The Janson Option (23 page)

T
he dervishes escorted Isse to the Italian's private rooms in a villa not far from Gutaale's on the Lido. Isse stood before him with his hands folded across his stomach. Like a pregnant woman, thought the Italian.

“How did you come to Somalia?”

“Somalia is my homeland.”

“I mean, how did you travel here?”

“I flew commercial from New York, through Turkey, where we changed planes for Mogadishu.” He removed his hands from his stomach and straightened his shoulders. “But to New York we flew private.”

The Italian's Arab head garb concealed his smile. Americans had an expression: Kids say the darnedest things. With four hundred grams of high explosive in his stomach, and the bravery to detonate it for his cause, the young man seemed most excited about a free ride on a private jet. The jet was owned by some helpful sheik, he thought, curious as to which one it was. “What were the markings on the plane?”

“I didn't see any.”

“No logo? No crest?”

“No. It was weird. There was nothing written on it inside. Outside, it was night.”

“It must have had numbers on the tail.”

“You couldn't see the tail. There were no lights.”

“In an airport.”

“It was a private airport.”

“Did you meet the sheik who owned the plane?”

“No way a sheik owned it.”

“Why not?”

“The pilots were women.”

“Women?”

The Italian sat up straight. When he spotted the young fanatic in Mullah Amriki's encampment, he had naturally assumed that the boy had been recruited by one of the many Gulf sheiks who ferried fresh fighters into war zones for al-Qaeda and al-Shabaab.

“Then whose plane was it?”

“A guy named Paul. And he had a woman with him named Jess.”

The Italian nodded and murmured, “Oh yes.”

“Do you know them?”

The Italian said, “Tell me. I don't fully understand. How did you happen to be on their private jet?”

“They're being paid to rescue a woman captured by pirates.”

“Of course. Of course…”

“Do you know them?” the boy asked again.

“What did they want of you?”

“Information. Stuff about Somalia. They were researching.”

“You were like a consultant?”

“Yes.”

“Doing their homework,” the Italian mused. He stood up and circled the room, wondering how to use this.

K
IN
P
OY
L
AM'S
bodyguards did a sloppy job of frisking Doug Case when he rolled into Kin's suite in the Red Hotel. They took his Glock from his shoulder holster, as before, and granted him indulgent smiles at “Don't forget the laser obliterator.” Maybe they figured the wheelchair made him harmless. Maybe they were lulled by the Red Hotel, which had brought to war-battered Mogadishu the security and opulence they would expect in Beijing, minus large rooms and sheets of glass. Maybe they thought the addition of a new guy made them invincible. Four of them to one of him. They
should
feel invincible.

Kin Poy Lam introduced the new guy—a big, broad-shouldered northern Chinese—as Jack Yee and said, “Mr. Yee has come to apologize for failing to kill Paul Janson in Beirut.”

“I don't believe you,” said Doug Case.

“What do you mean?”

“The only reason to bring your assassin into this room is to assassinate me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you believe that you don't need me or ASC anymore now that you are deeply entrenched in Somalia.”

“But I am not firmly entrenched,” Kin protested. “I need you very much, Mr. Case. I know that your roots are much deeper here than mine. I know the Somalis do not trust Chinese businessmen, whereas you have made friends. A partnership, a secret partnership, is more valuable than ever to me.”

Case glanced at Yee, who was listening with a benign smile. Maybe the assassin didn't understand English. Maybe Kin Poy Lam was telling the truth.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Case. I need you and ASC very much. We are quite prepared to share.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” said Doug Case. He reached under his jacket into the narrow space between his chest and his empty shoulder holster, where he had hidden a cocked and loaded .22 automatic Jetfire. He lifted it up and out by the suppressor screwed into its stubby muzzle, clamped his left hand around the butt, and thumbed off the safety.

He fired three double bursts in a single breath, killed Kin Poy Lam's bodyguards before their own guns cleared their holsters, drilled two holes between the assassin Yee's eyes, and leveled the weapon at Kin Poy Lam's face.

“Come closer.” Case gestured with his right hand.

“What do you want?” Kin whispered.

