The Clayton Account (6 page)

‘I shall
expropriate
the land!’ proclaimed the Mayor, with more bravado than thought.

‘No, Miguel. We shall
pay
for the land,’ said Morales
magnanimously
. ‘But what this city can do – and here is where you can help – is to provide the services. Water, electricity, roads.’ He banged his fist on the table and stared at the Mayor. ‘These we must have. I’m not building the hovels of tomorrow!’

Romualdes felt uncomfortable. Donating land was easier. It belonged to the state, so it cost nothing to him personally, or to his city’s budget, to give it away. But laying down services was something else. Contractors needed to be
paid
. Where would the money come from? He was already overspent for fiscal ’98, and dipping heavily into ’99, bridging shortfalls with commercial loans.

Morales read his mind. ‘I shall help you,’ he said, to the Mayor’s intense relief.

When the time came, Morales would let it be known. Friendly newspapers would lend a hand. Collections would be taken. From businesses, in churches, from the people in the street. The money would be found to give the poor people heat, light and water. And contractors would be told that the Morales Foundation was underwriting the project.

‘It will be done at cost,’ he said, glancing meaningfully at the Mayor. ‘And in this instance, none of the public works will be subject to “commissions”.’

So they turned to the map once more to determine the exact areas in question. It was also agreed that De la Cruz, using names or vehicles of his choosing, would make the purchases and transfer them to the Foundation. The prices offered would be fair.

‘One more thing,’ said Morales. ‘The three residential sites we have chosen are currently worth little. Five hundred bucks a hectare, tops. The city sites, well, they have more value, but the prices offered must reflect these uncertain times.’

He paused, then stood up, staring at Romualdes, ‘Only the three of us know about this.’ He looked deliberately in all directions, to drive his point home, then stared at his visitors in turn, inviting them to dare deny his words. ‘So, if the price of land in Medellín rises as much as one peso between now and the time we have completed our acquisitions, it can only mean that one of us three opened his mouth. Given what’s at stake, I’d be very, very angry. Are we all clear?’

After leaving UCB, Tom Clayton had gone to his bank’s office. There he spoke to analysts and tried to gauge what they thought of sterling. At one-thirty he left for lunch with an evidently anxious Jeff Langland.

Tom chose a quiet restaurant away from the business district. A good choice since, predictably, the lunch had not gone well. Langland’s Ivy League style of dress was unchanged, but he looked haggard, stressed. He had even started smoking again and bore little resemblance to the old Langland renowned throughout Cambridge for his Nordic good looks.

‘We’re done, Tom.’ Jeff had hardly touched his food. ‘Our only hope is to own up. Maybe we just get fired, maybe the bank doesn’t want scandals,’ he pleaded.

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ Tom growled from between clenched teeth, leaning forward. ‘It’s jail, goddamn
jail
for both of us. Don’t you read the papers any more? Wall Street wants to screw rogue dealers! The Old Boys
prove
their honesty and integrity by throwing rotten apples in the can!’

Their descent into hell had begun the previous Easter when the Claytons joined the Langlands for a week in Gstaad. Cocooned in the splendour of the Palace Hotel, dazzled by the brilliance of powder snow and their own
careers
, they thought they could do no wrong. Everybody knew that sterling was too high, that the British currency would drop in value as soon as New Labour’s pseudo-socialists found an excuse to let sterling slide sufficiently to kill it off and replace it with the Euro.

So they played a simple game. Went bull on Swiss francs and bear on sterling. They formed a company in Vaduz – its ownership hidden behind Liechtenstein’s impenetrable secrecy laws. Taurus AG opened a trading account with Clayton’s bank in London. The new client was armed with the best of references, provided by no less than the bank’s own branch in Zurich. They bet on future values and chose the simplest of commodities: not coffee, or gold, or minerals – but cash, specifically the pound sterling. They sold £15 million they did not have, three months forward, at 2.40 Swiss francs. For every cent the pound dropped against the franc, they stood to make over £60,000. As is usual in such trades, Taurus was asked to pay a margin – a deposit – but because of the excellent introduction this was limited to 5 per cent, or £750,000. They sent this money from Vaduz. Split fifty-fifty, it represented most of Langland’s savings and a sizeable portion of Clayton’s.

