The Night Ranger

4

NAIROBI, KENYA

The Airbus 340 set down onto the tarmac and stopped so smoothly that it hardly seemed to have been moving at all. “On behalf of your Virgin Atlantic flight crew, I welcome you to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Local time is 9:30 a.m., three hours ahead of GMT.” Nothing more. As if they’d flown four hundred miles instead of four thousand. English understatement hadn’t entirely disappeared.

The layover at Heathrow had proved a blessing of sorts, giving Wells time to catch up on the kidnappings, the Kenyan response, and the broader refugee crisis. The Kenyan Interior Ministry was blocking Western journalists from Dadaab. Wells wondered whether the government in Nairobi wanted to hide how much it was doing to find the hostages—or how little.

Either way, the police had placed checkpoints around the camps and the roads that led to Dadaab. According to the media reports, the police were detaining any white person who didn’t have permits from national police headquarters and the Kenyan Department of Refugee Affairs. As far as Wells could tell, the lockdown had succeeded. He’d seen no articles written directly from Dadaab.

Years before, Wells might have found a driver willing to hide him and race to Dadaab straight from the airport. But these days he made the police his enemy only if he had no other choice. Especially here, where he had no on-the-ground knowledge and couldn’t blend in. Getting caught at a roadblock and returned to Nairobi for deportation would be anything but heroic. So Wells planned to spend the day persuading government officials to give him the permits he needed. By persuading, he meant bribing.

Wells looked out the jet’s narrow window, shielding his eyes from the equatorial sun. He felt an unexpected anticipation. For all his years living outside the United States, he’d seen little of Africa. The closest he’d come was Cairo, which was two thousand miles north, and more Arab than African. And the simplicity of this mission pleased him. Get them out.

If getting them out meant making a deal . . . Wells would decide when the moment arrived. The United States government claimed it never negotiated with hostage-takers, that payoffs only led to more kidnappings in the future. But Wells wasn’t working for the government. If he felt a ransom was the only way to save the lives of the hostages, he’d probably agree. Even so, he wasn’t planning a payoff. The offer he expected to make went more along the lines of Let them go. Or die.

His diplomatic passport carried him quickly through immigration. He slipped on his Ray-Bans and stepped outside the terminal to find a sunny day, cooler and more pleasant than he’d expected. Nairobi was about a mile above sea level, a fact that had proved crucial to its fortunes. The city hadn’t even existed before the late 1800s, when the British settled it as a depot for the railroad they were building from the Indian Ocean to Uganda. Its mild weather and lack of malaria-carrying mosquitoes appealed to Europeans and local tribesmen alike. Now Nairobi had four million residents and was the most important city in East Africa. But its deep poverty had made it one of the most violent and dangerous cities anywhere. Expatriates called it Nai-robbery.

Still, the taxi line belied the city’s fierce reputation. Cabs queued neatly at the curb. Wells slid into the front seat of the first. The driver was a skinny man who wore fingerless leather racing gloves, as if he were driving a Ferrari and not a gray four-cylinder Toyota.

“Where may I take you?” Because of the British occupation, Kenya’s public schools taught English. Nearly everyone in the country spoke some. A break for Wells.

“Anywhere I can buy a local cell.” Wells didn’t think the agency had a problem with him being here. But if Duto or someone else at Langley decided otherwise, Wells wanted the option of disappearing. Prepaid local phones were tougher for NSA to track than American numbers. Though not impossible, as more than one al-Qaeda operative had realized too late.

“A cell?”

Wells had forgotten. Only Americans called them cells. “A mobile phone. Then downtown.”

“To your hotel?”

“The Intercontinental,” Wells said, picking a name at random. “Let’s go.”

“Very good. Be sure to look to your left in a minute, sir. The giraffes are visiting.”

So even before the Toyota left the airport grounds, Wells saw his first African wildlife, a herd of giraffes munching contentedly on the open plains to the west. If he hadn’t known better, he would have wondered if they were animatronic props for tourists: Welcome to Kenya. Have you booked your safari?

“How can they live so close to the city?”

“We have a national park that extends almost to the airport.”

As Wells watched, one of the giraffes loped away. Its first steps were uncertain, but stride by stride it gained speed until it galloped over the plain. The others followed. Wells wondered if the animals had sensed a threat or were taking flight preemptively.

Fifteen minutes later, Wells was the proud owner of two new handsets. Basic models with inch-square screens and twelve-button keypads. Nothing fancy, nothing with a GPS locator for the boys at Fort Meade to trace. Plus four different SIM cards, two each from Safaricom and Airtel, the main Kenyan carriers. The driver glanced at Wells as he clicked cards into handsets. “You collect phones?”

“What’s your name?” Wells liked the guy. The gloves hadn’t lied. He drove with an edge.

“Martin.”

“How much to hire you for the day, Martin?”

“Ten thousand shillings, sir. Plus petrol.” About $120, in a country where most people lived on a few dollars a day. Martin sounded like he couldn’t believe he was asking for it.

“Okay, ten thousand, good. Long as you drive fast. Get me where I’m going.”

“I can do that, sir. Thank you.”

“And call me John.”

“Of course—”

But Wells was already making his first call. Before he went anywhere, he needed a fixer.

“New York Times,” a woman said. “Nairobi bureau.”

