The Clayton Account (29 page)

‘In this office the name Malaga is known only to
me
,’ replied the Laundry Man in a way that defied challenge.

‘Of course. Not you, not me, not Morales. Who, then? Sweeney?’

Salazar thought for a while. Dick was greedy but not courageous. It would take guts to talk to the law. Sweeney would rather rot quietly in jail than spend the rest of his life waiting for Salazar to catch up with him.

‘I don’t think so,’ he told Speer.

‘You vouch for him, then? He is your lawyer, after all. Don Carlos, as you must imagine, won’t let this lie.’

‘Tell our friend I say it wasn’t Sweeney.
I
say so. If Sweeney betrayed him, I’ll take care of him myself.’

Speer noted that the Laundry Man did not offer to make restitution, but decided not to make an issue of it. There was more important business at stake.

‘Fine, Joe. I will convey your undertaking. Now,’ explained Speer slowly, ‘you will appreciate that under the circumstances my client is extremely concerned about his funds under management. If there is a leak in this office, and I am not saying there is, his entire wealth could be in jeopardy. I would like to establish precisely what the position is and then discuss alternative arrangements.’

Salazar paled but did not flinch. First that Clayton boy had robbed him of 43 million. Then he had been forced to borrow another 47 million to keep Morales happy, but even that had backfired. The 50 million would probably end up with the government. Who else could have the
influence
to freeze accounts in both Spain and Uruguay? Now Speer was talking about pulling the 70 million under management. Sure, Salazars would survive without it, but 1.4 million a year in fees would also be lost. It was clean, legitimate money and if a customer wanted to move his funds to Citicorp or Chase, Salazar & Co had to comply quickly or lose their licence and – worse still – cause a stampede amongst other investors. The loss of Morales’ dirty business would hurt more. The Colombian had grown strong over the past year, recently pushing over five million a month to George Town. Ten per cent of that, Salazar would miss. But he still had the new boys in Cali, which reminded him he owed them twenty-seven million – or rather, Thomas Clayton did. Yes, he said angrily to himself, twenty-seven million and then some!

He became aware of Speer looking at him silently and took a deep breath.

‘Right,
amigo
,’ he smiled, standing up and walking the lawyer to the conference table on one side of the office. ‘These are all the documents relating to Don Carlos’s investments. I will leave you to study them for a moment whilst I go and make some calls. If you need anything, Hector here will be glad to oblige.’

Salazar went into his son’s room to use a cellphone. He made two calls, the first to Dick Sweeney in London.

‘You got the money yet?’ Salazar asked bluntly.

‘I’m in a meeting at the moment,’ Sweeney replied guardedly, glancing in Tom Clayton’s direction.

‘I don’t give a shit if the Queen of England is with you. Has he paid you?’

‘It is all agreed.’

‘Right, forget the thirty-seven million. I want the lot.’

‘That may not be possible.’

‘You did send the fifty million to Morales, didn’t you?’

‘Tuesday. I told you.’

‘Well, you may be interested to learn that he never got the money. It got snatched en route. So as of now you owe me forty-seven million. I warned you,’ he reminded Sweeney.

‘Oh, Jesus. How did that happen?’

‘We’ll find out. Right now you tell that asshole he’s got five minutes to hand over all my money. If you get it, call me back. Either way, you get your ass back to New York tonight.’

The second call was to his son Tony.

‘Sweeney failed,’ he said, skipping any form of greeting. ‘Now it’s up to you. I want you back tomorrow with forty-three million. Do whatever’s necessary.’

‘Count on it, Dad,’ said Salazar Junior. ‘I’ll knock it outa him tonight.’

As these calls were taking place, Speer was listing down items on his pad.

