The Janson Option (22 page)

A
hmed's business model was making him rich: On-time delivery, which was no small thing with half of Mogadishu stoned on khat; fair prices, or at least lower than his competitors'; and payment in American dollars. No exceptions. Let his customers wheelbarrow a million Somali shillings to the money changers for a C-note.

They had no choice. Ahmed had what they needed. But he kept it light, backslapping complainers with a joke. “What do you expect, man, I'm from a dollar country.” Dollars were easy to hide. He could make his deliveries and collections with a driver and only one bodyguard.

They were taking a shortcut off the Via Roma, and had just parked in a bullet-pocked alley when two Arabs in red kaffiyehs and sunglasses came at them from either side. Ahmed couldn't believe how fast it happened. One second he was sitting safe in the backseat counting the take. The next, his bodyguard and driver were handcuffed to each other and the steering wheel, their guns had disappeared into the Arabs' robes, and he was gaping at a goddamned bullpup assault rifle in his face.

“Take the dough, man. Here it is. Just don't hurt nobody.”

“Ahmed,” said the guy with the bullpup, “you're a real disappointment.”

“What? Who—”

“You owe me for airfare.”

“Paul! Hey, man, where'd you come from?”

Paul removed his shades and Ahmed immediately wished he hadn't. The security consultant was angry—like, really angry. But the scary thing was the distance in Paul's eyes that said he was about to stomp him like a roach.

“I've been meaning to get in touch.”

“Bullshit. You've gone into business and you're screwing me.”

Ahmed looked to the other “Arab,” hoping the woman Jess was under the kaffiyeh. But if she was, she wasn't saying. Nor was she offering hope.

“What can I do to make it up?” Ahmed asked.

“Tell your driver and bodyguard to stop looking at each other like they're going to make a move, because if they do it will be their last.”

Ahmed spoke urgently in Somali, “Don't fuck with this guy, he'll kill us all. I'm not kidding. Don't try anything. I can deal with him, I think.”

He turned back to Paul. “OK, they won't do anything.”

“You can try to make up for screwing me by telling me the truth.”

“I will, man. Anything you want.”

“Not ‘anything.' The truth. You told me you had pirate contacts.”

“My cousin Saakin, yeah.”

“What did you learn from him?”

“I didn't really get into that, yet. I just said hi.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Hey, it's
Somalia
. You gotta take things slow, man. You don't just—”

“You son of a
bitch
!” It
was
Jess behind the other kaffiyeh. She sounded bitter, poised on a razor's edge of violence. “We paid you to help us free a woman who's been kidnapped, and you're hanging out selling dope.”

“Hey, I'm not selling dope.”

“Don't fuck with me.”

“I'm not! Really, I'm not.”

“Yeah? What are you selling?”

“Soap.”

“What? What soap?”

“Optimum. Optimum No Rinse Wash & Shine. The car washes are nuts for this one kind of soap.”

“What are you talking about? What car washes? The guys with buckets?”

“There's a car wash on every block. Thousands. They heard about this soap on the Internet. Optimum No Rinse Wash & Shine.” He whirled around and pulled a 128-ounce plastic jug of blue liquid from the back. “I cornered the market. If they want Optimum No Rinse Wash & Shine, they have to buy it from me.”

“Soap?” Jess looked at Paul.

“It's the no-rinse feature. Water costs a ton in Mogadishu. I'm saving them a fortune.”

“How'd you corner the market?” Paul asked him.

“I went down to the docks. There was a container coming off a dhow. I bought it out from under the guy who had ordered it. Cost me double. Worth every penny.”

“Where'd you get the money to corner the market?”

“Skyped my folks for the dough.”

J
ANSON LOOKED AT
Kincaid. All he could see under her kaffiyeh were her gray-green eyes, but he guessed that she, too, was trying to conceal a dumbfounded smile.

“You're not making this up, are you, Ahmed?”

“Why make it up?”

“Delivering soap could be a great front for dealing.”

