The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 31

At dawn, Mitch checked out of the hotel and got into the rear seat of the same Jaguar as the day before. Fortunately, the driver wasn’t much of a talker and the ride to Heathrow was quiet. At eight-fifteen, he boarded a Turkish Airlines flight to Istanbul, four hours nonstop. At customs there, he was greeted by a Lannak representative and led to an express lane where he was waved through with hardly a glance. He did look over his shoulder at the long lines behind him and was once again grateful he worked for an outfit like Scully. A black car was waiting near the terminal, and less than twenty minutes after touching down Mitch was on the phone as his driver zipped through traffic with little regard for speed limits and other annoyances.

Of course, a proud old company like Lannak would insist on being headquartered in a prestigious section of Istanbul’s central business district. There were several in the sprawling city of eleven million. Maslak was arguably the best known, and it was there that Omar Celik built a forty-story tower in 1990 and claimed the top half for Lannak, the family’s holding company.

Omar was away on business in Indonesia. In his absence, his son, Adem, was ostensibly in charge, though it was well known that his father kept virtually everything under his thumb. Adem was being groomed to take over one day, but Omar had many miles to go. Those close to him expected he would at least try to run things from the grave.

Adem was forty-four and had an American wife he’d met at Princeton, two teenage children in school in Scotland, and friends around the world. He and his wife fancied themselves an international couple and traveled extensively. Though they had an apartment in New York, Mitch and Abby had yet to entertain them. But they were on the list.

Adem welcomed Mitch to his splendid office on the thirty-fifth floor and inquired about lunch. It was almost 2 P.M. and Mitch had not eaten. Neither had Adem. They took the stairs up two floors and settled into the company’s small private dining room where a waiter took their orders and served ice water. The other six tables were empty. After some more of the obligatory small talk, Mitch went through the latest about Giovanna. The terrorists had made contact. There was a demand for $100 million in ransom, a threat, and a deadline. The questions began and Mitch had anticipated every one of them. Lunch arrived and they ignored it as the discussion continued.

Mitch had no idea why “they” would use Noura. They chose Scully because it is accessible, well known, and wealthy. Squeezing money out of Scully would be far more productive than hounding Luca, but the ransom demand was much too high. The British and Italian governments had been given most of the details, but neither was eager to jump into the middle of a mess over which they had no control. Both had tentatively agreed to work their diplomatic channels to push the Libyans into a settlement, but such efforts moved at a glacial pace even on a good day. So far, everyone seemed convinced that the terrorists were willing to carry out their threats. The Libyans had badly botched two rescue efforts.

It was not a hoax. Using his cell phone, Mitch showed Adem the video of Giovanna asking for help. Its date and time had been validated by private security. Obviously, its location was unknown.

After lunch, they walked down the stairs to Adem’s office and took off their jackets. Mitch handed over a brief memo outlining Lannak’s losses and claims on the bridge project. Adem had seen it all before.

Mitch finally got down to business. “Our plan is to push hard for an immediate settlement. It’s a long shot, but right now so is everything else. As your lawyer, it is my job to get as much money for you as possible. The question is—”

“What’s our bottom line?” Adem said with a smile.

“What’s your bottom line?”

“Well, we’re owed four hundred and ten million dollars. That’s our starting point. You believe you can prove that in court, right?”

“Yes. It will be hotly disputed by the Libyans, but that’s why we have courtrooms and trials. I am confident we will win.”

“And we are entitled to interest at five percent on the unpaid bills.”

“Correct.”

“And the balance due has been on the books for almost two years.”

“Correct.”

“Your figure for interest is fifty-two million.” Adem sort of waved at the memo. The figures were clear.

Mitch said, “And we’ve amended our claim to cover damages for the security guards and the kidnapping. We’re demanding half a billion dollars, all in. I don’t expect to recover that much because the Libyans will claim they are not liable for the attack and murders. It’s debatable. There has always been an implied promise of protection for foreign workers, but the arbitration board has never been too impressed with it.”

“So the four families receive nothing?”

“Unlikely, but we’ll try. I’m sure your company will take care of them.”

“Oh, we will, but the Libyans should pay too.”

“I’m prepared to argue that. I’ll argue everything, Adem,” Mitch said with a smile. “That’s my job. But a trial could be months away, maybe a year or more. Meanwhile, your company is losing money at the going interest rate. There is value in settling now.”

