Free The Janson Option by Paul Garrison Page B

into killing the wrong man.
    â€œI’m alive today,” said Janson, “because as young and dumb as you were back then, you opened your eyes to far-fetched.”
    â€œThanks for the history lesson, Old-Timer.”
    â€œLet’s see if Mussolini’s waiting on the plane.”

SEVEN
    C atspaw’s fourteen-passenger Embraer 650 stood by itself in the dark at the edge of the runways, which were speckled with blue, yellow, and green taxi and runway lights. Janson had had most of the seats removed to upgrade the big silver jet with a full galley, study, a sleeping area, dressing room, and shower. With fuel capacity for a four-thousand-mile transoceanic range and broadband satellite data links, they could go anywhere in the world on short notice and arrive fed, rested, geared up, and informed.
    â€œReady when you are, boss,” Lynn Novicki, their senior pilot greeted them at the top of the retractable stairs, which entered the ship right behind the cockpit. “Have you guys eaten?”
    â€œPolice Department takeout. What’s that I smell? Cumin and cinnamon and ginger.”
    â€œCamel burgers on flatbread. 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.
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œIf we knew what cooks your pilots are, we’d have come sooner.”
    â€œAwesome burger,” said Ahmed.
    â€œMy 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?”
    â€œThings 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.”
    â€œIsse and Ahmed, you were born in America. Isse, do you speak fluent Somali?”
    Isse nodded.
    â€œFluent enough to translate?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd you, Ahmed,” he said to the parolee. “You can translate Somali too?”
    â€œNo prob. My parents spoke it all the time.”
    â€œI understand that you have a clansman who used to be a pirate.”
    â€œSaakin. 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.”
    â€œAny 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.”
    â€œWhat can he do for us?”
    â€œHe has everybody’s cell-phone