The Delta Solution (39 page)

Livanos was not involved in the heavy-hitting end of the financial conundrum, but Athena was in for perhaps a $20-million commission as shipping agent, sales agent, and loading agent. In a choice between blowing the vessel sky high and destroying the cargo, and cutting the commission to $17.5 million from the full $20 million, there was no discussion.

“I will speak to Bob Heseltine and then to the insurance broker in London,” he said. “And I have the captain’s phone number on the bridge. I will be back on the line very soon with our offer for the ship’s freedom.”

“No offers,” replied the pirate. “It’s $10 million. Or nothing. Fifteen minutes from now, the
Global Mustang
will not exist.” Wolde hung up the phone.

Constantine Livanos called Nigel Pembroke, the Athena insurance broker, at his home in West London. News of the hijack both shocked and horrified him. The shipping market had been poor for his company in the past year, but this threatened to be one of the biggest maritime losses they had ever underwritten.

“Christ!” said Nigel. “That bloody pirate blows the
Mustang
, they’ll ring the Lutine Bell for the first time since 9/11.”

This was banter between two scions of long-established shipping and insurance families. And the bell to which Nigel referred was the ancient
one-hundred-pound ship’s bell from the French frigate
La Lutine
, which went down off the Dutch coast in 1793 with 150 million dollars’ worth of cargo in gold and silver. The Lloyds brokers paid up.

The
Lutine
’s bell had been salvaged off the ship and had hung ever since in the Lloyds underwriting room at their London headquarters. Traditionally it was rung for breaking news—one stroke for bad, two for good. But in recent years, it was used mostly for ceremonial occasions.

It did, however, ring at the news of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. And in Nigel Pembroke’s opinion, it would be rung again when news of the
Mustang
broke. “Any way out of it?” he asked Livanos. “I mean, can this fucker be stopped?”

“Well,” replied the Greek tycoon, “he wants $10 million for the release of the ship, its cargo, and its crew. But he’s asked $2.5 million from both the owners and the purchasers of the cargo. He wants the same from us as the agents and suggests the same from you.”

“Two and a half mill—what’s that in real money?”

“About 1.6 million British pounds.”

“One point six to get us off the hook for a half-billion dollars! Hell, Constantine, that doesn’t want much looking at it, does it? I can tell you, we’ll pay it and so will the others. I imagine you wouldn’t have made this call, not if you’d thought any differently.”

“Look, Nigel, this bastard sounded like he was going to blow up the ship in the next ten minutes. So I’d better get off the line and call someone back. It’s Bob Heseltine’s ship, so I guess he’ll make the running.”

IN THE MEANTIME, back on board the
Mustang
, Admiral Wolde and two guards had marched Captain Pitman and First Officer Dominic Rayforth down to the bowels of the ship to assess his threat.

Wolde told them he would take them to the base of each of the holding domes so they could see the bundles of dynamite taped together and attached to an electronic timer. Just so that everyone understood the Royal Somali Marines were not joking.

Jack Pitman was totally astounded that these maniacs had somehow boarded his ship, right under the eyes of the lookouts and the rest of the crew, taken command of this gigantic floating edifice, in floodlit conditions, and then calmly placed explosives precisely where they wished.

There they were, tucked right against the steel casing of the domes. There was no doubt in Jack’s mind: If the dynamite in just one of the bundles blew, it would park his ship in tiny pieces on the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

They walked back in single file, Pitman in the lead, a guard between him and Rayforth, followed by another guard and Wolde bringing up the rear, holding his AK-47 in firing position.

They took the elevator up to the bridge floor, through the shattered wooden door and back into the control room. As they entered, the phone was ringing and Heseltine was on the line, asking to speak once more to the captain. Wolde permitted this contact but listened in on a phone hookup.

Heseltine’s question was basic: “Jack, have you actually seen the explosives this guy says are planted around the gas domes?”

“I have now. They just took me and First Officer Rayforth down to see their work. And it’s genuine. A big bundle of dynamite under each one, wired up, battery-operated detonator with a remote control fixture. He says he could blow the ship to pieces in under five minutes from the moment he leaves. I believe him, Bob. And so should you.”

“Have there been any casualties?”

“I cannot be certain. The entire crew is being held captive in the recreation room. But I have not been allowed a head count.”

“Have you seen the assault crew? I mean, aside from the leader?”

“Yessir. I’ve seen about six of them. All armed. But there’s more in the rec room. I saw them but not close-up.”

“Okay, here’s what I need. I have an agreement with Japan Electric. And Livanos called and left a message that he’s willing to pay his $2.5 mill and so are the insurers. Put the leader on again. I need instructions for the payment method.”

Wolde came on the line and said the $10 million must be paid in cash. “We require an aerial drop,” he said, “preferably on the deck of this ship. I’m talking big mailbags roped together with a float device and a luminous marker that we can see.”

“Okay,” said Heseltine. “But this will take a few days. Not many banks have $10 million lying around in hundred-dollar bills.”

“Then you’ll have to fly it in from a bank that does. Since you represent three very large international corporations, it should not be beyond your capability.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll get it done somehow. Gimme a drop time.”

