9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  But the old Taoist proverb rankled at her…who knows what is good or bad? These ships represented the heart of her entire enterprise, and the oil centers of the world were getting very dangerous these days. Salase was up to something here, and so she decided to tease him a bit.

  “We’re nearly twelve hundred miles from the Caspian superfields, and the last time I looked there was no direct sea route.”

  “And of course you can’t accept shipments from Ceyhan at the moment after that pipeline attack at Erzurum. They just shipped off everything they had bunkered there, and now it will be some time before any more oil gets through. Most unfortunate. That limits options. The situation is very dangerous now, but may I make an informed guess that this ship is a security vessel, and that you also have a security contingent aboard? Helicopters?”

  “Mr. Salase, there’s an American carrier battlegroup in the Atlantic and heading east to the Med even as we speak. Lots of helicopters, sailors, not to mention about a hundred lethal strike aircraft.”

  “Ah, yes, one of their presidential ships, if I am not mistaken.” He addressed the remark to Captain MacRae, who nodded in the affirmative.

  “CVN Roosevelt,” MacRae said quietly.

  “Yes, yes, well I wouldn’t count on Mr. Roosevelt handling this job. As significant as the Chevron operation may be, there are, how is it said… bigger fish to fry.”

  “These days fish are usually fried in oil,” Fairchild quipped, her point obvious. Then she leaned in, with even more obvious seriousness in her tone. “Alright, Mr. Salase, I have three empty tankers with two and a half million barrel capacity between them four days from any number of terminal ports in the Middle East or the Med. And I have the ship you are dining on this evening, to make sure they arrive and conduct their business without any problem from the Iranians or anyone else. And yes, I have helicopters as well. We won’t be making a purchase, you understand, just providing conveyance of the oil, and security. What’s the offer?”

  “I knew you would see the opportunity inherent in the current situation,” Salase exulted. “I have a firm offer, but you need not worry about the Iranians. This is from a basket of Caspian regional operatives. All negotiations have been managed by my firm in Alexandria. We can offer you a conveyance premium of forty dollars a barrel.”

  “The Caspian Consortium? That means a trip to the Black Sea, and soon, before the pipeline through Georgia gets shut down like the BTC line. I’ll want ten dollars a barrel on top of that for the risk,” she said immediately, catching him just a bit unprepared.

  Salase shrugged, feigning difficulty. “That will not leave me very much on the margins.”

  “Come, come now, a good middle man has any number of ways to pad his invoice. Fifty a barrel for conveyance and security premium. What’s the terminal destination?”

  Salase brushed a crumb of bread from his lips, eyes wandering as he spoke. “A familiar route,” he began. “It’s why your company is just the perfect carrier—”

  “Where?” She let just a little impatience enter her tone.

  “The Royal Vopak’s Banyan Terminal in Singapore.” He said it quickly, taking a sip of wine and watching her over the rim of the glass as he finished. For the first time tonight, he thought, I have my hand up the prissy little lady’s skirt—if she would but wear a skirt. She walks about in trousers and thinks it fashionable. Women in business! What is the world coming to? His smile betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he set down the wine glass.

  “Singapore?” She gave MacRae a quick glance. “You mean to tell me the Americans are in a tizzy with this hurricane Victor business shutting down all their refining capacity, and they want to move the oil to Singapore?”

  “Strictly business,” said Salase. We arranged a buyer in Tokyo, and they’re offering a premium price. The Japanese are very cash rich these days. They can out bid virtually anyone on the Western market when they choose. And it appears this is such a time. This business with the Chinese has them justifiably worried.”

  “I see…” Fairchild gave herself a moment to digest this news, a bit angry that her own people didn’t have the information, the name of the buyer, the destination port, or any of this latest twist in the offer. Here she thought she would be hauling to the Vopak terminals at Deer Park and Galena on the Texas coast. That route through the Med and across the Atlantic would be much safer.

  “The almighty dollar,” she breathed, “such as it is these days. I suppose Royal Dutch Shell is in thick as thieves on this deal.” Vopak was a large independent Dutch tank terminal operator, with 78 locations in over thirty countries. They had a venerable history, dating back to 1616 when groups of weighmasters and porters began offering weighing, sorting and storage services at Dutch harbors for the cargo shipped in by the East India Trading Company. In fact, they had received and stored the very first shipment of oil to the Netherlands, in 1862, and proudly displayed a photo of the event on their web site.

  “Of course,” Salase dropped any semblance of pretense now. “It has always been about dollars, or the gold that buys them.” It was time for the close. “So what would you like to do?” He waited, knowing that the person who spoke next would come out on the losing end of the deal. The English bitch would most likely have many more considerations, which he had all anticipated before he landed here tonight. There would be mileage, hazardous waters, known piracy zone surcharge, not to mention that she was obviously trying to extricate herself from many of the waterways her precious tankers would now have to travel en route to Singapore.