“Jeffrey Gettleman, please.” Gettleman was the bureau chief. Wells had never met him, but he’d seen the byline for years.

“Who’s this?”

“I have information about the aid workers, the kidnappings.”

“He’s not in. I can have him call you.”

“Trust me, he’ll want it now. If you can give me his mobile.”

A pause, then the numbers. Wells dialed.

“This is Jeffrey.”

“Mr. Gettleman. You don’t know me, but my name’s John Wells.” Wells had thought about using a fake name but decided not to start with a lie. He might need Gettleman later. “I just landed in Nairobi and I’m reaching out because I’ve been hired to investigate the kidnapping.”

“Hired by whom?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“That was quick.”

“A small one. I need a fixer.”

“You called me for a recommendation, Mr. Wells? Like I’m Zagat’s?”

“Good enough for The New York Times, good enough for me. You help me, I promise I won’t forget.”

“Tell me who hired you, I’ll hook you up with the best guy in town. He’s connected everywhere. Smart. He can give you all the background you need on the camps. And the political situation, which is complicated.”

“Nothing free with you guys. Always trading.”

“You called me.”

Wells couldn’t argue the point. “You can’t use this, not yet, but Gwen Murphy’s family brought me in.”

“From the U.S.?”

“Yes.”

“Have they gotten a ransom demand?”

“No. The fixer, please.”

“His name’s Wilfred Wumbugu. I’ll text you his number. Will I see you at the press conference tonight?”

“Anything’s possible.” Wells hung up, thinking, Press conference?

—

But first the permits. He called Wilfred, explained what he needed.

“It’s not possible. Since the kidnapping, there’s no access. Essential aid workers with existing permits only. No exceptions.”

“I’ll pay. Whatever it costs.”

“We talk in person. At Simmers. Thirty minutes.”

“Simmers.”

“Your driver will know.”

They were closing—slowly—on downtown Nairobi. To the northwest, office towers marked the central business district. Kenya remained desperately poor, but after decades of stagnation, its economy was reviving. New apartment buildings and office parks rose along the highway. Billboards advertised low-fare airlines connecting Nairobi with the rest of East Africa. And the traffic was horrendous, as the new middle class jammed dilapidated roads. Despite his frustration, Wells almost had to smile. Back in Montana, Evan probably imagined him with pistol in hand, cracking skulls. Instead he was stuck in traffic on his way to get a permit. The thrilling life of the secret operative.

Though Wells didn’t doubt the skull-cracking would come.

—

Simmers was a restaurant and dance hall under a big tent in the midst of the office towers, smoky, almost shabby, with plastic chairs and tables and a barbecue grill. A cantina, really. Wells liked it immediately. A man at a corner table caught Wells’s eye, waved him over.

“I’m Wilfred.” He was a slim man in a crisp white shirt and wire-rimmed glasses. Back home Wells would have pegged him as a Web designer.

“How’d you guess it was me?” Wells was the only white person in the place.

Wilfred waved over a waiter. “You want something?”

“A Coke.”

“Not a Tusker? The national beer.”

“I try not to drink before noon.”

“In here, time doesn’t matter. Simmers never closes. Open twenty-four hours. We call them day-and-night clubs.”

“Coke.”

“Two Cokes,” Wilfred said to the waiter. “Now tell me again what you want.”

Wells did.

“You understand, these camps, all of eastern Kenya, it’s dangerous now. Because of Shabaab. You know about them?”

“Yes.” Al-Shabaab was a radical Muslim group that controlled much of Somalia and enforced strict sharia law in its territory. Women wore burqas. Thieves faced amputation. But the group also had a criminal side, smuggling sugar into Kenya and protecting the pirates who kidnapped sailors off the coast. The United States and United Nations had tried to destroy Shabaab for years. Lately they’d made progress. United Nations peacekeepers had pushed Shabaab’s guerrillas out of Mogadishu, the Somali capital. And Kenya had briefly sent troops into Somalia from the west. Still, Shabaab remained a threat. The Kenyan government had publicly announced that the group was the prime suspect in the kidnapping.

“But doesn’t the government or the UN try to screen Shabaab out of the refugee camps?”

“Wait until you see them. A half-million people. Almost ten percent of the population of Somalia. And you think they tell the truth about who they are? Oh, yes, I’m Shabaab, I shot three peacekeepers. They know the story to tell to get in. The UN doesn’t even try to screen them anymore.”

“Everyone gets in?”

“They call the policy prima facie. You’re Somali, you get across the border, you’re an automatic refugee. In the United States you would call them illegal aliens. But here CNN runs pictures of starving babies, so they’re refugees. If you’re a Kenyan living in Kenya you don’t get free food and shelter, but if you’re a Somali you do.”

Wells saw what Gettleman meant about the complexity of the political situation. He hadn’t considered how the Kenyans viewed the refugees. “Would that anger extend to the aid workers? Could a Kenyan gang have kidnapped them?”

“Possible. It wouldn’t be political. Just for money. But I don’t know how they would get paid without getting caught. In Somalia it’s much easier. There’s a whole setup.”

“So you think it’s Shabaab.”

“That’s the most likely. And the police say so. Though in Kenya the police say lots of things.”

“Why I need to go up there myself. Today.”

“You can’t hide up there, mzungu”—the not-entirely-friendly Swahili term for a white person. “Everyone will know you’re American.”

“I’m not so sure,” Wells said in Arabic.

