The Clayton Account (36 page)

Tavelli quickly established that there had been only nine flights into the States from Costa Rica since Monday: three to JFK and six into Miami. He considered all the possible connections – through Panama, Jamaica, the Bahamas – but still the same two entry points came up. He contacted Immigration at both airports and got their agreement to search all cards in their possession – which, of course, as Tavelli accepted, would ‘require considerable time’.

As it happened, the considerable time would be wasted time.

* * *

Speer had never remained in America longer than twenty-four hours in the past. Just for good measure, if he was forced to remain in the city overnight, he would always sign his name in hotel registers as ‘H. Gunther Speer’ and never stayed at the same place twice.

In this particular instance he had broken one of his rules, but the need to arrange control of $70 million would detain him until Friday. Managing Morales’ wealth should yield Speer personally at least five million a year and if he then picked up a few more clients of that magnitude – he had a good list of possibles across South America – Speer would be able to amass a fortune in a relatively short time.

As the DEA widened their search for one Costa Rican Enrique Speer, H.G. Speer, a German citizen, checked out of his mid-town hotel and walked to Grand Central Station. Two consecutive nights in New York was too long for comfort, especially if Salazar & Co were compromised in any way. Should that be the case, a watch on visitors to South Street was a distinct possibility and Speer was not about to take any chances. He was confident he was not being followed but all the same had no wish to compromise his Aruba run. He paid in cash for his New York-to-Washington railway ticket and from the US capital flew directly to Frankfurt on Lufthansa. He judged this a good time for a word with Dresdner Bank. The airline had not yet received the DEA request to look out for a specific passenger. Even if they had, it would have asked them to look for an Enrique Speer on a Costa Rican passport, not a Herr Gunther Speer, citizen of the Bundesrepublik. Speer, after all, was not an uncommon name in Germany.

By the time the lawyer was an hour into his fight, he ceased to be a top priority with the drug enforcers in Miami. The news of mayhem near Medellín had broken
out
through the news wires. As there was no word of Julio Cardenas, Tavelli conferred with his colleagues and called Red Harper once again. The unit’s head ordered one of his men to Medellín straight away. No covert stuff this time. He was to go there as a DEA representative wanting first-hand information on what had happened to Morales and to investigate what had become of their own man.

Red Harper himself would fly back to Miami that night.

In Bogotá the Mayor of Medellín held a press conference. He sat on his bed in a private clinic, having postponed by a few hours the urgent surgery required on his left hand. He made everyone aware of this but remarked that even though he had been in tremendous pain over the past thirty-six hours, he could not possibly subject himself to a general anaesthetic until his obligations to his people had been properly discharged.

The Colombian nation was no doubt familiar with the agony and misery that some of its provinces had been forced to endure as a consequence of the international trade in drugs. Few, he said, could be more aware of these problems than himself. As Mayor of Colombia’s former drug capital he had seen and lived through the worst, but had worked patiently and unflinchingly in the knowledge that, in the end, men and women of decency would prevail.

With the demise of Carlos Alberto Morales, Medellín could now be said to be totally drug-free. And other cities, he added, smiling, and without mentioning any names, might seek to follow his example.

But, he pronounced gravely, the problems that had given rise to the drug barons had by no means gone away. There were still poverty, poor housing, inadequate medical facilities and a shortage of good schools.

‘I can now tell you,’ he added looking at the cameras,
‘that
working quietly with a lawyer and fellow Antioquian, I have through private sources acquired land to remedy these shortfalls.’ All funding had been raised locally without a single penny from the state.

He waited for effect until they had all taken in his words. Then he went on:

‘Now the time has come for Congress to do its part. The plans are drawn, the contractors are available and the land, as I have already said, is bought and paid for.’ His voice took on the ring of an impassioned plea from a man valiantly enduring physical pain:

‘Give us the means to complete the task. We are not asking for much – 120 billion pesos will finish the job. What is that – 50 million dollars – to the national budget? A mere pittance when the people of Medellín, with their sacrifices, have shown the rest of us the way!

