Cousin Saakin was twenty years older and had bulked up with age, but they had in common the quick grin that said the secret of the world was a big joke. When Janson made his offer, Saakin laughed out loud. Then he turned to Ahmed and said, “Your American friend is a funny man.” Ahmed said, “I’ve been giggling all week.” Saakin turned back to Janson, still amused, though his eyes had grown as watchful as a croupier counting bets. “Paul. Do you mean what you said?” A jet on final approach was thundering overhead. Janson signaled to wait for the noise to pass. He had rented offices in an airport warehouse in the name of a shell company, EastAfricaX. Atop a large, locked safe were banded stacks of US dollars. Next to the safe was a pipe clothes rack on which a dozen white uniforms hung. Janson wore a pistol on his hip, mostly to discourage Cousin Saakin from getting any ideas about coming back with friends for the dollars on the safe, and had a ballistic vest, bullpup rifle, auto-load shotgun, and a grenade launcher in easy reach in case al-Shabaab made another pass at the airport.
