The Clayton Account (16 page)

‘Is something wrong with Alicia?’ he enquired gravely at once.

‘No, Don Miguel, she is fine.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I have to tell you about a problem –’

‘I don’t conduct business from my home, Andres,’ the Mayor replied irately. ‘Come to my office’ – he looked pointedly at his watch – ‘at a suitable time.’

‘Yes, Don Miguel,’ insisted Alberdi. ‘But what I have to tell you, I think you will want to know right away.’

‘Very well,’ he said condescendingly, exhaling as if to signify that nothing in Alberdi’s possession could be of immediate interest to the most important man in town. ‘Keep it brief.’

Alberdi told him what he knew, with minor changes dictated by an instinct for self-preservation. Julio Robles, from
El BID
, was asking questions about the Mayor’s project. The schools and houses. Alberdi knew that Robles
would
oppose the development. He would ask the Americans to stop the cutting down of trees.

The Mayor was puzzled. ‘Why the hell would he ask
you
for information?’

‘He wants me to get Alicia to spy on you.’

‘Oh, really?’ fumed the Mayor. ‘And you think Alicia would do that, do you?’

‘No, sir,’ he replied quickly. ‘
Never
. Always she is loyal to you.’

Romualdes knew that, but he liked hearing it anyway. He remained silent for a while, the powerful man about to make a decision.

‘You did well to tell me,’ the Mayor pronounced in conclusion. He told Alberdi this conversation must remain just between the two of them. He was to discuss it with no one, not even his wife or Alicia.

Andres nodded. ‘But what shall I do if Señor Robles comes to me again?’

‘Tell him you know nothing. Then report to me. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Don Miguel.’

‘Good. Now,’ the Mayor said, standing up and dipping his hand in his pocket, ‘did you walk here?’

‘No, Don Miguel. I took a taxi.’

‘My driver will take you back,’ he said magnanimously, handing over fifty thousand pesos. ‘I always believe in paying my supporters well. You know? That way, they never need think they should go into business for themselves.’

Alberdi smiled appreciatively and the great man himself escorted him to the front door. When he had left, the Mayor returned to his study. His wife called him to dinner but he replied that he had a very important call to make first.

* * *

When Romualdes rang, Morales had already sat down to dine with his family. With his plans now well advanced, the cocaine baron was in an excellent mood. To his wife’s and children’s joy, he announced they would all take a holiday together. Where did they want to go? They could choose anywhere in the world except America. As debate raged between Paris and Singapore, the butler came in and whispered that Mayor Romualdes was on the telephone.

‘Tell him to call tomorrow,’ Morales said without hesitation. Turning to the children, he teased: ‘Now, my darlings, who wants to guess what Daddy is going to buy you when we get to Singapore?’

Alberdi asked the driver to stop on the main road. He would walk the last portion of the route, not wishing to arrive home in the mayoral Cadillac. Such was his haste that he failed to notice Julio Robles sitting in his car, parked unobtrusively to one side along the same road.

Earlier, Robles had been to the house and Alicia had answered his knock. Her brother-in-law was out, she said. She did not know where he had gone. She was prettier than in Andres’ description, Robles thought. He told her it was not important, that he would call again, then went back down the footpath to wait in his car. When he saw Alberdi’s transportation, he accepted the man had turned on him.

So Julio drove back home and packed a bag with his few valuables. He had a last look around the apartment, then went out and locked the door. It would remain so until the next Forestry Specialist arrived; all BID premises enjoyed diplomatic status. He then called briefly at his office and wrote out two notes. The first was to his BID boss, explaining that he had to go home urgently for
family
reasons. The second was a fax to his head office acknowledging the sad news about his sister and confirming he would be on his way that very night.

He double-checked that he had not overlooked anything, sent the fax to Washington and went to visit Romualdes. The Mayor was still having dinner with his family when he heard the doorbell and the dogs. He was not expecting anyone, but rose from the table anyway and went to investigate. He was surprised when he saw Julio Robles being walked towards the house unannounced, but even a servant knew that one did not leave a BID official standing in the street.

