The Delta Solution (22 page)

THE GUARD ON THE BRIDGE of the tanker was down to just two men, Elmi Ahmed, with the heavy machine gun, and a junior pirate called Georgio, age eighteen, who carried only his Kalashnikov. Still in control of the ship, her navigation and propulsion, was Captain van Marchant with his two senior officers, Johan and Pietr.

Ismael Wolde had permitted the officers to eat in the private dining room on the fifth floor and had made it very clear that he and his commanders would use the same place for their own lunch and dinner. After one day dining in the company of Ahmed and Zenawi, Wolde estimated that he had rarely, if ever, been quite so well served.

The captain and his staff were never more than five yards from that big machine gun and had accepted there was nothing they could do about their plight. The remaining crew members were kept below in the accommodation block and had their meals in their regular dining area.

For the cooks and cleaning staff, it made little or no difference whether the
Queen Beatrix
was under the command of Captain van Marchant or Admiral Wolde. The work was much the same, except for the presence of the Somali Marine guard patrols, who prowled the ship constantly, unsmiling. They were a silent reminder that anyone attempting any kind of a revolt would be shot instantly.

Admiral Wolde was constantly on the telephone to Mohammed Salat and together they drew up the plans for the collection of the $6 million ransom. There was a spot on the deserted beach ten miles northeast of Haradheere that could be approached by a cart track over the dunes. No problem for a 4 × 4 SUV.

Rather than risk an ocean drop, possibly in the presence of warships, Salat favored telling the Athena executives to fly the money in, probably from Nairobi, and make a low-level drop onto the beach, where his men
would retrieve it. The aircraft could then fly on to ensure an orderly disembarkation by the pirates from the
Queen Beatrix
and a swift clearance of the datum by all concerned.

Subject to the availability of a long-range military aircraft, this seemed reasonable to Tom Sowerby, and he cleared the operation with the Greek ambassador before speaking to Livanos in Monte Carlo. The Greek tycoon, however, had bigger things on his mind than a mere $6 million off the bottom line of one of his tanker cargoes en route to China. He ordered Tom Sowerby to make whatever decisions were necessary. But he was gratified to learn that his New York chief executive had just heard that the directors of Rotterdam Tankers were prepared to pay 33 percent of the ransom money since it was, after all, their ship. And Athena was, after all, one of their best customers.

The directors had already had a rather busy morning, having summarily fired Hans Cruyf for
indiscretion so appallingly judged
that it was unlikely he could ever occupy a position of responsibility in the somewhat reclusive world of international shipping.

Meanwhile the GPS numbers relayed to Tom Sowerby for the big drop were 4.40N 47.53E. According to the Greek ambassador, his navy was not strong on modern aviation, owning only old Orion aircraft. And he requested that Sowerby check with his friends at Rotterdam Tankers in search of a better aircraft. If not them, then perhaps the Americans, who, unhappily the ambassador guessed, would be seething after this morning’s media blast.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, smoothly, “we might intimate to the Dutch that they rather stepped on our toes with that unfortunate leak to the press. Inadvertently, of course, and no fault of the directors of the tanker company.

“But perhaps a word in the right place might urge the very well-equipped Dutch Navy to step in and assist us with the transportation. They might even like it to be known that when one of their great shipping corporations runs into trouble, they are indeed there to help and ensure rescue.

“I expect the Dutch captain of the ship might be persuaded to express his appreciation to them. Publicly, of course.”

Tom Sowerby immediately understood that he had just been provided
with an abject lesson showing precisely why men like this were awarded sensational jobs in Washington, elegantly representing their nation on the world’s biggest stage.

Sowerby rang off, called the offices of Rotterdam Tankers, and had a discussion along the lines the ambassador had suggested. They informed him that they were knocking $2 million off the cost of two charters that were about to be contracted, and they were also sure they could prevail upon the Netherlands Navy for a modern aircraft for the long-distance drop on the East African beach.

Tom then spoke to the bank, which had the finances in order, much to the amusement of the manager in Nairobi who was becoming used to this one-way avalanche of cash being transferred to the local savages up the beach in Somalia. Nonetheless he stepped forward and had the cash ready and bagged for collection.

IT TOOK FOUR DAYS for the pieces to fall into place. The main holdup being for the Dutch Navy to fly one of their state-of-the-art Lockheed Orion P-3C Mark IIs from a base in the south of France, where admirals were conducting a naval program of cooperation with the French.

They needed to fly first to Cairo, refuel, and then go on to Nairobi. The navy was willing but had to deal with the admirals first, and that necessitated a new aircraft being flown down from the Hague. But in the end it was all slotted together, and on a burning hot afternoon, six days after the
Queen Beatrix
was captured, four carloads of Mohammed Salat’s staff were gathered on the beach northeast of Haradheere.