Ahmed said, “Are you crazy? They've got
gangs
dealing. Freaked-out kids with AKs. I'm not into that shit. Besides, there's tons of money to be made here. Sure, it takes guts, a lot of guts, to stay in this place. My parents are saying I must have gone crazy. But I'll prove them wrong once everything is set.”

“They believed enough to send you the money.”

“They're cool. Funny thing is, my mother wants to come back, but my old man's still afraid, so I'm going to make it so he can. How'd you find me?”

Kincaid said, “You're not exactly invisible in an orange SUV.”

Janson asked, “Where is Isse?”

“I don't know.”

“Ahmed, I'm in a difficult position with Isse. I brought him over here. You told Hassan that Isse's trying to hook up with al-Amriki, the mullah. If he does, I am responsible if he gets hurt.”

“If you didn't help him get here, he'd go anyway.”

Janson leaned closer. “What's your best guess? Did he hook up with Amriki?”

“Listen, Paul. You don't understand.
I
didn't understand till after we got here. But I think Isse had this fantasy all along about hooking up with al-Shabaab or even al-Amriki. Maybe you kind of fed it, telling him he could check out Amriki's people—not your fault, I know you told him to stay away from Amriki himself. But Isse's more nuts than I thought on this whole Islamist thing. On and on about Americans dissing Muslims.”

“Where's Amriki?”

“They say in the street he's dead. A drone got him, yesterday.”

Janson had heard the same. None of the officials he had asked would confirm or deny a drone strike, but that didn't mean it didn't happen. Neither had there been confirmation from the remnants of al-Shabaab.

“Is Isse dead too?”

“No idea, man.”

“Do you have any cell numbers for him?”

“Yeah, one.”

“Call him. Now.”

Ahmed brought up the number and pressed the phone to his ear. “It's ringing.”

“Tip it so I can hear,” said Janson.

It rang twelve times and suddenly Isse said, “Ahmed?”

“Yeah, man. How—Shit. He hung up.”

“Call him back.”

Ahmed tried. Isse didn't answer. Ahmed hung up and a second later the phone rang. “It's him—Hey, you there?”

“Sorry, the call got dropped. Do you hear me now?”

“Somali cell phone,” Ahmed joked. “Two cans and a string. Works OK until a rat eats the string. How you doing, man?”

Janson heard “I'm OK. What's up?”

He gestured for the phone. Ahmed shrugged and handed it to him. As Janson slipped it under his head-wrap to put it to his ear, the call was dropped. “Hello? Hello?”

“It's the graphene cloth,” said Kincaid. “Blocking the signal. Hold on a second—Ahmed, tell those two in front to turn around and close their eyes tight or I'll shoot them.”

Ahmed translated. His bodyguard and driver faced front and squeezed their eyes shut. Kincaid said, “Go.”

Janson shook off the folds of his kaffiyeh. The bulletproof nanofabric did a beautiful job of dissipating heat, but this was the first time he had tried it with a mobile phone. He punched Redial. When Isse answered, Janson said, “Isse, it's Paul.”

There followed a short silence. Then Isse said, “Hello, Paul. Where'd you come from?”

“I was just talking with Ahmed. We were hoping you were OK. We'd heard that Mullah Amriki might have been killed and we were hoping you were all right.”

“I'm OK. Did you say that Mullah Amriki was killed?”

“There's no confirmation.” Janson gestured Kincaid closer to the phone. Eyes locked on the two in front, she leaned in to listen as Janson asked, “Did you happen to make contact?”

“No. I'm sorry. I chickened out. I mean, he was way out in the bush and I started thinking that even if I did manage to find him I'd get killed by the AMISOM.”

“Where are you now?”

“Just kind of hanging out. Absorbing the scene. I'm thinking I might start a blog about coming back to Somalia.”

Ahmed rolled his eyes and pantomimed a baby sucking its thumb.

Janson asked, “Can we get together?”

