The Clayton Account (7 page)

‘I am pleased to tell you, Mr Clayton,’ said Ackermann opening the meeting affably, ‘that we have been able to complete all our procedures within the short period which you requested.’ He said it as if congratulations were in order, but Clayton just smiled and nodded.

‘I would assume from the instructions you gave us yesterday,’ he continued, looking up his notes so as to preempt any challenge, ‘that you will not be wishing to retain your father’s account number, but rather’ – he opened two new files and passed them over to Clayton – ‘to have two new accounts established as of now.’

He means my grandfather’s account number, thought Clayton, but remained silent in deference to his Second Rule of Banking:
If you are told something you do not know, keep quiet, pretend you know and carry on listening
.

He nodded at Ackermann and turned his attention to the files. They were standard account-opening forms, though very different from those presented by American banks: fewer questions, more instructions.

Clayton took out his pen and started signing. The current account, in US dollars as requested. He signed four times and Alicona nodded approvingly. It made things simpler, dealing with a fellow banker. Tom then turned to the deposit account, and added another four signatures.

‘You stated yesterday,’ Ackermann read from his notes again, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice, ‘that you would be requiring 10 per cent right away. Are we to put this into your new current account, perhaps?’

‘If you could give me the exact balance as of today, Mr Ackermann?’ Tom hoped no nervousness showed in
his
voice.

‘Forty-two million, eight hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars,’ replied the Swiss banker punctiliously. ‘Plus accrued interest, of course, which will be credited …’ – he looked at the calendar on the desk – ‘tomorrow, in fact. That will be $124,909 for the current month.’

Clayton’s left arm started shaking involuntarily and he quickly feigned a pain in his left knee, dropping the rogue arm towards it and rubbing it to hide the tremor. ‘An old sports injury,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘Troubles me sometimes in winter.’

He too was used to big figures. Forty million, four hundred million. They were amounts he discussed regularly in the course of his job. Stay calm, Thomas, he told himself. Think: other people’s money, telephone numbers, just another deal.

‘About 10 per cent, yes. To be precise’ – he paused to take the speculative sheet from his case while Alicona made notes – ‘I would like you to transfer five million dollars to the order of Taurus AG, care of my bank in London.’ He passed the account details to Alicona. ‘There is to be no reference to the source of this transfer.’ Then, turning to Ackermann: ‘That leaves thirty-seven point eight-two-six.’ The figures rolled off his tongue easily now. ‘What is your best rate for thirty-seven million dollars, ninety days?’

‘In view of your family’s long association with the United Credit Bank, Mr Clayton, I am authorized to offer four and one quarter. Fiduciary deposits, of course.’

‘Thank you, that is acceptable,’ replied Clayton with a smile, knowing that was well above anything his own bank would offer. ‘Please give the transaction tomorrow’s value date. You can add the one-twenty-five interest to the remaining eight-two-six …’ – he paused briefly to make the mental calculation – ‘… making that a total of $950,909 to go into my current account.’

Alicona nodded agreement, looking up from his calculator.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Tom, to end the matter. ‘I shall expect to see five million dollars in the London account.’

‘Naturally,’ replied Ackermann, hugely pleased with himself.

They agreed that interest would be credited to Tom’s current account, that statements would be sent to his home address in London and that his wife would be given power of attorney over both accounts – Tom took the forms for her to sign – so that she could access them without formality in the event that Tom Clayton should be unavailable.

As he stood to leave, Tom’s legs started to feel wobbly and he blamed his left knee again. Walking out into the sunlight, he quickly crossed Paradeplatz and rushed into the Savoy Hotel. Finding the bar, he ordered a large bourbon and gulped it down in one. He waited until his arm stopped shaking, paid with a fifty-franc note and walked out without waiting for the change. The bartender was nonplussed. Foreigners, he told himself, were strange. What bliss to be Swiss.

Within the hour Tom Clayton boarded a British Airways flight to Heathrow. On his way to Zurich airport he considered calling Langland to tell him the good news – but decided against it.

‘Let him stew for another day,’ he told himself. ‘After all, he now owes me two and a half million bucks.’

3

DICK SWEENEY GOT
back to New York on Sunday afternoon after a most frightening journey.