But Europe had more financial crises than Britain, and the pound held firm. Not even reducing interest rates could take the shine off sterling. By the time Taurus closed its books they had lost £625,000, virtually all their margin.

Langland was devastated. He had been born rich, grown up poor, started on the path to wealth once more and suddenly he had less than $50,000 to his name.

‘We do it again,’ Tom had told an incredulous Langland.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Langland had protested. But he would cling to any prospect, however nebulous, if there was a way out. ‘What with?’

‘
I’ll
stick my neck out,’ Tom replied, ‘
I’ll
send $2.5 million from the bank to Zurich. A mistake,’ he explained. ‘It should have been a debit for the new margin, instead I sent a credit.’ He paused for his friend to digest the enormity of what they were about to do, ‘We double up. £30 million. You move the money from Zurich to London, and I do the deal.’

When Langland said nothing, Tom went on: ‘Don’t you see? Anyone asks you, you say you sent the money back, realizing it had been paid in error. I get asked, I say I thought it was the proceeds of the debit I had applied against Zurich. Chances are the “error” won’t be picked up for at least three months. By then we’re home and dry.’

‘And if the pound doesn’t drop?’ Jeff asked reluctantly.

‘Hey, Jeff,’ Clayton replied dismissively, ‘you got cold feet, I go alone on this one. What’s it going to be?’

So the deal was done.

But all that seemed like aeons ago now. As they downed their second brandies in an empty Zurich restaurant, the pound stood at 2.64 francs. They were $2.2 million in the hole. If the pound moved up one more cent they would have to increase their deposit. Even worse, the theft might be discovered.

‘What are we going to do, Tom?’ Langland begged for reassurance.

‘Nothing. Not yet. There’s a month to go. Maybe the pound collapses,’ Tom added with little hope. ‘Meantime, stay cool, do nothing. I’ll think of a way,’ Clayton concluded, with more bravado than conviction.

That afternoon, unwilling to spend another minute with Langland and with no desire to sit in his hotel room, Tom hired a car and took the scenic route to Lake Constance. He dined on beef fondue in a tourist inn complete with
Alpine
band and yodellers and returned to Zurich at midnight, feeling totally drained.

While Clayton was killing time, the bank managers had been busy. Before Tom even left the building, Ackermann had requested an urgent meeting with Dr Karlheinz Brugger, a corpulent senior vice-president, responsible for private clients. Once Dr Brugger had listened to Ackermann’s account of the earlier meeting – and checked some facts – he glanced at the clocks on his office wall and set the wheels in motion. It was 12.15 in Zurich, 5.15 in the morning in New York. Brugger called in his secretary and sent two confidential faxes: one to the security officer of the United Credit Bank in Manhattan, directing him to telephone Dr Brugger immediately, and another to the Second Commercial Officer at the Swiss Embassy in Washington, advising him that Dr Brugger would be telephoning him at 8.00 a.m., DC time.

At three in the afternoon, Swiss time, Guy Isler of UCB New York called Dr Brugger and received his instructions. At three-fifteen, the Embassy took Dr Brugger’s call and he made his requests. But Switzerland is the perfect epitome of a military-industrial complex, a country with some of the world’s most effective and productive corporations run by men (seldom women, who until recently were not even allowed a vote) who spend their adult life, by law, serving in the armed forces. Although the service is very much part-time – fifteen days a year on average – their rank applies throughout the year. Thus, when a vice-president of the country’s second largest bank talks to a second attaché (commercial) at a Swiss Embassy, it is also understood that a serving colonel is asking a favour of a serving lieutenant. It is not an order, yet the subaltern would be wise to treat it as such.

So, when Clayton was admiring the shoreline at Konstanz, Brugger was leaving for home. This was an hour later than his usual five-thirty, which annoyed him, but he had his answer from the Embassy. The New York Consulate had indeed legalized the documents the previous week and a full set of photocopies were awaiting collection by Mr Isler.

