Viking Raid

by Matthew McCleery

  No matter what he learned from Mr. Hawkins at the Fjord Bank branch office in the town of St. Peter Port on the island of Guernsey, Robert decided that it was over. It was all over. He was going back to New York on the last British Air flight from London to JFK that evening. Whatever the consequences, Robert’s quest to gain control of the fifteen LNG carriers from Regal Shipbuilding would be officially over – together with his much-loved career in the stylish and exciting international shipping industry.

  As Robert exited the elevator and entered the hotel lobby, he experienced that haunting sense of anticlimax present in resort towns in the off-season. The place was mostly deserted but for a few older couples who were lingering over breakfast, flipping through newspapers, sipping tea and playing cards in front of the propane fireplaces.

  Fully laden with a nineteenth century English breakfast, Robert walked down the hotel’s majestic staircase and stepped onto Trafalgar Street. When he walked outside, he was relieved to discover that the fog hanging over the harbor just thirty minutes earlier had been miraculously burned off by the warming sun. The island air was refreshingly cool, in the mid-60s, and the sky had been scrubbed to the deep blue of an American mailbox.

  In front of the hotel, the sea breeze was ruffling the flags of Britain, France and the distinctive red “X” that dominated the flag of Guernsey. He didn’t know what or why, but for the first time since he started his journey it felt like the kind of day when something was finally going to happen – one way or another.

  Armed with unintelligible directions delivered by a concierge with a heavy Scottish brogue, Robert Fairchild turned right on Trafalgar Street and walked up a cobblestone street over-looking the harbor. As he strolled along the lanes of the Colonial Seaport, he realized why its low white-and-yellow buildings looked so familiar; they reminded him of Bermuda. And as he always did when he had the opportunity to visit a beautiful place, he vowed to bring Grace and Oliver back there before it was all over – though he feared he never would.

  After making several quick turns, passing by an incalculable number of offshore trusts and banks from which an inconceivable volume of money was pushed through sub-oceanic cables like blood through arteries, Robert finally arrived at the address Mrs. Park had blurted out during her moment of terror.

  Now all he had to do was find Mr. Hawkins. He pulled open the glass door and walked inside the bank. It was show time.

  Chapter 28

  The Barclay Brothers

  Born ten minutes apart, the identical twin Barclay brothers have worked side-by-side their entire lives, amassing billions of dollars through successful, if controversial, investments ranging from the Ritz Hotel in London to the Sunday Telegraph. David and Frederick Barclay first entered into shipping in 1983 through the purchase of Ellerman Lines, a London based shipping company, which they sold in 1988. The Brothers returned to the shipping industry through their purchase of Gotaas-Larsen, an oil tanker and LNG tanker company, the same year. They sold the company for a profit in 1997, but retained a stake that they later sold over a “brief cell phone conversation” to Norwegian tanker tycoon John Fredriksen.

  The moment Robert Fairchild entered the Fjord Bank branch office in St. Peter Port, he feared for the worst. A far cry from what he imagined an offshore bank would look like, the institution he’d just wandered into seemed no different than the retail branch of a local savings bank in suburban America.

  The place had the standard-issue linoleum floor and a row of teller windows beneath a sign hanging from the ceiling that trumpeted very low interest rates on twelve-month CDs. The only elements missing were an offer for a free toaster, a velvet rope to corral customers and a jar filled with lollipops to reward children for their patience. Robert approached the cotton-haired teller who had just greeted him with an anemic wave.

  “Good morning,” he said, trying to remain composed. “My name is Robert Fairchild and I am here to see Mr. James Hawkins, please.”

  “Who?” she crowed.

  “James Hawkins,” Robert repeated. “I believe he works in the, um…” he paused momentarily as he considered what to say next, “I believe he works in the offshore bank.” Robert had leaned forward and whispered the final words as if the act of merely uttering them was a punishable offense.

  “I believe you must be mistaken, sir,” she said.

  “I believe you must be mistaken, miss,” Robert replied aggressively.