“Arabic?”

“Get me the permits or I’ll find a fixer who can,” Wells said, still in Arabic.

Wilfred looked at Wells’s coiled hands and broad shoulders. For the first time he seemed to understand who Wells was, what Wells was. “You have money? Not one, two hundred dollars. Real money.”

Wells handed Wilfred a packet of hundreds from his backpack. “This enough to start?”

Wilfred riffed the bills. “Castle House first. If the Department of Refugee Affairs approves you, the police will follow. By the way, my rate is two hundred fifty a day in Nairobi. Whether I get these permits or not. If I go to Dadaab, five hundred.”

Wells felt he had to protest, if only to prove he wasn’t a total sucker. “Gettleman said your rate was a hundred.”

“Gettleman didn’t see how much money you have.”

—

The refugee department was headquartered west of downtown. Martin slalomed through traffic on a broad avenue shaded by oak trees, then swung onto a rutted road hemmed by concrete-walled houses. The neighborhood’s wealth reminded Wells of the fancier precincts of Los Angeles. The homes here had similar private guards, security cameras, and signs promising armed response. “There’s money here.”

“You want poor people?” Wilfred said. “We’ll take you to Kibera. Over the hills just southeast. A few square kilometers, maybe a million people, no one really knows. No running water, no open space, no legal electricity. Shacks and shacks and shacks. After the elections in 2007, the politicians stirred them up and they rioted. Tribal warfare, the Kikuyu against everyone else. Five hundred died, maybe one thousand. The police waited for them to fight themselves out. Like animals.”

“Nice.”

“Don’t let what you’re seeing here fool you. This country, a few hundred thousand live well. Two, three million more have a decent job. Teachers, truck drivers. Everyone else feels hungry just looking at the price of sugar. You want to see, I promise you’ll see. Now let me talk to the DRA so we can get this piece of paper.” Wilfred reached for his phone.

Four calls later, he was shaking his head. “Everyone says the same. It’s impossible.”

“Wilfred Wumbugu, the great fixer. Fine. I’ll go without a permit.”

“I have one other contact. But I don’t trust her, she’s strange.”

Wells lifted his hands: What are you waiting for? Wilfred dialed, spoke for a bit. “She’ll see us.” Five minutes later, they stopped at a brick-walled compound protected by a guardhouse. Behind it was what looked like a fieldstone manor, straight out of the English countryside, with turrets and recessed windows. Beside the main entrance, a sign proclaimed “Castle House, Department of Refugee Affairs, Ministry for Immigration and Registration of Persons—Renovated in 2009 by the Government of Kenya with funding from the United Nations.” “They never let us forget where the money comes from,” Wilfred said.

The building’s interior was disappointingly conventional, concrete floors and white-painted walls. Wilfred led Wells down a corridor lined with posters from the International Organization for Migration and knocked on an unmarked door. “Come,” a woman said. Inside, a comfortable office. Satellite photographs of refugee camps hung from the walls. A heavyset forty-something woman sat at her desk, typing an email. Behind her a window looked out on a lushly planted garden.

“Wilfred. Jambo.” One of the few Swahili words that Wells knew. Literally, it meant “Problems?” but was used in the sense of “Hey, how are you?”

“Sijambo.” The usual response, meaning “No problems.”

She finished typing, gave Wells a broad smile. “And you? Jambo?”

“Sijambo. I’m John. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Christina. Please, sit.” Wells waited on the couch as Wilfred and Christina had a heated conversation. Wells hadn’t felt so linguistically helpless in years. He hated needing translators, treasured his hard-earned proficiency in Arabic and Pashtun. Knowing those languages had saved his life more than once. Unfortunately, Swahili wasn’t all that common in the North-West Frontier.

Finally, Christina took Wilfred’s arm and pointed at the door.

“How much does she want?” Wells said.

“She didn’t name a price. She says she wants to help you, she likes you, but—”

“Go,” Christina said to Wilfred in English.

“I’ll be outside.” Wilfred left.

Christina came over, sat beside Wells. She had dark skin and wore a long green dress that clung to her breasts and hips. She was big all around. Pretty. “So you want to visit our refugees. Most tourists prefer a safari.”

“I’m looking for the aid workers.”

“Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”

“I barely know how to read.”

She grinned, touched his cheek with a long purple fingernail. “What are you, then? A soldier?”

“Used to be.”

“And now?”

“You’ve seen guys like me before. We’re all over the place.”

“Not exactly like you, mzungu.”

He couldn’t tell if she was serious or playing, hoping to annoy him. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Your eyes are dying.”

No wonder Wilfred had said she was strange. “Now that’s definitely an insult.”

“What about me?” She leaned toward Wells.

He looked at her, really looked. “Your eyes aren’t dying.” It was true. They were big and black and glimmered with life.

Outside the windows, a cat meowed. “That’s Njenga.”

“What are her eyes like?”

“Are you joking, mzungu?”

Wells reminded himself that this woman, strange or not, was probably his last chance to get to Dadaab legitimately. “Do you like working with the refugees?”

“I’ve never been to Dadaab and I hope I never go. Tell me, why do you care so much about these aid workers?”

“My son knows them. Asked me to help find them.”

“And you came all the way from the United States. For them or your son?”

“Both.”

“You must be a very good father.”

