Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Janson Option (Paul Janson) (22 page)

“My fighters will carry backup remotes. All tuned to the same frequency and code. All enhanced to give longer range. They ought to penetrate walls, but just to be sure, I’ll be much closer to you.”

Isse stared at the device in the Italian’s hand. “But if you’re close won’t you be searched too?”

“Good question.” The Italian produced a cell phone. “I’ll use this.”

“But you said we won’t use cell phones.”

“It’s not a cell phone. We’ve put the components of the garage-door remote inside a phone casing.”

“Then why couldn’t I carry it?”

“Because you will be so close to the target that you might be searched more thoroughly.”

Isse nodded. “Where will I be martyred?”

“At Villa Somalia.”

Isse’s eyes opened wider. “The president’s palace?”

“The president and his new vice president will be together there.”

“With them out of the way, al-Shabaab can return.”

“That is correct, my brother. You will clear the path for al-Shabaab.”

“Poor Abdullah al-Amriki.”

“How do you mean?”

“He would have been so happy.”

“Amriki will observe from his place in heaven,” answered the Italian, wondering how simple and innocent Isse could be. Had he still not figured out that the exploding flak vest had killed Amriki, not a drone? But Isse surprised him with his next question. “Who will lead the Youth?”

“I will,” said the Italian.

“Is that why you killed him?”

Not so simple after all. The Italian met the challenge, if it was a challenge, head-on. “I killed him because he was presiding over a lost cause. Al-Shabaab was doomed under his leadership.”

“He inspired many fighters.”

“Inspiration is vital. But so are results. Would you have al-Shabaab cower in the bush? Or would you bend the cities to God’s law?”

Isse said, “I understand.” His next question was a more pertinent and practical question, and the Italian saw that he would have no trouble with the young man. “How can I get inside the palace?”

“You will be invited in among those honored at the Welcome Home Somalia ceremony.”

“That’s not for two more days…I hoped it would be sooner. Um…There is a problem.” Isse looked down, as if embarrassed.

“I understand,” said the Italian. “Your body feels like it will soon pass the PETN.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll give you opium. It retards the process.”

“Opium is
haram
!”

“It is permitted in the service of God.”

I
t is Saul,” said Paul Janson when he finally got through to General Darwin Ddembe.

“Now what?” growled Ddembe. The Ugandan Army man who had provided transport out of Harardhere was back with his troops chasing al-Shabaab across central Somalia. Janson heard tank treads clanking in the background.

“I’m calling to pay you back.”

“About time.”

“Do you have AMISOM officers you can trust in Mogadishu?”

“If I did?”

“Would you like to cement your friendships in Somalia’s new government?”

“What if I did?”

“Tell your troops to raid the Italian’s villa.”

“Where?”

“I am reasonably sure I have the address.”

“Is he there right now?”

“I am reasonably sure he is.”

The Ugandan general said, “If you’re right, I don’t mind admitting to you that this is an enormous payback.”

“It is the least I can do,” Janson said.

“Would I be cynical to imagine that you’re getting something else out of AMISOM arresting a gangster warlord?”

“When giants tilt,” said Janson, “I get out of the way.”

Darwin Ddembe laughed. “When giants tilt, you throw banana peels.”

“How quickly can your soldiers move?”

“Instantly, if they value their careers. Thank you, my friend. I will not forget this.”

W
HEN THEY TOOK
Isse away, the Italian warned his dervish guard to be very careful of the dose of opium they gave him, and joked to Doug Case, “The stuff we’re bringing through Mog is so pure it could send the kid straight to God before he gets to martyr himself.”

He shrugged off his head garb.

Case said, “Behold the Prodigal Son.”

Yousef grinned.

“Pure genius,” said Case, “nicknaming yourself ‘the Italian.’”

Yousef, the North African dictator’s son and high-tech secret policeman, was no more Italian than he was Somali. But Somalia and North Africa had Italy in common—the mother country—their long, long–ago colonial ruler.

Case flattered him again. “Choosing to start over in Somalia was the real stroke of genius.” Where safer than warring Somalia, where Yousef’s family’s trading companies had sold weapons to all sides for decades?

But the supreme genius, thought Chase, was the Buddha, who played an ice-water game of May the Best Man Win. Kingsman Helms? Or Yousef? Even as he set Kingsman Helms on one road to capture Somalia, the Buddha had understood that Yousef would dedicate his formidable talents to a completely fresh start in a country of his own, rich in oil like the country his father had lost to rebellion. ASC had offered money and legitimacy. Yousef or Helms’s Gutaale would return the favor with access.

In Doug Case’s judgment, the dictator’s son was a better bet than Helms’s Gutaale to end Somali chaos and partner with ASC. But Kin Poy Lam had offered China’s money and legitimacy too, until Case removed him from the equation. What Case had to know now was, who else was Yousef holding hands with?

Why was Yousef talking to Mad Max? Was Yousef looking for a Somali front man? No time like the present to ask. It was on the tip of his tongue when he heard shooting outside the compound walls. Assault rifles, then the thump of grenades.