“I want you closer, Mr. Kin.”

“I'll give you anything.”

“I want China National Petroleum out of Somalia.”

“I'm only one man,” Kin protested, gathering himself to jump Case in the hope, probably, that he had either emptied his gun or stopped firing because it had jammed.

“No,” said Case. “At the moment you are China's only man. You just this minute told me yourself, you're boss in Somalia. That makes you the last Chinese standing, for the moment.”

“They'll send more.”

“Who?”

Kin hesitated. Then he said, “Many are ready, they—”

“They'll send engineers and businessmen. Right?”

“Yes, yes, that's what I'm saying. Many.”

“But no more spies and killers. Besides, by the time they set up shop, it will be way too late.”

Kin grabbed for the gun. Way too late.

P
aul Janson found Ahmed inside the Bakaara Market Internet Café. At some of the booths staff were helping old people type e-mails, but most of the customers were young. They gathered in late evening, when the broadband was faster, to download YouTube videos and music. Ahmed was wandering around, backslapping friends.

“Nothing more from Isse. Sorry, Paul.”

“How you doing with Cousin Saakin?”

“Still making contact.”

“But you saw him when you got here?”

“Sure. He's the one who took me to the dhow harbor. And he fronted me the dough that my folks are sending. The banks are kind of slow here.”

“I know that. How badly crippled is Saakin?”

“Not bad.”

“Still on a walker?”

“Mostly for show. They were going to put him on trial. But they changed their mind when they saw the walker.”

“Can he still go to sea?”

“Yeah, but just bringing food and stuff to his friends. He's not hijacking anymore. Like I told you, he's through with getting shot.”

“Is he friends with Mad Max Maxammed?”

“No way.”

“Would he do a job for me?”

Ahmed looked doubtful. “He's not going to rat out his own people. Even Maxammed. He may not like Max, but he won't turn on him. You know, the pirates have a kind of brotherhood.”

“I don't need him to rat out Mad Max.”

“What kind of job?”

“A pirate job.”

Ahmed's animated features gathered like a big question mark. “A pirate job?”

“Get hold of him immediately. Tell him it'll be low risk, high profit.”

D
OUG
C
ASE WAS
cleaning his Jetfire back in his own suite in the Red Hotel when his sat phone rang.

“Good evening, Douglas,” said the voice, digitally disguised tonight as a breathy Justin Bieber.

Nice timing, Case thought, wondering not for the first time why he chose such inane disguises and reminding himself, again not for the first time, that the Buddha hadn't climbed as high as he had on silly decisions.

“Hello, sir. What a wonderful coincidence.”

“How so?” the voice asked warily.

“I was about to call you.”

“But you can't call me. You don't know my name. You don't have my number.”

“Hang up and I'll surprise you.” Case broke the connection and immediately dialed the number for the Buddha's encrypted sat phone.

The Buddha answered on the first ring. He did not bother pretending ignorance, and he was mad as hell. “I need an explanation or you are out of a job. To what do I ascribe this sudden uninvited intimacy?”

“I have good news for you,” Case said. “The best you've had since you bought those gas drillers.”

“It better be.”

“China National Petroleum has withdrawn from Somalia.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“China National Petroleum's point man has taken early retirement. Word is he wanted to spend quality time with his ancestors.”

“What about the Ministry of State Security? The East Africa Bureau is hardly a one-man operation.”

“MSS's East Africa Bureau will have to start over from scratch in Somalia before they can make another move, which ought to give Mr. Helms time to finish whatever he started.”

“I am deeply impressed,” said the Buddha. “Well done, Douglas. Very well done—What's
your
next move?”

“A bit of creative destruction.”

“What sort?”

“If you wait to see it on CNN you'll have total deniability.” Case waited while the Buddha chewed on that and concluded that it was the only way to go. He asked, “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Wait. You've surprised me twice and now you surprise me again.”

Good, thought Case, and asked, “How?”

“By not demanding to replace Helms.”

Case laughed. “I'm waiting to see how far he gets.”