She rested a warm hand on his arm and squeezed. Like she was a movie producer and Wells an aspiring actress. There’s some nude scenes in this film. Just need to know you’re okay with that. Mind taking off your top?

Fine. He’d play. He put his hand on top of hers. “I’m a terrible father. I missed my son’s whole life.”

“Are you a terrible husband, too?”

“I’m not married. But I have a girlfriend back home. Named Anne.”

“I don’t want to hear about her.” She touched his chin, turned him toward her, leaned in. Her breast touched his arm. Her skin smelled sweet and buttery. Despite the insanity of the moment, he felt himself stir. “Your eyes.”

“What about them?”

“They’re coming back to life.”

Wells didn’t say a word. The permit was the prize.

“Dadaab is a waste. They might be anywhere. Mogadishu. Even here. What will you do that the police or the Army can’t?”

“Only one way to find out.”

She put her lips to his. She tasted of milk and tea, and her skin was so smooth and supple that it was almost oily. She cupped his hands around her face, pulled him close. He closed his eyes and didn’t fight. It’s for the permit. For the mission. But she kept kissing him until lightning struck. He opened his mouth to her and his excuses melted. He wrapped her close and ran his hands through her finely curled hair until finally she broke off, pulled away, leaned back against the couch.

She grinned at him. “I’ve never kissed a mzungu before.”

The noise in his head resolved into Bruce Springsteen: Everybody’s wrecked on Main Street from drinking that holy blood . . . The song was called “Lost in the Flood.” It was nearly as old as he was. He hadn’t thought of it in years.

“I’ve never kissed an African.”

“Is it different?”

“Different and the same.”

“I’m glad.” She put a hand on his leg, smoothed her fingers toward his crotch, leaned over. He wondered how far she would push him, how far he would go. Then she pulled away, stood, smoothed her dress.

“You can have your permit. I’ll say you’re a doctor going to the camps. That should work.”

“Thank you.”

“Also, I need three thousand dollars.”

His face must have betrayed his surprise.

“You think I’m joking? Because you’re pretty? Anyway, three thousand is cheap.”

“If you say so.” Now Wells really felt like a starlet, toyed with and tossed. She’d proved to both of them that she could have her way with him and then proved that she didn’t care.

Outside, a knock. “Everything all right?” Wilfred said.

“We have a deal,” Christina said.

—

“What happened?” Wilfred said as they drove back downtown.

“She’s strange. Like you said.”

“You know, Kenyans, we believe in wizardry. That the spirit world has power here and certain sorcerers can reach it.”

Did Wilfred really believe Christina was a witch? Wells didn’t want to know. “Any woman can be a sorceress if she wants to be.”

“So what happened? Truly.”

Wells ignored the question. His lips still burned with her. He wanted to remember every detail and at the same time forget. Aroused and ashamed. But soon enough only the shame would remain. How could he respect Anne so little? He loved her, cared for her, but in their three years together she’d never jolted him this way. Only Jennifer Exley, his ex-fiancée. But he’d lost Exley long ago and she wasn’t coming back.

Fine. Forget Exley. Forget them all. Forget everything but the mission.

He’d done it before.

“What’s next?”

“Now we have this permit, you don’t have to come to the police.”

“You can get it without me?”

“Yes. Go to your hotel. Take a nap.” Wilfred grinned. “You look tired.”

Wells chose to ignore this little dig. “And we leave tomorrow morning.”

“Early as you like. The drive is maybe five hours.”

“All right.” Then Wells remembered. “Do you know anything about a press conference today? About the kidnapping?”

“Yes. The Hilton. Eight p.m.” Wilfred’s accent gave the word a pleasant sound, Hill-ton.

“The police are having a news conference at a hotel?”

“Not the police. James Thompson.”

“The man who runs the WorldCares charity.”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t he in Dadaab?”

“He came to Nairobi this morning to speak to the police, the Interior Ministry. That’s what the newspapers said.”

“Has he said what he’ll be talking about? Progress on the investigation, anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

Wells leaned forward. “Martin, forget the Intercontinental. I’ll stay at the Hilton.”

—

The Hilton was a twenty-story-tall cylinder in southeastern downtown, near Moi Avenue and the busy River Road neighborhood. Until 1998, the American embassy had been located nearby. Then al-Qaeda blew up the embassy, killing 258 people, mostly Kenyans, the first major attack in the terrorist campaign that culminated in September 11. A memorial garden now occupied the embassy’s site. The new embassy was miles to the north, in a rich neighborhood called Gigiri that was also home to the presidential palace. Wells imagined the place was a fortress. He wondered if he’d see it this trip.

The Hilton had security, too. A metal gate blocked the driveway. Everyone entering the lobby passed through a metal detector. But Kenyan culture was naturally friendly. The checks felt halfhearted, nothing that would stop a determined bomber. Despite setting off the detector, Wells was waved through. Inside, the Hilton looked like Hiltons everywhere, bright and clean and friendly-efficient, the front desk attendants wearing bright red jackets. In five minutes, Wells had a room.

