The Janson Option by Paul Garrison

numbers.”
    â€œDon’t they change them?”
    â€œEvery day. But he stays friends.”
    Janson looked skeptical. Ahmed explained, “He brings them stuff they need.”
    â€œGot it.” Cousin Saakin was acting as supply sergeant. “Ahmed, what do pirates want?”
    â€œMoney.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œTo buy khat, SUVs, and wives,” said Ahmed.
    â€œWhat’s their religion?”
    â€œSUVs and wives and getting high chewing khat leaves.”
    Janson grinned back at him. “And the same goes for politics?”
    â€œYou got it.”
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah,” said Ahmed. “Until they start chewing khat. Then it’s talk, talk, talk. And wife, wife, wife.”
    â€œIt’s more complicated,” said the student. “They have a mission.”
    â€œHeroes?” scoffed the parolee. “Laugh out loud. They’re criminals.”
    â€œWhat were you in jail for?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œMissions?”
    They were raising their voices, which Janson did not take seriously, recalling that throughout Africa, Somalis were as famous as Nigerians for high-decibel debate.
    â€œWhat does ‘missions’ mean?” Isse shouted.
    â€œAl-Shabaab—pray like we say or we’ll kill you.”
    â€œThere is more to al-Shabaab. They are about respecting Islam.”
    Ahmed laughed. “Islam should be more than bitching about being dissed.”
    â€œAl-Shabaab demands respect.”
    â€œSomalis don’t need that shit.”
    Isse balled his fists. “Islam is not—”
    Janson stepped between them, impermeable as a cinder-block wall. “Isse, do you have pirates in your family?”
    The student said, “My father is a doctor, my mom’s a nurse. One of my grandfathers was a cleric, the other was a pharmacist.”
    â€œI can see how you’d be short of pirates in your immediate family, but what about clansmen and cousins?”
    â€œI know what you’re saying, sir. But it’s not like all Somalis are pirates.”
    â€œLet me put it this way,” Janson said patiently. “Who are you connected to in Mogadishu who could help us ransom this lady who was kidnapped by pirates?”
    Isse looked alarmed. “I thought you needed a translator. I mean, I just don’t know any pirates.”
    Kincaid stepped closer. “Do you know anyone in the government?”
    â€œSure. Ministry of Health people. They stay with my parents when they come here.”
    â€œWhat about clerics? Any of your grandfather’s colleagues?”
    â€œI never met him. He was killed before I was born—But I really want to help you.”
    Janson said, “I appreciate that. Jess, why don’t you give Isse and Ahmed a tour of the cockpit? Jess is a pilot too,” he explained to Isse and Ahmed.
    Ahmed bounded eagerly after her. Isse followed, looking anxious.
    Janson exchanged grown-man smiles with the real estate agent.
    â€œMr. Hassan, do I understand correctly that you have maintained your business contacts in Mogadishu?”
    Salah Hassan’s smile grew enormous. “There’s a saying in real estate: the broker knows everything in town before it happens. Since my clients are from Somalia, I’m up to date in two towns: Minneapolis and Mogadishu. Knowing who is up and who is down, who chooses to emigrate, who has to run for it, that’s how I know to have my agents scout a home or a factory or a shop before they