The Clayton Account by Bill Vidal Read Free Book Online

collecting Clayton’s card and adding:
    ‘May we contact you at your bank?’
    ‘Mr Ackermann,’ said Clayton firmly, staring hard at the Swiss banker, ‘we are both busy men. I have some business to attend to in Zurich, but I confess I had allowed time to return to you this afternoon and conclude this matter. However,’ he added, raising his left palm to stop Ackermann from protesting, ‘given the time difference between Zurich and New York, I expect that by the time you have answers to your enquiries from the States, this bank will be closed. So I shall remain in Zurich overnight and await your call in the morning. You may reach me at the Baur au Lac. Then I shall come in, sign whatever is necessary, and go home.’
    ‘We shall do all in our power, Mr Clayton,’ conceded Ackermann. Then, to restore his authority in front of Alicona, he added: ‘
If
the account exists.’
    ‘That, it does, for sure. Look,’ Tom said conciliatorily, ‘as one banker to another: none of us likes losing a deposit. But I said it before and I say it again: most of the money will stay with you. Ten per cent or so you will remit to England. But I shall look upon your endeavours, over the next twenty-four hours, as an indication of the service my family and I can expect from your bank in future. Please do not let me down.’
    ‘We shall do our very best. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr Clayton, I shall start my work straight away. Mr Alicona will accompany you out.’
    * * *
    Morales sat at the head of his dining-room table. Spread out on it was a map of Medellín. He turned it round to face Miguel Romualdes and pushed it in the latter’s direction. The three men present had been in conference for nearly four hours, and though the dining-room’s double doors were open, Morales had told everyone – his family, servants, bodyguards – to go outside, take some fresh air. This conversation was for three pairs of ears only.
    Romualdes he disliked, but the man was useful. He was the Mayor of Medellín, a fat middle-aged politico, who earned an official salary of one thousand dollars a month but managed another five thousand from public-works kickbacks and a retainer from Morales. He wore a crumpled suit over an open shirt; the folds of fat below his chin meant ties were out of the question. The other man was Aristides De la Cruz, Morales’ lawyer – thorough, dependable, bright. A self-made man who once could have reached the top in Bogotá, now in his late forties with a large family, he was resigned to Medellín and grateful to have such a client as Carlos Alberto Morales. In contrast to the Mayor’s, De la Cruz’s suit was well pressed and emphasized his fit, wiry frame.
    The cocaine baron had summoned the two shortly after instructing Speer. De la Cruz would establish the Foundation; this would be done without delay. It would be a charity, dedicated only to the noblest of causes. Naturally, as the driving force behind its creation, Morales would be a trustee. So would De la Cruz and Romualdes. Later, they agreed, they would ask Monsignor Varela to become a trustee as well, for the Church would have an important role to play. De la Cruz had observed that legal, temporal and eternal power would thus all be represented. Morales liked the phrase. He could not, he said, have put it more succinctly himself. The leading objectives of the Foundation would be:
    ‘… to raise the poor and the unfortunate from their undeserved misfortune, assisting with their housing, health and education, so that they may live with dignity and become faithful servants of the Lord and the Republic of Colombia.’
    ‘You are a saint, Don Carlos!’ exclaimed the Mayor, a genuine tear emerging from his left eye, followed by a flood as it dawned on him that, as the fortuitous incumbent, he would probably remain in office for ever.
    Morales dismissed the show of emotion; it was time to get down to practicalities. Land was needed: good, dry, accessible land in