The Clayton Account (26 page)

‘Strictly speaking,’ said the solicitor, ‘it should be signed by Salazar. So I have drawn it up for Sweeney to sign on his client’s behalf. For your purposes, it should do the job.’

When the secretary had closed the door behind her, Hudson remained passive for an instant.

‘Caroline called me,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Caroline? What about?’ Tom sounded irate.

‘Take it easy, Tom. She’s just worried.’ Stuart fidgeted with a stapler.

‘So she turns to her old mate, right?’ Tom said ambiguously, and immediately regretted it.

‘Listen to me,’ the solicitor said firmly this time. ‘You find a pile of suspect money, you play silly buggers with futures. You get suspended from your job. And you hit her with all that lot in one week. Be reasonable, Tom. She’s worried for you. I’m an old friend, you know that. I’ll do nothing without your say-so, but maybe I can lend a hand.’

Old friend, old lover.
Old
?

Tom looked vacantly at Stuart for a moment and he felt angry with himself for even thinking it. Caroline did not deserve it.

‘Let me try it my way, Stuart,’ he said. ‘If I need help with either of the problems, I’ll come back to you. Maybe … if you talk to Caroline, you could reassure her …’ His words faded.

‘Sure, I promise.’

‘I don’t want to lose her, Stuart.’

‘You won’t,’ Hudson said sincerely.

Tom wished he could be as sure.

There was little left to say or do while the affidavit was prepared, so for the next hour they played darts.

11

MORALES LISTENED TO
Speer in relative silence. When he did speak, his voice did not betray his inner feelings. He asked one or two questions, then told Speer to remain by the phone. He would think about the implications for a moment and call him back.

He looked at the architects’ models vacantly – they had somehow acquired a different connotation. Deep in thought, he went outside and took a walk in his garden. The guards in the woods were told the boss was strolling and they redoubled their vigilance. Tupac followed quietly a few paces behind.

He had been stung for $50 million. He might as well accept that. If the accounts in Spain and Uruguay were frozen simultaneously, the Americans had to be involved. The question was, how?

How did they link him to the Spanish company?

The leak had to be either in New York or Medellín. He did not think Salazar could be responsible. Sometimes Morales worried. What if the Laundry Man got blackmailed by the Feds and made a deal? Speer had assured
him
that was impossible. The Banker’s firm handled lots of clients, including Mafia money. If Salazar turned State’s evidence, he was as good as dead. Morales believed that. Salazar was not the type to endure a life of menial anonymity under the Witness Protection Program.

Speer?

Unlikely. Enrique was an ambitious man and, like himself, hoped for a peaceful future. Morales knew that the money in his pocket was enough to send a man to Costa Rica and blow up Speer, house and all, to kingdom come. Enrique Speer would be aware of that. No, not Speer. Romualdes? De la Cruz? They wouldn’t dare. Then who?

He would come back to that question later. First, he had to work out his next move. Unless he came up with another fifty million, the Foundation was stillborn. But to do that would require doing something that was anathema in his trade: using his legitimate money and turning it back to where it came from. In the process he risked leaving a trail connecting his immaculate investments with his work in Medellín. In the past month he had sent another six million to the Caymans, and that was now in the Laundry Man’s hands. He had another half million at home and two in Nassau. Not enough. By now Romualdes would have told all the contractors that their payments were on the way. By the weekend the word would have reached Cali that the cheques would be dishonoured. Then Noriega or the Ortegas would smell blood. Within days all his men would have heard rumours that Morales could not pay his bills. They would depart in droves and the pick-up trucks would come in the middle of the night. They would take Morales and his family. It was ironic, he reflected, that the only protection he would be able to count on was the police ring the authorities had thrown around Medellín.

So it boiled down to two choices. Pay up now, or run.
The
Salazars still had well over sixty million of his money. All legitimately invested for long-term growth. Even if Morales asked for it immediately, it would take days or even weeks to bring it in. And if the leak was with the Laundry Man, he might never get his cash.

