The Clayton Account (34 page)

‘Stop, ma’fucker!
Stop
! I’ll tell you!’

Tom freed the arm and let the head drop to the floor, then remained motionless with his knees on Salazar’s back waiting for the gasping to subside.

‘Choked to death sucking my dick, man,’ Salazar spluttered. Then he laughed his final sick laugh.

Tom Clayton’s world turned black. He lifted Salazar by the shoulders and thrust his face full-force into the blazing beech logs. Tony Salazar kicked and bucked for a brief instant, then went still as the superheated oxygen burnt up his lungs. Clayton pulled him back onto the bare wooden
floor
and stared at the mess. He felt neither regret nor sorrow. He became aware of a burning pain across his own back. He reached to touch it and saw blood on his fingers. Tom had heard the bullet strike the wall but until that instant had not realized how close it had been to killing him. Ignoring the discomfort, he searched through Salazar’s pockets until he found what he wanted: a hotel key. Room 26, Skyport Motel. Datchet, Middlesex.

Tom wasted no further time on Salazar. He did not consider calling the police or dwell on the enormity of having killed a man. His entire being was focused on getting Caroline back. He ran out into the night and threw himself into his car. The wheels spun as he gunned the engine, throwing a shower of gravel against the house. He reached 70 miles an hour along the narrow, potholed lane. Unexpectedly, in the darkness, the hulk of the dark Bentley blocked his path. Instantly aware he could not stop before colliding, Tom turned the wheel sharp left and at the same time stood on the brake. The hired Mondeo bounced off the Bentley’s offside bumper and skidded off the driveway, flattening a number of large bushes with its left side before coming to an abrupt halt as it crashed nose-first into an enormous oak tree. Clayton, having neglected his seat belt, was thrust forward with considerable force. By clinging to the steering wheel with all his might as the airbag did its job he just managed to avoid flying headfirst through the windscreen, but still was knocked unconscious for several moments.

When he came to he found blood was gushing from a split forehead and broken nose. Stumbling over to the Bentley, he was relieved to see the keys in its ignition. He reversed at high speed towards the road – it would have been impossible to turn the car around within the space available, and he almost had a second accident as he came
upon
the closed gates. Sitting quietly for a moment, to compose himself, Tom took ten deep, calming breaths. He wiped his bloodstained face with his own coat and threw it in the back, then noticed Salazar’s mobile telephone on the seat beside him. The operator kept him waiting for two minutes, then gave him the number of the Skyport Motel.

He called the number as he drove through Corston village, and asked for Mr Salazar, but when put through to the room, he got no answer. As usual with cheap hotels, they just left him listening to the empty ringing, so he cut the call and dialled again. The male voice at reception volunteered that Mr Salazar had gone to bed early. He had seemed very tired at the time, he said, without mentioning the Valium.

‘Did Mrs Salazar go to sleep at the same time?’ Tom asked, feeling revulsion at the images implied.

‘Mrs Salazar?’ The young clerk sounded puzzled. ‘Sorry, sir. I believe Mr Salazar is on his own.’

But Caroline had been with Salazar when he had spoken to her – so the chances must be that she was still there. Trussed up, locked up in the bathroom? Alive? Tom shook his head and shivered, felt the pain gripping his chest. He asked the clerk to explain the best way to get to Datchet and the location of the motel. He knew the Windsor area and reckoned that with the Bentley’s speed he could be there in thirty minutes.

He discarded the mobile telephone as he joined the M4, this time heading towards London – and unaware that every available vehicle in the Wiltshire and Berkshire constabularies was out looking for the very Bentley he was driving. Their orders were to follow from a distance and report. They were aware that the driver was wanted by Special Branch – which implied the matter was serious
–
and they did not have to guess he could be dangerous; they had been explicitly told. An armed unit in a fast car was standing by at Chiswick, where the motorway began. It would be deployed rapidly once a sighting had been reported and its occupants knew their target would be armed.

They were authorized to shoot, to kill if necessary, but only when certain of a clear line of fire and with particular regard to a hostage, believed to be hidden in the back.

