Viking Raid

by Matthew McCleery

  Rocky knew Coco would never agree to such a plan, which was why the Texan figured he had to entice Coco’s lenders and his executive officers into doing it. Rocky had noticed a natural tension between shipping lenders and shipping borrowers; lenders had an incentive to de-risk their loans in the long-term even if that meant borrowers had to surrender a strong market in the short-term.

  “So do you want to fix Aphrodite or not,” Peder prodded as he slipped into the darkness beneath a red and green canopy of maple trees. “I can assure you that there are plenty of desperate traders who will.”

  Rocky began slowly hunting and pecking at the keyboard of his computer. After no more than two minutes of keyword searching on Google the technologically challenged Texan had downloaded the four-hundred-page prospectus for the $300 million Viking Tankers junk bond offering. Smack dab in the middle of the cover page was the name and telephone number of Coco Jacobsen’s Chief Executive Officer – Robert Harrison Fairchild.

  “Naw,” Rocky said.

  “Naw?” Peder repeated.

  “Where I come from, steer wrestling is a solo sport,” Rocky said with a smile.

  Chapter 5

  The Future of Swashbucklers

  If, indeed, landlubbers in pinstriped suits do become major factors in marine transport, there may also be some changes in the management style of the industry. Private equity investors tend to be buttoned-down, methodical, numerically focused executives who use deliberative and analytical process and tend to use outside consultants and this approach is almost the antithesis of the intuitive entrepreneur, who may bet his whole business on a judgment call…making swashbuckling, larger-than-life characters typical of the industry less common going forward.

  Wilbur Ross, Billionaire Investor & Shipowner,

  Marine Money Week 2013

  Alexandra Meriwether leaned over the railing of the gallery suspended above the New York Stock Exchange – a neo-classical conduit for capital formation with more flashing lights than Times Square. With the golden pendant around her neck glinting in the afternoon sunlight, she had all the grace of a figurehead on the bow of an eighteenth century sailing ship.

  “It’s show time!” a host from the New York Stock Exchange boomed to Jimmy Lee Brown, the CEO of recently listed Clear Sky Airlines. “Are you ready?” he asked as he slapped a stubby wooden gavel into his guest’s hand.

  Although the celebratory closing of the NYSE or NASDAQ usually didn’t happen until many months after the completion of an Initial Public Offering (IPO), a last-minute cancellation by sub-prime residential mortgage lender Dough Nut, which had been indicted by Elliot Spitzer the previous evening, had created the opening in the calendar.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Jimmy Lee replied smoothly. He looked down at the host and then over at his trusted investment banker. “Are you ready, Alexandra?”

  Alex raised a pair of clenched fists into the air and emitted a howl so primitive that it attracted the focus of a CNBC camera floating nearby. “Yahoo!” she wailed.

  “Wow,” one of the lawyers in the back row said with excitement, “that young lady is wild.”

  “And she can’t be tamed,” Jimmy Lee replied over his shoulder.

  Alexandra had always been energetic but vitality was especially impressive considering that just twenty-four hours earlier she had touched down at JFK after the three-week global roadshow for Clear Sky – the world’s first fuel-efficient airline. In order to generate enough investor demand for the environmentally-advanced-but-unproven business concept, Alex and Jimmy Lee Brown had circled the world visiting two hundred and fifteen investment funds in eighteen countries. They had slept in thirteen different beds, spent eight nights on airplanes and ate in one hundred and twenty-four different restaurants. Most people would have been tired but Alexandra Meriwether was stoked.

  Upon her return from the airport, she spent just twenty minutes freshening-up in her Chelsea loft before working the graveyard shift on her firm’s Equity Capital Markets desk. With the help of her colleague, a Scottish expatriate named Rufus Streit, her jet lag and a staggering quantity of café latte from nearby Bodega del Vino, the indefatigable duo had dialed for dollars around the planet until they’d “built a book” of investors willing to buy shares in the whopping $750 million IPO – before construction had even started on the first airplane. Wall Street loved a story.

