The Clayton Account (40 page)

‘I bring condolences from Donegal, sir,’ he said in the distinctive lilt of West Belfast. ‘And a message from Commander Sean.’

‘Sean sent you?’ Eamon asked, raising his head, all of a sudden looking at the boy with interest. ‘How is he? How is his family?’

‘They are all well, sir. Thanks be to God.’

‘Your name, son?’

‘Riordan Murphy, sir, from –’

‘And the message?’

The young man told him.

Sweeney listened carefully, for even at his advanced age he still possessed the most alert of minds. Then the sadness returned to him and when he spoke his voice conveyed his sorrow:

‘Tell Sean I thank him, from the bottom of my heart. You’ll do that now, will you not, Rory?’

‘I shall, sir.’

‘But also tell him that I’ll not risk any part of my organization to further a personal vendetta.’

‘Ah now, you see, this is not personal, chief,’ Murphy declared calmly. ‘It’s for the Cause.’ And he explained why.

The years peeled away from Eamon Sweeney as if by magic. He smiled and sat upright. ‘Rory Murphy, you’ll do two things for me,’ he said with new-found vigour. ‘First you’ll open that cupboard over there and pour me a large whiskey. Then go out there,’ he nodded towards the drawing room, ‘and find Daniel O’Donnell amongst the mourners. Bring him to me.’

As Murphy left, Eamon Sweeney brought the liquor close to his nose, inhaled deeply, then raised the glass silently towards the ceiling before downing the Jameson in one gulp. As an EireAid founder member, and its treasurer to this day, Sweeney’s main concern had been finance. The war back home was, like all wars, extremely expensive. Guns, ammunition and explosives had never been hard to find, but they needed to be paid for, and the east coast of America had always been fertile ground. Volunteers with collection boxes did the rounds on streets and in bars – a million dollars on Saint Patrick’s Day was not unusual. Others, with better connections, called upon their friends. The millions flowed, from America to Ireland in most cases, and more deviously in the case of less overt funds: to the numbered bank accounts, to pay the Czechs for Semtex and unscrupulous shady dealers for the guns. Sweeney controlled that side. He also procured false travel documents and, most secretly of all, he commanded the small and deadly nucleus that made up the North American military arm. Sometimes, when money was badly needed, that group would hold up a security van or rob a small bank. Other times, if
instructed
to do so, they would carry out an execution. These simple-minded assassins sought no reward other than a secret recognition and morbid pride in having served when they were called. They were never linked with EireAid.

That would have been tragic for the patriot organization and its high profile in America. If any of them were ever caught, they would accept being branded common criminals and quietly take the fall. Meanwhile they asked no questions and always did precisely as they were told.

Dan O’Donnell drove along Northern Avenue to Fisher Pier and parked the car, then crossed the road and walked into the Friday evening bustle of Jimmy’s Harborside. The men he was to meet with were already there. He could see Mara’s red hair by the boat-shaped bar. O’Donnell pushed through the crowd and greeted them effusively, like old friends, then joined them over a beer and made light conversation. Andy Mara was a pipe-fitter from Rockport. His family had come over from the shores of Galway Bay and eventually settled where they could see the ocean at Cape Ann. Andy had grown up in northern Massachusetts and now, just turning thirty, had set up home, close to his birthplace, with his wife and their first child. He was a big man, tall, with massive hands. A committed member of his union, Andy’s pay was high enough to guarantee a comfortable life.

His companion, Eddie Brophy, was a few years older and, though slightly smaller, still a strong-looking man. He owned a bar in Quincy, south of Boston, and came across as a quiet, enigmatic sort of individual.

Though neither had ever been to Ireland, both had been reared in households that might have been part of the Isle. O’Donnell and Brophy wore grey suits and today could
have
been executives relaxing at the end of a week downtown. Mara’s clothes were slightly more casual, but in deference to Jimmy’s dress code he had put on a green tie. They found a table towards the back of the main room and sat down to three clam chowders.

Then O’Donnell detailed their task.

Mara and Brophy listened carefully and accepted their orders. On Thursday morning they drove into Boston and took the T to Riverside. They found the green Chevrolet in the car park, just where O’Donnell had said it would be, and set off along the Interstate for the 200-mile drive south. On the way, with Brophy driving, Mara studied the maps and plans they had found in the glove compartment together with a detailed description of the opposition they might meet.

