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.
* * *
DOUG CASE 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.
* * *
THE ITALIAN SHOOK his head in disgust. An International Criminal Court trial was unfolding on CNN. The prisone
r 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.
* * *
THE DERVISHES BROUGHT ISSE. 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.
Isse asked the obvious question. “Who will carry it?”
It was like being asked to name his murderer. The Italian took from his robe a green remote control for an electric garage-door opener and held it up for Isse to see. It had a clip on one side to attach it to a sun visor and a square button in the center. The Italian poised his thumb over the button. “I will have the honor of assisting in your martyrdom.”
The boy impressed him with his next question. “What if something goes wrong? What if it doesn’t work? If the batteries die or something…” His voice trailed off.
“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.”
THIRTY-SIX
It 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.”
* * *
WHEN 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 ha
d 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.
Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Janson Option (Paul Janson) Page 25