“You want to discount our damages?”

“Perhaps, but only if it will facilitate the settlement. That’s where your bottom line comes in. There’s also the real danger of getting nothing.”

“Luca has made that clear.”

“The arbitration board’s ruling is nonbinding. It has no real teeth. There are ways to enforce the judgment and make the Libyans pay, but it could take years. We would demand more sanctions from the board, from the Turks, Brits, Italians, even Americans, but Gaddafi has lived with sanctions for many years. I’m not sure they bother him that much.”

“We’re finished with Libya,” Adem said in disgust.

“Don’t blame you.”

“What’s your advice, Counselor.”

“Can you live with four hundred million?”

Adem smiled and said, “We would be delighted.”

“We discount our claim to four hundred, but only for purposes of settlement negotiations. Lannak gets the first four hundred. With your permission, I’ll ask for more, with any overage going into the pool for the ransom. In the meantime, you ask your government to lean on the Libyan ambassador to get some relief in Tripoli.”

Adem was shaking his head. “We’ve done that, Mitch, repeatedly. Our ambassador to Libya has met on more than one occasion with Gaddafi’s people and pled our case. No good. Our prime minister has met with the Libyan ambassador to Turkey here in the city and tried to twist arms. Nothing. We’ve been told that Gaddafi is embarrassed by his bridge project and blames everyone involved, including our company. You know he shot one of his own architects.”

“So I’ve heard. Does he shoot his lawyers?”

“Let’s hope not.” Adem glanced at his wristwatch and scratched his jaw. “My father is three hours ahead of us, in Jakarta. He’ll be home late tonight. I’ll have to get his approval to discount our claim.”

“Perhaps both of us should talk to him.”

“I’ll go first. I don’t foresee a problem.”

When traveling alone in an unfamiliar city, and with a few hours to kill, Mitch often hired a car and driver to at least catch a glimpse of landmarks and famous places, sort of hitting the high spots on the tourist maps. During his flight to Istanbul he had read travel guides on Turkey and was fascinated by the country. He told Abby it definitely deserved another look, a place on their wish list.

But sightseeing was not possible. Wasting time seemed frivolous. In his hotel room he made a desk on a coffee table and worked his phones. Abby again, just to check in. Jack Ruch for the same. Roberto in Rome broke the news that Luca had been hospitalized with a fever, dehydration, and probably other symptoms and ailments. He was resting fitfully and being watched closely. Samir was in town and they had spent a few hours together. Diego Antonelli had called with little to report. He was obviously finding it difficult to find an ear inside the prime minister’s circle. Cory was in New York and had just finished speaking to Darian, one of their daily updates. Nothing much to report from Libya except snippets regarding the latest commando raid that went badly. The government was still stonewalling the story. There were rumors that the Barakat gang had captured three Libyan soldiers. As always, there was no sign of Giovanna. In London, Riley Casey was still slogging his way up the endless ladder of the Foreign Service in search of someone with real authority. Sir Simon Croome was having lunch as they spoke with a bona fide Libyan, a businessman who’d been in the U.K. for decades and had made a mint. There was a chance this old friend and client could twist an arm or two and prod Tripoli into paying his bills and settling the Lannak claim. Mitch found the idea silly. The two old goats would probably drink their lunches, take long naps, then forget whatever they talked about.

After two fruitless hours on the phone, Mitch was deflated and fell asleep.

He rallied in time for dinner. Adem suggested a table at 10 P.M. in an Asian fusion place with a Michelin star, and Mitch was tempted only because his wife routinely expected him to bring back menus and notes from new restaurants. Not surprisingly, she knew a Turkish chef in Queens and they were discussing a cookbook. However, Mitch preferred to eat no later than eight and did not want a late night. Instead, they met in the Brasserie of the St. Regis Hotel, where he was staying. Adem had hinted that his wife might join them, and Mitch was relieved when she did not.

Over whiskey sours, Adem relayed a conversation he’d had with his father late that afternoon. Omar wanted blood from the Libyans, and he certainly wanted every dime he was due for the bridge, but he was a pragmatist. Four hundred million dollars in today’s money might seem like a great deal years down the road. If Mitch could deliver that much, then anything above it was his to bargain with for Giovanna’s return.

They shook hands, though both knew that a settlement was unlikely.