They reached Manhattan through the Midtown Tunnel, then followed the East River along Roosevelt Drive. From the western end of Brooklyn Bridge they looked for the car park where they would receive the final go-ahead. The man waiting for them had spent the morning monitoring the address on South Street and was able to confirm that the parties were all there. Then he took his seat behind the wheel and watched the Boston comrades walk round the back.

Brophy and Mara opened the trunk and removed the weapons. Each took a machine pistol and a silenced handgun, which they put inside their briefcases, plus several spare clips of ammunition which they spread around their pockets. Then, like two businessmen from nearby Wall Street, they set off on foot towards number 5.

Across the street the DEA men saw them through the one-way windows of their parked van. They took their pictures and called their colleagues in the next-door office block.

‘Two unknown white males going up, Red,’ the radio man told Harper, who just nodded and shrugged.

‘Got the photos?’ asked Harper.

‘Yeah.’

‘Let’s hear what our friend at reception has to say.’

The radio man clicked extension 101 on his selector and turned up the speaker. They heard Fernandez pick up the telephone and say he would have to ask Mr Salazar, then a sound that at first they did not recognize. A dull thud, followed by a deep groan from the receptionist.

Mara had shot him through the heart with one 9mm bullet from his silenced Browning. Before the uniformed guard reacted, Brophy put two rounds in his head. Mara locked the front door and both men ran along the corridor. Brophy burst into the open-plan office and ordered everyone to their feet, pointing at Salazar’s people with a gun in each hand. A typist screamed but most people stood still. One imprudent man, at the back of the room, reached for a telephone and Brophy fired one shot into his chest.

‘
Quiet!
’ he ordered, then calmly directed them to lie spreadeagled on the floor. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he said. ‘Stay down and live. One of you interferes, all of you die.’ Then he continued down the corridor.

‘They are shooting it out in there!’ one of the agents said to Harper. ‘Let’s dive in, Red!’ The rest of the government agents started drawing their guns.

‘No,’ said Harper thoughtfully. ‘Call the cops. Anonymously.’

‘Christ, Red, they’ll take at least ten minutes!’

‘That’s right,’ said Harper, to end the conversation.

In the chief accountant’s office, Rios was talking to two men. They looked up angrily as their door opened without warning, but before they understood what was happening Mara shot them all with the Browning.

Next door, in Tony Salazar’s former office, Hector Perez heard the sounds. He had been sitting there alone, looking at the papers given to him by Joe Salazar. An Argentine passport with Perez’s photo fixed above the previous owner’s name, a map of London, where to stay and where to find Tom Clayton. Argie passports were good for this sort of thing, they required no visas anywhere in Europe – fewer records left behind.

Perez dived into the bathroom just in time to miss Brophy opening the office door and peering inside. Perez stood still and cursed silently; he had no gun on him. Clearly the intruders were moving towards Joe Salazar’s office at the rear. Perez picked up the phone and called the Banker.

‘Lock your door, boss,’ he said urgently. ‘We’re being hit!’

The Banker ran for his office door and turned the key, then returned quickly to the computer on his desk and hotkeyed a ‘destroy’ command. He heard the hard-disk whirring and watched the light winking. In seconds there would be no record of where anything was or who owned what. Once the raid was over he would rebuild the files from a copy disk in a phantom-owned safe deposit box downtown.

Then came the thumping at the door.

‘Mr Salazar? FBI!’ shouted Brophy.

Perez heard them and decided that at all costs he must get a gun. He peered into the accounts office and saw the carnage. Whoever these people were, they were certainly not FBI. In reception he saw the two dead guards. He took Fernandez’s handgun from his desk drawer and started running back. It was too late. Hector heard the machine pistol blow the locks away, then the three unmistakable dry thuds. He dived back into Tony’s office and waited
until
he heard the intruders run past. Then he stepped into the corridor behind his boss’s killers, holding the gun in both hands. The first shot got Brophy in the back of the skull, exploding it like a water melon. Even before Brophy’s inert body dropped out of the way, Mara turned, firing his automatic, but Hector had crouched low in anticipation and let loose three more rounds.

