Free Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Janson Option (Paul Janson) by Paul Garrison Page A

Sarah found a Minneapolis grocery to feed the Somalis something they’d like.” First Officer Sarah Peterson was in the right-hand cockpit seat, talking to the tower.
    “We’ll take off in thirty minutes.”
    Three tall, thin men with light-brown skin and prominent brows rose eagerly when Janson and Kincaid stepped into the forward cabin. The student and the parolee were young. Isse, the student, was dressed in a white shirt and jeans. Ahmed, the parolee, sported a black “Somali Coast Guard” T-shirt with a skull and crossed AK-47s. The real estate mogul was in his forties and wore a pricy blue suit and a bright-yellow tie.
    Catspaw had vetted all three. Salah Hassan, a wealthy businessman with his feet in many seas, was the best source. The kids, no one was sure about: Ahmed’s jail time had been for selling khat—a Somali stimulant that was illegal in Minnesota—on a business scale larger than dealing to friends. Isse, whose parents were professionals, had lived a sheltered suburban life. Janson extended his hand. “Paul, Mr. Hassan. Thank you coming along on such short notice.”
    “If we knew what cooks your pilots are, we’d have come sooner.”
    “Awesome burger,” said Ahmed.
    “My first ever,” said Isse.
    Janson introduced Kincaid. “Jess, my colleague.”
    Kincaid had streamed a video about Somali customs on her phone while stuck at police headquarters. She knew to offer the peace greeting, Assalamu alaikum, but not shake hands with the men.
    Janson said, “We will fly you gentlemen to Mogadishu by commercial airline after debriefing you in New York, but I wanted a moment with you first. I’m assuming you’re comfortable flying into Mogadishu?”
    “Things are better,” said Hassan. “I was there only last month. I would not dub the city ‘restored to former splendor,’ but it is possible to do business.”
    “Isse and Ahmed, you were born in America. Isse, do you speak fluent Somali?”
    Isse nodded.
    “Fluent enough to translate?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And you, Ahmed,” he said to the parolee. “You can translate Somali too?”
    “No prob. My parents spoke it all the time.”
    “I understand that you have a clansman who used to be a pirate.”
    “Saakin. My cousin. My father’s cousin actually. He’s younger than my father, but older than me. Major pirate. One of the first. Made a ton of dough.”
    “Any idea what induced Saakin to reform?”
    Ahmed grinned. “He lost his taste for it when he got shot.” His grin faded. “Now he’s kind of hobbling around on a walker.”
    “What can he do for us?”
    “He has everybody’s cell-phone numbers.”
    “Don’t they change them?”
    “Every day. But he stays friends.”
    Janson looked skeptical. Ahmed explained, “He brings them stuff they need.”
    “Got it.” Cousin Saakin was acting as supply sergeant. “Ahmed, what do pirates want?”
    “Money.”
    “For what?”
    “To buy khat, SUVs, and wives,” said Ahmed.
    “What’s their religion?”
    “SUVs and wives and getting high chewing khat leaves.”
    Janson grinned back at him. “And the same goes for politics?”
    “You got it.”
    “No,” interrupted Isse. “Ahmed’s T-shirt is not a joke to everyone. A lot of them are trying to protect Somali fishing waters from foreign trawlers that wreck the seabed and kill all the fish.”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Ahmed. “Until they start chewing khat. Then it’s talk, talk, talk. And wife, wife, wife.”
    “It’s more complicated,” said the student. “They have a mission.”
    “Heroes?” scoffed the parolee. “Laugh out loud. They’re criminals.”
    “What were you in jail for?”
    “I got caught learning entrepreneurship,” Ahmed answered with another open grin. “But at least I’m bringing home business skills that’ll help Somalia a lot more than ramming ‘missions’ down people’s throats.”
    “Missions?”
    They were raising their voices, which Janson did not take seriously, recalling