  “There is no one by that name who works here,” she said.

  “Listen to me,” Robert’s said, his heart was now pounding furiously in his chest from a toxic overdose of coffee and much stress. “Mrs. Parks in the accounting office at Regal Shipbuilding in Korea specifically told me that Mr. James Hawkins works in the Guernsey branch of Fjord Bank!”

  “Korea?” she asked with her face twisted in a dumbstruck expression.

  Robert sincerely believed he had come to peace with the fact that the IPO of Viking Tankers was a complete and utter failure – and that he had senselessly gambled his son’s financial security on a foolish lark. Nevertheless, upon learning that Mr. Hawkins didn’t even work at the bank he suddenly felt like he was in the throes of an anxiety attack. He’d been had yet again – and this time by a bookkeeper in Busan.

  “I would appreciate it if you would at least check the directory,” Robert demanded now suspecting that Mrs. Parks had given him a fake name in order to get him to leave.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Oh yeah, and why not?” Robert challenged.

  “Because we don’t have a directory,” she laughed. “We are only ten people who work here and seven of us are ladies. In fact, there is only one private banker in this office and his name is…”

  “Young James Hawkins at your service,” called out a man of Robert’s age after emerging from a doorway in the back corner. “But please call me Jim. And excuse my tardiness,” he added. “I got stuck behind a lorry heading down to the ferry dock with a load of arugula en route to London.”

  The man quickly shuffled across the room and extended his hand. When Robert grabbed onto it he felt as though he was being pulled from peril. As he pumped the man’s hand and looked him over from head to toe, the disheveled American was soothed by what he saw. He was reassured by the banker’s dark blue woolen Savile Row suit, silver Rolex, recreational suntan, Hermes pocket square and freshly polished loafers. Robert was visibly relieved when he caught a glimpse of the man’s cufflinks – silver ship propellers engraved with the tiny letters KS.

  “I am Robert…”

  “Fairchild, yes, yes, I know,” Jim Hawkins said quickly as he discretely peeled Robert’s desperate fingers off his own hand. “Mr. Him warned me that you might be dropping in,” he said and then quickly retreated back from which he came. “He also said you got a little loony out in Korea. Now please, follow me.”

  Robert followed the natty banker down the long hallway and they emerged in a wood-paneled reception area located in a different building from the one he’d entered. The new environment had the milieu of mega-money management; the air was warmer and drier and the hardwood floor was covered with Persian rugs. On the navy blue and mahogany-paneled walls hung a dozen oil paintings of ships and the people who had owned and financed them over the centuries.

  Robert felt a rush of adrenaline the moment he saw a scale model of an LNG tanker encased in glass against the wall in the far corner. The ship’s name was Katherine Juhl and Robert figured that was the ship’s original name before the mysterious new owner renamed her Hispaniola. It had been a long, hard journey, but judging from the ship model, Robert Fairchild knew he was finally in the right place.

  “You must excuse me for what happened out there, Mr. Fairchild,” James Hawkins said. “You see, the place that you stepped into is our registered address, but it is not the manner in which our private clients typically enter our offices.”

  “No apology necessary,” Robert said, grateful to have b
een plucked from the branch office. “I’m just glad we found each other.”

  “I bet you are,” he said. “May we offer you a cappuccino?”

  “Can you make a macchiato?” Robert asked hopefully.

  “Of course we can!” the banker boomed. “You’ve had a long trip so perhaps you would care for a doppio?”

  “Ah, macchiato doppio,” Robert said the words lovingly as he fell into one of the two leather chesterfield chairs stationed in front of the banker’s desk. “Che sono marveloso,” Robert added with a dramatic flurry of his hand and a bogus Italian accent. He was suddenly feeling euphoric from a combination of exhaustion and the exquisite anticipation for the conversation he was about to have.

  “So,” the banker asked in a solemn tone inconsistent with the amused look on his face, “just what brings you to our quiet little island? I suspect it’s not to see the sights.”

