzzlement.

‘Paula! I just saw Mummy get in the back of a car!’ he announced.

‘Did you now, Patrick?’ replied his young nanny without
looking
up from her sewing. ‘And where exactly did you see that?’

‘Right here!’ said Pat excitedly. ‘I swear, Paula, she got in the boot of a car!’

‘Patrick Clayton, what are you talking about?’ She stood up and walked towards the window, nervously adjusting her hair-band with one hand as she pulled the curtain to one side and studied the square.

‘I see nothing, Patrick. Why would Mummy get in the boot of a car?’ She giggled nervously at the preposterous idea.

‘There was a man, Paula, I saw him. He took Mummy by the arm and walked her to the car. There,’ he said pointing to the vacant space. ‘That’s where he was parked! Then he got in and drove away, that way,’ he pointed with his finger.

Nanny frowned. She bent her knees until her face was at Patrick’s level. ‘Are you sure it was your mother?’

‘Of course. I heard a taxi noise, so I came to look. I saw Mummy get out and pay the taxi and then there was this man.’

‘And they walked up to the car you saw, and she got into the boot?’

‘Yes!’

‘Not the back seat?’

‘No, it was the boot! The man opened it and Mummy got in!’

Paula believed Patrick was telling the truth, but as to what sense it all made she could not think. She asked the boys to sit down and watch television, then went to the phone and called the bank.

It was past eight in the evening and the call was taken by Security, who confirmed that Mr Clayton wasn’t there. She tried Tom’s mobile number but heard only a recorded
message
advising that the phone was turned off. She hoped she was not making a fool of herself, but all the same took a deep breath and dialled 999. The emergency operator took her details and assured her a policeman would be over very shortly.

The first patrol car arrived in five minutes. Flashing lights but no sirens – in deference to the genteel neighbourhood where noise complaints would be certainly forthcoming no matter what the gravity of the situation. Two uniformed officers knocked on the door and were let in by a distraught nanny. She ushered them into the drawing room and the female officer put her arm gently round Paula’s shoulders and sat her down. When the nanny collected herself, she repeated what the boy had told her. The constables then turned to Patrick, who by then looked worried at the sight of policemen in his house, and coaxed him gently into restating precisely what he had seen.

They were asking him to confirm he had no doubt he had seen his mother, when a call came through on the officers’ lapel radio. They were ordered to keep everything quiet, move their car away from the Clayton house and await orders from Scotland Yard. When the details of the nanny’s emergency call had been entered in the police computer, an immediate cross-reference had been made to Special Branch. The radio controller had called the Yard, and the Yard in turn had relayed the message to Chief Inspector Archer. At the time he had been in his car with Harper on their way back to Victoria Street. Sweeney had been left behind, minus his passport, with Claridge’s lobby still under a detective’s watchful eye. Clayton had declined a lift – he needed a drink to relieve the tension, he had told them – and they had last seen him walking towards Park Lane. Upon receiving the communication, Archer gave the driver the new address and told him to turn off
the
lights and sirens well before reaching Kensington Square. Fifteen minutes later they were in the Clayton home. Harper, three policemen, Nanny and the two children. For the third time Patrick related the details of his mother’s apparent abduction. Unfortunately his description of the abductor was vague.