‘We now return to you, the people of Colombia, a city that was once a jewel and shall be so once again. One and a half million hardworking, honest citizens, free of serious crime and waiting to return to our traditional activities: industry, agriculture, and world-leader in the international coffee trade.

‘I now go to face my surgeon with joy and a clear conscience. If there should be a Congressman in Colombia who will deny us this deserved support, let him speak up and be counted now. Otherwise, when I return to Medellín after a brief convalescence, I shall instruct our builders to get on with the task.’

It was a magnificent performance and it was received accordingly. Romualdes’ plea featured in the national television news and was given prominence in the morning papers. Sufficient Congressmen and Senators thought it a good platform for their own personal exposure and gave the budget allocation their full support.

16

TOM AWOKE GRADUALLY
, dropping in and out of sleep several times, yet intuitively aware that he was in a hospital. Perhaps it was the sterile smell. He lay still on his stomach, distantly conscious of the persistent pain in his back, until the previous night’s events came to him – suddenly, and with shocking clarity.

He tried to move but found it difficult.

‘Caroline?’ He whispered her name through dry lips, sensing her presence in the room. He heard the rustling of a newspaper, the sound of someone standing up, then the squeaking of bed springs as she sat down and took his hand.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked softly.

Clayton felt the tension drain from him at the sound of her voice. ‘Fine. I feel fine,’ he replied, half meaning it. Then, with Caroline’s help, he rolled onto his side.

‘You don’t look it,’ she said lightly, examining the seven-stitch gash across her husband’s forehead and the swollen face around his broken nose.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked anxiously, noticing the bruises
on
her face. His last thought the previous evening had been a prayer that she would be alive. Now he was overwhelmed to see her smile.

Caroline filled in the gaps before Tom could ask her. How Salazar had made her take some pills, then not remembering anything after that. She had been brought to hospital by ambulance, but in the morning, the effects of the Valium having faded, she had been discharged.

‘The children?’ he asked.

‘At home, with Paula,’ she explained. ‘I went home earlier and saw them. They send their love.’

‘What time is it?’ Tom was puzzled. He had thought it was early morning.

‘It’s after ten, Friday night,’ she said. Then, in a lower voice, ‘What happened, Tom?’

He told her of the meeting with Sweeney and how at the last minute the lawyer had changed his mind. He recounted the events at Corston, told her it was the only way he knew of getting her back alive.

‘The police have been asking me questions,’ she said guardedly. ‘So I called Stuart. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘What did Stuart say?’ Tom tried to raise himself on one elbow but winced at the pain and fell back.

‘He advised me to tell them very little. Stick to the abduction and the motel. He said I was to call him as soon as you’re awake.’

‘Is Inspector Archer here?’

‘No. But there’s a policeman outside your door. He’s supposed to call Scotland Yard once you’re awake.’

Tom closed his eyes and pondered for a moment, feeling his wife’s hand reassuringly on his left arm. What was he to do next? He did not regret killing Tony Salazar – he would do it again without hesitation, given a similar situation. Clayton knew that he would have to face the police
next
, but surely they would accept that it had been self-defence. Wasn’t the law the same in England? There were two bullet holes in the wall at Corston Manor that might prove his point, not to mention the gash across his back. More worrying was Dick’s contention that the Salazars would stop at nothing. After this, Clayton was sure, they would do their utmost to have him killed. If he could be sure that returning 43 million would be the end of it, he would do so without hesitation. But the matter had got out of hand. Tom assumed he was confronting the sort of people who would stop at nothing to settle a grudge. And if they were not going to let it lie, then Tom had best hang on to all the money – it might help keep him alive.

Perhaps the thing to do was run. To Sumatra, or Bora Bora; some place where New York gangsters were least likely to be found. But Caroline would resist the idea of life in a very foreign land. Perhaps somewhere quiet among friends would be best; a rural environment, where a stranger would stand out. Once again he thought of Ireland, of the small, tightly knit communities he had often read about. As soon as he was released from hospital, Tom decided, he would take Caroline and the children to her parents. They would be out of harm’s way there while he sought out Uncle Sean in Donegal – if he was still alive. Sean was no stranger to violence. He might understand.