  “I am here to buy that,” Robert spat the final word and pointed to the ship model encased in glass.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” the banker laughed.

  “I am not joking,” Robert said.

  “But we don’t sell our ship models,” Jim Hawkins said. “They are gifts from our clients.”

  “It’s not the model I’m after,” Robert said, “it’s the ship – the actual ship.”

  “That’s even more absurd than you asking to buy the model,” he said. “Are you working for a SPAC that needs to make a quick acquisition? Is that what’s going on here?”

  “No,” Robert said and attempted to read the banker’s eyes. “I am here to buy that ship and her fourteen sisters.”

  After a considerable period of silence during which the banker appeared as though he might either laugh or cry, he said, “I sincerely hope you didn’t come all the way from Korea to tell me that.”

  “That’s precisely why I came all the way from Korea,” Robert said flatly and lowered his head to glare at Jim Hawkins “And I am not leaving until I have a signed MOA to buy those ships.”

  “I wish you had used the telephone, or even sent me an email, before making your journey,” Jim Hawkins said and picked up his BlackBerry from his desk and held it up, “because it was a real fool’s errand.”

  “And why’s that?” Robert grumbled.

  “Because those ships simply are not for sale,” he said.

  “But you haven’t even asked the owner,” Robert grumbled slowly through gritted teeth.

  “That’s because I don’t wish to waste the owner’s time on such an absurdity,” the banker said. “I know how much those ships earn and I know how much my bank has lent against them, which means I know what sort of equity will be required, which means I know the return on that equity – and I know it will not clear the American market. But I do have some good news?”

  “What’s that?” Robert asked.

  “The good news is that I am in the position to offer you a fleet of eighteen-year-old product tankers of which my organization has recently taken possession,” he said. “Yes, they are out of class and due for special survey, but…”

  “I don’t want your lousy product tankers!” Robert cried. “And I am not rational!”

  “Clearly,” the banker said with huff. “But if you aren’t rational then I wouldn’t be able to conclude a transaction with you in any case because that would be immoral.”

  When Jim Hawkins said the word immoral, Robert couldn’t help but envision Luther Livingston sleeping in his poolside cabana at the Delano Hotel on South Beach eating take-out from Nobu as he anxiously awaited his boatload of preferred share certificates in Viking Tankers.

  “But you haven’t even heard my price,” Robert begged.

  “Your price does not matter, Mr. Fairchild,” he said. “My client did not purchase those ships on speculation. The new owner purchased them to perform a specific contract. This type of vessel is not bought and sold at cocktail parties like ancient bulk carriers,” the financier said, suppressing a chuckle.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Robert challenged.

  “It means that LNG is a serious industrial business that is not well-suited for dilettante punters or gentlemen shipowners.”

  “I’m afraid this is not that simple, Mr. Hawkins,” Robert said.

  “I’m afraid it is old chap,” Jim Hawkins explained coolly. “And don’t get all wonky on me the way you did on Mr. Him or I’ll be forced to call security.”

  “But…”

  “Look it, if LNG carriers are what you’re after then turn right around and go back to Korea and order some,” the banker said. “I am quite sure Mr. Him would be happy to start delivering them to you thirty-six months from now.” He pushed back from his desk and stood up.

  “I can’t wait thirty-six hours,” Robert said, “never mind thirty-six months. I am out of time.”

  “And you are out of luck. Julia dear,” the financier called into the intercom on his black telephone, “please pour Mr. Fairchild’s macchiato into a paper cup. He will be leaving us now.”

  “I don’t think so,” the American said as he walked around the desk until he was no more than six inches away from the nervous banker. Robert was so close that Jim Hawkins could smell the stale kimchee on the crazy American’s breath.

  “You are going to tell me who owns those ships so that I can at least have my offer heard, or else I will…”

  “Or else you will what?” the lender peppered him as he waited for a reply.

  “I will…”

  “What?” The banker taunted him again.

