Free The Clayton Account by Bill Vidal Page A

whoever was at fault, and the host country would see a number of official-enriching projects suddenly targeted for budget cuts. So Julio just got on with his job – both his jobs – and took care.
    He left the Peruvian consul’s cocktail party before nine, having exchanged greetings and embraces with at least a quarter of the guests, then drove his car out of Medellín towards Cartagena. Two kilometres out of town, where the road turned sharply left and right, he checked his rear-view mirror, then brought the vehicle to a sudden stop. A small man in his thirties, simply dressed in peasant garb, stepped out from the bushes and into the car.
    ‘You have something for me, my friend?’ Julio enquired lightheartedly as they drove off.
    ‘I have something very good for you, Don Julio,’ replied the man guardedly, his weather-beaten face betraying his anxiety. ‘You will reward me, of course?’
    ‘Hey!’ interjected Robles. ‘You question my generosity?’
    The man shook his head, embarrassed. Everyone knew that the man from BID would give you fifty dollars – in greenbacks – for any information to do with land, especially land containing trees. And while there were relatively few trees on the land in question, trees were trees and stories could always be embellished. So he told him. Mayor Romualdes was buying up land in Medellín: the old Krugger lots in the town centre, and the telephone company’s derelict yard, which had been vacant for over a year.
    Robles shrugged. Interesting, but so what? Did he know what the land was for?
    ‘No,’ said the man, ‘but there’s more.’ There were three large tracts being bought as well. Two of them on the Bogotá road: ‘Lots of trees there. Used to be part of the Angelini
finca
. And the bit we just passed,’ he added, waving his arm in the direction of the city. ‘About ten hectares by the side of this road.’
    Julio nodded appreciatively and slowed the car down. He gazed into the darkness straight ahead, then checked the rear-view mirror once more. Taking advantage of a wide shoulder on both sides of the single carriageway, he turned the car right round and headed back towards town. His informer took the cue and looked at Robles expectantly.
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘
Qué?
’
    ‘How do you know this is taking place,
amigo
?’
    ‘My wife told me,’ replied the man reservedly.
    ‘Your wife works in the town hall?’ Robles asked firmly.
    ‘No, not my wife.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘Her sister.’
    The South American grapevine, thought Julio. Dribs, drabs, but woe to him who ignores it. It can be more reliable than the Reuters wire.
    ‘What does your sister-in-law do there?’
    ‘My what?’
    ‘Your wife’s sister,’ explained Robles patiently. ‘What’s her job at the town hall?’
    ‘She … she works for the Mayor – you know?’
    A cleaner, Robles guessed. He decided to change tack: ‘So who is buying these lands? Romualdes or the city?’
    ‘No, not them,’ said the man eagerly. ‘It’s the Morales Foundation.’
    ‘I heard of it,’ said Robles, concentrating hard to appear nonchalant while his entire body tensed up at the very mention of the name.
    ‘Yeah,’ volunteered the man, mistaking Robles’ sudden silence for an invitation to continue. ‘They say it’s a charity from Don Carlos, help the poor like –’
    ‘Interesting story, Alberdi,’ commented Julio, trying to sound dismissive. ‘Not much, but thanks. I always appreciate the odd bit of gossip. Now’ – he lowered his voice conspiratorially – ‘what I cannot understand is how your wife’s sister
knows
that. She’s not a secretary there, is she?’
    ‘No,’ Alberdi had to concede.
    ‘Is she good-looking, then?’
    ‘You want to meet with her?’ the man’s quick wit had spotted another potential avenue of income.
    ‘No,’ replied Robles angrily. ‘I want to know how the hell a cleaner in the town hall can have this information.’
    ‘She fucks the