He had to leave Colombia, there was no other choice. He would take his own plane to Panama and catch the first flight going south. Rio or Buenos Aires would do initially. After that he would see. A man with $60 million dollars could buy expensive lawyers and make friends. But first he had to deal with Medellín. If the Americans had got this information from someone there, the whole city would need to understand it did not pay to cross Don Carlos. That slob Romualdes would be his starting point.

He called Speer back and asked him to withdraw all his investments from Salazar & Co’s control.

Tom Clayton reached New Scotland Yard five minutes early and was escorted to Archer’s room. It was on the fourth floor, a spacious modern office with a clear view of the Thames. The Chief Inspector looked just as he sounded on the phone. Of an age close to retirement, he was tall and slim. He wore an understated double-breasted dark suit that somehow went with his unassuming manner. He greeted Clayton genially and offered him a chair. A large leather-upholstered mahogany chair that, like the Sheraton-style desk, did not look like government issue. Archer tapped his pipe into a large ashtray quite deliberately, as if this were a routine – offering his visitor a last chance to object – then busied himself lighting it after asking Tom how he could help.

Clayton gave him a potted version of the story. He explained that the firm Richard Sweeney represented had acted for his family for over half a century, but that they
also
acted for another party, whose name he did not know and who now demanded money from Tom. He explained that he had received some funds, believing them to be part of his inheritance, but now it seemed that some of those funds were claimed by someone else. Tom was quite happy to hand over anything he was not entitled to, but was concerned about the other party’s willingness to be reasonable.

‘How’s Pete Andrews getting on?’ Archer surprised Tom with the question.

‘Fine. He’s a good man.’

‘You say you don’t know the name of Mr Sweeney’s client?’ Archer asked the question very casually, in between pulls at his pipe.

Tom heard an alarm bell.

‘Frankly, Chief Inspector,’ he replied, just in case, ‘a name was mentioned. But only as hearsay. I do not know whose money it’s supposed to be for sure. Just that Sweeney is here to collect it.’

‘This money, your inheritance, where is it now?’

‘The part that’s mine, right here in London. The rest I left in Zurich, where I found it.’

‘Zurich, eh?’ the policeman said the name disdainfully as he took a deep puff. ‘That’s always a complication.’ Watching the whirls of smoke rise, he continued: ‘It would seem to me, Mr Clayton, that you really should be talking to a lawyer, not the police. Have you seen one?’

‘Yes, I have. And he suggested I should see the police.’

The policeman moved his head as if to signify agreement. He was not too sure about Mr Clayton. His story did not entirely stack up.

Two hours earlier, Archer had received a visitor from America. Jeremiah Harper of the Drug Enforcement Administration had been referred to Archer by Special
Branch
. Harper briefed the Chief Inspector on the Morales–Salazar connection, the money-laundering operation, and his own strategy to pin down Sweeney in London. Towards the end of the meeting Harper mentioned the possible involvement of one Thomas Clayton, an American banker living in London, who was believed to somehow fit into the money chain, though at that precise moment Harper admitted he had no idea how. Archer smiled knowingly at the mention of Tom Clayton and started emptying the residues from his pipe. He told a surprised Harper that the man in question was coming in to see him at two, at his own request, presumably to ask for some sort of help – which was why Harper had been steered to Archer’s section. They decided they would hear him out first. Harper would stay in the room next door, initially, and let Clayton tell his story to Archer. He could listen to the conversation on the intercom. At the appropriate moment he would join in.

‘Did your solicitor explain why he saw this as a police matter?’ asked the Chief Inspector.

‘Because I told him that Mr Sweeney, when we met yesterday, said if I did not hand over all the money, mine included, his client would have me killed.’

‘Ah now, that’s more like it,’ exclaimed Archer, livening up. ‘No witnesses to the threat, I expect.’

‘No, but I’m seeing Sweeney at three-thirty and I’m sure he will repeat it.’

‘Where is this meeting taking place?’

Tom told him and Archer made a note of the room number.

‘Yes, Mr Clayton,’ said Archer reassuringly, putting his writing pad to one side. ‘I am sure we can be of help here.’ He then stood up and walked towards the door. Unsure where the policeman was going, Clayton made a move as
if
to follow – but Archer indicated he should remain seated. ‘There is someone you should meet,’ he said as he opened his office door.

