The Clayton Account (33 page)

If Robles and his gringo assassins did their job, Morales would be dead by the time Romualdes left for the airport. Then no one could blame the Mayor for the collapse of the grandiose scheme. He would be free to denounce Morales the drug-dealer and defy any man to state openly that he wished the man had lived. On the other hand, if Don Carlos survived and managed to kill Robles – if the gringos failed – well, so much the better. In a week, the Foundation would have the money, and the heroism of the leader – who put his duties before personal pain – would be a matter of common knowledge. He would make sure of that.

In the meantime he had fifty thousand dollars in Miami and another fifty yet to come. With Morales gone, the Americans would have to be good for more than that – surely they would appreciate powerful friends in a city as crucial as Medellín. Whatever happened, he decided, he would stay away for one whole week. The moment he got home he called his office. ‘Make that two seats on tonight’s flight,’ he told his assistant. He could think of no reason why Alicia should remain behind.

* * *

The previous night, in London, Archer and Harper had not remained in Kensington Square for long. Fifteen minutes came and went and still there was no sign of Thomas Clayton. The two men sat silently for another fifteen minutes and felt the tension rising. When a further ten minutes had passed they accepted that Clayton was not coming and made up their minds accordingly. Archer arranged for a patrol car to be parked outside the house, and a policewoman, authorized to carry firearms, was quickly borrowed from the Diplomatic Protection Unit. She was ordered to remain inside the Clayton residence with Paula and the children. Then the two law officers drove to West End Central police station in Savile Row.

They were shown to the large cell on the ground floor where Richard Sweeney was being held. The arresting officer told them the American had ignored requests to make a statement. He demanded that his own lawyer be present and meanwhile refused to say another word.

Archer sat on the spare bunk opposite the lawyer’s as Harper remained standing, arms folded, leaning on the door. The Chief Inspector told Sweeney about Caroline’s kidnapping and observed the latter’s reaction. Clearly he was shaken. Archer then told him they had identified the kidnapper as Antonio Salazar. Sweeney seemed genuinely dumbfounded, but still he would say nothing save to plead his innocence. When he spoke his words were firm but his voice betrayed fear.

‘I told you before, I’ll tell you again: I came to London purely to discuss a matter with my client Thomas Clayton. I know nothing about this alleged kidnapping and I know nothing about Antonio Salazar except that he is the son of one of my firm’s clients. And now, for at least the tenth time, I demand to see a lawyer, and meantime have nothing to add.’

‘Any particular lawyer?’ asked Harper.

‘Just give me a phone book.’

Harper looked at Archer, who undertook to get him one.

‘Any idea where Tom Clayton might be?’ Harper asked.

‘How the hell would I know? He left the hotel with you guys,’ Sweeney replied angrily.

‘And you refuse to tell us what this money business is about, Mr Sweeney?’

‘I have stated my position. I will say no more until I’ve spoken to an English lawyer.’

‘You do realize, do you, that you could be withholding vital information in the investigation of a serious crime?’

‘I’m not.’

‘And obstructing justice.’

‘Get lost. I’m entitled to legal counsel. You guys keep breaking the rules, you’re going to need a lawyer yourselves.’

At that point the duty sergeant knocked on the door. ‘Urgent call for Chief Inspector Archer,’ he said.

Both men stood up and rushed out, ignoring Sweeney’s protestations and demands to see the Yellow Pages.

The call was from the Yard. A patrol car from the Royal Berkshire Constabulary had seen the Bentley travelling west along the M4 and was in pursuit at that very moment.

Tony Salazar had memorized the route. Straight out west along the M4, take exit 17 and continue north along the A429 for three miles. That would get him to Corston village, where he would turn right and drive on a further mile to Corston Park. He put his foot down and felt the Bentley surge.

