The Albatros

      and the pirates of Galguduud

      A story of a Letter of Marque in the 21^st century

      Federico Supervielle Bergés

      Copyright © 2019 - Federico Supervielle Bergés

      Chapter One

      Friedrich Gotthelf hung up the phone defeated. At times like these, the fact that his phone was the latest model or that his contact list was packed with the phone numbers of the most influential and successful businessmen in the world - especially in the oil business – full of famous people and celebrities, even a few politicians, meant absolutely nothing. His fancy office, if you could call a room bigger than most apartments an office, offered him no satisfaction. Not even his ergonomic chair that had cost him twenty-five thousand Euros seemed comfortable. After what he had just done all his accomplishments disappeared behind a cloud that only allowed him to see his failure. This was the third time in twenty months! With this last phone call Gotthelf had just authorized the payment of the ransom for the release of the supertanker Dufourspitze, one of the twelve belonging to Alps Tankers; his main source of income. Translating the name to English had been the suggestion of one of those business consultants that receives an astronomical salary for doing a job that in the magnate’s opinion didn’t really generate any profits, but it was a necessary evil. In any case, the damn Somali pirates didn’t seem to care about the name of the company anyway, or its nationality, flag, cargo, destination or anything else for that matter. They would hijack any ship on the water whether close or not so close to Somalia if they deemed it feasible, and then they would demand the ransom. Dufourspitze, together with Finsteraarhorn, Nordend, Aletschhorn, Zumsteinspitze and the rest of the ships had to go by Somalia and pass through the Gulf of Aden if they didn’t want to go around so far out of the way that it made the trip not even less than half as profitable. In business everything is about profits. Although, after paying this last ransom Gotthelf was sure that in the last twenty months he would have been better off sending his fleet the long way around the Cape of Good Hope. It hadn’t been long since they had begun the extraction of oil in Tanzania and his company had acquired the contract to transport crude to European ports but that meant crossing the entire area swarming with Somali pirates.

      “Dammit!”

      From his office in the commercial district of Zurich everything seemed so simple. If only the civilized countries would get together and do something. But there was no way to get those politicians to take a risk. They would not do anything to compromise hundreds of thousands of votes in the upcoming elections, and that was the case in all the Western countries. This was one of the reasons that at sixty-one years of age he had declined numerous offers by the Helvetic Republic to be at the head of the Portfolio of Economy. His experience and connections were well known but politics was not for him. Businesses were much simpler; procure more money spending less and you’ll be doing fine and there’s always the option to improve. Not so in politics, one day you’re on top, the next on the bottom, that’s as sure as death and taxes.

      Almost all the western countries with interests in the area had one or a few warships patrolling the zone catching a skiff here or there but that wasn’t enough. The pirates weren’t stupid and with their experience and the money from the paid ransoms they had been able to double their efforts and improve their techniques. Anyone who was familiar with this topic affirmed that the only way to address the problem was to nip it in the bud and attack the pirates at their home base on land. However, it seemed that no government or international organization was aware of this. The problem stemmed from Somalia being a failed state, and obviously to carry out these attacks you would need to enter Somali waters and be in Somali territory. And without a visible head of state to obtain permission from, no government was going to face a possible contrary public opinion. Gotthelf couldn’t understand what people had against attacking the pirates except maybe the possible collateral damage to civilians. But therein was the key. They were too used to peace, there in Switzerland most of all, to accept a few foreign civilians as the only possible victims of a military operation; aside from the soldiers of course. One gets used to thinking that those in the military die because it’s part of their job, but we also have to take them into account, right?

      In any case, it was clear that nothing was going to be accomplished with the aid of only the western governments. The vice-president of the emergent Somali government, who didn’t even control half the country, had talked to him several times. He seemed like a man suitable enough for his position and he had good ideas and initiative but nothing with which to carry them out. The Somali proposed many things, from an army that could take the country by force to naval or air raids. But no one seemed to listen to him. The western countries were too busy sustaining their ailing democracies to pay attention to the petitions of a government that was barely governing. And in this day and age besides governments, what is there? It had been a long time since the age of mercenaries even though some considered the glorious Vatican Swiss Guard as such. In the naval war they had also existed, what were they called? Corsairs. That’s it. But it had been centuries since any corsair traversed the oceans. They were nothing more than memories of times gone by.

      And suddenly everything was clear to him. It was a crazy idea but, why not? In any case, if he wanted to carry it out he needed someone well versed on the topic. But who? It was obvious no one in Switzerland would have that kind of expertise. He himself had never set foot on any of his ships. It had to be a foreigner. Gotthelf racked his brains, mentally searching through all those meetings, banquets, receptions and other events he had attended, and after a few minutes, “Marianne!” he yelled through the door at his secretary.

      Marianne knew that when her boss forgot to use the intercom he had on his desk to call her he was either in a hurry or nervous so she quickly went into his office wondering what it was this time.

      “Do you remember that reception a couple of months ago at the Hotel Alden?” he asked.

      The young woman nodded. It had been the most important social event of the year and her boss, even though he wouldn’t admit it, gave it much importance. It was one of the best places for doing business.

      “I was talking to a Spaniard. I don’t remember his name but I need you to find him. It shouldn’t be too hard. He was one of the few Spaniards present and he didn’t have a very important position. He was some sort of consultant.”

      Marianne nodded again and assuming her boss needed nothing else turned and headed for her desk.

      She knew at that moment Gotthelf’s eyes would leave his papers and turn to look at her, but she didn’t care. Her boss was happily married, had two children, and all the right in the world to look lustfully at his young and sexy secretary who knew very well he would never cross that line. Besides, she only had eyes for her fiancé Jean-Paul, captain of the Swiss Guard and no need to have an affair with a magnate. Gotthelf was a good boss, he paid well and Marianne knew that as good looking as she was if she didn’t do her job well he wouldn’t have hired her.

      And now to find the Spaniard. The task her boss had given her was a peculiar one, but that was exactly the kind of work that would break the monotony and she was always grateful for that. Marianne sat at her desk unaware that at that moment Gotthelf was thinking about how even her name exuded sensuality. Not that he’d do anything about it, of course.

       #

      “Good afternoon monsieur Reyes.”

      “Good afternoon Pierre.”

      The Hotel Rocco Forte in Brussels was the best in the city and Pierre was an old acquaintance.

      “Something for me?” he asked as he handed him his key.

      “Oui monsieur, you got a call from … Alps Tankers,” Pierre said after looking at his note. “They didn’t leave a message, just this number.”

      “Very well, thank you,” Reyes answered taking the piece of paper and heading for the elevator while he searched his memory. Alps Tankers … The name was so obvious he didn’t need to think too much; the top Swiss crude supertanker company. The owner’s name was Golfhead or something like that. He had met him recently at a reception in Zurich.