“Business before pleasure,” the Captain said. “There is only one more flight to Copenhagen today, it goes through Zurich and leaves Venizelos in one hour. Don’t worry, there will be plenty of time to eat, drink and be merry once you’ve gotten your hands on those ships.”
“That’s right,” Spyrolaki laughed. “I bet the world will feel like a party once you’ve gotten control of those vessels.”
Robert rose to his feet, said goodbye and began walking toward the car. When he was about halfway across the dining room, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Aphrodite. “Listen to me, Robert, and listen carefully,” she said.
“What is it?” Robert replied.
“Always remember that in the business of shipping, when you are ready to give up you must hang on a little longer,” she said. “If you can do that, you will almost always be okay.”
Chapter 23
John Pierpont Morgan
In 1902, J.P. Morgan & Co. financed the formation of International Mercantile Marine Company, an Atlantic shipping combine which absorbed several major American and British lines – and owned the RMS Titanic. Morgan hoped to dominate transatlantic shipping through interlocking directorates and contractual arrangements with the railroads, but that proved impossible… Analysis of financial records shows that IMM was overleveraged and suffered from inadequate cash flow that caused it to default on bond interest payments.
Robert Fairchild spent his first seven hours in Copenhagen, Denmark sweating beneath a puffy white duvet in the Karen Blixen suite at the posh Hotel D’Angleterre. The Captain’s long-serving personal assistant had made the last-minute hotel reservation while Robert was en route to Denmark via Zurich and the opulent accommodations were apparently the only ones available on such short notice.
Although Robert had been granted the “Seaman’s Book” discount rate (an age-old concession still offered to shipping companies when relocating their crews), the nightly rate was still 6,000 kroner, which equated to about $1,100. It was a princely sum for a bad night’s sleep and Robert knew Coco Jacobsen would surely reject it when he submitted his expense report by way of the embarrassing vive voce ritual at the end of the month.
Sitting like a supplicant at Coco’s desk aboard the Kon Tiki, Robert was forced to defend every item for which he was seeking reimbursement from his boss. His chances of recouping more than $1,000 for a single night’s stay in a hotel room were slim. “Ja, but Fairchild,” Coco would groan as he jammed another load of Snus into his upper gum, “this fancy hotel room of yours costs more than the daily time charter rate on our VLCCs some days.”
When Robert finally climbed out of the enormous Danish bed at 11:00 a.m. he was in that state of disorientation that comes after the first hard sleep on a different continent. Two cups of instant coffee and an ice-cold shower later he had finally worked up the courage to check his email and text messages. Yet again there was just one of substance, a text message, and it was highlighted with a red, sad-faced emoticon:
8 Days Left… Love, Coco. Ends.
With his anxiety now awake, Robert Fairchild pulled his wrinkled blue Brooks Brothers shirt over his head and stepped into the now shabby looking grey-flannel suit he had been wearing since he left the Delano Hotel three days earlier.
Although he was certainly not dressed for success, Robert was nonetheless feeling confident about his game plan while in Denmark; he was going to locate the offices of the Great Dane, pay an unannounced visit to its CEO and major shareholder, Mr. Cornelius Juhl, and make the man an offer on his fleet of fifteen LNG carriers that he simply couldn’t refuse.
Rocky DuBois had apparently demanded that Viking Tankers gain control of the gas tankers, but he’d said nothing about the price or terms so Robert was going to use the carte blanche. If he had learned anything about shipping during his eighteen months in the business, it was this: ships were commodities that could be easily replaced with an equivalent one. That meant every ship was always for sale at the right price.
Robert Fairchild was feeling so optimistic about his strategy to acquire the vessels that he had already checked out of his fancy accommodations and booked himself on the SAS flight from Copenhagen to Newark that evening. There had been a flight to JFK, the airport of choice for residents of the Upper East Side like him, but that one required a stopover in Oslo and Robert didn’t want to chance it. Coco had told him about Wade Waters’ “tax management” strategy and Robert was deathly afraid that he might bump into Coco and his posse of professionals holding court in the airport’s Duty Free Zone.
Between Coco, Magnus Magnusen, Peder Hansen, Alistair Gooding, Wade Waters and the rest of the professionals who had something riding on the success of the Viking Tankers IPO, Robert would fear for his personal safety until the listing was closed. If Robert wasn’t successful in his quest, he figured he might have to go into hiding in a rented cottage on Martha’s Vineyard, change his name and hope the shipping mafia didn’t track him down to collect the $1 million of bills he’d racked-up preparing for the deal.
When he finally walked outside his hotel, Robert was greeted by yet another beautiful day in Europe. But like anyone with a life-altering transaction hanging in the balance, he had no interest what-so-ever in seeing the sights of Copenhagen. All he really wanted to do was offer Mr. Juhl whatever it took for him to sign the MOA, fax the document to Coco and hope he could revive the slumbering roadshow before it was too late.
Although Robert didn’t plan to take any interest in Copenhagen, when he stepped onto Kongens Nytorv that morning and made a right onto Strøget, the world’s longest pedestrian walkway, he couldn’t help himself; he was stunned by the clear autumn sky, the invigorating ocean breeze and the prairie of salt water surrounding the city. Robert wandered aimlessly as he took-in the sights and sounds of the lovely city.