“I really don't feel up to it right now.”

“You could be very helpful to me. And especially helpful for the lady who was kidnapped.”

“I'm not feeling too well. Something I ate. Can I get back to you?”

“I'll be on this number. Or the numbers I put in your phone. But you can get me direct on this one. So later today?”

“Or tomorrow.”

“Isse, we're under the gun here. We need your help.”

“I promise. Don't worry, you'll hear from me. Loud and clear.”

Before Janson could couch another question, the line went dead. “Afraid I'll have to keep your phone,” he told Ahmed.

“I got plenty.”

“What's going on with Isse?”

“What do you mean?”

“He sounds like something's going on with him. Any idea what that would be?”

Janson watched Ahmed's face. The Somali-American was thinking hard on it and Janson had to admit that he looked baffled.

“I don't know, Paul. I mean, like I told you, I think Isse had a plan in mind before you came along. And I think it blew his mind that al-Shabaab had their asses kicked out of Mogadishu.”

Janson looked at Kincaid.

She said, “The kid's playing a game with you. I heard it in his voice. He's acting like he knows something we don't.”

Janson glanced back at Ahmed.

Ahmed nodded. “I think Jess is right. He's jerking you around. It sounded like he's having fun with it. Which is funny 'cause he's real short in the sense-of-humor department.”

Janson said, “It would be great if you could find him. We'll cover any business losses the time takes.”

“It's a big city, Paul.”

“Start with Internet Cafés. If he's blogging, he probably has to use one.”

He peeled five bills off a roll of fifties and handed them to Ahmed. “Hire your friends to help.”

“I can do that.”

Janson peeled off another five hundred dollars. “And get cracking on Cousin Saakin. We need a pirate.”

32°18' N, 34°53' E
Nordiya, Israel

M
iles Donner, an eighty-five-year-old English gentleman dressed like a throwback to pre-Beatles Britain in a straw-boater, creamy linen suit, and what his friends called the only ascot in Israel, hauled himself up the steps of the Tel Aviv bus when it stopped near his nursing home in suburban Nordia. He was frail, with a bald head fringed by thin white hair. His ears were big, his nose enormous. Straddling it were glasses with black frames. His eyes hardened with determination when he had to muster the strength to stand up to change buses. He changed buses twice—thinking he would probably practice habits of stealth at his own funeral. The third bus was a hotel shuttle bound for Sde Dov Airport.

Terminal security stopped him when they discovered the Beretta holstered under his sock, and he was hustled into an interrogation room, where he uttered a single name. In less than thirty minutes, a hard-faced major strode into the room and ordered the guards out. When they were gone, he threw his arms around the old man.

“What are you doing here? What do you need?”

Miles Donner's Hebrew had gotten worse, not better, living full-time in Israel, and he answered in an upper-crust English accent, “Take me to Wing R.”

The hard-faced major gaped. “How in hell, retired twenty years, living in a nursing home, did you hear about Wing R?”

The old man answered with a straight face, “I don't sleep much anymore, so I surf the net.”

“Shame on me for asking.”

“May I have my gun back?”

“Are you aware it was loaded?”

“Why would I carry an unloaded gun?”

The major did not bother asking why he would carry one at all, but summoned up an electric baggage tractor and airport-worker overalls for both of them and drove a circuitous route to one of the sprawling warehouses that edged the airfield. Inside, he drove through several unmarked checkpoints and helped Donner out of his overalls and into an elevator that took them down to a bunker. It was below sea level, and as large as the warehouse that concealed it.

The Mossad had had its ups and downs in the previous decade. The worst had resulted in public scrutiny of infamous failures. But the uproar had provided a smokescreen to shield building anew. Wing R was led by a brilliant chief who was less than half Donner's age—the best, brightest, and most ruthless of his generation.

“What do you want?”

“Saul made contact.”

The chief looked at him sharply. “I will assume for your sake that you are referring to Saul who fell on his sword three thousand years ago on Mount Gilboa to prevent Philistines from torturing him.”