The first patrol car to spot him was three miles past the Swindon exit, westbound. They would not have been able to get across the motorway’s central barrier in time to be of any use – the luxury coupé was travelling very fast. They alerted all other units on the radio and minutes later the car monitoring the Reading exit placed itself into position and saw Tom pass. They noted he had travelled the forty-two miles between sightings in just under twenty minutes, which worked out at nearly 130 mph. As per orders, they followed at a prudent distance, keeping his red tail lights clearly in sight. The armed squad made a quick calculation and settled for a Windsor intercept. That way, if Salazar left the motorway earlier, they would be that much closer to him at the time. If, on the other hand, he drove straight past Windsor they would be positioned there beforehand, ready to rejoin on the eastbound side.

Clayton left the motorway at Windsor just after twelve-thirty. He drove south to Eton village and saw the Datchet signpost to his left. He followed that direction, past the school entrance, and willed his heart to beat normally. Five more minutes to find Caroline. He said a silent prayer and begged she would be alive.

That was when he noticed a car coming up alarmingly close behind him, close enough to arouse his suspicions but sufficiently far back to prevent his recognizing it as a
police
car. As Tom focused on his rear-view mirror, a second vehicle travelling in the opposite direction cut across suddenly, stopping at an angle and obstructing his path.

He stopped the car dead – he had been moving slowly as he looked for the motel – but his first reaction was to leave the car and run, sensing he was now almost within reach of Caroline. As he opened his car door everything happened fast. He saw the marksmen leap out from the far side of the car in front of him and point their rifles at him, leaning threateningly on its roof, then heard the commanding voice from behind ordering him to stand still and raise his arms. The officer had emerged from the car that followed him and was crouched low two paces behind Clayton, a 9 mm automatic aimed steadily with both hands.

Tom tried to explain that they were supposed to be helping him but, as he mumbled incoherently, shadows in body armour appeared from everywhere and pushed him to the ground. They frisked him roughly and yanked his wrists behind his back, heedless of his pain as the searing wound across his shoulders opened up once more. From the corner of his eye, Tom could see the Bentley being searched, the doors and boot opened up. He felt nausea as his strength left him. The last thing he remembered was a distant, hollow voice asking fiercely what he had done with Mrs Clayton.

Then the lights went out.

15

MORALES HAD LESS
than twenty-four hours in which to make arrangements. First he spoke quietly to his family. He explained that they would have to go away for a while. His eldest son asked if this was the promised trip to Singapore, but he told him no: this one would be a surprise and, since they would be away for quite some time, each should take along their favourite possessions. They would be travelling in the small plane, he pointed out, so each person was allowed just one bag. With his wife he was more blunt: only her jewellery and best garments should be packed.

He then gave the Arawacs a special task. He sent them about the house, collecting valuables, silver, paintings, sculptures, and carefully placing them inside three large trunks. These, he explained, they were to take away and hide in their village. They should leave immediately the plane departed and stay home until he sent for them in a few months’ time. Morales gave them $50,000 in Colombian currency, to take care of their needs until his return. Of all the people in his employ, Tupac and Amaya
alone
enjoyed his trust. He then took Tupac for a brief stroll around the garden, ensuring no one else could hear their conversation. In a month or so, when the dust had settled, Tupac was to find Mayor Romualdes and kill him. On his own, without witnesses, preferably when it was dark. A knife would be adequate, and, if the circumstances allowed, Tupac was to let the Mayor know why he was about to die.

The Indian understood and asked no questions.

For himself, Morales did not need much. A few clothes, his gold Rolex, the cash he kept at home. After paying Speer, he was left with $300,000, which he stuffed into a rucksack. There was also a handsome sum in pesos, most of which he would send to De la Cruz. The lawyer would be instructed to protect Villa del Carmen, fight in the courts as necessary, resist all attempts to have it confiscated. Morales was convinced that the Cali cartels were their own worst enemies. Their demise was a matter of time. Maybe the drug business would move away from Colombia altogether, to Peru or north-west Brazil. Already minor dealers were operating there and Morales had started to explore similar alternatives. One thing he knew for sure: so long as the American public demanded the produce, someone, somewhere, would continue to supply it.

