The Delta Solution Page 14

  “Thank you, Ismael,” said Captain Hassan, “and have you given orders for the ship to move?”

  “Yes. I told them to steer due west and not to exceed five knots. Elmi is watching the controls.”

  “Very good, Ismael,” said the master of the Mombassa and clicked off the line.

  And while Admiral Wolde went below to organize the lives of the prisoners for the next few days, Captain Hassan opened up the satellite line to Mohammed Salat. It was a little after 11:00 p.m. in Harardheere.

  “Sir,” he said when Salat answered, “I am pleased to report the Dutchchartered Queen Beatrix is under the command of the assault troops of the Somali Marines, led by Admiral Ismael Wolde.

  “The captain and his crew surrendered fifteen minutes ago and are now held prisoner at gunpoint by our forces. I confirm the tanker is fully laden with crude oil, very low on her lines, and slowly heading west under the orders of Wolde and Commodore Elmi Ahmed. No casualties, and may God bless Somalia.”

  “That is excellent news,” exclaimed Mohammed Salat, who always smiled at the way his pirates assumed the formalities of an international navy at moments like this, and he responded in kind.

  “Please convey my congratulations to Admiral Wolde and his troops. I will open negotiations with the owners immediately. Stand by for further orders.”

  CONSTANTINE LIVANOS, a distant relative of the greatest of Greek shipping family dynasties, was four time zones back from the central Indian Ocean when his telephone rang in Monte Carlo.

  With a phone number supplied by the operations chief of Athena Shipping, Mohammed Salat was through the first time, on the landline to the sensational duplex Livanos kept at the most expensive block of apartments in the principality overlooking the harbor. It was twenty minutes after 7:00 p.m. and the tycoon was on his way out for dinner. His wife, Maria, looked like the empress of the entire free world.

  “Mr. Livanos?”

  “Speaking. Who is this?” The Greek shipowner was extremely curious about this call because it was on a line used only by his top executives and even then only in an emergency.

  “My name is not relevant,” replied Salat. “However, I am the commander-in-chief of the Somali Marines. I am calling to inform you that my troops have captured and now command your tanker Queen Beatrix eight hundred miles offshore in the Indian Ocean.”

  Constantine Livanos was temporarily stunned. And his mind raced. Somehow he needed to slow down this insolent African gangster. “I am afraid you have the wrong man,” he said blandly.

  Salat, who understood perfectly well that he had the right man, replied, “You are not Livanos of Athena Shipping?”

  “I am. But we do not own the Queen Beatrix. She is merely under charter to us. Which means we have rented her for a few months.”

  “Mr. Livanos,” said Salat, “You know as well as I do that we are not discussing the ship. We are talking about 2.9 million barrels of Saudi crude, worth $200 million on the open market. I imagine that is worth something to you.”

  Livanos kept playing poker. “It’s insured. No problem. If you take it, I will claim for its value. Lloyd’s of London, old man, ever hear of it?”

  For the first time, Mohammed Salat sensed the mild chill of pending failure, and he was not especially enjoying this long-distance duel with a very smooth Greek multimillionaire.

  “Then that’s a matter for you,” he said. “I will order my troops to wipe out your crew and scuttle the ship. I expect your compensation insurance will cover you for the irreparable environmental damage to those cheap little vacation resorts on the Maldives.”

  Livanos knew his insurance would not cover even a tenth of the potential damage. And he did not look forward to explaining why he had told the most notorious pirate gang in the Indian Ocean to go right ahead and shoot down his tanker crew in cold blood. In this short, brutal Mexican standoff, he blinked first.

  “How much?” asked Constantine Livanos.

  “Ten million.”

  “Too much. Far too much.”

  “Works out to three dollars and fifty cents a barrel, I believe.”

  “I told you: too much.”

  “Well, what’s not too much?”

  “I suppose $3 million.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I could sell it to an empty tanker captain for twice that and keep the ship.”