After half an hour on foot, he came to the conclusion that Copenhagen was a picture of perfection. There were children riding to school on their father’s shoulders, well-dressed women briskly walking the cobblestone streets and an orderly fleet of cyclists hauling everything from babies to groceries as they moved past the neat and brightly colored buildings lining a canal packed with boats. Copenhagen’s distinction as the capital of the “happiest” country in the world was easy to understand.
But as always, Robert’s reverie was tempered because Grace was not with him. He’d had the privilege of traveling to so many interesting places around the world thanks to his chance encounter with the shipping industry, but yet he could never fully enjoy them – not the cafés and restaurants, not the museums and not the hotels – without his beautiful wife. In fact, the beauty of the city only made him feel farther from home. He knew it was time to finish the crazy deal he’d started in Brown’s Hotel in London that snowy night all those months ago – and go home.
As he formed his plan while in the throes of insomnia the previous night, Robert figured it would take at least an hour to find the headquarters of Great Dane Shipping. The Greek had told him that the company was large, but since it was a shipping company its office was probably tucked away in some back alley near an industrial seaport. So it was with considerable surprise that Robert suddenly found himself standing in front of the headquarters of Great Dane Shipping, a structure as big as the Pentagon that was prominently positioned in the center of town.
Fortified by two lungs full of clean Baltic air and a double macchiato from a café called Baresso, Robert confidently strode into the lobby of one of the world’s biggest shipping companies. It was time to play Let’s Make a Deal for the fifteen LNG carriers.
Robert quickly learned that the shipping centers of Piraeus and Copenhagen were distinctly different environments. While Piraeus was gritty and chaotic, Copenhagen was spotless and orderly. And while the offices of Blue Sea Shipping & Trading were rich with ephemera and nostalgia, crammed with family photos and ship models, the offices of Great Dane Shipping were modern and austere. The crys
tal-clear plate-glass windows and pale hardwood floors made the place feel more like an Ikea showroom than a one-hundred-year-old shipping company. The only evidence of shipping, in fact, was the pair of modest sized ship models in the center of the lobby.
“Godmorgen!” Robert sang out manically after he’d passed through the freshly squeegeed plate glass doors and approached the receptionist. She was a well-maintained woman in her fifties wearing a plaid skirt and crisp white blouse. Her blonde-gray hair was pinned back neatly with a pair of bobby pins.
“Good morning,” she replied skeptically, her perfect English carrying the hint of her British education. “How may I help you?”
“My name is Robert Fairchild and I am from New York City.”
“That’s nice,” she said.
“I am here to see Mr. Cornelius Juhl,” Robert said.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked after stifling a laugh at the mere suggestion of having a walk-in meeting with one of Denmark’s wealthiest men.
“No,” Robert said, “but I do have something very important to discuss with him.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said gently as she slowly opened a huge leather datebook. She was buying time as she considered whether or not to press the red panik button beneath her desk to alert the politiet about the delusional American dressed like a vagrant who was loitering in Great Dane’s offices.
“I’m here to buy some of his ships,” Robert offered, “the big ones.” When the woman appeared unimpressed, Robert added in an unintentionally menacing voice, “And I’m not going home without them.” That was when her slender finger moved toward the red button.
During the thirty-five years that Ida Bonnesen had been manning the reception desk at Great Dane Shipping she had seen it all; Greeks looking to buy ships, Koreans looking to sell ships, French looking to charter big, new ships, Swiss-Italians looking to charter small, older ships. She’d met Chinese looking to build ships and more American investment bankers offering money than she could remember. There had been thousands of hopeful visitors to the understated global headquarters of Great Dane Shipping but Ida could not recall a single one showing up in country with a wrinkled suit and no appointment.
“Well that certainly sounds exciting,” she said absently as she pushed down on the red button. Before she set off the alarm, she took a moment to adjust her hair knowing that the drama that was about to unfold would likely be featured on the evening news – and she wanted to look her best.
But just as Ida prepared to unleash a silent distress beacon summoning no less than one hundred police officers who would come to the rescue of Mr. Cornelius Juhl, the pale pink steel door next to the bank of elevators on the opposite side of the lobby slowly creaked open. An instant later, the bushy-haired head of an old man popped out like a puppet appearing on stage. His body followed close behind clad in a disarming outfit of blue corduroy trousers, brown suede Hush Puppies with Velcro straps and a red cardigan sweater over a blue button-down shirt. The understated Danish magnate looked more like Mr. Rogers than Mr. Onassis.
“Ahoy there, matey!” he sang out in a strained but merry voice to the utter shock of Ida Bonnesen who slowly removed her finger from the alarm button.
“Ooh, hello Mr. Juhl,” she cooed.
“Ida, my darling, good morning!” he said smoothly to the star-struck receptionist. “You are looking as fresh and lovely as this beautiful autumn day.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Juhl,” she blushed at the silver-tongued octogenarian.
“The pleasure is mine, Ida, always mine.” he said.
