Read Online Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Janson Option (Paul Janson) by Paul Garrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Garrison
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new parliament is defended, sort of, by Somali forces, but still largely by AMISOM—African Union Mission to Somalia—Ugandan soldiers, mostly, who are still fighting hard-line Islamist al-Shabaab rebels for control of the countryside. Meanwhile, Kenyans invade from the west, and Ethiopia attacks from the north. If you’re having trouble keeping track, think of it this way: Mogadishu still can’t control itself, much less Puntland—where the pirates took your wife.”
“I know all this,” said Helms.
“Then you know to let ASC Security field your rescue team. Why not keep it in your family?”
Helms said, “I can’t trust Doug Case. We’re fighting for the same job.”
That answered that question: the Isle de Foree trouncing had upended the gang that ran ASC, and Doug Case had pulled alongside Kingsman Helms in the perpetual race to take over when the fabled Buddha finally fell dead on his desk. While security was not ordinarily on the corporate leadership ladder, American Synergy was no ordinary corporation. The Buddha, its CEO, was a former spy who had retired from Consular Operations many years before Janson served, and its extraordinarily autonomous divisions were commanded by outsized men and women who would be more at home in a Somali clan war than most holders of master’s of business administration degrees. Janson recalled Doug Case describing the division presidents’ committee as a viper’s nest, with Helms the head viper. Janson glanced back at Kincaid, who regularly reminded him that Doug Case had fangs too.
“Is Doug Buddha’s latest fair-haired boy?”
“I just admitted as much,” said Helms. “Let’s stick to the subject of rescuing my wife.”
Jessica Kincaid forged alongside and settled cold eyes on Helms. “You may want us. But Doug Case is president of ASC Security. Who’s going to write our check?”
Helms smiled. “I am president of the Petroleum Division, Ms. Kincaid. I write my own checks. In fact, I carry a loose one in my wallet for emergencies.” He drew an Hermès wallet from his inside breast pocket, extracted a gold pen and a blank check, and placed the check on the back of the wallet. The breeze plucked the paper. Kincaid stepped closer to hold it down with her fingers. Helms wrote “Catspaw Associates, LLC” and the date.
“How much?”
Janson supposed that Helms’s limit was five million. He would have to ask the Buddha to clear higher amounts. Demanding seven or eight million dollars would make Helms—and the Buddha—believe that Janson really didn’t want the job. But before he could say eight million, Kincaid surprised him. Either Jess still didn’t want the job, or she was reading Helms better than he was.
“Ten million,” she said. “Expenses paid weekly.”
“Same price,” Janson added, “whether we fight her out or buy her out with your ransom money.”
Helms wrote numbers and words, signed the check, and handed it over, startling Janson almost as much as the next word out of Kincaid’s mouth.
“Sniper!”
SIX
P aul Janson kicked Kingsman Helms’s feet out from under him and knocked the executive to the pavement. A bullet passed through the space Helms had occupied and smacked through the window behind him. Kincaid pointed toward a cigarette boat thundering past, four hundred meters out on the river, and they both hit the deck. A slug twanged off the railing.
“Helms, don’t move!” Janson shouted. To Kincaid, he said, “Strollers behind us.”
Janson sprinted toward the south corner of the pier shed, keeping below the partial shelter of the railing. Kincaid raced for the north corner.
The “strollers”—the sniper’s finish team—rounded the corners with Glocks in hand and Bluetooth clips on their ears. They were wearing suits, masquerading as fit, young traders up at Chelsea Piers for a spinning class—except that traders didn’t leave their floor at nine in the morning, and traders’ tailors did not forget to
“I know all this,” said Helms.
“Then you know to let ASC Security field your rescue team. Why not keep it in your family?”
Helms said, “I can’t trust Doug Case. We’re fighting for the same job.”
That answered that question: the Isle de Foree trouncing had upended the gang that ran ASC, and Doug Case had pulled alongside Kingsman Helms in the perpetual race to take over when the fabled Buddha finally fell dead on his desk. While security was not ordinarily on the corporate leadership ladder, American Synergy was no ordinary corporation. The Buddha, its CEO, was a former spy who had retired from Consular Operations many years before Janson served, and its extraordinarily autonomous divisions were commanded by outsized men and women who would be more at home in a Somali clan war than most holders of master’s of business administration degrees. Janson recalled Doug Case describing the division presidents’ committee as a viper’s nest, with Helms the head viper. Janson glanced back at Kincaid, who regularly reminded him that Doug Case had fangs too.
“Is Doug Buddha’s latest fair-haired boy?”
“I just admitted as much,” said Helms. “Let’s stick to the subject of rescuing my wife.”
Jessica Kincaid forged alongside and settled cold eyes on Helms. “You may want us. But Doug Case is president of ASC Security. Who’s going to write our check?”
Helms smiled. “I am president of the Petroleum Division, Ms. Kincaid. I write my own checks. In fact, I carry a loose one in my wallet for emergencies.” He drew an Hermès wallet from his inside breast pocket, extracted a gold pen and a blank check, and placed the check on the back of the wallet. The breeze plucked the paper. Kincaid stepped closer to hold it down with her fingers. Helms wrote “Catspaw Associates, LLC” and the date.
“How much?”
Janson supposed that Helms’s limit was five million. He would have to ask the Buddha to clear higher amounts. Demanding seven or eight million dollars would make Helms—and the Buddha—believe that Janson really didn’t want the job. But before he could say eight million, Kincaid surprised him. Either Jess still didn’t want the job, or she was reading Helms better than he was.
“Ten million,” she said. “Expenses paid weekly.”
“Same price,” Janson added, “whether we fight her out or buy her out with your ransom money.”
Helms wrote numbers and words, signed the check, and handed it over, startling Janson almost as much as the next word out of Kincaid’s mouth.
“Sniper!”
SIX
P aul Janson kicked Kingsman Helms’s feet out from under him and knocked the executive to the pavement. A bullet passed through the space Helms had occupied and smacked through the window behind him. Kincaid pointed toward a cigarette boat thundering past, four hundred meters out on the river, and they both hit the deck. A slug twanged off the railing.
“Helms, don’t move!” Janson shouted. To Kincaid, he said, “Strollers behind us.”
Janson sprinted toward the south corner of the pier shed, keeping below the partial shelter of the railing. Kincaid raced for the north corner.
The “strollers”—the sniper’s finish team—rounded the corners with Glocks in hand and Bluetooth clips on their ears. They were wearing suits, masquerading as fit, young traders up at Chelsea Piers for a spinning class—except that traders didn’t leave their floor at nine in the morning, and traders’ tailors did not forget to
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