Free The Clayton Account by Bill Vidal Page B

Mayor.’
    ‘Tell me more.’
    ‘Big breasts,’ smiled the man, cupping his hands, fingers fully expanded several inches out from his chest as he smiled to reveal dirty teeth. ‘Skin like olives, ass like a watermelon.’
    ‘Getting poetic, eh?’ Robles had to laugh.
    ‘I’d fuck her myself, but my wife would cut my throat!’
    ‘Listen, my friend,’ lied Robles, now in a serious tone. ‘The Krugger plots I don’t give a damn about. But the other land, well, that’s rural, technically speaking. And if anyone is asking for money to develop it, then that’s
my
business. You understand?’
    Alberdi did not understand, but what did that matter? His payment was clearly coming closer, so he told all he knew. Alicia, his wife’s sister, had been sleeping with Romualdes for some time. No, the Mayor did not talk business in bed, and in any event Alicia was not interested. But yes, she was a cleaner, and only she was allowed to clean the Mayor’s office. When she went in to do her work the Mayor would not interrupt his business. He talked on the phone to everyone and discussed affairs of government as though the woman were not there. To Robles this made sense, for that fat slob Romualdes possessed all the shortcomings of the Latin macho and none of his virtues. Therefore, the woman he thought he was giving such a heavenly time through – in his mind at least – his virtuoso humping performance, had to be totally, unquestionably loyal and subservient to him. And Alicia repeated nothing with disloyal intent. Nonetheless, at home, where her sister disapproved of her, she would as a matter of course recount those matters of state that she knew of. She felt this restored some dignity to her status in the family.
    Julio Robles’ mind was racing. The information was worth at least five thousand, but paying that sort of money to Alberdi would be crazy. So he thanked the man, gave him eighty dollars in four bills, then drove straight to the office of the Banco Interamericano de Desarrollo in Medellín. There he looked up his code books – more as a precaution, for Julio Robles was a professional who carried all the agreed phrases in his head – and then typed a memo to the head of the DEA’s Medellín unit. After double-checking its contents, he dialled a number in Washington and sent the message through.
    And though the area code he dialled was indeed that of the US capital, the numbers that followed it were a code in themselves, sufficient for the AT&T computer in Jacksonville, Florida, to intercept the transmission and divert it to whichever of Julio’s team-mates was on duty that evening at the DEA’s field office in Miami.
    ‘Maybe it means something, maybe not,’ thought Robles, as he watched the sheet pass through the fax machine. He remembered his training officer in Quantico several years ago. ‘You look at one bit of a puzzle,’ he had said, ‘and it probably tells you nothing. But
you
ain’t got the goddamn board! Remember that. You find a bit? You send it across. Maybe it fits, maybe it don’t. But that ain’t your business. You mothers just
send
it. Any piece could complete the puzzle, and might even save your ass.’
    So Julio Robles always sent his bits. And, in this instance, while it would by no means complete the puzzle, it would trigger a sequence of events that would shake the entire cocaine business in Colombia.
    Bruno Hoechst’s title was Accounts Manager, Private Clients, at UCB Zurich. He was one of several employees in similar positions at Head Office. As he sat at his desk reading his mail on Friday morning, he was feeling upset. Earlier in the week he had been ordered by his divisional vice-president, Dr Brugger, to hand over one of his good accounts to Julius Ackermann, a colleague of equal standing with barely a year’s seniority over Hoechst.
    The Clayton account was considered good in banking terms. Money moved in and out regularly yet at any given time in recent years it contained