The Night Ranger jw-7 Page 4

  “Tell me what you know.”

  Murphy explained that James Thompson, the head of WorldCares, had called four days before—late evening in Montana, morning in Kenya. Thompson said the four volunteers, along with a Kenyan employee named Suggs, had gone missing the previous day.

  “From what I’ve read, they were headed for Lamu Island, is that right?”

  “It was a few days off.” Murphy sounded defensive. The sleazier cable hosts liked mentioning that the volunteers had been on their way to a vacation. An ultra-luxury resort island off the Kenyan coast, Nancy Grace said. Just the four of them, relaxing. She made relaxing sound like code for having an orgy.

  “And Gwen told you in advance about the trip.”

  “She was nervous because of those kidnappings a while back, but Hailey—”

  “Hailey Barnes—”

  “Yes. Hailey thought it would be fine. And that’s her best friend. Gwen, she’s a beautiful girl and she’s not dumb, but she’s not a leader, you understand. Basically she operates on instinct, listens to the people around her.”

  “I understand.”

  “Scott, that’s James Thompson’s nephew, he pushed, too. The trip was his idea.”

  “And were Scott and Gwen boyfriend and girlfriend?” Nancy Grace had hinted as much.

  “You know, kids that age, they don’t necessarily use those words.”

  “But they had a relationship.”

  “Yes. So back to your initial question, we knew she was going. She emailed on the morning they were leaving. She did that most days to let us know she was okay. Morning for her, the night before for us.”

  “Her message that morning was routine.”

  “Yes. And we asked her to email us when she got to Lamu, which would have been overnight for us. But when I woke up the next morning and checked my Gmail I didn’t see anything. I figured, okay, she’ll send something soon. Or maybe Lamu doesn’t have good Internet. I checked during the day and I didn’t hear anything. I was getting nervous.” Murphy paused, breathed deep. “Then, afternoon in Missoula, early in the morning over there, Thompson called. He said he didn’t want to worry me but no one at WorldCares had heard from any of them since the previous morning. Including the driver, this man Suggs. He asked if Gwen had checked in with us.”

  “Did he say he thought they’d been kidnapped?”

  “Not at first. He said his security officer had checked with the hospitals and the police and the Interior Ministry and hadn’t heard anything, but they’d check again in the morning when the offices opened. That maybe the police detained them for some reason. I brought up kidnapping. Me. Not him. Like he didn’t want to mention the word. He said yes, that’s also possible. I got angry, told him he was supposed to be keeping my daughter safe. He said he understood how I felt, that his nephew was with her and that he hoped they’d all be back safely very soon.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “We couldn’t sleep, of course. I emailed all her friends here, asked anyone if maybe she’d emailed them, but she hadn’t. And we called Hailey, Owen, their parents, and they hadn’t heard anything either. Then, a couple hours later, James Thompson called back, said that they’d double-checked with the police and that we had to assume the worst. His exact words. We must assume the worst, he said. I’ll never forget that. Because the most irrelevant thing went through my mind. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me. That’s what I thought at that moment. I’m a fool.” Brandon Murphy fell silent. Wells waited. There was nothing to say. Finally, Murphy spoke again. “The next news we got was maybe twelve hours later.”

  “So this is close to two days after she left the camp for Lamu—”

  “Yes. So much time wasted, and I don’t understand. Anyway, Thompson called back, said the Kenyan police found their SUV on a dirt road about a hundred miles south of Dadaab. That they were gone and that the police assumed they’d been taken over the border. To Somalia.”

  “Did he say anything about damage to it, the SUV?” Damage, as in bullet holes or bloodstains.

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I guess I should have. I did ask whether the police had found evidence that anyone had been hurt. He said no.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And then the media got wind, and since then, the last three days have been crazy. The police are helping us, they moved the TV trucks off our block, but if we leave, it’s like sharks.”

  “My son said you haven’t received a ransom demand.”

  “No.” A single word that carried a world of despair.

  “And you’ve been in touch with Thompson since he told you about the SUV.”

  “At least twice a day. But he says it might be weeks before anybody makes a demand. Even months. He says that doesn’t mean anything except that they may be moving the hostages to somewhere they consider more secure.”

  “More secure” no doubt translated into “deeper in Somalia,” but Wells saw no reason to say so. “You spoken to anyone besides Thompson? Either in the U.S. government or the Kenyan?”

