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“Well, we are having a small problem with the Commander in Chief,” Castillo said.
“Tell us about it.”
Castillo did.
“Interesting,” Annapolis said. “Why don’t you start by telling us the major problem vis-à-vis the Somalia pirates?”
“Insurance companies,” Castillo said.
“Insurance companies?” Annapolis parroted incredulously. “I happen to own a couple of them, and I find that hard to understand.”
“I just spent a couple days floating down the Rhine talking to a group of journalists very familiar with the situation. That’s what they told me.”
“No offense, Colonel,” Annapolis said, “but two things occur to me. One, we all know how far we can trust journalists, and two, why should they confide in you?”
“My Carlito owns the newspaper chain they work for,” Sweaty said, “and then I dropped into the conversation that I was formerly associated with the SVR.”
“I’m sure they were telling us the truth,” Castillo said.
“Under those circ
umstances, I’m sure they were,” Annapolis said. “So, what exactly did they have to say?”
“The way I understand the situation,” Castillo replied, “is that the shipowners take out insurance on their vessels operating in those waters, on the ships themselves, and the cargoes.”
“As well they should,” Annapolis said, more than a little piously. “Insurance is the sturdy fence protecting industry from the hazards of a very dangerous world.”
“I don’t know what a supertanker loaded to the gills with crude oil is worth, but a bundle, since oil has been averaging about one hundred dollars a barrel. And then there’s the replacement cost of the ship itself, another—”
“I saw some figures,” Annapolis said. “For the sake of this discussion, why not work with fifty million?”
“The figure I got was close to one hundred million,” Charley said. “Maybe you’re thinking of what insurance companies are willing to pay out on a hundred mil policy.”
“Far be it from me to argue,” Annapolis said, ignoring the shot. “Work with one hundred million dollars.”
“So,” Castillo then said, “the shipowners take out insurance for the ship and her cargo. They don’t really care what the insurance costs, because they just add that cost to what they charge for moving the oil.”
“Standard business practice,” Annapolis said.
“So it adds about a nickel to a gallon of gas at the pump,” Charley said. “So what?”
“So what indeed. The owners are protected. The oil flows. Or is transported. In any event, the gasoline is there at the pump when you fill up.”
“And then the Somali pirates seize the tanker. My sources told me, incidentally, that the typical pirate is illiterate and eighteen years old.
“Then, I was told, the insurance companies send an adjuster to Somalia, where he establishes contact with these eighteen-year-old illiterate pirates and negotiates with them. For example, the pirates start out asking for five million dollars for the tanker. The adjuster tries—and usually succeeds—in negotiating them down to two million. Or even less, if he throws in a Mercedes convertible and a Sony DVD player and a dozen triple-X adult DVDs starring the Red Ravisher.”
“Watch it, my darling,” the Widow Alekseeva hissed warningly.
“That’s what adjusters are paid to do, Colonel,” Annapolis said.
“And the insurance company, with a smile, hands over a briefcase full of money—cashier’s checks have yet to become known in Somalia—to the pirates, and a smaller check to the ship’s owner for the additional expenses incurred while the ship has been in the hands of the pirates. Say for half a million.”
“That’s the proud tradition of the insurance industry,” Annapolis said, “handing the check over with a smile.”
“I understand,” Castillo said, “that they are smiling from ear to ear and meaning it when they finally write the check.”
“Well, I’m not sure how much they mean it,” Annapolis said. “I mean, the smile is sort of public relations.”