And as Switzerland slept, Isler visited the New York Bar Association, the State Department, and the Register of Births and Deaths, before faxing his report back to head office in the evening. When Brugger got to the bank at 8.00 a.m. precisely, on Thursday, he had the confirmation that the signatures were all genuine and that the documents in question were valid and correct. The only part that fell short of total satisfaction was the contact with the firm of Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, in that the senior partner in question, Mr Richard Sweeney, was unavailable until the following Monday. But his associate, Mr Weston Hall, was able to confirm that Professor Michael Seamus Clayton had indeed died two weeks earlier, that his only son was Thomas Declan Clayton, and that the firm were executors of the will. All this information was in the public domain. Nevertheless, before answering any questions, the assistant had taken down the details of the enquirer, as well as the reason for the enquiry, then typed a memo which he left on Dick Sweeney’s desk.

Satisfied, Brugger summoned Ackermann and told him to call Clayton. When Ackermann did so, at ten that Thursday morning, he said he would be pleased to see Mr Clayton again at eleven, if that was convenient. In a moment of spontaneous perversity – he had hardly slept at all the previous night – Tom insisted on eleven-fifteen.

Brugger, before handing over the Clayton files, reminded Ackermann how much the bank valued the accounts of
substantial
depositors, and the dim view it took of executives who lost these deposits to the competition. Glancing one more time into the file, before closing it and pushing it across his desk with finality, Brugger pointed out that the account balance was marginally higher than Ackermann’s previous upper limit, the tacit implication being that its management could be taken as – if not quite a promotion – then as an increase in status.

Grateful for the opportunity, Ackermann set about preparing the necessary papers, meticulously observing his beloved procedures, so that, when he met with Thomas Clayton all would be ready to hand. Disclaimers, indemnity releases, fiduciary agreements and of course the account opening forms – with instructions, mandates and signature cards. He then reserved one of the premium conference rooms and instructed Alicona to be at Fifth-Floor Reception at 11.10 sharp.

At ten-thirty Clayton walked out of the Baur au Lac, having settled his account. Once again he walked the length of Bahnhofstrasse, determined to argue as forcibly as necessary yet aware that by simply denying all knowledge the bank could call his bluff.

Accounts that lay dormant for years had a way of going into suspension for a while, before being absorbed as patrimony of a bank. He knew banks in America that would keep them alive for five years or so, then re-assign them with a different number for a further decent period and eventually, if no claimants were forthcoming, use the proceeds to massage the bank’s balance sheet at will. And it was well known that Swiss banks were the supreme beneficiaries of such bonanzas. Many depositors were so secretive about their Swiss nest-eggs that often, after their untimely demise, nobody would be any the wiser as to
the
fund’s existence. Every time a Third World despot encountered sudden death, a few more million rang up on the Bahnhofstrasse’s tills. Each time a war shook any corner of the planet, and the leaders of the losing side paid with their lives, their ill-gotten gains quietly found their way into the coffers of an Alpine wonderland.

Without the old bank statement and the account number, Tom knew his chances would have been poor to non-existent. With them, however, the bankers would have to assume he knew more than he really did. That’s what he would assume, in their place. If the money had remained untouched since 1944, it would probably have gone into suspension by 1950 at the latest, with no interest paid thereafter. If they acknowledged the account, he would not accept that stance. He would demand interest, ask for 4 per cent compounded annually, and haggle down, a quarter of one per cent at a time, to settle at three million. Then he would call Interflora and order an obscenely large wreath of flowers, the sort you can buy only in New York or LA, to be placed on his grandfather’s grave. In that positive frame of mind he entered the large building near Paradeplatz and took the lift to the fifth floor, to be greeted by a smiling Alicona.

This time he was ushered in a different direction. The conference room they entered was clearly of a different status, he observed immediately: the kind that all banks had for valued clients. Gone were the recessed, diffused-light fittings. Here were chandeliers. The plush pile carpets had given way to Persian rugs, and the conference table had twelve chairs round it. Ackermann was already standing as they entered the room, a semblance of a smile – at least by Ackermann standards – on his lips, his right arm extended in welcome.

Clayton’s heart leapt: it had to be at least three million.

As they took their seats around the gleaming mahogany table, Tom noticed the neatly placed files. The name Thomas D. Clayton was already printed on the covers.