Upstairs he set a wake-up call for 7:30 p.m. He found the pocket-sized Quran he’d tucked into his backpack and lowered his head to the faded blue carpet. The midday prayer had ended hours before and the sunset call was still hours away, so he prayed free-form: Help me, Allah. Help me to be a better person. Give me the peace that only you can grant . . . Really, the prayer could have been the same to any God. But not the language. The language was Arabic, and Arabic took Wells back to the North-West Frontier, his purest years. He had lived in those mountains without the consolations of the flesh, without a warm house or a soft bed. And certainly without women. He had lived without killing, too. He had lived almost as a monk. Gaunt as that life had been, he missed it for its very emptiness. But he’d left the mountains behind. They were closed to him now. He had chosen the world and all its complications. He had chosen this mission. So he prayed for the strength and insight to find the kidnapped. Then he pulled the shades and slept.

—

The press conference was on the Hilton’s mezzanine floor, in the Simba Room. Wells expected a reporter or two, maybe a guy with a digital video camera uploading to YouTube. But when he arrived at 7:45, a half-dozen camera crews were in place. He had known this was a big story, but he hadn’t realized just how big. He understood now why Thompson was holding the conference so late in the day. Eight p.m. in Nairobi was noon in New York. From what Wells could see, CNN and Fox were setting up to carry it live.

Precisely on time, James Thompson walked to the lectern. He wore khaki pants and a plain white long-sleeved shirt and held a notepad. His face was lined and tired, like he hadn’t slept much in the last week. “Is everybody ready? I have a short statement and then I’ll take questions.”

“Can you wait a few seconds, Mr. Thompson?” the Fox reporter said. “We’re still in break back home.”

“Say when.”

The Fox reporter held up three fingers, two, one, then a big thumbs-up.

“Hello, everyone. My name is James Thompson and I’m the chief executive of WorldCares/ChildrenFirst. I’m speaking to you from Nairobi, Kenya. I know there’s tremendous concern around the world for our kidnapped volunteers and the driver who was taken with them. I thank you for your thoughts and prayers. We’ve had so many questions, I’d like to fill everyone in on what’s happening. Then I have a message for the kidnappers themselves. I’ll finish by taking questions from the reporters here.” He spoke slowly, as if the pressure of the worldwide audience had finally hit him.

“As many of you know, Hailey Barnes, Owen Broder, Gwen Murphy, and my nephew Scott Thompson disappeared one week ago. My staff and I are working with Kenyan authorities to bring them home. I regret to tell you that we still have no specific information on their location. As has been publicly reported, several days ago Kenyan police recovered the vehicle they were driving when they were taken. Police are interviewing villagers in that area. I’ll leave it to them to update you on what they’ve found. I can only tell you that we have not received credible ransom demands or proof of life.” On the last three words, Thompson’s voice broke. He looked down, then squared his shoulders and faced the camera.

“While we wait for these kidnappers to come forward, thousands of you have already reached out to WorldCares/ChildrenFirst to ask how to help. You have our thanks. I hope that you’ll take a few minutes to learn about the refugee crisis in Somalia. Hundreds of thousands of people in the region face grave dangers every day. Thousands of aid workers are trying to help them. That’s why Gwen, Hailey, Owen, and Scott came here.”

Thompson rested his hands on the lectern. “Now. I speak directly to the kidnappers. I beg you, please return these young men and women. I’m sure your lives have been more difficult than most people viewing this right now can imagine. But I ask you not to hurt these blameless volunteers. They came here with only one mission—helping the people in Dadaab. Set them free for their families. And for your own hearts.”

Thompson was wiping tears from his eyes now. Wells didn’t doubt that millions of people around the world were doing the same. Thompson coughed, wiped his mouth. “Thank you for listening,” he finally said. “I’ll take whatever questions you have.”

The hands went up.

“Yes?”

“Erin Dudley from CNN. I know this is difficult, and we all appreciate your taking the time to talk to us. Can you fill us in on exactly how the United States government is helping the search?”

“They’ve asked me not to be too specific, but I’m sure you know that the United States Navy has a major presence off Somalia. I spoke to Ambassador Whalley today and he assured me that the United States stands ready to assist local authorities if called on.”

“By assistance, do you mean surveillance? A military operation? Both? And could that take place in Somalia?”

“That’s a question for the ambassador, not for me.”

“Are any United States agencies involved in the search? Like the CIA or NSA?”

“I don’t mean to be unhelpful, but again, that question should go to them. I can say that the FBI routinely consults on the kidnapping of Americans in foreign countries.”

“John Sambuti from Fox. Is WorldCares prepared to pay for the safe return of the volunteers?”

Thompson paused. “Ransom is sometimes paid in these cases. But as I mentioned, we haven’t received a credible ransom demand, so considering that option is premature.”

“Are you worried that all this attention may drive up the ransom price?”

“That’s a good question. I hope not.”

“One more, sir. Is there any evidence that the Somali Muslim terrorist group al-Shabaab is involved in this kidnapping? We know they’ve kidnapped Westerners before.”

“I’m sure you know that the Kenyan police have named the Shabaab group the most likely suspect. They haven’t shared specific evidence with me.”

“Have they with the U.S. government?”

“I don’t have the answer to that. But this is a very good moment for me to remind everyone that WorldCares/ChildrenFirst does not proselytize. Need crosses all faiths, and so do we. We help every child we can and we never ask about religion. Never. And we welcome volunteers of all religions, including Islam, of course.”

In other words: Dear Shabaab, if you do have them, please don’t cut off their heads to make a point.

“One more,” Thompson said. A boyish-looking guy with long hair raised his hand.