‘Mayor Romualdes,’ said Robles extending his hand, ‘I am extremely sorry to trouble you at this time but something most urgent has come up which I must bring to your attention. May we speak in private?’ he enquired before the flabbergasted Romualdes had uttered a single word.

In the Mayor’s study Robles took command of the impromptu meeting by shutting the door.

‘Sit down, Mr Mayor. This will not take very long.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are talking to?’ Romualdes had started to recover.

‘Just hear me out.’ And in no uncertain terms Robles told him: that he knew all about the Morales Foundation and the drug dollars behind it. And that Romualdes was trustee to blood-soaked money. Those, said Robles, were the facts. His people in Washington would deal with them as they saw fit. That would happen no matter what the conclusion of this conversation might be, given that the Mayor should by now have figured that he, Julio Robles, was not just a Forestry Specialist with the BID.

‘Why are you bothering to talk to me, then?’ asked Romualdes, sensing that some kind of deal might be in the offing.

‘Because when I leave this house I am driving straight to the airport, and you will never see me again.’ He let that sink in and then continued: ‘However, before leaving, I might just make one phone call. To Carlos Alberto Morales, your most illustrious citizen.’

Romualdes swallowed hard.

‘And when I call him,’ Robles continued, ‘I shall tell him that we know all about his grandiose schemes. Thanks to the big mouth of his trusted Mayor –’

‘He won’t believe you!’ retorted Romualdes.

‘He will when I tell him that you took your mistress to Bogotá and blubbered your big mouth all over the place. And I’ll quote you as saying how nice it was that all that drug filth should end up doing something good for your people.’

‘I never said that, you son of a whore!’ protested Romualdes, sweating profusely and instinctively putting his right hand on his heart. He would kill Alicia, he decided.

‘I know that, Mr Mayor,’ said Robles softly, now smiling. ‘But what will Morales believe?’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I want to know where the money came from. How much, when, who sent it. From what I hear, your Foundation will need a hundred million.’

Romualdes mumbled that the money had not yet arrived and that it was only fifty million. Robles stared at him and remained silent until the Mayor told him. It was expected any day now. Two transfers: twenty-five million from Banco Nacional in Montevideo and the same again from Banesto in Seville.

‘Thank you, Mr Mayor,’ said Robles politely as he stood up to leave. ‘I’ll see myself out. Oh, one more thing,’ he said in a deliberate tone. ‘Alicia never told us a damn thing. For what it’s worth, she seems to be totally loyal to you.
We
had you followed and we bugged your phones,’ he lied. ‘However, you should know that in Washington we keep very close tabs on Medellín. If, for whatever reason, anything untoward should happen to any of the Alberdi family, I might just make that phone call after all. Remember that.’

Robles closed the study door behind him and met with a matronly Mrs Romualdes, who was coming to enquire when her husband would return to the dinner table. He greeted her charmingly – they had met at many social functions – then excused himself, following the servant past the dogs.

Julio Robles drove all night. First he travelled west to Puerto Berrio before turning north along the road that followed the course of the Magdalena River to El Banco. Then five miles further, along the Barranquilla highway. He arrived at the Cesar Platinum Mines just as the sun broke past the tops of the Sierra Nevada.

The security guards noticed the official number plates and inspected the BID credentials. They directed him to a young and pompous night-shift manager. When Robles explained that a plane from
El BID
was picking him up shortly, the manager replied that he had no notification of the movement. Robles showed him his diplomatic passport and joked about how bureaucrats seldom bothered. He pointed at his car and explained that a colleague from the bank would arrive next week to pick it up. Would the gentleman mind keeping the keys, and did he want anything brought over from Venezuela? The manager said he would be happy to look after the car and that a bottle of Black Label would be much appreciated. They shared a mug of coffee until they heard the sound of the single-engined Centurion coming in to land at Cesar’s strip.

Robles thanked the manager for his hospitality and climbed on board next to the pilot. The Cessna rolled back down the little runway as Robles put on his safety harness, then turned into the wind. Seconds later they climbed eastward to cross the Venezuelan frontier. Within an hour they would land in Maracaibo, where the DEA man would hitch a ride on the Texaco shuttle to Miami.