His flight had left San José the previous day in beautiful conditions but an hour later, over northern Florida, the turbulence had started. Strong winds from the Atlantic, the captain said, asking passengers to fasten their seat belts and the cabin crew to take their seats. As they descended from their 37,000-foot cruise and entered the clouds, the shaking and jolting became worse. In a few minutes the brilliant sunshine was replaced by the deep darkness of dense stratocumulus, broken only by eerie lightning flashes, sometimes several in succession and no thunder, just the monotone hum of the engines.

By the time they reached Norfolk, Virginia, and in spite of the captain’s protestations, air traffic control had assigned them to 27,000 feet, where the turbulence became even more extreme. The cabin service manager addressed all passengers, asking them to keep their seats upright, seat belts tightly fastened and trays and video-screens retracted. Kennedy Airport had its problems too. The weather was
worse
than forecast, aircraft separations had to be increased, and Saturday evening traffic was now heavily stacked. Long-range flights with fuel reserves reaching marginal levels had to be given priority and 404 from Costa Rica could expect at least an hour’s delay. The captain weighed company money against passenger satisfaction and opted for a flight diversion.

Twenty minutes later they touched down smoothly at Baltimore-Washington International.

Sweeney felt sick.

He had eaten excessively while cruising in the sunshine, filled with a self-satisfied warmth, partly derived from some
premier cru
wines, without an inkling of the storm ahead. He had been thinking of his meeting with Speer. It was the first time the two had spoken face to face, but it had not taken Sweeney long to perceive that they both spoke the same language. Though Sweeney had practised law fourteen years longer than the Costa Rican – no more than their age difference – both had chosen the profession for their personal advancement and the opportunity to earn large sums of money, rather than out of concern for justice or morality. Reliant upon their legal expertise to protect them, they saw themselves as lawyers above the law.

Now Sweeney stood half dazed in an airport terminal that showed all the signs of delays: nowhere to sit, people milling aimlessly about and loud voices complaining to airline staff about their evident inability to combat Acts of God. He made for the telephones and waited his turn for a free booth. First he called his associate at home but got through to an answering service. He hung up and called his secretary instead, explained where he was, and gladly listened as she assured him that nothing had come up that wouldn’t keep until Monday. Relieved, Sweeney
went
back to the airline desk, showed his first-class ticket and demanded a room for the night, which was given without question: at the five-star Peabody Court, free of charge, with a complimentary limousine in both directions.

He tipped the bellboy five dollars and left his suitcase untouched where the young man had placed it. Removing his clothes, he flung them carelessly over an armchair while he debated between a shower and bed. Then he caught sight of the minibar, and went over to inspect its contents. He took out the only two Chivas miniatures and considered ringing room service for a proper bottle but, deciding even that was too much effort, he picked up two Jack Daniel’s and placed all four bottles on the bedside table. Pulling back the covers, he piled four pillows against the headboard and threw himself gratefully onto the king-size bed.

He unscrewed the top of the first bottle and drank, not bothering with a glass, before returning to his reflections on the matter of Tom Clayton.

Dick Sweeney was deeply concerned. When Joe Salazar had asked for a meeting the previous Wednesday, the lawyer’s first thought had been of another fat fee. On his way to his client’s office – one always called on Salazar, not the other way round – he dismissed worries about who might be snooping. No doubt the Feds kept a round-the-clock watch on South Street, but even crooks were entitled to a lawyer. It was written in the Constitution and an unspoken truce of sorts existed. The government did not gun for the lawyers, and the lawyers went easy on injunctions.

As Salazar spoke, Sweeney felt relieved. He had always been uncomfortable about the Clayton account in Zurich
and
was delighted to learn that it was about to be closed once and for all. A few days earlier, after his lunch with Tom Clayton, Dick had a terrible premonition: Tom was nothing like his father and, given half an inkling, he would unearth the secret and all hell would break loose. Sweeney had voiced his fears to the Laundry Man guardedly, for, his own greed notwithstanding, the Clayton/Sweeney friendship went back a long way. He wished Tom no harm if it could be avoided. Perhaps he was being too cautious, Dick had told himself. How on earth could Tom even begin to know? Still, better to put a stop to even the most remote of possibilities. Besides, Dick was not entirely sure about Tom. Could he be bought? So Sweeney hinted ever so slightly, but Salazar stopped him dead.