  Now, as Alex proudly stood beneath the 10 x 19-foot American flag flapping in the breeze of a patriotically-placed HVAC vent, she did her best to soak in every detail of the highly symbolic NYSE closing – because it was likely to be her last. After nearly twenty years of helping businesses form capital in order to develop products, employ people and create shareholder value, she knew it was time to step out of the game.

  While her status as a single person had been a competitive advantage during her successful career, allowing her to work through the night and jump on airplanes at a moment’s notice when other bankers were worried about missing anniversaries and kids’ baseball games, her solo status was about to change. During her brief but intense romance with Coco Jacobsen, the Norwegian shipping magnate she’d helped tap the junk bond market, she’d accidentally become pregnant – on the very same night in St. Bart’s when their relationship came to a dramatic end.

  Alex knew that the unplanned conception was a blessing that would force her to make an overdue change in her life. And while she didn’t know exactly what the future would hold for her, she did know what her next move would be; she was going to retire from investment banking, move out to the Thimble Island off the coast of Connecticut where her father lived, toss her BlackBerry into the ocean and focus on raising her kid.

  When the time came to rejoin the workforce she was going to use her talents and experience in a slightly different way, she had decided. Maybe it was because she’d spent so much time in the presence of an inspiring environmental entrepreneur like Jimmy Lee, or maybe it was because of a primal desire to try and make the world a little better for her unborn child, but as she sat in the lobby of the Hotel Georges V in Paris a few days earlier, she decided her next job would be a little different.

  As luck would have it, it was a perfect year for her to retire from the transportation investment banking department at Allied Bank of England because she was about to have an epic year-end payday. She had been the sole underwriter of a $300 million junk bond for Viking Tankers and earned another fee for buying back 80% of those same bonds at a discount five months later. She had advised on the merger of two short-line railroads, been the sole arranger of Road King’s bond deal and been lead bookrunner on the $750 million IPO for Clear Sky. All told, she was looking at a year-end bonus of nearly $8 million. The only problem was that she had to hang-on until bonuses were paid-out three months later; she hoped she could make it that long.

  “You’re the captain of this closing,” Jimmy Lee said with his smooth southern drawl as he pressed the market-closing mallet into Alex’s hand.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Alex laughed as she handed the mallet back to him. “It’s your deal; bang the little hammer and have some fun.”

  “No, it’s our deal and it never would’ve gotten done without you,” Jimmy Lee replied as he crossed his arms and refused to accept the tiny hammer.

  “I hope you won’t think less of me, Jimmy, but you have a right to know that this isn’t my first time,” Alex said. “In fact, I have opened and closed this exchange on more occasions than I can remember.”

  “I don’t care who does it,” the NYSE executive laughed nervously to the occupants of the gallery – a group of senior executives, lawyers and bankers that had clapped their hands long enough and now were hungry to taste fresh email. “But would someone please get ready to press the button.”

  “Tell you what,” Jimmy Lee said. “I’ll press the button, you bang the gavel. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Alex smiled.

  But just as the airline entrepreneur p
repared to push the round red button that would unleash the violent clanging of the metallic bell that preceded the hammer-slamming market close, Alex felt her BlackBerry emit a seductive tickle from the pocket her tailor had sewn into her dress for the sole purpose of holding the device. She closed her eyes and hoped the vibration would stop – but it didn’t.

  When the device buzzed for the third time, Alex experienced the helpless feeling of addiction: that haunting sensation of being physically unable to resist the impulse to do something you absolutely, positively knew to be self-destructive. So she tucked the historic hammer under her bare right arm and unsheathed the diabolical little device with her left hand. Like a novice poker player examining an unfavorable hand, she dramatically winced when she noticed the last name in the world she wanted to see – Pearl. It was her boss, Piper Pearl, the head of Allied Bank of England’s investment banking business.