  “A woman at the embassy named Kathy Balfour. Not sure of her title, but I could find it for you. She said they were pressing the Kenyan police. She put me in touch with an officer in Nairobi, a colonel. Russell Mesuru’s his name. He told me the case is their highest priority.”

  “What about the FBI or the agency?”

  “I’ve been talking to an FBI agent, Martina Forbes—she’s in Washington. She said they work with the CIA and their first step is they try to trace cell phones and computers, that kind of thing. They’re already working that angle but they’ve gotten nothing so far. The next step is probably a ransom demand, she said, but they prefer to let the host country take the lead unless they have no choice.”

  An answer more forthcoming than Wells expected. And the FBI had been surprisingly aggressive considering that the aid workers had disappeared only five days before. The publicity was having an effect.

  “But I have a strong impression that the Kenyan police don’t have much chance of finding her even if she’s still in Kenya. And no chance if she’s in Somalia. Do you think I should go over there?”

  Murphy was probably right about the skills of the Kenyan police, though Wells didn’t want to upset him further. “Not right now. It might attract even more attention, make matters worse. Have you talked to anybody who specializes in these situations?”

  “A place called Kroll. In New York. They told us they manage negotiations and payments, not rescues, that until we got a ransom demand it didn’t make sense to involve them. I’ll spend everything we have to get Gwen back, but since they said they cost like ten thousand dollars a day, I figured I’d hold off for now. More money for ransom, if it comes to that.”

  “But WorldCares must have kidnapping insurance.”

  “The way Thompson explained it to me, it covers volunteers as long as they’re in the camps or working on assignments. Like an aid convoy. Not on vacation. And since everyone in the world knows they were headed to Lamu—”

  Murphy broke off. Someone must have told him that Somali kidnappers often asked for ransom payments of millions of dollars. Without insurance, the family might lose everything.

  “So you think I can be helpful,” Wells said.

  “Your son says you’re the best at this.”

  “East Africa is not my area of expertise.”

  “Mr. Wells, my wife hasn’t slept in four days. I mean, not one minute. She blames herself, she blames me, she blames everybody. All night last night she paced around the bedroom counting her steps. She got to twelve thousand and then told me she wanted to jump out the window. I would have called an ambulance but I know it just would have made the reporters even crazier. You want me to beg you, I will. You want me to pay, name your price.”

  “You don’t have to beg. Or pay. Just email me a note saying that I’m your representative over there and you authorize me to find your daughter.”

  “Of course. And I’ll tell Jim Thompson you
’re coming.”

  “No.” Wells wanted to meet the head of WorldCares on his own terms.

  “All right.” Though Murphy sounded uncertain. “When do you think you might go?”

  “Tonight, if I can find the flights.”

  “Mr. Wells. Thank you, thank you.”

  “I’ll do my best. I can’t promise a miracle. She might be dead already, you understand?”

  Murphy wasn’t listening. “God bless you.”

  As if Wells had already saved his daughter.

  —

  Wells hung up, called Ellis Shafer, his old boss at the CIA.

  “John. Word travels fast.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not why you’re calling?”

  Wells waited. He knew from experience that silence was the only way out of these conversational cul-de-sacs with Shafer.

  “The big man is out. At the end of the year. I speak of the capo di tutti capi. The one we call Vincenzo.”

  Shafer was being cute because this was an open line and because he liked being cute. Vincenzo was Vinny Duto, the CIA’s director. Wells didn’t like Duto, but part of him would be sorry to see the man go. The informal arrangement between Wells and the agency might not survive a new regime.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Eight ball says running for the Senate. You were right, John. He’s looking at the big one and he needs some real-life political experience.”

  “Does he even have a party? Or a state?”

  “Democrat of Pennsylvania. I know he appears to have arrived on this planet a full-grown sociopath, but he was in fact born in Philly.”

  “Democrats aren’t going to vote for him. He was neck-deep in rendition and all the rest.” As Wells and Shafer knew personally.

  “He can’t run as a Republican. Too liberal on the social stuff. Guess he figures aside from the ACLU types Democrats don’t care about rendition any more than Republicans. He’s right, too. He’s got a shot.”

  “Let’s see how he does the first time somebody asks him a question he doesn’t like.” Duto was not exactly warm and fuzzy. Over the years, he had learned to check his temper. Still, he was a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed, and that attitude was hard to hide.

  “Don’t be surprised if he calls to say bye. I think he’s getting sentimental. He’s got me on the calendar for a valedictory lunch. I’m not sure if I’m the main course or just an appetizer. So what’s up?”

  Wells explained, not mentioning Evan.

