The Clayton Account by Bill Vidal Read Free Book Online Page A

town. The hospital and the schools would need to be sited centrally, the housing required more space. Morales had suggested three residential subdivisions: two to the east, along the road to Bogotá, and one to the north, just inside the city limits, on the road to Cartagena. Romualdes, still under the influence of his emotions, suggested that the city might donate the land, but the lawyer advised against it: such actions could be questioned in Congress. There were senators in Bogotá with sufficient courage left to present bills reversing such transactions. Years ago Morales would simply have had them killed – indeed he had resorted to such measures more than once, at first leaving an intangible calling card, later blaming FARC guerrillas. But now, with the Americans in up to their necks in Colombia, it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, that behaviour belonged to another era, when Morales worked for other people, short-sighted fools who lived and died by a different set of rules.
    ‘I shall
expropriate
the land!’ proclaimed the Mayor, with more bravado than thought.
    ‘No, Miguel. We shall
pay
for the land,’ said Morales magnanimously . ‘But what this city can do – and here is where you can help – is to provide the services. Water, electricity, roads.’ He banged his fist on the table and stared at the Mayor. ‘These we must have. I’m not building the hovels of tomorrow!’
    Romualdes felt uncomfortable. Donating land was easier. It belonged to the state, so it cost nothing to him personally, or to his city’s budget, to give it away. But laying down services was something else. Contractors needed to be
paid
. Where would the money come from? He was already overspent for fiscal ’98, and dipping heavily into ’99, bridging shortfalls with commercial loans.
    Morales read his mind. ‘I shall help you,’ he said, to the Mayor’s intense relief.
    When the time came, Morales would let it be known. Friendly newspapers would lend a hand. Collections would be taken. From businesses, in churches, from the people in the street. The money would be found to give the poor people heat, light and water. And contractors would be told that the Morales Foundation was underwriting the project.
    ‘It will be done at cost,’ he said, glancing meaningfully at the Mayor. ‘And in this instance, none of the public works will be subject to “commissions”.’
    So they turned to the map once more to determine the exact areas in question. It was also agreed that De la Cruz, using names or vehicles of his choosing, would make the purchases and transfer them to the Foundation. The prices offered would be fair.
    ‘One more thing,’ said Morales. ‘The three residential sites we have chosen are currently worth little. Five hundred bucks a hectare, tops. The city sites, well, they have more value, but the prices offered must reflect these uncertain times.’
    He paused, then stood up, staring at Romualdes, ‘Only the three of us know about this.’ He looked deliberately in all directions, to drive his point home, then stared at his visitors in turn, inviting them to dare deny his words. ‘So, if the price of land in Medellín rises as much as one peso between now and the time we have completed our acquisitions, it can only mean that one of us three opened his mouth. Given what’s at stake, I’d be very, very angry. Are we all clear?’
    After leaving UCB, Tom Clayton had gone to his bank’s office. There he spoke to analysts and tried to gauge what they thought of sterling. At one-thirty he left for lunch with an evidently anxious Jeff Langland.
    Tom chose a quiet restaurant away from the business district. A good choice since, predictably, the lunch had not gone well. Langland’s Ivy League style of dress was unchanged, but he looked haggard, stressed. He had even started smoking again and bore little resemblance to the old Langland renowned throughout Cambridge for his Nordic good looks.
    ‘We’re done, Tom.’