He was going to get this money no matter what. The system his father was so proud of was responsible for this
cock
-up, and that stuck-up lawyer Sweeney had achieved nothing to retrieve the situation. Total failure, just as Tony had predicted. When he got back to New York with forty-three million dollars, the old man would have to listen. About time the old generation gave way. The truth was, as Tony saw it, rich old men got soft. In the old moneylending days, Salazars could field a hundred soldiers. Nobody crossed you, not unless they were betting with their lives. Now what did they have? Six heavies, including Perez. Just a handful of guns. Then lawyers. Lawyers and accountants. All feeding off the firm like leeches. Fear and bribes could dispense with half of them. And then there was the question of the firm’s cut. Ten per cent for laundering money, for Christ’s sake! On the street the going rate was 25! No, Tony would do this job properly, prove his point, then start shoving the old man to one side. Kindly, mind you, he decided. No need to hurt your own. But after this, Salazar Senior would have to accept that Tony’s time had come.

There was hardly any traffic that far into the night and Tony was holding steady at high speed when he saw the flashing blue lights coming up behind. The police car had been on a side ramp west of Hungerford, the tired officers on night duty testing a new type of speed radar, when suddenly they saw the needle hit 100 miles per hour. They started moving even before the speeding car had reached them, then watched it go past. As the police driver accelerated to 130 miles an hour – their top speed – his colleague radioed out. Within six miles they came up behind the Bentley and relayed the licence number to their base. At that point, Salazar saw them behind him, cursed, pressed down on the accelerator as far as it would go, and swore out loud as he felt the engine’s power. His speedometer recorded 155 mph and the police lights faded. He came up
to
exit 15, signposted Swindon, but that looked like a big town which would rob him of the speed advantage, so he let it go by. On reaching exit 16, a notice told him that his desired exit 17 was only a further twelve miles. Barely four minutes at that speed. There he would quit the freeway and leave the cops to pin the speeding ticket on their ass. It proved to Tony that when you had important business to attend to, it paid to drive the right kind of car. Something else his father would have to understand.

He found the house easily – the English cow had been good with her directions once he had knocked some sense into her. He drove in past the iron gates and a further forty yards, until the car was no longer visible from the road, then walked back. He closed the gates and coiled the chain that hung from one of them so as to hold them shut. Then he walked towards the house – slowly, eyes and ears alert, the gun comfortingly in his hand; looking out for a possible trap.

He saw the light seep through the blinds downstairs. The rest of the house was dark. Salazar noted the car by the front door and walked right round the house. There seemed to be no one about – maybe the guy wanted his wife real bad. He walked back into some trees across from the turning circle and shouted for Clayton to come out. After a short interval the oak door creaked open and Clayton’s figure was framed by the weak light.

‘Satisfied?’ Clayton shouted into the darkness.

‘Keep walking this way!’ Salazar ordered, still scanning the upper windows, looking for any telltale movement, the glint of a gun; anything.

He saw nothing.

‘Okay, that’s far enough,’ he said when Tom was twenty paces from him. ‘Now turn around and put your hands on your head.’

Tom turned his back obediently, heard the footsteps on the gravel, then felt the man’s breath on the base of his skull as he was frisked.

‘Anybody in the house?’ demanded Salazar.

‘No.’

‘Okay, we go in there. You walk in front, slowly. I see anybody, even a stray cat, I shoot your head off first, then the fucking cat. Got it?’

Tom did as he was told. He led the way through the hall and turned right into the huge drawing room, its emptiness enhanced by the eerie glow from two weak light bulbs and the flickering fire at the far end. Salazar followed a few paces behind Clayton and closed the door behind them.

‘Okay, Clayton, where’s my fucking money?’ he waved the gun as Tom turned round to face him.

‘In Switzerland.’

‘Where, in fucking Switzerland?’

‘Uh, uh. One for one. Where’s my wife?’

‘Listen, you motherfucker,’ Salazar erupted, walking aggressively towards Clayton, who had slowly been edging towards the fireplace end of the room. ‘I ask the questions here!’

Clayton raised his hands submissively. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, trying to seem composed. ‘I agree, I’ve got something that belongs to you. But you also have something that’s mine. So maybe we can reason this out.’

Salazar hesitated and Clayton walked towards the chair he had earlier placed by the wall. ‘So why don’t we sit down,’ he said, pointing at the other chair, ‘and talk it over. Banker to banker, right?’