Satisfied, Julio Cardenas fell asleep.

7

TUESDAY MORNING WAS
cold and windy as Tom Clayton reluctantly made his way along Broad Street to work. He competed with other City workers for the line that hugged the buildings, an illusion of shelter from the driving rain. Moments after he had left Liverpool Street station his hair was already soaked and the upturned collar of his trench coat – futilely tightened by his free left hand – failed miserably to stop water trickling down his neck. It was the sort of morning that made him wish he lived in California.

Reflex good manners made him yield the wall to a passing lady. He stepped into a puddle and his left shoe filled with water. But Tom’s sorrowful appearance wasn’t all down to the elements. He had told Caroline all he knew about the Swiss account and, far from joy, she had expressed fear. Tom knew she was voicing the concerns he attempted to suppress: that someone, sometime, would be asking him to hand the money back.

Together they considered possible explanations. Bank error was immediately discounted – too many people would have checked the sums in Zurich before Clayton’s
money
was paid out. And Tom assured Caroline that half a million could not become 43 million in fifty years, not if the money was left sitting in a bank. Clearly the original sum had been added to. But when? How much? And, crucially, by whom?

Dick Sweeney undoubtedly would have the answers, though Tom now accepted that it was unlikely the lawyer would tell the whole truth. But he was not afraid of Sweeney and he felt confident he could squeeze enough out of him to piece the rest together himself. Caroline had begged him to promise he would not touch the money until he knew the truth, and Tom agreed. Other than the $5 million he had already taken. He had to tell his wife about his speculation with Jeff Langland, but glossed over any suggestion of wrongdoing. And in any case, he asserted confidently, as soon as the markets turned they’d make a profit. Caroline didn’t comment – money matters had always been her husband’s terrain – but her expression betrayed that she was far from reassured.

When Tom got to his office it was already eight-thirty. He removed his shoes and placed them by a radiator, then stared glumly at his rain-drenched trouser bottoms. He caught sight of Grinholm, waving at him from his office door.

Tom slopped over, acutely conscious of his soaking socks.

‘You in all day, Tom?’ drawled his boss casually.

‘I’ve no other plans,’ Tom replied. There was something alarming in Grinholm’s tone of voice.

‘Let’s have lunch, then,’ he said with authority. ‘One o’clock.’ Then he turned back into his office. Somehow it did not sound like a casual invitation.

Tom looked up the Taurus account and what he saw almost made him retch. The $5 million from Zurich had vanished. He had seen the payment on Friday but he also
knew
that all payments needed confirmation. Had the Swiss withheld theirs? On what grounds? Tom wedged his left arm between his knees and looked up Taurus’s position: £1.65 million down. Their margin deposit covered the loss, but only just.

He glanced surreptitiously in the direction of Grinholm’s office. The boss was on the phone but he caught Tom’s eye. Through the glass his face betrayed no emotion. The rules on futures trading were simple: if the margin was used up before the term expired, the deposit would have to be increased. Was this the purpose of Grinholm’s lunch invitation? Or was it something more sinister?

Tom had to leave the bank and find a public telephone. He grabbed a sheet of paper and stood up, slipping into his wet shoes and leaving without looking back, muttering something about needing a cigarette as he went past security, and ran out into a rain-soaked Broad Street.

He was put through to Ackermann immediately. The banker sounded surprised to hear Taurus had not received its money. Perhaps, he said, as this was the first transaction, procedures were taking a little longer than expected.

‘Please spare me the details, Mr Ackermann,’ Tom said firmly. With nothing to lose, he could afford to play the irate customer whose bank is not up to scratch. ‘You undertook to make that transfer on Friday. And you did not. If you want to retain my business, you will make that payment
right now
.’

‘I shall do my very best, Mr Clayton.’ Tom sensed the nervousness in Ackermann’s voice. ‘May I call you back?’

‘No, you may not,’ replied Tom a shade too quickly. Then he explained: ‘I’m out and about all day. I’ll call you after lunch.’

‘As you wish, Mr Clayton –’