The Clayton Account (24 page)

The agents also had great difficulty convincing Kramer to allow the interception of Sweeney lines to continue. The judge opined that if the target was Salazar, any attempt to listen in on conversations with his lawyer would result in any prosecution of Salazar being thrown out by the courts. That would certainly be the case, emphasized the judge, if the matter was brought before
his
court.

Harper argued they were not targeting client–lawyer relationships and that, should any accidentally be recorded, they would be erased and never used in evidence. The DEA had proof that Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, and Mr Richard Sweeney in particular, were actual parties to a money-laundering operation. He stressed that, during that very day, conversations had been recorded in which Mr Sweeney instructed his own firm’s bankers in Switzerland to effect payments to accounts controlled by a known narcotics trafficker. It was the intention of the Drug Enforcement Administration to present a case to the Attorney General’s office that would lead to a separate indictment of Mr Richard Sweeney. On that basis, with a number of conditions attached, Kramer had agreed. Armed with the vital authorization, the DEA agents had gone directly to their regional office downtown, sent the telephone men to work on South Street, requested two teams to keep tabs on José and Antonio Salazar, and settled down to read the latest transcripts of Sweeney’s calls.

These confirmed the details of Sweeney’s trip to England and his intention to extract a payment from someone called Tom Clayton. They also substantiated that Sweeney had received $47 million from a bank in George Town, Cayman Islands, and that he had in turn released these monies to banks in Spain and Uruguay. The attorney had relayed this information to a certain Dr Speer in San José de Costa Rica. This surprised them; the DEA had no record of any
Dr
Speer associated with narcotics, and Costa Rica was not somewhere normally identified with drug trafficking. That too would need investigating. There being nothing left for them to do in New York at that juncture, Harper and Cardenas asked the office to drive them back to La Guardia for their return trip to Miami.

On Wednesday they went through their various contingencies again. They were almost certain that by Friday they would have stung Morales out of $50 million, but what next? Morales had only been in the big league for eighteen months or so. Prior to that he was just one of many former Escobar lieutenants vying for the remnants of their former boss’s empire. In that line of business the pay differential between the top man and even his number two was vast. Prior to Escobar’s demise Morales was unlikely to have made more than fifty thousand in a good month. Now there was no way of telling exactly how much. Anything between one hundred and two hundred million a year was possible.

Years ago the Colombian government had unleashed the army on Medellín, a city then controlling over three-quarters of cocaine shipments out of South America. The cartels collapsed but the trade continued as a new group of drug barons filled the vacuum created by demand from a new drug capital: the city of Cali, just 250 miles south of Medellín.

The new cartel grew fast. Four or five syndicates gained hegemony and some two thousand smaller operations worked on the periphery. Between them they now commanded 80 per cent of the world market.

In time the US and Colombian authorities would hit Cali just as hard, but right now Harper had an opportunity to get Morales, and that would be a significant conquest. For every dollar’s worth of coke that got into
America
, five cents went into the Morales pocket. So the DEA was not about to pass up on this chance. If the producer could afford a fifty-million hit, they would simply have to ensure they got him for more. The Sweeney–Salazar link was crucial here. And Cardenas said once more that their chances would be improved if he went back to Medellín. Harper had to agree and so, as previously suggested, Cardenas telephoned the Romualdes’ home. A servant told the caller that the Mayor was not expected until later. That at least meant he was alive and had wisely held back from confiding in Morales. In fact, at that precise moment the Mayor had been very alive indeed, with his face buried deep between Alicia’s thighs.

Whatever was going to happen when Morales discovered his money was missing, would take place the following week. Meanwhile Harper wanted to find out more about this London connection.

Who was Clayton?

Why was he expected to pay Sweeney?

