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. Friedrich Gotthelf was his name. About sixty, tall, obviously in great shape in his younger years, light-colored eyes, and hair that had once been blonde but was now mostly white. However, he didn’t bother dyeing it as most others did. The Swiss had been gracious and polite as any good businessman, but there was something in his eyes that said loud and clear: I am cold and calculating, good at what I do and yes, … I’m a nice guy. An “old fashioned” guy was maybe a better way to put it. They had talked about nothing in particular for a while and then the magnate had moved on to greet some of the other guests.
What could the great Swiss magnate want from Jaime Reyes Luzón? In his mind Reyes went over the skills that had brought him to that hotel room not caring about the exorbitant prices. He had studied political science and immediately branched out to a Master’s degree in security and defense politics and naval subjects. He had been a consultant in various Spanish governments for both parties – at the precise level where you were considered important but you didn’t have to be affiliated to the party, and he wanted to keep it that way – and also in various international organizations: NATO, the UN, and the European Union. The names were all the same to him as long as the pay was good and he could do what he liked. No strings attached. Hence, his vast experience and reputation. But, what did that have to do with the Swiss shipping company?
Reyes decided that the only way to find out was to call. He had never avoided peculiar situations like this one and it had always gone well for him. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself thinking it was an opportunity. Maybe the call had to do with trying to sell him shares or to ask him where he had bought the tie he wore to the reception. The very, very wealthy have a tendency to be eccentric. But not Gotthelf. Their brief chat had been sufficient to reveal that detail. In that case it could only be a job offer and no doubt a well paid one. Gotthelf was the type of guy who valued a job well done and Reyes wasn’t the best at what he did by chance. But still, his thoughts brought him back to square one, what for?
Reyes' rare skills were geared towards governments or international organizations not private enterprises. Reyes liked to think of himself as a modern strategist. Without a uniform, but designing the politics that helped the West maintain its control. Was Gotthelf a fan of military history who just wanted to share his visions regarding the world’s geostrategic position with a professional? Too far-fetched. And yet, as much as he searched he couldn’t come up with an adequate answer.
Here it goes, thought Reyes now in his suite and dialing the number Pierre had given him. Whatever it is I’m about to find out.
After a couple of rings someone picked up the phone and answered in a voice that he could only define as “sexy”.
“Mr. Gotthelf’s office, how may I help you?”
English … an office accustomed to receiving international calls or a phone that had caller ID or any other explanation from a million of possibilities. He decided to respond in the same language, out of education and convenience. It was extremely unlikely that the sexy voice on the other side of the phone spoke Spanish and he was perfectly fluent in English, his neutral accent a result of intense and expensive practice sessions with people of various origins.
“Good morning, my name is Jaime Reyes Luzón, I received a call from you.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Reyes,” answered the sexy voice, “good morning my name is Marianne, Mr. Gotthelf’s secretary. Just a moment please, I’ll transfer your call.”
While Reyes pondered over how in each country his name was pronounced differently - and never entirely well - a few hundred miles southeast Marianne got up from her desk and went to her boss’ office. She knew Gotthelf preferred face to face communication rather than the intercom.
“Mr. Gotthelf,” she said, “Mr. Reyes is on the phone.”
“Transfer him.”
“Good morning,” Reyes greeted him moments later.
“Good morning, my name is Friedrich Gotthelf from Alps Tankers. We met here in Zurich in the spring.”
“Yes Mr. Gotthelf,” said Reyes. “I remember very well. How are your wife and your two children?”
Reyes knew the memory exercise had been worth the effort. Everyone loved it when the person they were talking to remembered them, and what better proof of it than to mention the previous meeting or a known fact. Gotthelf must be secretly congratulating himself on his importance. To think that a man with whom he chatted for barely half an hour remembered him including his family even though he had briefly mentioned them. The magnate must be feeling as if he left an impression on Reyes and it was always good when your boss feels important. Even if he was, as of now, only a potential boss or maybe not even that.
“Very well, thank you,” answered Gotthelf surprised. “I hope you as well,” he said hoping Reyes couldn’t tell that he couldn’t remember whether he had family or not.
This also put Reyes at a slight advantage since Gotthelf seemed somewhat surprised and clearly would have liked to return such a courteous greeting in kind. And just as Reyes had anticipated and wanted Gotthelf didn’t beat around the bush and got straight to the point.
“I have a project in my hands and would like to count on your advice.”
“May I know what it’s about Mr. Gotthelf?” answered Reyes not bothering to conceal his curiosity. He had not been able to figure out what Gotthelf wanted and frankly, he was dying to know.
“I would rather discuss it in person if you don’t mind,” Gotthelf replied.
“In order to do that Mr. Gotthelf, I might need certain particulars or papers and it would be impossible for me to get them in time if you don’t give me a clue.”
“Let’s just say, Mr. Reyes, that lately I’ve been growing tired of the Jolly Roger,” Gotthelf said, enjoying puzzling Reyes. “Can we meet?”
“I’ll be there tomorrow. Have a good day,” Reyes replied realizing Gotthelf had convinced him before even talking to him. After he hung up the phone he lay back on the plush bed in what he defined as the best position for thinking, supine with his arms stretched out at his sides.
So, pirates.
Suddenly everything made sense. Recently the magnate had paid a ransom for one of his oil tankers. Reyes couldn’t remember the name but he knew they all had the names of mountains in the Swiss Alps. Anyway, the name was not important. This was not the first time Alps Tankers had paid a ransom to the Somali pirates. Meanwhile, an accusing little voice was telling him he should have remembered. The conscious part of his brain still had no revelation.
It was clear Gotthelf wanted to protect his ships but this wasn’t a job for him. There were numerous companies dedicated to this type of problem as well as advisors with human resources and materials. Had Gotthelf mistaken his credentials? Not likely. Gotthelf was the kind of guy who was used to doing things well and not showing all his cards. If Gotthelf wanted to talk to him there was a reason even if he himself couldn’t figure it out just yet.
In any case, Reyes decided as he sat in front of his laptop, I need to get up to date on the subject. He knew it wouldn’t