“AMISOM! AMISOM!”

Yousef moved like lightning. “Get the bomb!”

He threw back the carpet and jerked open a hatch in the floor. Case smelled a damp cellar and caught a glimpse of narrow stairs he would never fit down in his wheelchair. Dervishes pushed into the room, dragging a woozy-looking Isse with them.

The house shook. It felt like a tank had just breached a wall.

Three fighters led the way down the stairs. Yousef grabbed Isse’s arm and pulled him along. All but two of the dervishes followed them.

Doug Case backed his chair into a corner. He could guess what was coming. Yousef could not take the chance that the guy left behind wouldn’t talk when AMISOM soldiers put the screws to him. One of the masked dervishes checked the hall. The other raised his rifle.

Doug Case had increased the distance between himself and the dervishes so much that he could no longer trust hitting them with his Jetfire. The Glock did the job. He shot the dervish aiming at him first, then dropped the other before the first one hit the floor.

Then came the waiting. Would more dervishes come up the stairs looking for their buddies? Or would AMISOM storm down the hall with blood in their eyes? It didn’t take long.

Ugandan AMISOM troopers in red berets pounded along the hall and bent over the bodies. Then they saw Doug Case across the room in his wheelchair.

“Thank God you came,” Case shouted. “They kidnapped me.”

When the soldiers looked more confused than suspicious, Case demanded in an officer’s voice accustomed to obedience, “Take me to your commanding officer.”

From the stairs came the noise of more gunfire, echoing in narrow spaces. Apparently Yousef had dug a tunnel out the back of his compound, but it sounded like they’d run into a firefight at the exit.

4°3' S, 39°40' E
Mombasa, Kenya

L
ike most sea captains, Billy Titus was first and foremost a caretaker, concerned with the well-being of his ship and obsessed with the safety of his passengers and crew. Losing
Tarantula
to pirates had hit him hard, and the rumors about murdered passengers were gnawing away at the relief he’d felt at the fact that his crew had escaped unscathed. With his ship in pirate hands and his boss captive or dead, he had nowhere to go and no way to help.

Who had been killed? Were any still alive?

No one knew. He kept trolling for the latest news, texting and phoning brother and sister mariners from the empty bar of the Mombasa Yacht Club.

He had just signed for another beer and returned to his table on the patio with a view of Kilindini Harbour when a nice-looking woman with short brown hair walked in and cast intent eyes on him.

Captain Billy had been a babe magnet since he was fourteen, blessed as he was with thick chestnut hair, skin the sun turned to honey, ocean-blue eyes, and an agreeable smile. At thirty-eight it had only gotten better. Now he looked solid, like a guy you could count on to take good care of a half-billion-dollar yacht and treat her crew right. So he was used to being hit on by beautiful women, as, experience told him, he was about to be by this one.

She would ask, buy me a beer? Or, can I buy you a beer? Or, what are you doing for lunch? Whatever it was, his answer was going to be yes. She was lovely to look at, and something about her said she was a nice person. She was also in incredible condition. He’d have pegged her for a blue-water racing sailor, except she didn’t have the sun-blasted skin women got when they raced.

She walked over to his table and asked, “How’d you like to get your boat back?”

“What boat?”

She sat down.
“Tarantula.”

“If that’s a joke, it isn’t funny.”

“It’s not a joke. And we’re on an expense account, so name your price and the job is yours.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“We who are rescuing Allegra Helms.”

Titus stared. She was not joking. “Nice lady,” he said. “I liked her.”

“Now you can help her.”

“Are you sure she’s still alive?”

“She was as of two days ago.”

“How can I help?” asked Captain Billy.

“We need your expertise. We need a yacht captain who knows all the protocols. Knows how to talk to the authorities, knows everything that guarantees to anyone listening that he’s a real yacht captain.”

“And I’d drive the boat?”

“Two boats.”

“Two?”

“If you’re in, your salary starts now.”

“I’m in.”

“How much?”

He stated his day rate. She said, “I told you we’re on expense. Don’t you want more than your regular rate?”

“How do you know my regular rate?”

She gave him a look that said,
We’re not amateurs, and we would not be talking to you if we didn’t know everything about you.

“OK,” he said. “Tell you what I really want. I want to stop working and go sailing. It won’t cost you a penny. There’s the most beautiful sailboat on the back of
Tarantula
. Could I have that?”

“It’s yours!” She sprang to her feet. “Let’s go, we’ve got a meeting in three hours.”

“Where?”

“Mogadishu.”

“Mogadishu in three hours? It’s ten at least, if you don’t get held up in Nairobi.”

“I have a plane.”

“You have a plane that can fly to Mogadishu?”

“Provided al-Shabaab isn’t shelling the airport.”

“What if they are?”

For the first time, she smiled—a big, open, country-girl grin. “Come back here and hole up until they stop.”

Titus found himself almost hoping they’d be shelling the hell out of Mogadishu Airport. As she led the way briskly across the parking lot, he noticed she was favoring one leg. “You’re limping.”