Mara did not die instantly. He went down slowly, backwards, spraying the ceiling with bullets.

Perez did not lose time going to look at Salazar: these two would not have run for it if their job was still undone. He wiped the handgun clean with his silk handkerchief and dropped it on the floor. Then he walked calmly out of the office, up the service stairs and on to the flat roof. He jumped the small parapet to the next-door building, and on to the next one after that, then down the fire escape to the third floor, where he caught the elevator to street level. After checking that his clothes were tidy and unstained, he strolled out to Fulton Street. He would take the Underground to Canal Street, then pick up his things from his simple home.

From there, he would hop on a Greyhound to Miami, steal a boat and make for Cuba. Hector had saved over $100,000 over the years. These days well-off non-political Cubans were encouraged to come back. Hector Perez would buy a little house on the beach at Siboney and find himself a juicy mulatta. Then he would relax, enjoy the rum and the fishing, and take life easy in the sunshine until something came along. Meanwhile, he would at least be safe from Uncle Sam.

And in a month or two, once the New York business had blown cold, he would do one last thing – in memory of a good boss. He would go to London, at his own expense, find Thomas Clayton, and kill him.

* * *

Tupac went to Medellín exactly one month after the Villa del Carmen massacre. He had never heard from Morales again. Perhaps he had been killed, but according to the press they had never found the body. One of the elders in Tupac’s village had bought a national paper every day and read it to him. They reported that Morales had died on the river bank – the Arawac knew the place, just over the hill from the main camp. Perhaps the body had fallen in the Porce, which itself flowed into the Cauca. If so, it would have continued on the river’s downward dash, from the 5,000-foot-high Cauca Valley, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

But alive or dead, Morales had given him an order. Arawac honour was at stake. For three days he watched the Mayor of Medellín. Tupac had found a bed in the poorer quarter of the city and each morning he journeyed to the centre of town. He would sit on the steps of Villanueva Cathedral, overlooking Bolívar Park. From there he could keep a constant eye on Romualdes’ comings and goings. He was prepared to wait as long as necessary for his chance. Time had little meaning in Arawac culture. They had been fine warriors through the centuries; they had known the Kings of the Sun. Posing as a beggar amongst many, he would not attract attention. Indeed, most people passing him looked the other way.

On the fourth day, much sooner than Tupac had anticipated, Romualdes played right into his lap. The Indian saw him leave the town hall on foot, in the early afternoon, then cross the square and turn into a narrow street. He followed him at a safe distance. White men were not normally that good at telling one Indian face from another, but given the circumstances in which the Mayor had last met the Arawac, perhaps it was prudent to stay back.

Romualdes entered a quiet apartment building – just
three
storeys high, perhaps a total of six flats – and disappeared up the stairs. Tupac examined the entrance hallway, concluding it would do just fine. He waited there nearly two hours until he heard the Mayor’s voice saying goodbye to a woman named Alicia. The apartment door closed and sluggish footsteps could be heard descending. Tupac pressed himself against the wall, left of the stairwell, then as the unsuspecting Mayor walked past him he pulled out his knife.

Wasting no time, he hooked his right arm round Romualdes’ fat chin and, with a knee pressing on the mayor’s lower back, brought him easily to the ground. Tupac held the razor-sharp blade against his prey’s neck and delivered the message as instructed.

‘From Don Carlos Alberto Morales,’ were Tupac’s only words. Then in one deliberate slicing motion he cut deep through the carotid artery and quickly stood back. Blood gushed out three feet along the hallway as the life ebbed away in seconds from Medellín’s illustrious son.

Tupac cleaned his knife on the dying Mayor’s jacket, then walked calmly into the street with complete peace of mind.

For the next two months the DEA ran what appeared, on the surface, to be a low-key investigation. They were in effect cashing in on Cardenas’ work. Julio, as Nieves, laboured diligently on his route planning, gradually earning Noriega’s trust. Harper’s opposite number, in command of the Cali operation, had been somewhat hostile to begin with, but even if the Administrator himself had not ordered him to work with Red, he had to agree that having a DEA man in charge of a cocaine producer’s exports went beyond the Department’s wildest dreams.