If Harper could get Sweeney arrested in London, the DEA would have the edge. Sweeney would have neither the contacts nor the resources available to him at home. Isolated from familiar surroundings, people are easier to break. As a bonus, Harper might discover who Clayton was. If he was a Brit, it could make a nice payback for the boys at Scotland Yard. He had promised the Administrator that Cardenas would not interfere in the Cali operation. But if they could crack the money trail from Medellín, they might close in on the other cartel’s treasure chest. Until the army was ready to strike, the best way to impede the narco-traffic was causing havoc along their laundry chain. If the DEA could put a tight circle around the traffickers’ spending, then they would be forced to live in houses stuffed with banknotes and given little chance to
enjoy
the lifestyle associated with such wealth. That put pressure on them, made them careless. Red Harper would leave for London that night and Cardenas would go and nose around in Costa Rica, then return to Medellín, reversing the same route he had used to get out.

Six hours later, Harper wriggled in his seat to relieve the numbness in his lower body. Oblivious to the movie being shown in the darkened cabin as they flew east towards the rising sun, he went through the facts they had to date.

One
. Morales was spending big money in Medellín. He needed fifty million dollars for his grandiose scheme and that was coming in two chunks, half from Uruguay, half from Spain.

Two
. The immediate source of the money was Credit Suisse in Geneva, from the account of Sweeney Tulley McAndrews, Attorneys-at-Law.

Three
. Morales was not going to get the money. The Director’s office had been advised by the State Department that the accounts in Uruguay and Spain were frozen.

But equally there were things the DEA did not know. Who was Tom Clayton? Who was Enrique Speer? Why was Sweeney in London, and how did they all fit into the Morales–Salazar chain? Harper believed that if he could answer those questions, he would be able to damage Morales critically and perhaps put away the Salazars for a very long time.

From Heathrow he went directly to his hotel, the four-star Britannia in Grosvenor Square, diagonally across the street from the US Embassy.

After a shower and a hearty breakfast he strolled down Grosvenor Street and entered the large building through the side steps. He showed his Justice Department ID to the marine on duty and was taken to the FBI office on the
third
floor. Special Agent Drake was already there.

‘One visitor,’ Drake said, looking at his notes. ‘Wednesday afternoon. Six-one, about two hundred pounds. Male, Caucasian, dark curly hair. Smart clothes, American accent. No name.’

‘How long did they spend together?’ asked Harper.

‘Sorry. Didn’t see the guy come in. He left by taxi and I got a partial address out of the doorman. Kensington Square, but no number.’

‘Thanks. The Brits on now?’

‘Yes. Took over last night.’

Harper would call at Scotland Yard later, but now he needed a bit of help from the FBI. Could Tom Clayton be American? They had already run the name through DEA, FBI and New York City police records and come up with nothing. There were sixty Thomas Claytons holding New York drivers’ licences and three cross-matched with misdemeanours, speeding offences, two bar brawls. They did not have the resources to follow up on all those. Besides, the connection was too tenuous. Harper had assumed that Clayton was a Brit.

‘Does the Embassy keep a register of US citizens living in London?’

‘That depends,’ explained Drake. ‘They are not required to register. Some do so voluntarily, the big guns go on the mailing lists. Invitations, exhibitions, Fourth of July. That sort of thing. Long-term residents might be on the IRS list.’

‘Anywhere else we might look?’

‘Sure. Chamber of Commerce members, trade directories – banks, insurance, industries by type – and … the London phone book.’

They looked at each other, grinning sheepishly. Drake picked up the heavy tome from behind his desk and opened the directory under
C
.

‘Clayton, T. D., 61 Kensington Square, London W8. How’s that for detective work?’

‘Let’s check him out. I need to know who this guy is.’

Tony Salazar rose mid-morning on Thursday and placed the six names and addresses on his desk. He dialled the first number.

‘This is the international operator,’ he said putting on his best AT&T voice. ‘I have a call from New York for Mr Tom Clayton. Will you pay for the call?’

‘Tom Clayton? This is Terry Clayton. What do you mean, pay for the call?’

‘Is Mr Tom Clayton there, sir?’

‘There’s no Tom Clayton here, mate. Name’s Terry Clayton. Who’s calling? What do you mean, pay for the call?’

‘Sorry, sir, must have the wrong number.’ Salazar rang off and crossed the first address from his list.

The second call produced a similar result except that Trevor Clayton uttered a few profanities at being woken so early. Salazar looked at the time. Ten forty-five. He almost gave the man a piece of his mind but resisted the temptation and hung up.