  Had her life-altering bonus not required the formal approval of Piper Pearl, in his capacity as Chairman of the compensation committee, she truly believed she would have ignored the call, slipped the evil machine back into her dress and quarterbacked the closing of the NYSE with Jimmy Lee Brown. But only in books and movies was life that simple. The reality was that if she really wanted to have the luxury of retiring from banking to raise Coco’s child she would be Piper’s slave until the $8 million wire transfer hit her account three months later; she would chew the man’s food if he asked her to.

  “Heya Piper,” Alex cooed as she began to squeeze out of the crowded gallery, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Alex may have sounded relaxed, but she wasn’t. Every interaction she’d had with Piper Pearl over the last ten years had put her stomach in a knot. As she waited for her boss to reply she twisted the singular dreadlock concealed beneath her torrent of cascading blonde hair. Like a well-concealed tattoo or an old Porsche 911 tucked away in a dusty barn, Alex just hadn’t been able to part with the symbol of her youth – in her case the post-Dartmouth summer she’d spent on the island of Corsica with a French reggae singer called “Pork Chop.”

  “Miss Meriwether, the market closes in like twenty seconds!” the host gasped in stunned disbelief after she casually pushed him aside while handing back the hammer. “And you are the one closing it.”

  “I bet the boys can handle it,” Alex said over her squash-strengthened shoulder as she exited the gallery and wandered into the empty hallway to resume her conversation with her overlord.

  “You have ten minutes to get yourself to Four Seasons Hotel on 57th Street,” Piper ordered from the other end of the telephone.

  “I didn’t think we had that kind of relationship,” she said.

  “I’m in the bar,” Piper replied.

  “That’s a shocker; what’s up?” Alex asked.

  “What’s up is that my freshman roommate from University of Texas called me last night and gave me authority to sell his oil and gas business,” Piper said. “He even gave me the name and phone number of the guy who wants to buy it,” he laughed. “I swear this deal is too easy.”

  “Those are famous last words,” Alex warmed.

  “This time is different,” he replied.

  “So what company are we peddling today?” Alex asked as she strolled slowly down a dark and abandoned hallway like an athlete leaving a stadium, the rushing roar of the stock exchange now barely audible in the background.

  “It is a little business called American Refining Corporation,” Piper said with the pride of a cat presenting its owner with a dead mouse. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “Heard of it?” she said. “Are you kidding? ARC basically invented fracking and they also have substantial oil reserves in the Middle East,” she said. “That’s a real company.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” he laughed. “I am the chairman of the investment banking division at this bank.”

  “That’s a juicy mandate, but who can eat a company that big?” Alex asked.

  “Another little organization you may have heard of,” Piper said. “It is called the People’s Republic of China.”

  Alex stopped in her tracks. She was stunned by the mere mention of selling a major American energy company to the Government of China. “You can’t be serious.”

  “And why not?” he challenged.

  “Because the United States Congress will never go for a deal like that,” Alex said. “They wouldn’t let CNOOC buy Unocal and they wouldn’t let the Dubai Ports buy the Port of New York. Lest you forget, Piper, there are plenty of people in this country who believe our domestic energy production should be used domestically. I have seen this movie and I know how it ends.”

  “This ending is going to be a little different,” Piper said.

  “What makes you so sure?” she asked.

  “Because I’ve got friends in low places,” the investment banker sang the words to the tune of the Garth Brooks song as he considered the long list of his former and future colleagues who occupied virtually all the highest economic and monetary positions in D.C. “Besides, it’s my civic duty to do this deal!” Piper proclaimed.

  “Yeah,” Alex laughed, “How do you figure that?”

  “Because this transaction is the ultimate win-win; we create jobs, generate tax revenue, help restore the balance of trade and share clean energy with the planet’s biggest polluter. How can you possibly argue about that?” Piper asked. “Now get yourself over here right now so we can do this thing with the man they call Mr. Xing.”