  “Well, put a price on it to include the safe return of the crew, unharmed, and the ship in perfect condition, plus the cargo untouched.”

  “Okay,” said Salat. “Seven million dollars, cash.”

  “Five.”

  “Split it?”

  “Six it is.”

  “That’s still cash,” said Salat, whose fingers were racing over the buttons on his calculator. “Works out to only a couple of dollars a barrel—equivalent to a regular daily downturn on the world market.”

  “I am aware of that,” replied Livanos icily, not betraying his slight smile while he considered whether to hit Rotterdam Tankers for a third or a half of the ransom money. Either way, things could be a lot worse.

  “And how would you like to proceed?” asked Salat.

  “Through my New York office. I can brief them now since they are five hours back and it’s early afternoon on the East Coast of the United States.”

  “That’s fine. Who do I deal with?”

  “Ask for Tom Sowerby. He’s my president in the US. You may instruct him where you want the money delivered. But what are your assurances that you will keep your end of the bargain?”

  “Mr. Livanos, we have been conducting these operations very professionally for the past three years. If we were a Western banking business, we would be triple-A rated. Which, of course, is more than can be said for your own Greek National Bank or indeed the mighty Lehman Brothers in New York.”

  Constantine Livanos could not help being amused by the sheer brass of the maniac on the other end of the line. Had he not been about to drop several million dollars at the conclusion of the phone call, he might have laughed out loud.

  “Since you do not wish me to know your name, I am at some disadvantage. But I should warn you that I will be requesting assistance in this transfer from the United States, where I have many close friends.

  “My office will be in contact with the Greek ambassador this afternoon. And at the time of the exchange of money, there will be a military presence in attendance with the Queen Beatrix. Needless to say, if you do not free the crew and vacate the ship immediately, your troops will be unlikely to get out with their lives.”

  “That will not be a problem,” replied Salat. “We are men of our word. There will be no need for you to pay this ransom until you are confident of your position.

  “Of course, if you were to break your word or somehow attack my men, they are ordered to take three hostages, shoot the rest of the crew immediately, blow up the ship, and then escape the best way they can.”

  “I think we understand each other,” replied Livanos. But as he put down the phone, he uttered a telling phrase of amazement, one that he had picked up during his formative years at Eton College in Berkshire, England.

  “Fuck me!” said the Greek tycoon.

  TOM SOWERBY SAT WIDE-EYED in the Olympic Tower listening to the chairman of Athena Shipping on the line from Monte Carlo. He understood he must await a call from the pirate commander and then work out where and how the money should be paid. He should also try to touch base with Captain van Marchant. In the meantime, Sowerby was being told to call the Greek Embassy in Washington and inform both the ambassador and the naval attaché what had happened.

  Livanos pointed out that the Greek military had no base of operations anywhere near the northeast coast of Africa and that US cooperation was vital if they were to free up the Queen Beatrix and get her on her way to the South China Sea with no harm done.

  The least of Sowerby’s problems was the $6 million. Big tanker corporations operate on such vast financial platforms that sums like that are completely dwar
fed in the day-to-day running of their operations. A lot of Athena’s money was kept in New York, including, incidentally, China’s down payment of around $30 million on the cargo of crude currently stalled in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

  The problem was, the Horn of Africa was indeed the skid row of the Middle East. Banking was apt to be slow, confused, prone to diabolical mistakes, and oblivious to the word “urgent.”

  Tom Sowerby called Athena’s bankers in New York, JP Morgan, and spoke to the president. He immediately suggested Nairobi for big sums of corporate cash, declaring, “Barclays International is the best in East Africa. They’ll get it done. I’ll call them. You can do it all through us.”

  Relieved, Sowerby called the Greek Embassy in Washington and explained to Ambassador Petros Karamanlis what had happened. He requested formally that he assist them in persuading the Americans to help but was not encouraged by the response he received.