Call number three, no reply. He would try it later. On number four Thomas Clayton came to the phone. Wanted to know who was calling before he agreed to pay. He said he knew no one in New York. Salazar pretended to be asking the caller his name, then apologized and promised to call back.

Salazar was unsure. The man had not sounded American, but neither did he speak like the English he’d met so far. He would look at that one. He ticked the address.

Number five was Tanya Clayton and number six had an answering machine. Female voice, English. He left no
message
and noted to call that one later as well. Three down and three to go. If his target lived in town.

At noon he went down to the coffee shop for a snack and then bought a small shoulder bag from the hotel store. He took it up to his room, where he filled it with toiletries, a couple of shirts and some underwear. He collected his
A-to-Z
and his gun and took his Bentley for a drive.

He checked into the Skyport Motel near Datchet, saying he would remain there for three nights. Tony’s father had given Sweeney until Friday. He spread the contents of his bag around the rear-facing room and ruffled the bed a little. Then he tried the telephone once more. T. Clayton number two answered the phone this time and, ‘Sure,’ he said, he would pay for the call.

Tony Salazar was slightly taken aback but quickly realized that the man was drunk, so he hung up. In any event the address was, according to that sexy hotel manager, one of the less salubrious ones. He would only come back to that one if he failed to score on the other two. The last one still had the answering machine on, and once again he left no message, but that still left two addresses to investigate: Thomas Clayton, London SW7, and T. D. Clayton, London W8.

In his book he saw they were quite close together. Confident he would find them easily, he locked his room and drove back to London.

He parked his car in Queensgate Gardens and took a casual walk along the street. As he passed number 57, he observed the house. It stood three floors high with elegant columns on the front porch and no name on the doorbell. Tony Salazar had nothing to do that day except find the bastard who had stolen his money. So he bought a newspaper, returned to his car and sat there, patiently in his terms. Sooner or later someone would come in or out.

He did not have to wait long. A black Jaguar pulled up outside the house and the chauffeur stepped out briskly to open the rear door. They alighted and made for the front door: husband, wife, and two young boys. All smartly dressed and distinguished-looking. The kids ran up the steps to the porch and the man took out his keys.

‘I’ll be damned!’ Salazar said to himself. ‘Fucking coons!’

Shaking his head in wonderment, he looked at the map again and turned the ignition key. One more shot. He drove past number 61 Kensington Square. A very smart house in a very smart square. He’d bet ten to one this was his man. He was unable to park around the square as every place was taken. Predominantly by Mercs, BMWs and Volvos. On the corner, across the square from number 61, he found a public telephone.

‘Tom’s out right now. Who’s calling?’

‘Name’s Terry, from New York,’ Tony said casually. ‘He at the bank?’

‘No. He’s got the day off. Should be home around nine-thirty.’

‘Thanks a lot. I’ll call him back.’

‘You got a sexy voice, Mrs Clayton,’ he said out loud after replacing the receiver. ‘Can’t wait to see the rest of you.’

He would come back later.
I know your number Thomas Clayton
, he said to himself as he walked back to the car.
I know where you work and I know where you live. All you need to tell me now is where you keep my money
.

Meantime he would cruise around a bit and see what he could pull. Might as well make good use of the Bentley.

Julio Cardenas travelled from Miami to Costa Rica and took a room at the Hotel Colón in San José. Harper had given him a free hand but there was no point in confronting
Speer
. Preliminary enquiries had come up with a likely candidate, a prosperous commercial lawyer and in any event the only Speer in town.

Julio’s mission was more a case of digging up some background information. The US presence in the Central American republic was not particularly strong, a CIA man maybe, diving in and out of neighbouring countries, but not likely to volunteer any help. The country posed no threat to America, the drug men by and large kept clear of it, and the Justice Department’s presence at the Embassy was non-existent. Some years back, when Vesco had ripped off the IOS investors and popped up in Costa Rica, the US had leaned on that country with the usual diplomatic threats. The fact that there was no extradition treaty between the two countries made it look like tempting pastures to some who sought to avoid the US authorities. But words had been exchanged on matters of trade and US aid. Vesco had been forced to find a new home and few followed after that.