  Robert’s mind raced and his eyes shot furtively around the chestnut-paneled room as he thought of what to do next. Despite its short-term temptation he had learned earlier in life that physical violence was the ultimate form of failure. Instead he narrowed his eyes and struggled to come up with another alternative.

  “What can you possibly do to me, Mr. Fairchild?” the banker ribbed him again. “Nothing; you can do nothing. You are powerless.”

  In one fluid and spontaneous maneuver, Robert Fairchild snatched the banker’s BlackBerry off the leather blotter on his antique French desk and quickly stepped away – gripping the device over his head.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” the banker laughed. “I have all the files on that machine backed up on my laptop,” he said. “In fact, I am due for an upgraded device this week anyway so you are probably doing me a favor.”

  “Then I guess you won’t mind when I send this thing to all the shipping newspapers,” Robert said and he watched the banker’s smile melt away. “Or perhaps to the Exchequer’s Office, or to the taxing authorities in the U.K or Greece or Norway or America,” he added. “I am sure there is plenty of incriminating correspondence on this filthy little device as it relates to foreign corporations in which you clients have an undisclosed beneficial interest.”

  Robert had been expecting James Hawkins to erupt in yet another fit of humiliating laughter at the sheer absurdity of his amateur threat, but he didn’t. After a full minute, during which the lender was apparently running his own personal cost and benefit analysis, James Hawkins pulled down on the lapels of his Savile Row suit, cleared his throat and spoke in a very small voice.

  “As it just so happens, the new owner of those fifteen LNG vessels you are so fond of was with me yesterday,” Jim Hawkins said. “He was here reviewing the details of the acquisition financing that we are providing upon the delivery of each vessel.”

  “Where is he now?” Robert said slowly as he held the machine above his head.

  “He is taking a few days of holiday on the island of Herm,” Jim Hawkins said.

  “Oh great,” Robert sighed. “Where’s Herm – in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean? Next to Vanuatu or Majuro or Monrovia or wherever else these globetrotting shipowners register their ships?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Fairchild, Herm is just a short ferry ride from here,” Jim Hawkins said. “It is a Channel Island, you see
, one of our smallest and loveliest.”

  “Are you serious?” Robert asked with disbelief. “He’s near here?” His pulse was racing with excitement at the prospect of ending the torturous process of finding the ships at such a nearby location. He didn’t know whether or not he would be successful in buying the fifteen LNG vessels but at least he would preserve some shred of self-respect if he was able to present an offer to the new owner.

  “I am always serious,” the banker confirmed with a solemn nod. “That is my job.”

  “Where is this shipowner staying on the island of Herm?” Robert demanded as he rose to his feet.

  “There’s just one hotel out there,” he said. “It’s a small place and quite old-fashioned. It goes by the name…” the banker lowered his head beneath his desk when he answered so that Robert could not see his face. “It is called the Admiral Benbow Inn.”

  “What is the shipowner’s name?” Robert asked.

  “That I cannot tell you,” Jim Hawkins said. “It would be a breach of my fiduciary duty. But if you want to meet him, I suggest you go quickly,” Jim Hawkins said.

  “Why?” Robert said.

  “Because the Coast Guard has cancelled the rest of the ferries to Herm due to the high winds,” he said. “The Trident will be the last one to depart from St. Peter Port today and she leaves in just ten minutes.”

  Robert tossed the banker’s BlackBerry onto his desk and ran out of the office.

  Chapter 29

  Shipowners & Philanthropy

  Shipping tycoons are famous for their philanthropy. In 1975, Aristotle Onassis directed in his will that his fortune be divided 55% to his daughter Christina and 45% to a foundation bearing the name of his deceased son, Alexander S. Onassis. The Alexander S. Onassis Foundation was designed by Mr. Onassis as a shipping company, Olympic Shipping and Management, which continues to exist for the sole purpose of funding public benefit efforts in the name of the Foundation. 40% of the year-end profits are distributed for public benefit projects and the remainder is reinvested back into Olympic Shipping and Management. Thanks to excellent management, Mr. Onassis’s structure has proven successful and has inspired the creation of similar structures.