  But Salase knew she could only make good on 60% of the big loan reimbursement Bank of London was calling in next month, and that was assuming her precious Princess Royal made it safely through the straits of Hormuz. The company badly needed the other 40% on that credit rollover, another $300 million dollars. With everything in the States shutting down for Hurricane Victor, there would be ample business there for emergency shipments. Perhaps she could get $150 a barrel for the cargo Princess Royal held and sell it to the Americans. She would still need another $250 million to cover her loans. Warships were expensive, no matter what color you painted them or how well your hid the guns and missiles.

  The Atlantic would probably heat up very soon. Shipping orders were starting to come in at any of a number of big European ports. But the cargo they needed to deliver was nowhere at hand. Fairchild was well ahead of the game, with good shipping capacity four days south of a very motivated producer right now.

  Fairchild needed the deal, and Salase knew she could see the obvious advantages of what he was offering her. He would work it so that she would stand to earn at least $125 million on this caper, and that would get her just a little closer to solvency when she sat down with her bankers next month, assuming she would still be able to walk after the good hard fucking he was about to give her in these negotiations. Salase had information that would soon change the math yet again. In a few days she could get $75 dollars a barrel for mere conveyance on this deal, but he would lock her in here for fifty, perhaps fifty-five all said and done. Yes, he had his hand up her skirt now, in a manner of speaking, and in a minute he would have her legs open as well.

  “I’ll need another two dollars for mileage,” she began predictably, and he knew he was going to close the deal. “That’s through the Red Sea, round the Somali coast, which is a known piracy zone, and across the Indian Ocean to more of the same in the Straits of Malacca—very dangerous waters these days.”

  “To be sure, but you’ll have to assume some risk in the venture. “

  “For another three dollars on top of mileage,” she said flatly, folding her hands on the table.

  “Lord almighty,” he breathed. “We have already discussed a ten dollar risk premium.”

  “That was for the Bosporus-Black Sea leg, an imminent war zone.”

  “I’m losing all my profit!” He was lying, of course, and he knew that she was well aware of that fact, but these matters had a certain choreography abo
ut them, and he was expected to make some protest at this point, which he did. “That will come out to fifty-five dollars a barrel for mere conveyance against a current barrel price of only $145,” he said, trying to sound distressed.

  “Done,” said Fairchild. “Providing Captain MacRae sees no undue security risk that would preclude our operations in the waters described.” She gave him a quick look, knowing what his response would be.

  “We’ll handle the situation well enough, I suppose,” he said with that lovely Scottish accent. “Unless things take a severe turn for the worse in the next week.”

  “Very well,” Fairchild was ready to move on to dinner. “I suppose you brought contracts?”

  “Well, this is all very sudden,” said Salase. “I was hoping for forty a barrel but—”

  “Fifty-five, and if we run into any trouble, at either end or any time while we’re in transit, you pay any cost that isn’t reimbursed by the insurance carrier.”

  “But—”

  “And if, by any God forsaken stretch we should lose a ship on this little venture, then we collect double over insurance premiums. That’s a long term loss, and the insurance will hardly compensate me for revenue shortfall until I could replace the vessel.”

  The little bitch thinks she has me by the balls, he thought, secretly amused. Now it was time for the final act. “Well…” he hesitated just long enough, appearing flustered and cleverly using his napkin to dab his brow, but he knew he had her legs open now, figuratively speaking. He had planned to give her fifty dollars a barrel, and by god that’s exactly how it played out, aside from the minor annoyance of that last five dollars for fuel and piracy premiums.

  “You drive a very hard bargain,” he said. “Alright, you need fifty-five, I’ll close for that, but not a dollar more.” He extended a hand, with a sinister grin on his face. “Deal?”

  “Done,” she said, shaking on it. Fairchild was disgusted by the man, presuming he could come in here and dicker with her on conveyance and security charges for an operation like this. The little surprise on the terminal destination cost her a step in the dance, but she had made a good recovery, pushing him up another five dollars a barrel, when she might have settled at fifty under normal circumstances.

  “If you manage to take delivery at anything close to your float,” Salase said at last, “then you might be well on your way to paying off that credit chip coming due next month, eh? I’m sure you’ll find some way of coming up with the remaining funds you need for the Bank of London.” He smiled. “Assuming, of course, your sell what you are presently holding on Princess Royal at current market prices.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Elena shifted slightly in her chair, and for a moment it seemed that Salase might indeed have a hand on her leg, though both his well padded paws were resting comfortably on the table now.

  Elena composed herself, tamping down her annoyance at the man’s manner. “Yes, I’ve a three million barrels sitting on Princess Royal, dear Mr. Salase—and I own that oil. At current market price, as you so wisely note, that will fetch me a tidy sum. I’ll expect to get closer to $150 a barrel on that oil, if not more by the time I get around to delivering it. Lock-ins on price are very slippery these days, particularly in emergency situations. What with all this hurricane business at Houston, the Americans will be paying top dollar.”