“Our Saul.”

“I warn you, do not enter that maze.”

“Our Saul,” the old man repeated blandly. “Who served us in South Africa.”

The chief pressed his hands together and sighted over them like a pistol. “Dementia among ordinary citizens is a tragic plague. Dementia among former agents with secrets to spill is cause for immediate removal from the community.”

Donner removed his glasses. “Don't threaten me.”

“We took blood oaths.”

“
I
took a blood oath. You were in kindergarten.”

“You took a blood oath that that name should never pass your lips. Even in the confines of this office.”

The old man took a chair, without asking, and folded his wrinkled hands in his lap, the picture of patience, and it was a good bet, looking at him, that he would not speak again until the chief asked the correct question.

“What is Saul up to?”

“Playing Santa Claus.”

“Giving what?”

“A Russian oligarch.”

“Which Russian oligarch?”

“The one you would most enjoy interrogating.”

“Which, goddammit!”

“Garik Tannenbaum.”

The chief shook his head in disgust. “I don't have time for silliness.”

“You would turn down the opportunity to interrogate Garik Tannenbaum, the man who knows more about Russian exports of fissionable material than anyone alive?”

“Garik Tannenbaum is already being interrogated. To
death
! Putin caught him.” He stabbed a speaker button and shouted, “Get this old man out of my office.”

“Putin
almost
caught him.”

“What? No. No one's told me this.”

“The FSB laid a trap in Dubai, where Tannenbaum's jet was to refuel to take him to his yacht, which was waiting in Socotra. Tannenbaum caught wind of the trap.”

“No one's told me this,” the chief repeated stubbornly.

“No one knows. Except for the poor devil employed as Tannenbaum's body double. Sadly for him, not even the FSB knows yet.”

“How do you know?”

“Saul.”

“How does Saul know?”

That did not deserve an answer and received none.

“How did Tannenbaum catch wind?”

“Saul would not say,” the old man answered with a smile.

“Garik Tannenbaum is the greediest crook of all the crooks spawned by the new Russia. A traitor to his country. And a vicious thug.”

“A fair assessment,” Miles Donner conceded. “Although Tannenbaum's mother might not agree on every count. But as I said, Tannenbaum knows more about Russian exports of fissionable material than anyone alive. Including Wing R's analysts.
Especially
Wing R's analysts. The sources. The routes. The recipients. The orders pending.”

“The son of a bitch knows because he did the exporting.”

“Saul is offering to make him
our
son of a bitch.”

Wing R's chief put his head in his hands. “What does Saul want in return?”

“Tannenbaum's yacht.”

“Yacht?”
The chief looked up, incredulity mingling with relief. “That's all?”

Donner said, “You could not look happier if Saul's price was a weekend in Cairo with a belly dancer.”

“What does he want a yacht for?”

“If I knew, which I don't, it would never pass my lips. Even in the confines of this office.”

A
LLEGRA
H
ELMS OBSERVED
a sudden change in the volatile Maxammed. They were alone on
Tarantula
's bridge, except for a couple of boy fighters fast asleep on the deck, cradling their guns like dolls or teddy bears, and the old man huddled in a corner. Suddenly the old man cried out. He had not spoken a word since they spoke of
Treasure Island
the night Adolfo was killed.

She went to see if he was all right, but Maxammed pushed her aside. The pirate knelt and quickly loosened the necktie that the old man hadn't removed since they were hijacked.

“His face is blue,” said Allegra.

“He's dead,” said Maxammed. And to Allegra's astonishment, the pirate gathered him in his arms and crooned. “It's not your fault, old man. You were just where you should not have been.”

Allegra could not believe her ears. Maxammed actually felt something for his hostage. She seized the moment. It was a better gift than Adolfo's gun.

“Please let me go.”

“What?”

“Would you let me go? You'll get millions for the yacht.”

“I am a dead man without you. You are the last. I can never let you go.”