The man who entered was about six-four, with strong broad shoulders and an athlete’s gait. The thick neck and greying ginger crewcut might have fitted more naturally in a Marine’s uniform than in the present sober middleweight suit. He stepped forward, no-nonsense fashion, right hand extended.

‘I’m Red Harper, Mr Clayton. United States Department of Justice.’

Tom shook his hand without enthusiasm.

Harper did not beat around the bush. He told Tom his name had come up during an investigation and he had flown across the Atlantic just to follow it up.

‘You better get this clear from the outset, Mr Clayton,’ he emphasized. ‘That you would be well advised not to hinder the Department’s work.’

‘Are you accusing me of something, Mr Harper?’ Clayton felt his temper rising but endeavoured to keep it in check.

‘Not yet,’ answered the DEA man just as firmly. ‘But I need some questions answered.’

‘Fire away.’ He said it calmly, making no effort to hide his displeasure.

‘Let’s start with you. Who are you? What do you do?’

Tom gave him straight answers. Name, address, occupation.

‘You work at
that bank
?’ Harper asked, impressed.

Tom just nodded.

‘What’s your position there?’

Tom described his job, hinting at his level of pay. That usually made government employees cringe. He also mentioned his five years in Wall Street before coming to
London
, that his father had been a professor at Columbia, and that his sister and her husband mixed with senators, the odd president, that sort of thing. Three generations was old money in America.

‘What I’m saying, Mr Harper,’ Tom said, sensing he was gaining a slight upper hand, ‘is that I came here’ – he looked pointedly at Archer – ‘to complain about a threat to my life. Now you,’ he turned back to face Harper, ‘storm in and behave as though I was guilty of some crime. I suggest you change your attitude and perhaps we can get somewhere.’

‘Suppose,’ said Harper still unconvinced, ‘you explained to me what business you have with Richard Sweeney.’ He had of course heard Clayton talking to Bob Archer but did not acknowledge it. It was in any case always better to make a suspect tell his tale more than once. It helped in spotting lies.

Tom considered the two documents in his briefcase. There was no way he was showing them the affidavit that contained enough to present a prima facie case in Switzerland, for then the money could be frozen. All of it, including the five million Tom already had. But the agreement offering to release the money was well crafted.

‘I can do better than that,’ Tom replied, lifting his case on to his lap. He took out the agreement, both copies, and passed one over to each man. ‘That should explain it all.’

Harper and Archer read the document in silence. The American was the first to look up.

‘How much money is left in Switzerland?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Tom lied.

‘Then how did you know that five million belonged to you?’

Tom explained that his grandfather had left a sum on
deposit
. He knew the figure well. $567,384.22. That had been in 1944 and the money had remained untouched.

‘I had to haggle with the Swiss over the interest,’ he admitted. ‘In the end we settled on three and nine tenths – three point eight-nine-two, to be precise. Five million dollars. I got that sent to an account in London. You can look it up on my next income tax return.’

‘Then how is it that Sweeney needs you in order to get his hands on the rest?’ Harper did not give up easily.

‘I don’t know,’ Clayton said coldly. ‘I expect because once the bank was told my dad was dead, everything covertly banked under his name would fall under my control.’

‘And the bank never told you what they had?’

‘No.’

‘I find that strange.’

‘You don’t know Swiss banks,’ retorted Tom. ‘They’re still spending the spoils of the Third Reich.’

‘Will they tell us if we ask them? With proper court authority, of course,’ asked Archer.

‘Chief Inspector,’ said Tom patiently, ‘the state of Israel has been asking them for fifty years. They’re still waiting.’

‘Why don’t you
ask
them?’ Harper was getting restive.

‘I’m not interested. I just want Sweeney, and whoever is behind him, to take the money they hid in my unsuspecting father’s name and then get the hell out of my life.’

‘Except, of course, for the minor fact that they have threatened to kill you,’ Archer murmured from the corner of his mouth as he lit another pipe.