‘Swanky furniture you got here,’ Salazar commented sarcastically, glancing quietly round the room. ‘Don’t they pay you at the bank?’ He would enjoy killing Clayton. He
knew
the type. They strutted arrogantly about New York City clubs, with an air of superiority, dropping names, dressed like undertakers. Fucking Wasps. Well, there was going to be one dead insect pretty soon. But first the money. Tony picked up the chair and turned it round, then sat astride it, ten feet away from Clayton, his right arm hanging over the backrest, casually holding the gun.

‘I’m listening,’ said Salazar.

‘What do I call you?’

‘Sir,’ he replied, laughing nastily.

‘Listen, greaser,’ said Clayton nonchalantly reaching for one of the Coke bottles on the floor, ‘I told you –’

The loud report of the .38, fired indoors, made Clayton jump as the bottle exploded in his hand, sending the fizzy liquid flying as foam in all directions, then uncanny silence, broken only by the hissing of wet logs.

‘Next time it’s your hand,’ said Salazar in a sedate voice. ‘Now keep talking, and show respect.’

That had been too fast for Tom. He would have to be very careful with his moves. He tried not to dwell on what Caroline might have gone through, bottled up his anger, and took a deep breath.

‘What puzzles me, speaking strictly as a banker,’ said Clayton patiently, ‘is whose money it really is? What kind of guy would deposit fifty odd million with Salazar’s?’ He looked pointedly at Tony.

‘You are starting to piss me.’

‘Just possibly’ – Tom lowered his voice and leaned forward – ‘the kind of man that would eat your balls for breakfast if he found himself short of one dime, right?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘My point, greaser, is that I don’t want your fucking money. You can have it back.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘But equally, if you don’t get the money, you’ll be skinned alive. So you are not going to shoot me or you’d kiss your ass goodbye. Now, kindly put away that unnecessary gun, which is pissing
me
, and let’s figure how we do the swap. Your money, my wife.’

Salazar thought for a moment. The guy was right up to a point, the point where he handed over the money. But if they allowed fucking in paradise, that would be the next time this mother got to lay his wife.

‘Got any ideas?’ asked Salazar superciliously.

‘Yeah,’ said Clayton convincingly, then pointedly reached for the second Coke bottle, looking at the other man as if asking for permission. Salazar nodded and Tom started twisting off the plastic cap. It hissed as Cokes do. ‘But that would depend on where you’ve put my wife.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tony as he watched Tom make as if to pour the Coke into a mug.

‘I mean, greaser,
that
!’

Clayton threw the mug of petrol at Salazar’s face and dived to the right. The hoodlum pulled the trigger and the flash from the revolver’s muzzle lit the fuel. For an instant it seemed as though the whole room had exploded; Tom felt the heat and smelt the singeing hair as he faced away towards the wall. Then he became aware of Salazar’s anguished screaming. Clayton leapt to his feet and half-seeing, half-fumbling through the fume-filled gap, took two giant steps and dived at the smoking prostrate body. Tony’s eyes were closed, his clothes partly on fire. Tom sat astride him, gripped his neck with his left hand and with his right fist smashed Salazar’s face. From the corner of his eye he saw the gun lying on the floor. As he scooped it up he realized his adversary was blinded. Thrusting the still warm barrel into Salazar’s ear he yelled loud enough to be heard above the other man’s shrieks: ‘Where is my wife?’

The question seemed to penetrate, for Tony Salazar stopped wailing and uttered a string of profanities. Clayton was in a rage, almost out of control except for a single purpose. He dragged Salazar towards the fireplace, rolled him onto his stomach and then pulled him by the hair until his face was just a few inches from the burning logs. The sudden heat on his scorched face made the gangster shriek. Clayton pushed his face into the fire and pulled it out again.

‘Where did you leave my wife?’

‘Gimme a break, ma’fucker,’ Salazar pleaded in a long coughing gasp.

Clayton held him close to the logs, then asked again.

‘I’m finished man. Said so yourself,’ Salazar let the words out in bursts, as his lungs screamed for air. ‘And so are you. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘Where is my wife?’

‘Go fuck yourself!’

Clayton took Salazar’s right forearm and, still holding on to the hair, pushed his adversary’s right hand into the fire. Salazar yelled like a thing possessed as the flesh burnt off the fingers. Tom just held it there and continued to repeat the same question through clenched teeth.