“A bridge in the desert.”
“Yes, Mitch, a bridge in the desert, with delusional plans to link one side of the desert to the other and somehow build cities. Build a bridge and the traffic will find it. Six years ago, in 1999, Lannak signed a contract with the government for eight hundred million dollars. Gaddafi wanted a billion-dollar bridge, so he ordered changes before construction started. In his newspapers he posed for photos with models of ‘The Great Gaddafi Bridge’ and told everyone it would cost a billion, all generated by Libyan oil. Not a dime would be borrowed. Because Lannak has done business in Libya for many years, they knew how chaotic things could be. Let’s just say that Colonel Gaddafi and his warlords are not astute businessmen. They understand guns and oil. Contracts are often a nuisance. Lannak would not begin the job until the Libyans deposited five hundred million U.S. dollars in a German bank. The four-year project took six years and is now complete, which is a miracle and a testament to the tenacity of Lannak. The company met the terms of its contract. The Libyans have not. The overruns were horrendous. The Libyan government owes Lannak four hundred million and won’t pay. Thus, our claim.”
Luca put down his cigarette, picked up a remote, and aimed it at a flat screen on the wall. Wires ran from the screen to the floor where they joined other wires that snaked away in all directions. The current demands of technology required all kinds of devices, and since the walls were solid stone and two feet thick, the IT guys did not drill. Mitch adored the contrast between the old and new: the latest gadgets wedged into a sprawling maze of rooms built before electricity and designed to last forever.
The image on the screen was a color photo of a bridge, a towering suspension bridge over a dried-up riverbed with six-lane highways running to and from. Luca said, “This is the Great Gaddafi Bridge in central Libya, over an unnamed river yet to be found. It was and is a foolish idea because there are no people in the region and no one wants to go there. However, there is plenty of oil and maybe the bridge will get used after all. Lannak doesn’t really care. It’s not paid to plan Libya’s future. It signed a contract to build the bridge and upheld its end of the deal. Now our client wants to be paid.”
Mitch enjoyed the conversation and wondered where it was going. He had a hunch and tried to control his excitement.
Luca stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes as if in pain. He punched the remote and the screen went blank. “I filed the claim in October with the United Arbitration Board in Geneva.”
“I’ve been there several times.”
“I know, and that’s why I want you to take this case.”
Mitch tried to maintain a poker face but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Okay. Why me?”
“Because I know you can represent our client effectively, you can prevail in the case, and because we need an American in charge. The board’s chairman, more formally known as the ruling magistrate, is from Harvard. Six of the twenty judges are American. There are three from Asia and they usually go along with the Americans. I want you to take the case, Mitch, because I probably won’t be around to see it through.” His voice faded as he thought about dying.
“I’m honored, Luca. Of course I’ll take the case.”
“Good. I talked to Jack Ruch this morning and got the green light. New York is on board. Omar Celik, Lannak’s CEO, will be in London next week and I’ll try to arrange a meeting. The file is already thick, thousands of pages, so you need to catch up.”
“I can’t wait. Do the Libyans have a defense to the claim?”
“The usual truckload of absurdities. Defective design, defective materials, unnecessary delays, lack of supervision, lack of control, unnecessary cost overruns. The Libyan government uses the Reedmore law firm out of London for its dirty work, and you will not enjoy the experience. They are extremely aggressive and quite unethical.”
“I know them. And our claim is bulletproof?”
Luca smiled at the question and said, “Well, as the attorney who filed the claim, I’ll say that I have complete confidence in my client. Here’s an example, Mitch. In the original design, the Libyans wanted a superhighway approaching the bridge from both directions. Eight lanes, mind you. There are not enough cars in the entire country to fill eight lanes. And they wanted eight lanes over the river. Lannak really balked and eventually convinced them that a four-lane bridge was more than adequate. The contract says four lanes. At some point, Gaddafi reviewed the project and asked about the eight lanes. He went nuts when his people told him the bridge would have only four lanes. The King wanted eight! Lannak finally talked him down to six and demanded a change order from the original design. Expanding from four lanes to six added about two hundred million to the job, and the Libyans are now refusing to pay that. It was one major change order after another. To complicate matters, the market for crude oil cratered and Gaddafi ordered some stiff belt-tightening, which in Libya means everything gets reduced but the military. When the Libyans were a hundred million dollars in arrears, Lannak threatened to stop working. So Gaddafi, being Gaddafi, sent the army, his revolutionary goons, to the job site to monitor the progress. No one got hurt but things were tense. At about the time the bridge was finished, someone in Tripoli woke up and realized that it would never be used. So the Libyans lost interest in the project and refused to pay.”
“So Lannak is finished?”
“All but the final punch list. The company always finishes, regardless of what the lawyers are doing. I suggest you go to Libya as soon as possible.”
“And it’s safe?”
Luca smiled and shrugged and seemed winded. “As safe as ever. I’ve been there several times, Mitch, and know it well. Gaddafi can be unstable, but he has an iron grip on the military and the police and there’s very little crime. The country is full of foreign workers and he has to protect them. You’ll have a security team. You’ll be safe.”
For lunch, they strolled across the piazza to an outdoor bistro covered with large umbrellas. Without stopping, Luca smiled at the hostess, said something to a waiter, and by the time he arrived at his table the owner was greeting him with hugs and kisses. Mitch had eaten there before, and he often wondered why Luca chose the same place every day. In a city filled with great restaurants, why not explore a little? Again, though, he said nothing. He was an extra in Luca’s world and thrilled to be included.
A waiter poured sparkling water but did not offer menus. Luca wanted the usual — a small seafood salad with arugula and a side of sliced tomatoes in olive oil. Mitch ordered the same.
“Wine, Mitch?” Luca asked.
“Only if you do.”
“I’ll pass.” The waiter left.
“Mitch, I have a favor to ask.”
At that moment, how could Mitch possibly say no to any request? “What is it?”
“You’ve met my daughter, Giovanna.”
“Yes, we had dinner in New York, twice I think. She was a summer intern for a law firm. Skadden, I believe.”