‘You’d better tell that constable I’m awake,’ he said, having made up his mind. ‘Then get hold of Stuart again. See if he can come round.’

‘Okay,’ she said. Then, ‘Tom?’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you have paid forty-three million dollars to get me back?’

‘Of course I would!’ he protested, shaken by the question.

‘Just kidding,’ she said warmly as she leaned to kiss him. When she stood up and walked to the door he smelt the perfume, like memories of a distant past.

Red Harper got only a few hours’ sleep the previous night. It had not taken the armed unit very long to establish they had Thomas Clayton instead of Antonio Salazar. Clayton had muttered the name of a motel followed by some rambling about his wife. In his possession they had found a key to room 26 and after taking the usual precautions, the police had kicked the door down. They found Caroline Clayton sound asleep and all tied up. She had a few recent bruises on her face but otherwise appeared unharmed. Chief Inspector Archer and his American colleague arrived half an hour later. By then a police doctor had examined Mrs Clayton and pronounced her fit, except for the effect of 30 milligrams of Valium, a dosage deduced from what remained in the bottle found on the bedside table.

Harper had insisted they try to wake her up, and they partially succeeded – sufficiently for her to refer to Corston Park, which of course meant nothing to them at the time. It was Archer’s idea to call Paula, the nanny, who immediately understood what Mrs Clayton was trying to say.

The Wiltshire police got there first. When Archer’s driver turned into the property, the house and grounds were buzzing with activity. The damaged Ford Mondeo still rested against the oak tree and the mansion was by then brightly lit. Activity concentrated in the former ballroom, where a forensic expert had already examined the remains of Antonio Salazar. He was not prepared to cite a definite cause of death; that would have to wait until the post-mortem. But unofficially, third-degree burns and smoke inhalation seemed a good bet.

The officer in charge showed the new arrivals the gun
and
the two bullet marks. Other items around the room – Coke bottle, crowbar, petrol in a mug – were noted, photographed and sent over to forensics.

Before setting off for London, Archer was able to confirm that both Mr and Mrs Clayton were at the Chelsea & Westminster on Fulham Road, where they would be kept overnight under police guard. Harper got back to the Britannia at ten past five in the morning. Before going to sleep he called Washington and spoke to his contact at the FBI, then asked the hotel operator to wake him at nine.

At ten on the dot he was collected by an enviably fresh-looking Archer, and together they drove over to the hospital. They found Clayton asleep, sedated following treatment of his wounds. Caroline had been awake since eight, demanding to see her husband and wanting to go home to her children.

Archer and Harper had questioned her for half an hour but learned little. She had never previously met or heard of Antonio Salazar. She described how she had been ordered at gunpoint into a car and then pushed into a motel room. She had no idea of the motel’s location but guessed it was near an airport – on account of frequent jet-engine noise. She was unable to offer any explanation as to why Salazar would wish to harm her or her husband, though she wondered if there could be some connection with Richard Sweeney’s presence in England. They really ought to wait, she suggested, until her husband regained consciousness.

The lawmen allowed Mrs Clayton to go home while they returned to Scotland Yard. They had settled down to coffee in Archer’s office when the first call from Miami came through. Tavelli thought he had a make on Speer – apparently he was in New York at the time. Harper’s deputy proposed some elementary police work to track him down.
Harper
told him to do his best, then conferred with Archer on the subject of Tom Clayton. They were both convinced the banker knew a lot more than he professed. Archer felt it best to step up the pressure.

‘Charge him with manslaughter, and let’s see how he reacts.’

‘And Sweeney?’ Harper asked.

‘Accessory to a kidnapping. That should keep him here for a while.’

They spent the next few hours trying to consolidate what they had. Harper called the FBI and asked Aaron Cole to pay Salazars a visit. West End Central called late in the afternoon and advised the Chief Inspector that an expensive solicitor was in conference with Richard Sweeney. At seven, both men had supper along Victoria Street before returning to the Yard to call the hospital and enquire about Tom Clayton.