Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Janson Option (Paul Janson) by Paul Garrison Page A
Authors: Paul Garrison
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felt the barrel of his gun pressing to her head, hard and hot.
I will die in an instant, she thought. It all will end and I will never even hear the gun that kills me. I will disappear and never hear the shot.
* * *
“K EEP TURNING! ” Maxammed shouted to Farole. “Keep moving!” And they spun like dervishes so that only a madman or cold-blooded murderer would dare take a shot. Maxammed imagined the soldiers in the helicopter watching his every move. He waved his pistol in a wide arc—signaling, Move away! Get away from my ship! —and pressed it back to the woman’s head.
The helicopters hovered, thundering, blowing wind. Then they slowly backed away, pivoted in the air, and raced back to their ship. Only then did Maxammed see the markings on their tail booms. When he did, his knees felt weak.
“Chinese,” he said. Had I but known, he thought. “I might have lost my courage.”
“Americans,” said Farole, pointing at another ship that had drawn within a mile, and how lucky they had been was suddenly so clear that Maxammed felt his stomach nearly give way. The Chinese were the most violent of the navies that patrolled the Indian Ocean, except for the Russians. They would have shot him and the hostages had the Americans not come along. Not that the Chinese feared the Americans. But they would know the Americans were observing and videoing their every move and they feared finding themselves gunning down hostage women on CNN and YouTube.
“God is good,” Maxammed told Farole.
He dragged the woman toward the stairs.
The yacht was close to land. He could distinguish individual buildings in Eyl, the old fish plant and a large half-built house of a clansmen who had been killed before it was finished.
“Hurry up!” he called to Farole. “What’s taking you so long?”
“Mine is dead,” said Farole. “It makes her heavy.”
A bullet had pierced the older woman’s chest. But the methodical Farole had had the presence of mind to hold her head up to pretend she was still alive.
“Well done,” Maxammed said. “It’s all working out. Here come our friends.”
Skiffs were putting out from the beach, packed to the gunnels with fresh men to guard the hostages and finally let them sleep. In one was a sheep they would slaughter to feast. In another, bundles of green khat.
Farole asked, “Will we go ashore?”
Maxammed’s weary, bloodshot eyes narrowed. He had spotted a sight less appetizing than a fat sheep—three clansmen of Home Boy Gutaale, who were beaming covetously at the magnificent Tarantula .
“Maxammed? Can we go ashore?”
“We will see what we will see,” said Maxammed, keeping his options to himself, though in truth he had just vowed to himself never to leave the ship until he got the ransom. No way he would surrender his precious hostages to a relief crew. Neither did he intend to let anyone “borrow” Tarantula to act as a mothership for a pirate run. Not even Home Boy’s clansmen— especially not Home Boy’s clansmen. He would stay aboard until it was over.
In the meantime, he celebrated. He had caught a great ship and landed it. The Chinese and the Americans would hang about for a while, but they had a huge ocean to patrol and many ships to protect. They wouldn’t stay long. The worst was over. He had stood unscathed in a sandstorm of bullets. Suddenly Maxammed felt invincible, as if God had enclosed him in his own hand that nothing could penetrate. He had survived explosions and blood. Nothing could touch him now.
“You fucking coward!”
He was still holding Countess Allegra.
Allegra pushed away from him and knelt by the dead woman’s body. Her eyes were wide open, empty and ugly. Her husband came running. He knelt over her, pressed his white head to her bloody chest and wept as if he would die.
Allegra looked up at Maxammed with an expression of hatred. She searched for words, but all she could say was “coward” again.
Maxammed shrugged. “Dead is dead.
I will die in an instant, she thought. It all will end and I will never even hear the gun that kills me. I will disappear and never hear the shot.
* * *
“K EEP TURNING! ” Maxammed shouted to Farole. “Keep moving!” And they spun like dervishes so that only a madman or cold-blooded murderer would dare take a shot. Maxammed imagined the soldiers in the helicopter watching his every move. He waved his pistol in a wide arc—signaling, Move away! Get away from my ship! —and pressed it back to the woman’s head.
The helicopters hovered, thundering, blowing wind. Then they slowly backed away, pivoted in the air, and raced back to their ship. Only then did Maxammed see the markings on their tail booms. When he did, his knees felt weak.
“Chinese,” he said. Had I but known, he thought. “I might have lost my courage.”
“Americans,” said Farole, pointing at another ship that had drawn within a mile, and how lucky they had been was suddenly so clear that Maxammed felt his stomach nearly give way. The Chinese were the most violent of the navies that patrolled the Indian Ocean, except for the Russians. They would have shot him and the hostages had the Americans not come along. Not that the Chinese feared the Americans. But they would know the Americans were observing and videoing their every move and they feared finding themselves gunning down hostage women on CNN and YouTube.
“God is good,” Maxammed told Farole.
He dragged the woman toward the stairs.
The yacht was close to land. He could distinguish individual buildings in Eyl, the old fish plant and a large half-built house of a clansmen who had been killed before it was finished.
“Hurry up!” he called to Farole. “What’s taking you so long?”
“Mine is dead,” said Farole. “It makes her heavy.”
A bullet had pierced the older woman’s chest. But the methodical Farole had had the presence of mind to hold her head up to pretend she was still alive.
“Well done,” Maxammed said. “It’s all working out. Here come our friends.”
Skiffs were putting out from the beach, packed to the gunnels with fresh men to guard the hostages and finally let them sleep. In one was a sheep they would slaughter to feast. In another, bundles of green khat.
Farole asked, “Will we go ashore?”
Maxammed’s weary, bloodshot eyes narrowed. He had spotted a sight less appetizing than a fat sheep—three clansmen of Home Boy Gutaale, who were beaming covetously at the magnificent Tarantula .
“Maxammed? Can we go ashore?”
“We will see what we will see,” said Maxammed, keeping his options to himself, though in truth he had just vowed to himself never to leave the ship until he got the ransom. No way he would surrender his precious hostages to a relief crew. Neither did he intend to let anyone “borrow” Tarantula to act as a mothership for a pirate run. Not even Home Boy’s clansmen— especially not Home Boy’s clansmen. He would stay aboard until it was over.
In the meantime, he celebrated. He had caught a great ship and landed it. The Chinese and the Americans would hang about for a while, but they had a huge ocean to patrol and many ships to protect. They wouldn’t stay long. The worst was over. He had stood unscathed in a sandstorm of bullets. Suddenly Maxammed felt invincible, as if God had enclosed him in his own hand that nothing could penetrate. He had survived explosions and blood. Nothing could touch him now.
“You fucking coward!”
He was still holding Countess Allegra.
Allegra pushed away from him and knelt by the dead woman’s body. Her eyes were wide open, empty and ugly. Her husband came running. He knelt over her, pressed his white head to her bloody chest and wept as if he would die.
Allegra looked up at Maxammed with an expression of hatred. She searched for words, but all she could say was “coward” again.
Maxammed shrugged. “Dead is dead.
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