By late afternoon Morales had heard from Speer. All the drug baron’s assets were now under the Costa Rican lawyer’s control, a total current value in excess of 70 million. A further 6.8 million had presented a small problem. Salazar would not hand that over for thirty days, and even then he would deduct his 10 per cent. Speer felt it had been best to go along with the Laundry Man and avoid at all costs any confrontation that might have hindered the transfer of the bulk of the portfolio. So far, events had proved him right. Morales had not been happy about
parting
with $680,000 in commissions, but if the Laundry Man’s operation was compromised, it was best to cut clean from it at once.

Speer had often urged the Colombian to remove his investments from the United States, but Morales, like most South Americans, always looked north for long-term financial security. He understood American dollars and saw the States, with its mixture of prosperity and raw opportunity, as a more advanced and better managed version of the continent’s southern half. Europe frightened him. He understood few of their customs and hardly any of their tongues. But in the end Speer had been right. The Americans had already cost him half his fortune, and the time had come to move the rest to safer pastures. He would stay in South America for a prudent period, after which Spain would be a good choice: familiar language, food, traditions, and the fact that, when it came to dealing with officialdom, everything was reasonably corrupt. Morales had been there previously and remembered thinking at the time that Marbella or its environs would be a nice place in which to buy a property. So he gave Speer the go-ahead to sell everything and move the cash to Europe.

The Shrike Commander that had flown Speer to Aruba was now back in Morales’ drug-run strip. It was being checked and refuelled for its impending trip to Panama. That left Morales with one matter to take care of: Robles. At a tag of $50 million, he was not about to delegate the task. The man the drug baron held responsible for his unwelcome circumstances deserved his personal attention.

At half-past five, Morales took the jeep and drove up to the camp. Tupac was to drive the pick-up, with the trunks; Amaya the Nissan Patrol, with the family. The Arawac Indians were told to be at the landing strip by
eight
, wait until the plane had gone, then drive on until they reached their village.

All appeared normal as Morales reached the plant. Like workers in a mill, they were cleaning up and taking stock of the day’s work, except that this white powder was ten thousand times more valuable than flour or sugar. They looked guardedly in their boss’s direction and redoubled their efforts to look busy. Those he passed close to greeted him politely, those who wore hats raised them deferentially. None was surprised when he went straight to the large hut. They knew that the previous night the Arawacs had brought a man there – fortunately, this time, not one of them. His identity did not concern the workforce, and foolish would be the man who asked.

Morales entered the shed and looked at the prostrate figure. He made a sorry sight. Morales picked up a large bush knife and leaned down close to Robles’ head.

‘Can you hear me?’ he asked unemotionally, and when the man nodded, he put the blade close to his neck, then slowly started moving the knife back and forth in a sawing motion. One by one the strands of rope were cut. Freed from the restraining post, the DEA agent let out a loud sigh and stretched out on the ground.

‘You know, of course, I’m going to kill you?’ asked Morales sedately.

Robles looked up at his captor and nodded.

‘Then make it easy on yourself. Tell me a few things I’d like to know.’

Robles remained silent.

‘You work for the Americans?’

‘I
am
American,’ replied Robles. ‘One day, you’ll look back upon my murder as your most stupid mistake. My people care for their own.’

‘Who would they be? Your people?’

‘United States Department of Justice.’

Morales made a derisive sound.

‘Just get on with it, you bastard,’ said Robles wearily. ‘You’ll get your dues soon enough.’

‘What I want to know is how you found out about my bank arrangements. Who told you?’

‘Half of Medellin knows. They all call your bank asking questions,’ Julio half-lied. ‘I just asked the questions a bit better than the rest.’ He did not wish to mention Romualdes whilst there was still hope that he had done as expected. If so, it might well be too late to save Julio, but not too late to destroy Morales for ever.