  “Mr. Sowerby,” said the ambassador, “I want you to pass on my very best wishes to Constantine Livanos, since we are old friends. But I must warn you that the Americans are awkward about dealing with pirates. They will not negotiate, they will not pay ransoms, and, given half a chance, they will happily blow the pirates and their ship out of the water. In these matters Uncle Sam carries a very big stick.”

  “We do not want them to negotiate or pay,” said Tom Sowerby. “We have dealt with that satisfactorily. We would, however, appreciate the presence of a US warship somewhere in the vicinity when the pirates are due to vacate our ship.

  “We only want it as an intimidating presence just in case they may be tempted to cut and run with our oil after they collect the ransom. It would be hell’s difficult for us to get that ship back if these pirates are holding the crew hostage.”

  “I do understand that,” replied the ambassador, “and I will certainly do all I can to persuade them. But I think we are going to end up dealing with the Pentagon, probably the navy department. So I will bring in our naval attaché, Rear Admiral George Argos. He’s a personal friend of the top US admiral, Mark Bradfield. Mutual cooperation in the Aegean, you understand?”

  “Pity it’s not closer to Somalia,” said Sowerby, good-naturedly.

  “Sorry, Tom, we can’t fix that,” said Ambassador Karamanlis. “And I must warn you again: The Americans won’t like this, you paying massive amounts of money to these gangsters and then asking for US protection. It’s against their religion.”

  “I can only ask you to do your best, Excellency,” said Sowerby. “Perhaps your man Argos could call me when he has some news. Get me on my cell, anytime tonight.”

  In the next two hours things moved very fast in Washington. Admiral Mark Bradfield said the US Navy had a destroyer in the vicinity, and he was happy to cooperate, mostly because it gave him another chance to get a good firsthand report on the pirates.

  He did not, of course, know whether it was the same gang that had grabbed the Niagara Falls a couple of weeks ago. But he was incredulous that the Somalis had struck once more against such a massive vessel.

  The first thing he wanted to know from Admiral Argos was whether the Greeks had agreed to pay up and get their ship freed. Or whether there was some kind of a standoff taking place. George Argos could not enlighten him, but he suspected the Greeks were in the process of stumping up a multimillion-dollar ransom to rescue their crude oil cargo.

  Mark Bradfield did not much approve. But the memory of his own actions over the Niagara Falls was still fresh in his mind, and he chose not to remonstrate with this senior member of the Greek Navy. He did, however, call Admiral Andy Carlow out in Coronado to inform him that a gang of Somali pirates, believed to be the same marine corps that had grabbed the US aid ship, had struck again.

  He told the head of SPECWARCOM everything he knew, but his information was limited.

  “Are they asking us to attempt a rescue?” asked Admiral Carlow.

  “No. They never even mentioned anything like that,” said Mark Bradfield. “The Greek Embassy thinks they made up their minds about that several hours ago, but no one seemed to know the price.”

  “Well, if we’re going to oblige them with a warship on standby, they probably owe us that information,” said Andy Carlow. “But we’re not nearly ready to send in Mack Bedford’s specialists. It seems to me that no one in merchant shipping is anxious to get into a hot war with these villains, tempting as it may be.”

  “Sometimes I think the world would be a much better place, Andy, if it was run by businessmen. Because war, blood, and death is unthinkable to them. Gets in the way of making money. For 7 million bucks these Greeks can have their ship back and only make $33 million instead of $40 million on the run to China.”

  “It’s pretty easy to see where those guys are coming from.” Andy Carlow could be surprisingly philosophical. For a SEAL.

  But in truth, both of these seasoned navy commanders were astounded at the nerve of the Somalis. Also, they were both fighting back the undeniable fact crowding in on them: There must be a master spy somewhere in the United States. Because not many people knew about that USAID ship, its course, destination, and position. And even fewer people knew about the Queen Beatrix with her private commercial cargo, her private ownership, and private charter.