The commander-in-chief was in attendance along with eight of his palace guard. There were also two representatives of the village elders, plus two executives of the Haradheere Stock Exchange. This was the biggest business they had ever had, with $6 million on the line, and shares in the mission already trading at $40 each.

According to Salat’s watch, the Dutch Orion was six minutes from making the drop. But quite suddenly, out over the flat sandy land to the southwest, he could see a tiny speck in the sky, an aircraft, flying low and not particularly fast. And somehow he knew this was the one.

No one spoke as the ASW Orion came howling high over the terrain in
a giant circle. It made its pass perhaps a half-mile back, away from the water. And then it accelerated out to sea, further north and heading east directly offshore, until it almost disappeared.

Salat’s already cold heart was chilled even more while he speculated that maybe everything was off and that the Europeans and the Americans had somehow joined forces and planned to attack the
Beatrix
and wipe out the Somali Marine force. The C-in-C knew how rapidly things could change in this lawless arena in which he saw himself as the undisputed ringmaster.

Salat was not sufficiently foolish to underestimate the power of his opponents. And he could easily imagine the major Western naval powers growing very seriously vexed at his constant and expensive harassment of the world’s shipping operations.

Again he checked his watch—only three minutes to go—and through his binoculars he once more spotted the big gray military aircraft to the north that was turning directly toward him.

Without a word, Salat pointed, and every eye on the beach followed the direction of his arm straight up the tideline, perhaps only a hundred feet above the surf, and from here at least, it looked like it was travelling like a bat out of hell.

The Orion came screaming in, low and fast, 250 miles per hour, and a pile of six mailbags, all roped together, came tumbling out of its bomb bay. There was no parachute, nothing except the bags, and they turned over and over, swept backward by the slipstream as they fell.

They hit the sand at a shallow angle, about fifty yards north of where the party stood, kicking up a dust cloud. The ungainly pile came scuffing and rolling to a standstill. And the guards chased in to retrieve the bags.

Mohammed Salat stood and watched the aircraft bank hard left and head once more out to sea, gaining height as it went. The observers on the beach turned their eyes toward the palace guards dragging the mailbags across the sand.

They delivered the bounty to their leader, who unzipped one bag and thrust his hand inside. The bag was crammed with neat bundles of fifty one-hundred dollar bills, two hundred of them, the standard packing procedure designated by the manager of Barclays Bank on Moi Avenue, Nairobi, when preparing the pirates’ biweekly ransom money for the private aircraft drop.

Salat stared down at the bags of money, six of them all checked and correct.
He’d actually stopped counting halfway through the second bag because it was obvious each one was identical. Salat delved into each of the six and randomly selected a bundle and pulled it out for a check. No variation.

“Load the merchandise into the cars,” he ordered. And then he called Ismael Wolde on his cell phone, speaking in what he believed to be clipped military tones.

“Ransom paid in full. Vacate the
Queen Beatrix
immediately and return to the
Mombassa
. We all await the arrival of heroic Somali Marines. Send ETA.”

Wolde responded in the way he’d read was appropriate for battlefield commanders: “Roger that, sir,” snapped the pirate chief. “Over and out.”

ON THE BRIDGE of the
Queen Beatrix
, Wolde dialled the number of the
Mombassa
and ordered Captain Hassan to bring the big fishing boat close-in for the marines to disembark. Then he turned to Captain van Marchant, offered his hand, and said that it had been a great pleasure to work with him. The master of the
Queen Beatrix
could not believe this farce being played out right in front of his eyes.

Nevertheless he shook hands with Admiral Wolde, politely said good-bye to Elmi Ahmed and the junior guard, and watched them leave the bridge, shutting the door behind them. They travelled down in the main elevator, and Ismael asked Kifle Zenawi to inform his troops that everyone was to assemble immediately on deck.

He formally saluted his 2I/C and was rather proud when Ahmed returned the traditional mark of respect. And one mile away, over the stern rails, he could see the welcome sight of Captain Hassan’s
Mombassa
charging in at flank speed behind a surging bow wave.

One way or another, Admiral Wolde would leave the
Queen Beatrix
a contented, fulfilled, and wealthier man. He’d enjoyed this mission and no harm had been done. So far as he knew, no one bore him and his men any ill will. The ransom was paid and the massive tanker was on its way.

He gazed over the water with some satisfaction as the
Queen Beatrix
made her turn back to the east and onward to the Malacca Strait and the South China Sea.

Wolde was a man of considerable imagination, easily visualizing military-style operations and able to work with his fellow commanders
and combat troops. He was at home in planning meetings, fitting in nicely with the forecasts, hopes, and expectations of his C-in-C.