“Jeffrey Gettleman, New York Times. Sir, since the kidnapping, the Kenyan government has restricted access to Dadaab, saying that the camps are too dangerous except for essential aid workers. Even journalists are barred. These volunteers had no experience in a high-risk zone. Do you think your organization bears responsibility for what’s happened?”

Trust the Times guy to play hardball. Thompson’s jaw tightened. “If you’ve been to Dadaab, you know the camps are very large. Some areas are safer than others. We operate in relatively safe zones, and we have our own security officers watching our compound. So far there’s no evidence that anyone from the camps was involved.”

“But especially as you get closer to Somalia—”

“I hope everyone will remember my nephew Scott is one of the kidnapped. I would never have let him travel to Lamu if I thought he was at risk. I hope that answers your question, sir.” Sir, meaning asshole. “Thank you all for listening. Please pray for our brave volunteers.”

As Thompson stepped away from the podium, reporters surrounded him. “I hate to put you off, but I have to talk to the police. If you have questions later, I’m in room 1401.”

—

Four hours later, just past midnight, Wells rapped on the door of Thompson’s room.

“Hello?” Thompson sounded exhausted. Good.

“My name’s John Wells. We need to talk.”

Heavy steps, then the door opened a fraction, the panic bar still in place. Thompson peered out. His face was blotchy and red. He wore boxers, nothing else. His chest was weirdly hairless, as if he waxed. He rubbed his eyes, tried to muster a smile. “Can we do this tomorrow or do you have a deadline back home to meet?”

“I’m not a reporter. I work for Gwen Murphy’s family.”

“I don’t understand.”

Wells handed over the email from Brandon Murphy.

“This doesn’t look very official.”

“The Murphys will be glad to confirm it.”

“You’re a private investigator? They’re paying you?” With a slight emphasis on “paying.”

“Let me in and I’ll explain.”

“In the morning.”

“Now. Just pretend I’m a reporter. There’s plenty around.”

Thompson seemed to understand the implied threat that Wells might complain publicly if Thompson refused. “Let me dress.” He shut the door. When it reopened, Thompson was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of khakis. Good. The day had been too long. Wells couldn’t face that hairless chest.

Room 1401 turned out to be a suite, with a view southwest over the Kenyan parliament. The remains of a steak sat on a room-service tray, and an empty bottle of wine sat on the fridge. Wells found the room’s luxury mildly irritating. He supposed that Thompson needed the space to meet reporters. He needed to eat, too. Didn’t mean he was a bad guy. Thompson gestured at an overstuffed chair and Wells sat.

“You asked if the Murphys are paying me,” Wells said. “The answer’s no. My son knows them. They asked me to come, so I came. I used to work for the CIA, but I’m retired now.” The abridged version of Wells’s career.

“Have you worked in Africa before, Mr. Wells? You speak Swahili?”

“I’ve worked a lot of places.”

“I guess that means no. So you don’t speak the language, you have no experience here. What are you planning to do besides come to press conferences? Like that jerk from the Times said, Dadaab’s shut.”

“I have permits.”

Thompson wrinkled his nose like he’d just smelled something unpleasant. Like he’d realized for the first time that Wells might be hard to shake. “Then you’ll be in the way there instead of here.”

Wells stood, looked out the window. Even at this hour, the downtown streets had plenty of traffic. “It’s late. We’re both tired. Let’s try this again. Gwen’s family wants my help. Whoever you’re dealing with at the embassy, I guarantee you they’ll know my name. Let’s have a civil conversation about what happened up there, what you know. Maybe I can help.”

Thompson tented his hands. “A civil conversation. Where do we start?”

Wells sat back down, pulled a pad from his jacket. “At the beginning. What was WorldCares doing at Daadab? How’d you get involved?”

“We came in late. To be honest, we’re not what you’d call a top-rank aid organization. Catholic Relief Services, CARE, those groups have been around a while, they have tremendous infrastructure. They were in Dadaab early. But they got stretched because the camps grew so much. They put out the call in the aid community, asked for help. Several groups stepped up, including us. We took over some food distribution at Haragesa, that’s one of the older camps, so CARE could push forward. After we got settled, we started on our specialty, services for children, broadly defined. Clothes, vaccines, vitamins, books, high-calorie food, whatever we can source and bring in for preteen kids.”

“Teaching?”

“That’s under local control. We give English lessons where we can, on the theory that knowing English is never bad. But we don’t promise it. Too expensive.”

“And how big is WorldCares?”

“About nine hundred employees.”

“Big.”

“It sounds more impressive than it is. That’s mostly local nationals in the countries where we work, Kenya, Haiti, the Philippines, a few other places. In terms of Americans, Westerners, about seventy. Mostly back home in Houston. Usually we have no more than two to five Westerners living in the countries where we operate. They’re too expensive. A foreign employee in Kenya costs one hundred fifty to three hundred thousand dollars a year.”

“Three hundred thousand? For an aid worker?”

“That includes housing allowances, six to eight weeks of vacation. These are tough jobs. People need a break. Insurance, medical and life. It adds up. The locals are a lot cheaper. Plus the United Nations encourages aid groups to hire locally.”

“Build expertise.”

“Correct.” A phone buzzed in Thompson’s pocket. He pulled it out, looked at it. “The Associated Press.” He stuffed it away. “They can wait. You were saying?”

“So why bring over these volunteers?”