  “Pity they can’t get their own oil producers to stop selling to the Japanese,” said Salase, “but I suppose if things get worse in the Pacific they’ll do something about that as well. No hurricane has struck British shores of late, and the price there is a flat hundred pounds, so consider my suggestion that you sell to the Americans if the price of a barrel goes much above that, loyal servant of the Crown that you are.” His smile had a bit of a barb to it now.

  “If you know so much about my financial arrangements,” said Fairchild, “then you can see I have my credit call well in sight. I’m wagering Princess Royal is carrying at least $450 million in her holds right this moment, and perhaps more. This little bit I’m picking up here for simple conveyance is just a nudge in the right direction. That would put me over $580 million, and I can take the rest out of petty cash.” She smiled sweetly. “Argos Fire is ready to lead my little fleet to the Bosporus tomorrow. We have long range helicopters, and perhaps we can provide some security for this customer, but that will come at a cost as well. Our first priority, however, will be to take on his cargo at either Kulevi oil terminal on the Black Sea coast, or at Supsa, assuming the Americans have a bunker credit there…” she waited, a question in her eyes.

  “Of course, Miss Fairchild. It has all been arranged.”

  “Excellent. Then might I suggest something, Mister Salase? My tanker in the Persian Gulf is much closer to Singapore, and I own that oil. Suppose I were to offer it to your Japanese buyer in fulfillment of this conveyance contract you’ve been trying to arrange.”

  “How generous,” Salase beamed. He knew she would get round to this in time, and there it was, her final card on the table. Now he would play out his trump card and run the spades home.

  “Then that would still leave you free to convey the Chevron oil to other destinations, perhaps the Americans, as you suggested earlier. But you will have need of great hurry. Yes, I should have known you would have this deal well thought out. You are a very formidable businesswoman, Miss Fairchild. And of course your intelligence services would have the very same information that came through our network yesterday, so I suppose you have already factored that in to your calculations.” He let that hang a moment for effect, and could almost feel her resolve falter a bit. It was the sweetest moment in any close—the moment when you reveal that one last tidbit of information your adversary had failed to consider. Yes, her legs were wide open at last, he thought. Now for the coup de gras.

  “Information?” She raised her eyebrows, ever so slightly, “What exactly are you referring to. I’m afraid I have to confess the destination on this little run did come as a surprise. I underestimated the greed of the Americans—sell their own damn oil to the Japanese while Houston gets slammed by a hurricane? I can’t stack that up against my good sense for profit when I see it.”

  “Of course,” said Salase, still smiling. “No, I was referring to the information on the security situation in the Persian Gulf. It seems your Princess Royal is going to hit a mine some time tomorrow. You knew this, of course. Perhaps you were even counting on it, because the price of oil is truly going to skyrocket if it happens as planned.” The certainty of his remark was a nice sharp jab, and he could almost feel the woman jump.

  Captain MacRae shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hand in his pocket fingering the latest intelligence decrypt he had picked up from the radio room—the mines! He had not found a moment to inform his CEO, and now she was adrift at sea in the negotiation and about to hit one herself.

  Elena was taken aback by the statement. What was this bloated pig of a man talking about? Going to hit a mine? if it happens as planned? She could feel the heat rising on the back of her neck. Her people should have had this—a direct threat to a company ship? Good God, what was going on here? What did this man know that her Intel service could have so blatantly missed? She fought down the anger.

  “Of course,” she said at last, though her face had turned a shade of pale rose. It was the first noticeable loss of control MacRae had ever seen her suffer in a public negotiation, and he knew she had been completely surprised by the information. There would be no rest on the Argos Fire tonight, he realized. Mack Morgan, the Intel Master was going to have a lot of questions to answer for not getting this sooner. Perhaps he could save Mack a finger or two if he spoke up now.

  “Excuse me, m’lady, but we do have something to discuss concerning that development. Perhaps after dinner you and I can have a chat.” He was signaling her that he had information, perhaps even a plan, a high face card or two in hand, and he hoped it would be enough to help her regain her composure.”

  Dinner was
served, thankfully just at that moment, giving Elena Fairchild a brief cover to settle herself. But as Salase eyed the sumptuous fare, he could feel the woman’s discomfort in the silence, and she would sit there and take it as long as he desired. At least until dessert had been served. Oh there would be little run ups of conversation aimed at ferreting out the scope of the threat, a trip to the powder room so she could scream shrill orders over a radio and notify the Captain of Princess Royal. And then she would be begging the Americans in the Persian Gulf for a frigate to escort her precious little princess through the Straits, based on ‘credible information from an unnamed source,’ of course.

  And when they find out the rest; when the missile fires and the oil starts burning… He smiled, pretending to enjoy his meal. Ah, he thought, it was great to be a man. Women had no place in business matters like these. He was going to enjoy this dinner. The poached salmon looked particularly tasty tonight.

  Day 2

  The Descent

  “Day was departing… and I, the only one,

  made myself ready to sustain the war…

  Tell me why thou dost not shun

  The descent into this centre,

  from the vast place thou burnest to return to…

  the deep and savage way?”

  ~ Dante Alighieri, The Inferno - Canto II

  Part V

  Wayward Son

  “What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it?”