interested in ferrying two covert operators into the rebel camp.
“Increase the offer,” Janson ordered.
His negotiator in Luanda did and reported back that they still weren’t interested. “They’re afraid it’s a sting.”
“Offer them the Starstreak missiles.”
When his negotiator called back he sounded anxious. “What’s wrong?” said Janson.
“They turned down the Starstreaks.”
“And?”
“They say they’ll kill me if I ask again.”
“I like these guys,” said Janson.
“What?”
“They’re not greedy. Catch the next plane out of Angola. I’ll deal with it.”
Kruger in Zurich revealed the name of a Lebanese arms dealer, Dr. Hagopian, who supplied Augustus Heinz and Agostinho Kiluanji the weapons they delivered to FFM. Janson was surprised. Business must be tough. Selling contraband to warring Africans, while profitable, was one-shot bottom-feeding. Hagopian had been a key player since the days of arming Saddam Hussein against Iran on behalf of the United States. Maybe Dr. Hagopian was betting that FFM would win and become a sovereign client, where the steady money was. Maybe he needed the dough. Janson recalled a lavish estate on the Mediterranean and a mansion in Paris, elaborate security for both, and an equally costly wife.
His past dealings with Hagopian had left both of them satisfied. Now Janson instructed his eyes and ears in Europe to check Hagopian out, seeking leverage, some new chink in his armor that had not been known before. He, of course, had cultivated excellent contacts among U.S. intelligence, which allowed him to operate relatively openly, and no legitimate regime had him on its arrest list. And yet weapons was a slippery, fast-changing world. Word came back that Hagopian had acquired a chink, a deep one. Of his two sons, one was in the business with him; the other, Illyich, was reported to be a “troublemaker.”
“Troublemaker?” Janson asked. “How does an arms merchant’s son make trouble: join the clergy?”
“No,” answered the humorless Frenchman on the telephone. “The son has fallen in with thieves.”
* * *
JANSON PRIED SOME details out of the Frenchman, then polled a few others in Europe. Then he telephoned a beneficiary of the Phoenix Foundation and told him he needed his help.
All Phoenix “graduates” had telephones fitted with an encryption chip that made conversations with Janson impenetrable to surveillance. Not all beneficiaries knew that Paul Janson was behind the foundation, but Micky Ripster, like Doug Case, was an old friend.
“Why me?”
“I need it done immediately in London and you’re in London.”
“Well, that’s not very flattering, is it? Geography trumps talent.”
“It’s my good fortune you’re on-site. No one else could pull this off.”
“But you forget that you paid me to retire.”
“I am paying for your rehabilitation, not your retirement. Don’t worry; it’s for a good cause.”
“And now you expect my help killing for ‘a good cause’? Isn’t that how we got into trouble in the first place? What’s different about killing for your causes?”
“The difference is that now we play by Janson Rules.”
“Which are?”
“No torture. No civilian casualties. No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill us.”
“No torture?” Micky Ripster repeated. “No civilian casualties? No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill us? Don’t be put off by that strangling noise you hear on the telephone. It is not the encoder chip. It is merely me smothering my laughter.”
“You owe me,” Janson said in a voice suddenly cold. “I’m collecting, now.”
There was a long pause. “So, uh, what Janson gives Janson takes back?”
“What Phoenix grants Phoenix retrieves to pass on to the next guy.”
Ripster sighed. “All right, Paul. Who do you want killed?”
“No one.”
“I thought—”
“It’s not a killing job. It’s a gamesman job and I never met a better gamesman than you. Syrian
“Increase the offer,” Janson ordered.
His negotiator in Luanda did and reported back that they still weren’t interested. “They’re afraid it’s a sting.”
“Offer them the Starstreak missiles.”
When his negotiator called back he sounded anxious. “What’s wrong?” said Janson.
“They turned down the Starstreaks.”
“And?”
“They say they’ll kill me if I ask again.”
“I like these guys,” said Janson.
“What?”
“They’re not greedy. Catch the next plane out of Angola. I’ll deal with it.”
Kruger in Zurich revealed the name of a Lebanese arms dealer, Dr. Hagopian, who supplied Augustus Heinz and Agostinho Kiluanji the weapons they delivered to FFM. Janson was surprised. Business must be tough. Selling contraband to warring Africans, while profitable, was one-shot bottom-feeding. Hagopian had been a key player since the days of arming Saddam Hussein against Iran on behalf of the United States. Maybe Dr. Hagopian was betting that FFM would win and become a sovereign client, where the steady money was. Maybe he needed the dough. Janson recalled a lavish estate on the Mediterranean and a mansion in Paris, elaborate security for both, and an equally costly wife.
His past dealings with Hagopian had left both of them satisfied. Now Janson instructed his eyes and ears in Europe to check Hagopian out, seeking leverage, some new chink in his armor that had not been known before. He, of course, had cultivated excellent contacts among U.S. intelligence, which allowed him to operate relatively openly, and no legitimate regime had him on its arrest list. And yet weapons was a slippery, fast-changing world. Word came back that Hagopian had acquired a chink, a deep one. Of his two sons, one was in the business with him; the other, Illyich, was reported to be a “troublemaker.”
“Troublemaker?” Janson asked. “How does an arms merchant’s son make trouble: join the clergy?”
“No,” answered the humorless Frenchman on the telephone. “The son has fallen in with thieves.”
* * *
JANSON PRIED SOME details out of the Frenchman, then polled a few others in Europe. Then he telephoned a beneficiary of the Phoenix Foundation and told him he needed his help.
All Phoenix “graduates” had telephones fitted with an encryption chip that made conversations with Janson impenetrable to surveillance. Not all beneficiaries knew that Paul Janson was behind the foundation, but Micky Ripster, like Doug Case, was an old friend.
“Why me?”
“I need it done immediately in London and you’re in London.”
“Well, that’s not very flattering, is it? Geography trumps talent.”
“It’s my good fortune you’re on-site. No one else could pull this off.”
“But you forget that you paid me to retire.”
“I am paying for your rehabilitation, not your retirement. Don’t worry; it’s for a good cause.”
“And now you expect my help killing for ‘a good cause’? Isn’t that how we got into trouble in the first place? What’s different about killing for your causes?”
“The difference is that now we play by Janson Rules.”
“Which are?”
“No torture. No civilian casualties. No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill us.”
“No torture?” Micky Ripster repeated. “No civilian casualties? No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill us? Don’t be put off by that strangling noise you hear on the telephone. It is not the encoder chip. It is merely me smothering my laughter.”
“You owe me,” Janson said in a voice suddenly cold. “I’m collecting, now.”
There was a long pause. “So, uh, what Janson gives Janson takes back?”
“What Phoenix grants Phoenix retrieves to pass on to the next guy.”
Ripster sighed. “All right, Paul. Who do you want killed?”
“No one.”
“I thought—”
“It’s not a killing job. It’s a gamesman job and I never met a better gamesman than you. Syrian
Similar Books
