The Delta Solution (19 page)

Their orders were to capture every crew member, asleep or awake, in the shower or eating supper, and then parade them on this deck in fifteen minutes. Any resistance would be met with brutality but not death. One more of the team would move over to the portside and assume command below the bridge, his Kalashnikov primed.

Wolde himself, in the company of two of his most trusted men, Elmi
Ahmed and Hamdan Ougoure, armed with the heavy machine gun, would proceed with the prisoner Paul up to the bridge, where they would take command of the
Queen Beatrix
. Wolde was already assuming that the ship’s high command would not be armed warriors.

In silence, Paul led the way to the executive elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor. When they stepped out onto a carpeted foyer, a place where Paul had never before been, they were faced with a wooden door upon which brass letters proclaimed:

“Knock and wait,” commanded Ismael Wolde, and Paul tapped twice, waiting five seconds before Pietr van der Saar opened it. At which point, Pietr, Johan, and Jan van Marchant suffered the greatest shock of their collective seagoing years.

The door cannoned back on its hinges as Elmi Ahmed slammed his shoulder into the brass letters and knocked van der Saar flying. Ougoure was right behind him and crashed over the prostrate Van der Saar and fired a short burst into the sidewall, wheeling left with his rifle aimed at the bridge officers.

Ismael Wolde rushed across to the tall, white-shirted Van Marchant and rammed his rifle into the captain’s rib cage, right below the heart. All three Somali Marines were shouting to intimidate, waving their rifles, demanding, unnecessarily, that the terrified officers of the
Queen Beatrix
shut up.

In the space of twenty-five seconds, Captain Jan van Marchant and his three executives, plus the deckhand Paul, had their backs to the wall, arms raised, without a word. Never in the entire history of ocean warfare had a ship this big been captured so swiftly by so few.

“Captain van Marchant,” said Admiral Wolde, “you and your staff are my prisoners. The
Queen Beatrix
is now under the command of the Somali Marines and a substantial ransom will be asked for her return. No one has been hurt, so far, but if our demands are not met, we will begin shooting you all one by one and throwing you overboard. You understand your deaths are of no consequence to us whatsoever.”

And he finished with a flourish. “Live or die, over the side or on board.
None of it makes the slightest difference to us. I will never even think about you again. So you may as well obey my commands while you are still alive to do so.”

His words had a more chilling effect on the highly paid officers than even Wolde imagined. “Well,” said the captain, “what do you wish us to do now?”

“Sometime in the next ten minutes your entire crew will be brought on deck. I may as well inform you that I represent a force of ten heavily armed marines. We are in possession of both hand grenades and rocket propelled grenades and a very large amount of high explosives.

“If we wished, we could sink this ship. And out on the water we have two high-powered skiffs with trained helmsmen, plus a fast 1,500-ton vessel to take us home. Right now, I would like you to turn the
Queen Beatrix
around and begin heading slowly back toward the coast of Somalia, eight hundred miles to the west. I shall leave my three armed bodyguards with you, and should any of you do anything rash, their orders are to shoot to kill.

“For every indiscretion you commit, my men on the lower decks will execute one of your crew. But perhaps we will start with this man here who led us to the bridge. His usefulness to us is over.”

Captain van Marchant could see no escape. There were only thirty-two men in his entire crew. No one was armed, and they were up against ten gunmen, cutthroats who had made it clear that they would kill without mercy. Like all masters of big oceangoing merchant marine ships, the captain knew all about piracy. He just thought it could never happen to him on a vessel this large.

He stared at Wolde and said quietly, “Very well. Since we have no choice, my crew will do as you instruct. I imagine you will require communications to transmit your ransom demands?”

“No need. I will speak to my own captain on the telephone, and the instructions will be relayed to Somalia and then to the chairman of Athena Shipping.”

At that moment, Wolde’s cell phone vibrated. Kifle Zenawi was on the line from somewhere in the bowels of the ship.

Wolde answered, and Zenawi’s report was succinct: “Twenty-seven crew members held at gunpoint. I can’t see any others. We’re keeping them in the crew dining area for now. What next?”

“Keep them together. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Wolde turned to Captain van Marchant and asked, “How many in your crew total, including all five men in this room? I know how many we have prisoner, and if you lie to me, I will shoot this deckhand instantly.”

Paul looked about as scared as any captured Filipino can ever be. “There are thirty-two men in my crew,” replied the captain, “not including myself. Five of us, as you can see, are on the bridge.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Wolde, relieved that everyone was accounted for. He was now prepared to grant Jan van Marchant the respect of one senior officer to another.

“And now perhaps you’d face the ship to the west,” he said. “And restrict her speed to four or five knots. I will return in a few minutes. What’s through that door?”

“Just a small deck.”

“Good,” replied Wolde and walked outside, pushing a single button on his satellite cell phone as he went.

“Ismael?”

“Yes. It’s me, Hassan. We have captured the
Queen Beatrix
. The captain and his entire crew of thirty-two are my prisoners, all being held at gunpoint. I am personally in command of the ship, standing outside the bridge. Elmi and Hamdan have the heavy machine gun. They are guarding Captain van Marchant and his senior officers. Everyone else is confined below to the crew dining room.”

“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.”