“‘Volunteers’ being the magic word. The cost to us was close to zero. And when my nephew proposed it, I initially thought they’d be around six weeks or so. Not three months–plus.”

“They get along with the full-time workers?”

“As far as I know, John. Look, you’ve seen the pictures. Who wouldn’t want Gwen and Hailey around? Gwen tutored English, Hailey worked at the hospital, Owen and Scott helped with manual labor. All in all, I’d say they did a decent job. Better than I would have predicted.”

“When did they decide to go to Lamu?”

“Maybe two weeks ago. Scott’s idea.”

“Any particular reason? They could have gone on safari or climbed Kilimanjaro or come to Nairobi for the weekend. Why Lamu?”

“I didn’t ask, but I think Lamu has a certain cachet among aid workers, backpacker types. One of those places that only the cool people know about.”

Odd that Thompson didn’t put himself in the category of aid worker, Wells thought. But then, he was more of an executive, right down to his use of Wells’s first name in the conversation. Always use the other person’s name; it establishes a bond. Every management seminar on earth taught the trick.

“Ever been to Lamu yourself, James?”

“Truth is I haven’t spent all that long in Kenya. I came just about five weeks ago. I’d heard that the situation was getting tougher and I wanted to see for myself. In fact, I was supposed to leave this week, be in Haiti right now.”

“Before that, when was the last time you were here?”

“Maybe a year ago. I split my time between Houston and the country ops.”

“So who’s in charge on a day-to-day basis?”

“Her name’s Moss Laughton. Irish. Her title is director of logistics.”

“And she’s up there now?”

“Better be.”

“Okay. So this trip to Lamu, you didn’t mind.”

“My understanding before this happened was that parts of the camps were troubled, but eastern Kenya was mostly safe. Al-Shabaab has a few thousand men at most, and they’ve lost ground. They’re in Dadaab because they’re getting squeezed.”

“But haven’t there been kidnappings in Lamu?”

“That was before the Kenyans went into Somalia. Since then, no. The locals there know that tourists pay the bills.” Thompson leaned forward, put his meaty hands on his knees, locked eyes with Wells. “John, I swear to you, I told Gettleman the truth. If I thought my nephew was in danger, I wouldn’t have let him go.”

He spoke with conviction. Whatever the truth, Wells didn’t doubt he’d pass a poly. “Tell me about the driver. Suggs, right? He hasn’t come up much. Are you keeping his name out of it on purpose? Could he have been involved?”

“Possibly, yes. We called him Suggs, but his real name was Kwasi. He was our best fixer and he’d worked for us since almost our first day here. We paid him one hundred twenty thousand shillings a month. Close to fifteen hundred dollars. The most by far of our Kenyan employees.”

“But much less than the mzungus. He ever get upset about that?”

“Just FYI, John, the plural of ‘mzungu’ isn’t ‘mzungus.’ It’s ‘wazungu.’” Letting Wells know exactly how much he didn’t know. “And no, he never got upset. Local nationals know the score. As a rule, they’re happy to have these jobs.”

Wells wasn’t so sure. “He have a family?”

“Married, two kids.”

“They live in Dadaab.”

“No. Nairobi, I’m not sure where. Suggs was Kenyan, not Somali. But he’d worked the camps long enough that he was connected inside.”

“You met his wife?”

“Not yet. I should.”

“And you’ve talked to the other fixers and Suggs’s contacts in the camps?”

“Moss and our security guys have talked to everyone who works for us. Nobody will admit to knowing anything. As for the camps, that’s harder. Our security guys don’t have any authority. It’s up to the police.”

“And have the police had those interviews?”

“If they have they haven’t told me.”

“Doesn’t that bug you? They’ve been quick to put this on Shabaab.”

“It disturbs me. It doesn’t necessarily surprise me. Kenya’s deeply corrupt and the police are what you’d expect. If not worse.”

“They’re not Sherlock Holmes.”

“They’re not even the Pink Panther.”

“Okay, going back to the trip, your nephew specifically asked for Suggs to drive.”

“That’s right. A few days before.”

“Did Scott say whether he’d suggested the trip to Suggs or the other way around?”

“It wasn’t clear. I think he phrased it like, ‘We want to go to Lamu next week. Suggs says he’ll drive if that’s cool with you.’ That’s how Scott talks. I said fine.”

“Let me just detour for a second. Gwen and Hailey. They ever complain about problems with men in the camp, harassment, anything like that?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Okay. So, in the days leading up to the trip, anything unusual happen?”

“Not that I can think of. My publisher back home had sent me the final proofs for my book. I was spending time on those. And Paula, this reporter from Houston, was coming to visit, so I wanted to make sure everything was ready.”

Wells barely stopped himself from saying something like: Sounds like you were very involved in feeding hungry kids.

“I can guess what you’re thinking,” Thompson said. “But the Chronicle story was going to be important for fund-raising, and fund-raising matters. There’s a lot of good causes in the world. We don’t get our share of donations, we can’t do the work we want. I was happy to have Paula come, see our work. Naturally this was before the kidnapping. She set up the trip a couple months ago.”

Wells wondered if Thompson had come to Kenya to be here when the reporter showed up. A hands-on chief executive instead of a guy calling the shots two continents away. But so what? Up close Thompson came off as slicker than Wells would have liked, but the truth was that WorldCares was a business, with employees all over the world.