“Mr. Juhl, this gentleman’s name is…”
“Mr. Fairchild,” Mr. Juhl finished Ida’s sentence. “Mr. Robert Harrison Fairchild, Harvard University class of 1994. I know all about him. Please come with me,” the old man said to Robert and with a wave of his hand summoned him through the pale pink door from which he had magically emerged two minutes earlier.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Robert Fairchild found himself trailing in the wake of a living shipping legend. He had to work hard to keep up with Mr. Juhl who was skipping every other step as he bounded briskly up the five flights of stairs to his penthouse office.
Robert’s breathing was labored by the time he followed Mr. Juhl into his office. It was a spare room furnished only with a small wooden desk, a tan modern couch, a pink rug decorated with a white emblem and a wall of windows facing a beautiful Sound known as Øresund. On the side of the office opposite the sea was a massive expanse of white wall that was completely bare but for a small black-and-white photograph hanging smack in the center. Robert was drawn toward it.
“Did you know that I have owned and operated more than five hundred vessels in my lifetime,” Mr. Juhl said, “but the one in that photograph is the one of which I am most proud – it is also the smallest.”
“What is it? I mean…” Robert corrected himself as he moved closer to the grainy image, “I mean who is she?”
Not until Robert was a few feet away did he realize the photograph had been clipped from an old, brittle newspaper and lacquered onto a piece of wood that appeared to have been a strake of a vessel.
“Ships have been heroes for thousands of years, Mr. Fairchild, and that one is no exception. On October 1st, 1943 a small group of Danish shipowners were informed that Nazi forces were coming to collect the 7,000 Jewish people residing in Denmark at the time,” Mr. Juhl said as he joined Robert staring at the photograph. “That ship, and few others like them, carried almost every one of those people to safety in Sweden.”
“Wow,” Robert said and lowered his head respectfully.
“Helping save those people will always be my proudest moment and that little vessel will always be my favorite,” he said and then dramatically fell onto to the long, modern crème-colored couch.
“Ships have been helping people since the beginning of time,” Robert said. “Ships have created opportunity, provided freedom from persecution and carried food and goods from faraway lands to the people who need them; even Noah used a ship.”
“What you say is very wise, Mr. Fairchild,” Mr. Juhl smiled. “And there is my second favorite vessel,” the man said, pointing toward the harbor. “That is my yacht.”
Robert looked through the panorama of freshly washed floor-to-ceiling windows and scanned the beautiful body of water spread out before him but he was unable to locate a yacht. In fact, the only vessel he could see was a small boat, no more than thirty-five feet in length, tethered to a large blue and white mooring ball directly in front of the office.
“I don’t see a yacht,” Robert said after unsuccessfully searching for a vessel akin to Coco’s 200-foot Feadship, a migratory beast that moved between St. Bart’s and Cap Ferrat and carried a larger crew than a VLCC. “The only thing I see is that boat over there.”
“Yes, and she is my little baby,” he said as he looked admiringly at the small boat. “Did you know that vessel costs me just 3,000 kroner per year to keep up? That’s less than half of what some people spend on a fancy hotel room for a single night,” he said, winking at Robert. “Can you believe that?”
“That’s a very good value,” Robert said, deliberately invoking the one word that every successful shipowner, large or small, lived by.
“Ida was about to call the police on you,” Mr. Juhl laughed as his faded blue eyes twinkled.
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” he said and then blew his nose into a pink and white striped handkerchief. “She actually had her finger on the panic button.”
“She did look a little uncomfortable,” Robert said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “The event provided her with some excitement.”
“So why did you take the meeting with me?” Robert asked.
“Because I have a security camera above Ida’s desk and when I heard you say your name I Googled you,” he said and added slyly, “I am very good with the Google.”
“As a matter of fact, that did interest me because I am also a competitive chess player,” he said and pointed to a small table on the opposite side of the room with a hand-painted chess board on its surface. “But you did not come here to play chess, am I correct?” Mr. Juhl asked.
“You are correct,” Robert said.
“The thing I found even more interesting than your chess ability is that you are apparently the financial mastermind behind Coco Jacobsen.” The old man spoke the Norwegian’s name as though it were a curse. “I assume you are the brains behind Coco’s brawn.”
“Oh,” Robert smiled, “do you know Coco?” Robert was flattered to be referred to as a mastermind and not just a bagman CEO.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Fairchild; anyone in the shipping industry who tells you they don’t know Coco Jacobsen isn’t telling you the truth,” he said. “That man is in every market, all the time.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Robert said.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Jacobsen is the main reason we have remained a private family-owned shipping company at the expense of some growth and risk-sharing with outside investors,” he added.
“And why is that?” Robert asked.
“Because my father built this company from scratch, starting with nothing but a leaky rowboat and a pair of broken oars,” he said. “This is our family legacy and I never wanted it to get caught in the middle of one of Mr. Jacobsen’s violent feeding frenzies. I assume you know what he did to Knut Shipping?” the old man asked.
“I have seen the cufflinks,” Robert replied respectfully.
“And I assume you know why Coco launched his hostile takeover of Knut Shipping?”
Viking Raid Page 20