‘What does he
know
?’ the Banker had demanded menacingly.

‘Nothing, Joe,’ Sweeney replied, half honestly. ‘You know I always disliked this arrangement. Circumstances demand that I point this out once more.’

Salazar nodded as if in agreement, but then warned: ‘Any problem, I ask Hector to sort it out.’

Sweeney definitely did not want to look over his shoulder at Perez. ‘No problem, Joe. Just close that damn account, that’s all.’

Salazar nodded pensively, then looked at Sweeney again, a plastic smile on his lower face, eyes still cold. He leaned back in his chair.

‘Matter of fact,’ he said soothingly, ‘I been thinking along the same lines. I told Tony to close the account.’

He told Sweeney about Speer’s visit to deliver Morales’ instructions and how that very day Tony had written to United Credit Bank. Since the funds would soon be available, Salazar suggested that Sweeney should fly to San José that afternoon and work out details with Speer. Dick
agreed
. He would have to juggle one or two appointments, but the thought of finally severing all ties between the Claytons and the Salazars appealed to him enormously. He liked Tom and Tessa and, this way, in future Dick would feel free to see them more often. Last but not least, Sweeney stood to make at least a quarter of a million in fees.

Now, in his hotel room in Baltimore, Sweeney’s stomach stopped flying of its own accord. He got up and made for the shower, twisting the top off the second whisky bottle. The steaming hot water revived his mind and body. Four days earlier Sweeney had told himself this was going to be not just profitable but fun. He had enjoyed Costa Rica from the outset. He had previously imagined heat and dust, straw hats and burros, surrounded by hovels with the odd fenced-in Beverly Hills clone for the privileged few. Instead he had been pleasantly surprised.

Speer had been wearing a suit when he had collected Sweeney from the airport. He drove a Land Rover, not the black air-conditioned saloon Sweeney had anticipated. San José looked healthy and the streets were clean, the moderate temperature encouraging flowers and lavish vegetation.

Sweeney and Speer had spoken on the telephone before, but this was their first meeting. From the accented but grammatically perfect voice, Dick imagined a dark Latin, but the man who approached him, as he searched for the stereotype in the airport, was fair and tall, his manner and deportment refreshingly civil.

They drove the ten kilometres to Speer’s house, making light conversation, starting with the usual small talk about the trip and the mandatory question: ‘Your first time in Costa Rica?’

Sensing, as natives always did, a visitor’s first impressions were good, Speer spoke about the country, about its coffee and flower industries, about its peaceful history compared with the region as a whole, and of the quality of life that, in Speer’s view at least, was unsurpassable. It appealed to Speer the German, of course, because, unusually for the region, almost all its population was white. And unlike every other country in the American isthmus, Costa Rica had no army, which perhaps explained fifty years of democracy – while its neighbours, with their revolutions, tore themselves apart.

‘Speer?’ Sweeney said, warming to the man and venturing a personal question. ‘German? Dutch?’

‘My people came from Germany. I’m Costa Rican,’ he replied firmly.

‘Well, my people came from Ireland,’ responded Sweeney quickly, ‘but, for my sins, I’m American.’

Speer laughed and cast him a sideways glance. He too felt they could work together. In their line of business, such repartee was not essential, but it made life easier. After all, they were supposed to be on the same side.

They agreed not to talk much business that evening. They touched on the matter at hand briefly, as they walked around Speer’s property, Sweeney admiring the gardens, L-shaped swimming pool and the beautiful single-storey house with its four-sided veranda. Sensing a kindred spirit, Speer took Sweeney to dinner at San José’s finest restaurant and then to the sort of night club where they served only champagne. The drinks, however, were mainly for the girls. Both men nursed one glass all evening as they continued to gauge each other, aware of the work that lay ahead. At midnight they went back to the house, girls in tow, and frolicked to their heart’s content, Sweeney noting that even the hookers were nice in Costa Rica. Perhaps it
was
spending a night in such sumptuous surroundings, or Enrique’s undoubted generosity. In any event, they appeared to lack the mercenary instinct that Sweeney was more familiar with: at no time did any of them check the clock. They made a welcome change from his frigid wife.