D
OUG
C
ASE DECIDED
it had been a hell of a day, and he deserved a celebration. He had told Paul Janson that his spinal-cord stimulator beat heroin, which was not entirely true. The stimulator was a substitute at best, and certainly no fun.

Heroin, on the other hand, was an old reliable friend. He injected himself and was just closing his eyes and rolling his sleeve down his powerful forearm when the hotel's front desk called. He almost didn't answer it. But in Mogadishu who knew what would happen next.

“Yes?”

“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” said one of the impeccably made-up Chinese cuties management stationed at the front desk.

“What's his name?”

“Mr. Janson.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What did you say, sir?”

“Send him up.”

Case put away his needle and tidied himself up and unlocked the door. Then he rolled to the desk and set up two glasses and a bottle of scotch with the seal unbroken. Janson knocked.

“It's open.”

Janson walked in and locked it behind him. He looked his usual Janson-gray, Case thought. A tired businessman at the end of a long day whom you wouldn't look at twice. Unchanged since Case had seen him a year ago. And very little changed since they had worked side by side in federal service. Janson still looked thirtysomething, fortysomething, who the hell knew what.

“How'd you find me here?”

The voice too was the same—low, not loud, but easily heard. “The Bombardier Global Express is not generally regarded as a stealth plane.”

“You telling me you found a way to crack BARR?” The Block Aircraft Registration Request program kept the ASC's Bombardiers and Janson's own Embraer off FlightAware's aircraft-tracking Internet service.

Janson said, “It was simpler to pay a Nairobi tower employee to report on Bombardier Global Express landings.”

Case shook his head. “I left the plane in Nairobi. How did you find me here, in Mogadishu?”

“Tradecraft,” said Janson.

“And screw you, too.”

“OK, I'll tell you. I found you the way I'd find any corporate guy.”

Case waited. Janson said nothing. Case said, “All right, I'll bite. How would you find any corporate guy?”

“Holed up in the safest, most comfortable hotel in the city. All the better if it has a good restaurant in it.”

“I guess I'm getting old,” said Case.

“It happens,” said Janson. “Or so they tell me.”

Case grinned back at him. “Are you done busting my balls?”

“How's the oil business?”

“About as you'd expect. How's the corporate security business?”

“Mrs. Helms is still alive, which is the only good news I have.”

“Need help?”

“I might take you up on that.”

“Say the word.”

“Tell me this. Who's the Italian?”

“The million-dollar Mogadishu question. I, like everyone, have no idea, except he's poison. How's Ms. Kincaid doing?”

“Good.”

“Let me ask you something.”

Janson waited.

Case asked, “From what I saw of her, and from what I know of you, there's something of an age difference between you two. How do you bridge it?”

“I will answer your presumptive, intrusive, stupid, and thoroughly unprofessional question after you tell me more about the Italian.” Janson raised a hand to stop Case's protest. “ASC has been here awhile, which means you've been here longer than I have. There is no way you would spend time in Mogadishu and not try to scope out who the Italian is.”

Case shook his head. “I think you're confusing me with President of Petroleum Kingsman Helms. He's our point man in Somalia.”

“No one would confuse you with Kingsman Helms. As you said, he's just a ‘jerk businessman.' And considering the Buddha's background in national security—especially his long service at Cons Ops—it's safe to assume that his security man—you—has been in Somalia as long as Helms, if not longer, even though Helms himself might not know it.”

“I am president of
Global
Security, which has me in many places.”

“Somalia's your hot spot. With the Sudan gone to hell, and Uganda a mess, and the strong likelihood of gigantic gas and oil deposits under the East African Rift, ASC's president of Global Security is going to set up camp in Somalia, where he will make friends and partners and oppose enemies. You've got intelligence sources in AMISOM and, I'd even bet money, inside the US Special Ops hunting al-Qaeda. You wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't, right?”

“We were both taught to be thorough,” Case agreed affably.

“So do me a favor, Doug, and fill me in on the Italian.”

“I'll tell you two things he isn't. He isn't Italian. And he isn't Somali.”

“Tell me something he is.”

“People I've talked to who claim to have talked to him say that he speaks perfect American. But has a bit of an Arab accent.”