  “But I’m closing the New York Stock Exchange,” Alex reminded him.

  “I know,” he said. “I was watching CNBC and saw that eerie moan of yours. That’s what made me think to call you. By the way, you look great in that red dress and I love that necklace you’re wearing.”

  Alex reached down and touched the golden Picasso charm that Coco Jacobsen had spontaneously purchased for her at a Bonham’s auction in Paris one week before the regrettable night in St. Bart’s. The necklace, called Le Faune Grande, was a sun-shaped splotch of gold with a smile that would forever remind her of her estranged Norwegian lover.

  “It belonged to my grandmother,” Alex lied.

  “She must have worked-out a lot,” Piper marveled.

  “I’m referring to the necklace,” Alex said. “My grandmother gave me the necklace, Piper, not the dress.”

  “Oh,” he grumbled, “the only thing my grandmother gave me was a bald spot and high blood pressure.”

  “You are so deprived,” she said.

  “Alex, my black Sprinter is idling in front of the statue of George Washington on the corner of Broad and Wall,” Piper said of the Mercedes van he had customized into a mobile office and trading desk that shuttled him around the island of Manhattan. “So if you ever want to collect that little year-end bonus I might possibly owe you, I suggest you get into it.”

  “That’s cruel, Piper,” she said.

  “To the contrary,” he replied. “A boss’ job is to motivate their employees and what could be more motivating to an investment banker than money?”

  “You got me,” she said. “See you in ten.”

  Chapter 6

  Tung Chao Yung

  Born in 1911, C. Y. Tung was a self-made Chinese shipping magnate, founder of the Orient Overseas Line and father of Tung Chee Hwa the first Chief Executive of the Special Administrative Region of China. After the end of World War II, Mr. Tung financed $2.87 million to purchase 10 Liberty ships, 3 Victory ships, 8 CIMAVI ships, 10 N3 ships, 3 tankers, 16 Great Lakes Ships and 4 auxiliary naval ships from the U.S. government. At the peak of his career, he owned a shipping fleet with over 150 ships. He was one of the world’s top seven freight moguls; he was often called the Onassis of the Orient.

  Bobby Xing was breathing hard when he finally reached the top of the stairs leading up to the bustling Bar 57/57 in the Four Seasons Hotel.

  He didn’t know if it was the five glasses of Suntory he’d consumed
while singing karaoke with some friends from MIT the previous night or if he was just wiped-out from working one-hundred-hour weeks since his nation joined the World Trade Organization twelve years earlier, but whatever the cause Bobby Xing felt like he could fall asleep standing up.

  Mr. Xing knew sleep would have to wait until he boarded the 14-hour Air China flight back to Beijing later that evening. As the human being tasked with converting a portion of his country’s massive U.S. dollar reserves into the energy needed to power the most profound industrial experiment in history, Mr. Xing did not have the luxury of turning down meetings just because he was tired. If China’s growth was to continue at its current pace, which it had to, the growing need for energy wouldn’t pause – and neither would he.

  After mopping the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve, the weary traveler began to scan the dimly lit room in search of his host. He had received the cold call from the man named Piper Pearl late the previous night to request a meeting to discuss what the American modestly described as “The Greatest Synergy Ever.”

  After a few seconds of searching, Mr. Xing spotted a slowly swaying arm in the far corner of the bar. He felt his pulse quicken. Squinting behind the rectangular rims of his eyeglasses, he recognized the aristocratic face that he’d only seen on television and in newspapers. It was Piper Pearl – and he had not come alone.

  Mr. Xing swerved around an obstacle course of tables and chairs filled with rowdy corporate revelers as he moved toward the corner table. Just as he arrived, his host sprouted a wide smile and tilted forward as if on a hinge. Piper held back his bright orange Hermes necktie to his chest with one arm and slowly swept the other around the room as though the Four Seasons Hotel was his own private grounds.

  “Welcome,” the banker announced to the man with the world’s largest checkbook. “And thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”