  And yet, the pirates had hit her a couple of days out of the loading platforms in the gulf. She was full to the gunwales with crude oil. No ship could carry more. And she was apprehended in one of the loneliest parts of one of the loneliest oceans on earth. According to Rear Admiral George Argos, she had been stopped in the water when the Somali Marines hit.

  “You think it was a fluke?” asked the SEAL boss. “Because I don’t. Those bastards knew who she was, where she was, where she was going, and what she was carrying.

  “And suddenly this crowd of goddamned tribesmen comes rolling up in the middle of a million square miles of water at precisely the right time and precisely the right place. Jesus, you could search that ocean for a thousand years and never find the fucking Titanic if she was still floating.”

  Mark Bradfield could not help laughing. But Andy Carlow was not done. “Same with the Niagara Falls,” he said. “She did not even have a schedule. She’d been hanging around in Diego Garcia for about three weeks. Finally she was loaded with sufficient gear, and the tide was right, so she left for Somalia. And what then? Right in the middle of fucking nowhere these guys turn up and capture her.”

  “I know,” said Mark Bradfield. “It’s almost impossible to believe they didn’t have inside information. Someone must have told them where these ships were going to be. No doubt in my mind.

  “And that’s why this business is getting more dangerous and more costly by the day. These bastards have more goddamned money than God. And when you have that much, you can pay for the best information.”

  “That’s why they win almost every war they fight,” said Carlow. “I think they know the value of these cargoes before they start. And it doesn’t take quantum physics to work out that a 150-million-dollar cargo is worth five mill of anyone’s money to get it back.”

  Mark Bradfield was silent. And when he spoke, his words were weighty. “According to George Argos,” he said, “the character who called the Greek shipowner was not even a pirate. He wasn’t calling from the ship. He was calling from some kind of command headquarters on the land.

  “Can you imagine that? Some African tribesman going straight through to the private residence of a member of the Livanos family in Monte Carlo. Someone somewhere is feeding these guys the best possible information. Not even we could come up with a phone number like that, unless there was a full-scale war in the Aegean Sea.”

  “The truth is, Mark,” said Andy Carlow, “we have to stop this. Because it’s escalating so fast, it’s out of control. Every time someone pays them a big hunk of money, the problem accelerates. Because the pirates can’t wait to attack again, and they have thousands of dollars more to pay people who will inform them about the cargoes and r
outes of the biggest freight carriers and tankers in the world. You can guarantee a repeat assault on someone’s ship every time these darned shipowners pay up.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Well, I guess we could start off by telling the Greeks we won’t lift a finger to help them out with a warship because we cannot condone their actions in paying the ransom.”

  “Don’t you get the feeling that would open a whole political bag o’ worms?”

  “Of course I do,” replied Andy. “I guess that’s why you told Admiral Argos we’d help them. The last thing you need is an angry president on the line, complaining he’s been given a right going over by the prime minister of Greece.”

  “That’s the trouble when you get into this stuff too deeply,” said Admiral Bradfield. “But tell me: If Mack Bedford’s boys were ready, do you think they could go in and retake the Beatrix, if necessary wiping out the pirates, with no civilian casualties on our side?”

  “Yes, sir. I know they could. But we’re several weeks too early.”

  “Then I guess that makes the formation of the Delta Platoon all the more urgent. Because these African bastards are killing us. And what started off as a minor problem is now getting worse by the day.”

  “Judging by what you know, Mark, what would you advise if retaking the Queen Beatrix was a go: a sudden crashing attack on the ship or by stealth get the SEALs in and then tell them to take it from there?”

  “Stealth every time,” said the CNO. “It just happens to be easier to kill your opponents when they don’t know you’re there.”

  “The guys in Delta Platoon will be only top guys,” replied Andy Carlow. “No one but the best.”

  “Look, I’m going to make a few more inquiries about this ransom before I commit a warship. Meantime, go to it, old friend. Tell Mack to pull out all the stops.”

  “You don’t need to tell him that.” said Andy. “He only fires when all the stops are out.”