Janson asked, “What did they talk to him about?”

“They don't tell me.”

“Doug. Whatever you feel about Helms, Mrs. Helms deserves to be rescued, and I am doing my damnedest to rescue her. Give me a break.”

“What does the Italian have to do with Allegra Helms?”

Paul Janson said, “Without going into the details, let me just say that there are indications that the Italian has communicated with Mad Max Maxammed.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wish I were. For all I know, he's in it up to his eyeballs. I don't want any surprises when I go in.”

Doug said, “OK. I get it. My people didn't tell me what they talked about, but I got the impression the Italian was looking for partners.”

“To do what?”

“You've got a classic snatch-and-grab scene in this country. You know what I mean. We've seen it elsewhere. As far back as when the Soviet Union broke up. Iraq, Mexico, et cetera.”

Janson nodded briskly. “When the rules are all broken and everything falls apart, too many folks think they can pick up the pieces.”

“In my estimation, the Italian is nothing more or less than a fast operator jumping into a vacuum and picking up pieces. So what's with you and Ms. Kincaid? How do you bridge the gap?”

“What gap?”

“If there's no gap, she must have a mighty old soul.”

“Very astute insight, Doug. If your take on the Italian is that sharp, then you've taught me a lot. Thank you.”

“Where are you going? Have a drink.”

“I've got to get back to Mrs. Helms.”

Paul Janson crouched by Doug Case's wheelchair to shake hands. They locked eyes. Case's pupils were contracted like specks of onyx. Janson asked, “How are you doing?”

Case said, “Heroin is only a problem when you can't afford it.”

“So you've told me before,” said Janson. “Take care.”

He went out the door still wondering what the Italian wanted from the pirate who had captured Allegra Helms, but with a strong suspicion that Doug Case knew more about him than he had let on. That Doug was shooting heroin again was a good break. It meant he would not rely on his implant for pain relief for a while and therefore wouldn't notice if his battery ran down.

D
OUG
C
ASE CALLED
for a van to meet him in the heavily guarded garage under the Red Hotel. He wheeled up the ramp and they drove out a sally port, where the garage doors closed behind them before the outside doors opened. Gun-toting police stopped traffic and they drove into the city, bracketed by armored SUVs, to a villa on the Lido. His gut told him that Janson's attempt to fish for information had to do with more than rescuing Mrs. Helms. Christ knew for what, though.

Happily, Paul Janson had run afoul of a classic intelligence riddle: how to fish without losing your bait. Janson had told him something very interesting about the Italian that Case did not know.

T
HE
I
TALIAN SHOOK
his head in disgust. An International Criminal Court trial was unfolding on CNN. The prisoner in the dock was screaming that the court had no authority. He was subdued by officers. The judges called a recess, and the TV announcer filled time by quoting from the preamble to the Rome Statute, which had established the ICC.

“Accountability and stability are one. In the words of the Rome Statute: ‘Grave crimes threaten the peace, security, and well-being of the world.' In other words,” she said, “it is not for the victor to judge the vanquished. But it is the duty of those above the fray to insist that the rule of law protects every human being in the world.”

The Italian switched off the television and turned to his visitor.

“In other words, the mob takes revenge.”

“I've cleared the decks of the Chinese,” said Doug Case. “If you're going to make a move, now's the time.”

The Italian pulled his kaffiyeh over his face. “Bring the bomb.”

Case backed his chair into the next room so as not to be seen.

T
HE DERVISHES BROUGHT
I
SSE
. The boy stood with his hands clasped over his belly.

“We have chosen your target,” the Italian said. “And I am sure that you will agree that your martyrdom will have memorable effect.”

“What will it be?”

“There are details you must know, first. Security will be tight. Very tight. You could be searched. Or they may run a wand over your body. Therefore you cannot carry your own detonator.”

In truth, circumventing security was only one reason not to arm the boy with his own suicide button. Equally important, when suicide bombers were terrified, confused, or simply disoriented, they often panicked and detonated too soon. Neither was it uncommon for them to change their minds at the last moment.