“Okay, the big day comes, they pile in the Land Cruiser, head out. You say good-bye?”

“No.”

“You didn’t say good-bye to your own nephew?”

For the first time, Thompson seemed slightly defensive. “I thought he’d be back by the end of the week.”

“Then what happened?”

Thompson went to the window, looked out into the Kenyan night. “They vanished. Into thin air, that’s the cliché, right? And true in this case. No emergency calls, emails, nothing. Scott told me that they were planning to go north to Dadaab, then west to Garissa and down, but I guess the Kenyan police had blocked the road north that morning, so they went south instead.”

“Was that typical, the roadblock?”

“Moss could tell you better, but I think so. Maybe once, twice a month. But the roadblocks don’t usually last long. Anyway, I don’t know why Suggs didn’t wait, but instead he decided to take this one-lane dirt track that goes maybe a hundred miles south and eventually hits another little track that runs east-west. If they’d taken that second road west, they would have linked up eventually with the main road to Mokowe. But they never got there. The police found the Cruiser on the first road, about ninety miles south of Dadaab.”

“In an abandoned village.”

“Not exactly. When you get there, you’ll see. Eastern Kenya is mostly scrubland and watering holes. The settlements are a few houses each, extended families. The photos show a single hut nearby. Crumbling. Maybe somebody started to dig for water there and thought they had something and then it dried up.”

“Any reason they would have been taken there?”

“From what the cops showed me, the road turns in a way that makes it easy to block.”

“And the car was just left there?”

“Taken off the road, next to the hut. The police found it when they drove down the next day.”

“Is there phone service down there?”

“I think so. From what I’ve seen, even the most desolate parts of the scrub have at least some service.”

“Did you know where they were staying?”

“They were planning to pick a hotel after they reached the island. So, that afternoon, I was talking to the reporter and then, I’ll never forget, Jasper—our security guy—he came in, said he had to tell me something. Since then I just keep waiting for them to show up, like if I take a cold shower or chew off my tongue or something, they’ll walk right in.”

Again, the answer felt canned to Wells. Thompson didn’t strike him as the type to fade into this-must-be-a-dream wish fulfillment. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late and I have just a few more questions. Have you talked to my old friends from Langley?”

“At the embassy, after I was done talking to the State guys, a man who said his name was Gerald came in. He didn’t give me a card, just a phone number. I felt he was more or less telling me where he worked without saying it. He asked for numbers and email addresses for the volunteers and Suggs, too. He gave me an email address, told me to forward any ransom demands. Even if they didn’t seem real. He said they checked the satellites, too, but they didn’t have anything in the area that afternoon.”

“Too bad. That would be the easiest way to track them. He get back to you?”

“Not yet. Which kind of upsets me.”

“It sounds like they’re running databases. They may not be able to do much more. I wouldn’t count on them having too many sources inside Shabaab, and if it’s a smaller group it’s even less likely. One last thing. Tell me about the ransom demands.”

“All junk. Someone emails from a Kenyan email account asking for a million dollars to an account in Dubai. I ask for proof, I get a Photoshopped picture from the paper.”

Wells took a final look around the suite. Two laptops sat on the coffee table beside a black leather wallet. A map of Kenya lay on the bedside table, along with two phones, a Samsung touchscreen and a cheap local handset like the ones Wells had bought.

Then Wells realized. An international phone . . . a local handset . . . and at least one more mobile, the one in Thompson’s pocket. Three phones, if not more. Wells carried multiple handsets so he’d be harder to trace. What about Thompson?

“You have a phone fetish,” he said. “Like me.”

Thompson followed Wells’s gaze to the bedside table. “Local and international.”

“Plus the one in your pocket.”

“Oh yeah, I like to have two local carriers just in case.”

“Sure. Can you give me all your numbers?”

“Of course. And my emails too, the private and the public.” They traded numbers. Wells stuck out his hand. Thompson ignored it and enveloped him in a hug, his thick arms heavy on Wells’s back, palms moist through Wells’s shirt. “You think you can find them, John?”

“I’ll do my best.” Wells extricated himself. He’d never been the hugging type.

“And you’ll go up there tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“I’m going to fly back in a couple days. I’ll see you up there.”

“Can’t wait.”

—

Nearly three a.m. in Nairobi, seven p.m. in Langley. Back in his room, Wells called Shafer.

“No rest for the wicked.”

For a heartbeat, Wells found himself back on the couch at Castle House, his mouth on Christina’s.

“John? You there?”

“I have numbers and an email for the elves to trace.” He gave Shafer everything he’d gotten from Thompson.

“And these belong to—”

“The CEO of WorldCares.”

“Getting conspiratorial in your old age.”

“I just spent an hour-plus talking to the guy. He answered every question I had.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. He drinks.”

“How much?”

“A bottle of wine for dinner.” It didn’t sound that bad when Wells said it out loud.

“Don’t be such a Muslim neo-Puritan.”

“Forget the wine. Tell me why he has two local phones.”

“I’ll do my best to find out. Maybe I’ll do a little bit of research into WorldCares, too. That press conference rated five hankies. I wanted to go over there my own self.”

“You do, I’ll feed you to the lions.”

“How Old Testament. I’ll call you after we run the numbers. Could be a day or two.”

“Night, Ellis.”

“An honest man’s pillow is his peace of mind.” Click.