It was all remarkably simple, with half a dozen companies set up. An investment trust based in Bermuda held almost a quarter of the funds, all easily realizable into cash. About $11.5 million was in NYSE listed shares, a further $6.8 million in Municipal Bonds – Seattle, Phoenix, Memphis: reasonable stuff. Ronda Properties of Tucson, Arizona, owned the Ronda Ranch, purchased for $3 million, and an $8 million shopping mall. Both were controlled by nominee directors and the ranch was run by hired hands. Alba Investments Inc., registered in Panama, also had nominee directors and bearer shares issued for all its capital. It owned an eight-storey building on 84th Street, for which Salazar had paid $12 million just three months earlier. Sun Shine Holdings of Miami held title to six condos near Key Biscayne, $2.4 million, but it also had $6 million on deposit with a bank. Under
the
broad term Clients’ Account, Salazars held $9 million of Morales’ money in US Treasury Bonds. Speer had to admit the guy had nerve. Then there was a golf club, $7 million, and its adjoining hotel, $6 million, grouped under the heading Palm Springs Leisure, which also operated a Ford franchise near San Diego.

A cool total of $73.7 million, representing eighteen months of Morales’ surplus cash. Cocaine exports were undoubtedly good business.

When Salazar returned, Speer expressed himself clearly. He was taking over full control of Morales’ assets as of now. He showed Joe the Colombian’s letter of authority and the Banker knew there was no point in disputing it. That was the disadvantage of running a legitimate side: if a depositor wanted to terminate the arrangement, there was nothing to do but cash him out.

Together they went through all the documents. Bearer shares were handed over, administration mandates revoked. Nominee directors always signed an undated resignation on appointment. Speer checked them all and added them to his mounting pile. Within an hour Salazar had signed everything he was asked to, and congratulated himself on managing to remain calm. They then discussed the monies still ‘in transit’ and Salazar estimated these to amount to about 7 million. He would need thirty days to remove these funds from Grand Cayman then make the balance available wherever Speer wished, after the usual deduction for commission, of course.

Their parting was coolly courteous. As he stood outside the block waiting for a taxi, Speer did not see the man with a telephoto lens taking pictures of him. The DEA man had been told to photograph everyone moving in or out of Salazar’s building. At the end of the day he would send the film by FedEx to an address in Miami.

Speer went straight back to his hotel and called a downtown law firm. He had dealt with them before on matters relating to Costa Rica, and now he needed to instruct them. They would have his power of attorney to dispose of all the companies’ US assets. His clients, the beneficial owners, who were neither Americans nor US residents, he explained, wanted to move out of US dollars. The entire portfolio was to be converted to cash and remitted to Dresdner Bank in Germany. They agreed fees and undertook to prepare all papers straight away. Speer told them he would be in New York for one more day. He was aware that some investments, mainly the properties, would require time to realize. Shares and bonds, however, could be disposed of fairly rapidly and he would wish to see the cash for these, plus the rest already in cash, on its way to Germany before he left.

He then called Dresdner Bank’s Munich office and told them what to expect. Speer explained that he and a group of investors were moving out of the US dollar – something which the Germans understood – and he would be visiting them in the near future to discuss investment possibilities. Herr Doktor Speer, they said, was most welcome any time.

They spent over an hour questioning Sweeney in his suite but he refused to comment, save to deny all allegations of wrongdoing. He went on the attack against the DEA man, querying his right to be there in the first place. He was a lawyer, he reminded him, and all communications with his clients were privileged. If the Department of Justice had illegally obtained any such information, his firm would deal with them in federal courts.

He acknowledged that Salazar & Co were his clients and refused point blank to talk about their affairs. They
were
private bankers, duly licensed, and Sweeney would not comment beyond that. Asked by Archer the purpose of his London visit, he replied that Thomas Clayton was also a client. He had come to advise him on a serious matter but equally declined to divulge its nature, quoting lawyer–client confidentiality.

Archer pointed out that it had been Clayton who had asked for their assistance, citing threats made by the lawyer, but Sweeney held fast. He denied the allegation and regretted that Mr Clayton had been so foolish; the matter upon which he was advising him was financial and commercial and in no way had violence of any nature ever been suggested or implied.

Harper made reference to drug money being transferred from Geneva. Sweeney replied that any such movements, if they happened, would have been from clients’ accounts and pursuant to instructions. Again, a confidential matter which he was not prepared to discuss.

When Clayton was invited to comment, he repeated the story as he had told it to the Chief Inspector. He produced the agreement he had brought with him and maintained that all its contents had been accepted, in fact they had been about to sign when the telephone rang. Immediately thereafter Sweeney had changed his mind.

‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Harper.

‘A client,’ replied Sweeney without hesitation. ‘And that’s all I will say – for the same reasons I have cited so far. I also categorically deny any suggestion that I had agreed to sign that.’ He pointed at the agreement that Stuart Hudson had drawn up.

‘How long are you intending to remain in London, Mr Sweeney?’ asked Archer, knowing the lawyer was lying on at least one count, as he had heard the chat with Clayton from upstairs.

‘Since I have clearly failed to prevail with my advice,’ Sweeney replied, looking at Tom before turning back to the policeman, ‘I shall go back to New York tonight.’

‘No, Mr Sweeney. That, I must tell you, will not be possible.’

‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’

‘You may remain voluntarily, to assist with our enquiries. If not, yes. I will arrest you here and now.’

‘On what charge?

‘Oh, obstructing justice. Making threats against Mr Clayton’s life.’

‘I have done no such thing.’

‘Allegations have been made, Mr Sweeney, and we need to investigate them. Will you stay of your own volition, or will you accompany me to Scotland Yard?’

‘I’ll stay twenty-four hours. I’ll also see a solicitor. By this time tomorrow, you come up with proper charges or I’m out. Count on that.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sweeney. We would be grateful if you could stay in your hotel tonight. We may need to speak to you again.’

‘Fine.’

‘And to avoid any misunderstandings, Mr Sweeney, may we have your passport, perhaps?’

‘I take it you’re not just asking?’

‘Let us just say it’s part of the arrangement. A token of mutual trust.’

‘I am, of course, going to see a solicitor in the morning,’ he said handing over his passport.

‘That will be fine,’ smiled Archer. ‘And if you notice someone following you, please don’t be alarmed. It will be us.’

Julio Robles had rehearsed his lines before going to the
town
hall just after ten. He suspected that at first the Mayor would refuse to see him, but if that happened Robles would simply wait. Sooner or later Romualdes would worry himself sick about Julio’s motives and receive him. Romualdes would be intensely aware of having betrayed Morales, and he could not afford to antagonize the only other person who knew that.

But as the DEA agent was walking up to the Municipality he had seen the Mayor leaving, seen his driver hold open the car door and the man depart alone. Julio returned quickly to his own car and followed him, hoping he might be going home – that would be better than the office, for the confrontation Julio had in mind – but he headed away from town.

Then Robles realized where his prey was going: the road led to the Morales estate. He could not risk following in that direction, so he pulled over, turned the car round and drove back to Medellín. Since returning to Colombia, Robles had become aware that Morales had problems – fifty million problems, he thought with satisfaction – and word was out that bills for the Foundation’s grandiose programme remained unpaid. Julio still believed that Romualdes had kept quiet about their last meeting. He assumed that the visit to Morales was a regular affair and thought no more about it. He also guessed that by the time he left Villa del Carmen, the Mayor would go home for lunch.

He parked his car across the street from the Mayor’s home and fifty metres past it. Three hours later his patience was rewarded when he saw Romualdes’ car coming up the road, its horn blaring. Oblivious to the neighbours, the Mayor turned the car hard up to the gate, then leaned on the horn once more.

Seeing his opening, Robles slid out of his car and walked
towards
the house as an anxious servant struggled with the gates. With twenty metres still to go, he saw the Cadillac jerk forward and past the entrance.

Then the gates started to close.

Julio speculated, correctly, that Romualdes was not the type to look in his rear-view mirror. One gate was closed and the second closing as Robles reached them and pushed through. He greeted the servant, who recognized him immediately, then kept walking up the drive. The mayoral car’s door was open and Romualdes was slowly getting out, still unaware of Robles’ presence. Julio noticed the coarse bandage on the left hand as the corpulent man held it away from his body and tried to push himself to his feet using his right hand and left elbow.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Mayor,’ he announced, then stood there smiling, rapidly gauging possible reactions.

Romualdes stared at him in disbelief. Initial trepidation and anxiety yielded to a momentary flash of anger, which in turn gave way to abject fear.