“Since we now have a deal, I’m canceling my ten-minute threat and changing it to twenty-four hours. We work on Somali time, and on our coast it’s now 2:00 a.m. That’ll be 5:00 p.m. in Houston, correct?”

“You got the time right—as well as a lot of other things,” said Heseltine. “Okay. You want the money dropped on the ship from an aircraft at 2:00 a.m. your time tomorrow?”

“Make that 1:45 a.m. I’ll need two boats in the water, port and starboard, in case they miss the deck. If nothing’s happened by 2:00 a.m., I will assume you have changed your mind. At that point, the Royal Somali Marines will leave the ship, and five minutes later my four bombs will detonate.”

“Will my crew still be on board?” asked Heseltine.

“That will no longer be my concern,” replied the admiral.

“How can you be sure the crew will not race for the bombs the minute you leave and deactivate them?”

“That will be an interesting race against time,” said Wolde. “It took us twenty minutes to set them, not including travel time to the far end of the ship.

“By the time they get out of the locked recreation room, they’ll have about four minutes to de-fuse. Impossible. Especially as we need only one to explode. I’d assume the
Mustang
will be destroyed if you don’t make the drop.”

Rarely had Robert Heseltine III felt such an overpowering sense of frustration. And the entire nightmare was heightened by the fact that the
Global Mustang
was his most treasured possession.

“Okay. You better give me the ship’s GPS numbers. I assume she’s stationary. Put the captain on again.”

“Bob, where the hell are you? We need good numbers for the ransom drop.”

“There’s a problem with the GPS right now; a few wires got damaged when these guys blasted their way in.

“But right now we are 712 miles off the Somali coat, about three miles north of 2.00 North. We were on 60 East longitude about an hour before we were stopped, heading east. Guess we’re at 60.10 East and stationary.”

“Can you have the problem fixed for the rest of the journey?”

“Yes. We have a computer technician on board, all the way to Japan.”

“Good boy, Jack. Hang in there. Put the fucking wild man back on.”

“Mr. Heseltine,” said Wolde, “I assume we have an agreement.”

“We do. The money will be there at 1:45 a.m. your time tomorrow. God knows how but we’ll get it delivered. And I need your assurance that the bombs will be disconnected the moment you receive it.”

“You have that assurance. I’ll send a disposal team to the base of all four domes at 1:30 a.m. If you check our record, you will find we have never reneged on an agreement. We are businessmen and we only want the money. Play your part, and the
Mustang
will be back in service.”

IT WAS 6:00 P.M. IN NEW YORK, and Jerry Jackson, president of Athena Shipping, was still on the phone to Constantine Livanos
.
Neither man was as concerned with this latest hijacking as they were when the VLCC
Queen Beatrix
was captured. Because that had been an Athena charter.

This latest outrage involved someone else’s ship and someone else’s cargo. Nonetheless, the Athena chief found himself in the middle of the ransom problem, trying to piece together the four components and organize them for the drop.

Constantine Livanos had arranged for the insurance money. Nigel Pembroke in London was wiring $2.5 million to the Athena account in New York the following morning. Heseltine was wiring the same amount to the same account in the next ten minutes.

Tanigaki would be wiring his $2.5 million in one hour when his bank opened. At which point Jerry Jackson would have the whole $10 million safely deposited—but 8,000 miles from the action. He’d heard about the ransom money for the
Queen Beatrix
, and he knew the transaction had been put together by Barclays Bank International via Nairobi.

Athena had always banked with JP Morgan and had no doubt that their friends there could organize the transfer of funds to Barclays. The problem was, he needed to have the cash bagged up and flown out to the ship.

And while he thought the bagging would not be a difficulty, he had not the slightest idea how to get hold of an aircraft with a sufficiently long range to make the flight. Or where the money should originate. There
were Barclays locations everywhere, but Jerry was not keen on doing business in Africa.

There was a large, illuminated map of the Middle East in the Athena operations room, and Jerry stood staring at it, looking for a friendly port of call. He wrote off Africa, south of the Blue Nile. And north as well, for that matter.

He wanted somewhere relatively close, which more or less ruled out Europe, and after some study he decided the answer was the hugely wealthy United Arab Emirates. In particular he liked the trading port of Dubai, where Athena conducted a lot of business.

For Jerry, Dubai had significant advantages. Barclays Bank sponsored the important Dubai International Tennis Championship. So Jerry knew for certain that they must have a major banking operation in the ruling Maktoum family’s glittering city. He also knew they had a substantial air force, and Jerry understood the cash to the
Mustang
would need to be flown out in a military aircraft. The bizarre prospect of a bunch of air stewardesses trying to heave 10 million bucks out of an aircraft door flying over a gas tanker was out of the question.

This was, in all but name, a military operation. The cash needed to be dropped by people who knew precisely what they were doing. Jerry sent an e-mail to his clients in Dubai, the biggest seaport in the Middle East, asking for urgent help. He knew it was probably three o’clock in the morning in the emirates and did not expect a reply right away.

But he got one. The night duty officer in Dubai’s global seaport corporation, DP World, was at his post and sensed that the tone of the e-mail bordered on desperation. He immediately picked up the phone and called Jerry Jackson in New York.