“Pulled a muscle.”

“How?”

“No big deal. It just stiffens up when I sit.”

“Do you know there’s blood on your slacks?”

“I’ll change on the plane.”

Billy Titus changed the subject to something that
was
his business.

“By the way, where am I getting crew?”

“We’ll provide crew.”

2°2' N, 45°21' E
Mogadishu

P
aul Janson saw a strong family resemblance between Ahmed and his pirate cousin. Cousin Saakin was twenty years older and had bulked up with age, but they had in common the quick grin that said the secret of the world was a big joke.

When Janson made his offer, Saakin laughed out loud. Then he turned to Ahmed and said, “Your American friend is a funny man.”

Ahmed said, “I’ve been giggling all week.”

Saakin turned back to Janson, still amused, though his eyes had grown as watchful as a croupier counting bets. “Paul. Do you mean what you said?”

A jet on final approach was thundering overhead.

Janson signaled to wait for the noise to pass. He had rented offices in an airport warehouse in the name of a shell company, EastAfricaX. Atop a large, locked safe were banded stacks of US dollars. Next to the safe was a pipe clothes rack on which a dozen white uniforms hung.

Janson wore a pistol on his hip, mostly to discourage Cousin Saakin from getting any ideas about coming back with friends for the dollars on the safe, and had a ballistic vest, bullpup rifle, auto-load shotgun, and a grenade launcher in easy reach in case al-Shabaab made another pass at the airport. A six-man Ghurka squad in constant motion guarded the doors, the halls, and the roof.

The jet, his own Embraer 650, throttled down to near silence, touched wheels firmly, and did not bounce—Sarah at the controls, judging by the urgent but brief thunder of the airbrakes. When they could hear, Janson said, “I’ll say it again. We will pay you and a dozen of your best seamen to crew a megayacht that is waiting for you off Socotra.”

“Yes, yes. I heard that. But then you said you want me to steer the yacht to Eyl.”

“Correct.”

Saakin spoke to Ahmed in rapid Somali. When he was done, Ahmed said to Janson, “He thinks it’s some sort of trap.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Janson.

“How are you going to convince him it isn’t?”

“In about two minutes I’m going to introduce him to the yacht’s new captain.”

A
HMED WAS BACK
at the Bakaara Market Internet Café when Isse wandered in looking stoned out of his gourd. “Hey, Isse. What happened to you?”

Isse blinked with a slack-jawed grin twice as wide as any Ahmed had seen on his long face. “God,” he said.

“What? Not again. I thought you were…enjoying yourself.”

“Looks out.”

Ahmed waited. “Looks out?…Looks out for what?”

“Drunks and fools.”

Ahmed took a closer look. The straight-arrow geek was as high as Mars, with eyeballs that went to nowhere. But Isse also looked like he’d been crawling in the mud. He had a bump on his head and a crease on his neck, rust-colored with dried blood, and he was holding his stomach like it hurt. That was strange, because anyone as stoned as he looked couldn’t feel pain. “You OK, man?”

Isse said, “Hey, Ahmed.”

“You OK?”

“Cool. Cool.”

“You maybe want to change your clothes?”

“Why?”

“We’re going to the homecoming…It’s today.”

“At the palace?”

“Aren’t you going?”

“I’m going,” said Isse.

Ahmed exchanged a look with his new friend Banaadir, a slick cat who sold international phone cards at a very deep discount. “You look a little messed up, Isse.”

“I’ll be there.”

Ahmed said, “Great. I’ll see you there.”

“Don’t get too close.”

“What?”

For a strange second, Isse looked unstoned. And scared. “Serious, man. Stay away from me.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” Suddenly Isse threw his arms around him and gave him a big hug.

“Thought you said don’t get close.”

“Later.”

“Check out the dervishes,” whispered Banaadir.

“What dervishes? Oh, shit.”

Kaffiyeh-masked fighters shouldered into the Internet Café. They looked around, eyes gleaming through slits in their head garb. The one in the middle beckoned Isse with his finger. To Ahmed’s astonishment, Isse jumped up and followed the guy out the door. The others reached inside their robes, and Ahmed had the horrible realization that they were going to shoot up the place.

There was nowhere to run, just twenty computer booths with guys hunched over the screens, backs to the fighters at the door. We’re all dead, thought Ahmed. Just then armored cars filled with AMISOM troops roared up the street, scattering pedestrians, bicyclists, and donkeys. The dervishes backed out the door and walked quickly away.

“Whoa,” said Banaadir. “That was close.”

“Who were those guys?”

“You know the Italian?”

“I know who you mean.”

“The dervishes are the Italian’s fighters.”

“They
are
?” Ahmed felt his jaw drop like the cartoon genie in
Aladdin
.

“Everybody knows that. Where you been, Ahmed?”

“Minneapolis,” Ahmed answered slowly, even as his brain kicked up to warp speed: How in heck had Islam-crazy Isse fallen into the Italian’s clutches? And what did he mean by don’t get close? And why did he hug me? He doesn’t even like me.