Read The Clayton Account for Free Online Page A

and admired the crisp, sunny winter morning through the hotel’s bay windows overlooking the canal. He then walked the full length of Bahnhofstrasse, mentally rehearsing his strategy.
    He reached the bank’s headquarters at 9.25 and passed through the main lobby towards the lifts. A uniformed porter confirmed that Mr Ackermann was to be found on the fifth floor. The upstairs waiting room was quite different from the banking hall; plush chairs and sofas, arranged in the style of an airport lounge, were occupied by visitors of obvious foreign origins; in one corner two African ladies in their finest tribal dress clutched briefcases and whispered to each other in an incomprehensible tongue. This was where much of the world’s funny money came to rest. Tom walked up to the reception desk and announced himself. Immediately, an immaculately dressed, slopes-tanned young man stepped forward, hand outstretched.
    ‘Mr Clayton,’ he said warmly, ‘I am Hugo Alicona. Mr Ackermann is expecting you.’
    Clayton followed Alicona along a sedately lit corridor into an office on the left. It contained a conference table, several wall cabinets, and chairs for half a dozen people. At the far end, a tall, grey man in a grey suit rose to greet him. He was spartan slim, with thinning hair, and the exaggerated good manners of those who acquire them in adulthood. As they took their seats, Tom made his first planned move and handed over his business card. In terms of investment banking, Tom’s employers ranked amongst the top three in the world. His title was not bad either, and the Swiss were suitably impressed: this prospective new client was no third-world government official depositing dubious ‘commissions’.
    ‘First of all, Mr Ackermann,’ Clayton began, addressing the senior man, ‘you will understand that I am here in a private capacity.’ Pointing at the card which his host had placed on the table, he added: ‘And in no way representing my employers.’
    ‘Naturally,’ replied Ackermann.
    ‘What I would like to do is establish two accounts. A deposit account and a current account. Both denominated in US dollars.’
    ‘Would these be numbered accounts, Mr Clayton?’ enquired Ackermann, referring to the type of account with no name for which Swiss banks were notorious – just a number known to the bank and the beneficiary, with the latter’s real name locked away in a special vault and accessible only to two designated managers.
    ‘No, not at all. Both accounts would be in my name,’ replied Clayton, watching with satisfaction as the two bankers nodded approvingly.
    ‘As you know, I am a citizen of the United States. And no doubt you are aware that, as such, I am required to declare all my assets worldwide and to file an annual tax return for all my income. In other words, to pay United States taxes on
any
such income, wherever it may arise.’
    ‘Indeed, Mr Clayton. The price of American citizenship!’
    ‘Of which I am proud, gentlemen. Secrecy, therefore, which I appreciate is enshrined in Swiss banking law, is of little value to me. Discretion, on the other hand, and good efficient management, that’s what your establishment is most respected for – which is why I have come to see you today.’
    ‘You are most kind, Mr Clayton. Now, before we discuss amounts and rates, might we enquire, in confidence of course, as to the source of the funds you intend to entrust us with?’
    A standard question, thought Tom. The answer to be duly noted so that the bank could cover itself. Did they really expect, Tom pondered, the likes of President Sani Abacha to walk in with ten million in cash and acknowledge the funds were raised by ripping off Nigeria’s oil?
    ‘Certainly. My father died a few days ago. As the main beneficiary of his will, I have received a substantial inheritance.’
    ‘Please accept our condolences, Mr Clayton,’ interjected Ackermann in his most funereal tone, echoed respectfully by Alicona.
    ‘Thank