  “I’ve only been following it on TV, but I’ll see what we have and call back.”

  Wells spent the next half hour arranging travel. Nairobi was more than seven thousand miles away, and no nonstops ran between the United States and Kenya, not even from New York. It was already past six p.m. He would have to catch an overnight from Logan to Heathrow. Then he’d be stuck in London several hours until he connected on a night flight to Nairobi. With the time difference, he’d arrive the morning after next. A lot of lost time, but he couldn’t do better without a private jet, and even that would save only a few hours.

  Wells booked the tickets under his own name. No reason to be tricky. His diplomatic passport would let him carry a pistol and ammunition and, maybe most important of all, a wad of cash big enough to get out of trouble. Or into it, if necessary.

  With the flights arranged, Wells grabbed his backpack, sending Tonka into hiding. The dog knew what the pack meant. Wells kept his pistol and cash and other unmentionables in a locked trunk in the bedroom closet. He took fifty thousand dollars, the Makarov, two passports, and a satellite phone. He hesitated for a moment and then grabbed a handful of other goodies that might be tough to come by in Kenya. Finally, the vintage Ray-Bans that Anne had given him before his last mission. He kept them locked up so he wouldn’t lose them. They were lucky.

  Anne had disappeared into the spare bedroom while he packed. She came back with copies of the email from Brandon Murphy designating Wells as his representative, plus a pile of stories and blog posts about the kidnapping and the world of the camps at Dadaab. “Background.”

  Wells kissed her.

  His cell trilled. Shafer. “Tell me.”

  “None other. So I have to tell you this one is tough. On a bunch of levels. As far as we can tell, no single group over there runs these kidnappings. The goal is to grab people, get them onto Somali soil, so the Kenyans can’t get them very easily. After that, as long as you can keep paying your guards, you can hold them basically forever. Somalia has no real central government, no police, no legal authority to step in. Sometimes, these boats that get taken in the Gulf of Aden, the shipowners pay to get their vessels back but not the sailors themselves. So the sailors are held for years, until either the kidnappers take pity on them and let them go, or else they cut their throats.”

  “We don’t interfere.”

  “You know that since 1993, Black Hawk Down, we prefer to pretend Somalia doesn’t exist. We’ll hit anyone linked to AQ with drones when we get a chance, and we know some groups involved in piracy, because we can identify vessels and the ports they operate from. But the west side of the country, the Kenyan side, it’s just gangs, mostly. We don’t have much. The Kenyan police have given us a few names, but no photos or locations or anything real. Frankly, we don’t pay much attention, because mainly it’s Somali-on-Somali violence. No ships, so no shipping companies complaining.”

  “No white people.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “You have any good news, Ellis?”

  “I have one piece of advice. Think about playing up the Arab thing. Kenya and Somalia are close to the Arabian Peninsula. There are businessmen there from Dubai and Lebanon. Stick to Arabic when you can, wear the right clothes, you’ll stand out less.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And I’ll put in a word for you with the COS”—chief of station—“in Nairobi. Name’s Tania Roddrick. For all the good it’ll do.”

  “Know much about her?”

  “She’s young, only been there three years. Speaks Swahili. Ambitious. African-American. On the surface she has a good relationship with the Kenyan government, but I don’t know how deep it goes.” What Shafer really meant was Be careful of her, but neither man needed the words spoken out loud.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just my gut, but I’m not sure the Kenyans are that interested in solving this. Kenya’s thoroughly sick of those camps. A few dead volunteers might be what they need to close them.”

  “Wonderful world.”

  “Indeed. John. Mind if I ask why you’re sticking your nose in this? Besides boredom and a vague desire to do good.”

  “Evan.” Wells explained the call. Shafer already knew the backstory.

  “Good enough, then.”

  “For once nothing sarcastic.”

  “He’s your son. I get it. Anything I can do, call me.”

  “Thanks, Ellis.”

  —

  “I’ll drive you to Logan,” Anne said.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  At the front door, Tonka blocked him. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” But the dog wouldn’t move, and after a minute of negotiating and scratching behind the ears, Wells had to drag him aside. Wells tossed his pack into the back of his Subaru WRX and settled into the passenger seat, letting Anne drive. The flight was leaving in four hours, and even with his fancy passport and first-class seat he didn’t have much time. The shortest route was nearly straight south on 16, but both he and Anne preferred to dogleg southwest to 93 and make up the extra miles with speed. Like him, she had a heavy right foot.

  She drove expertly, singing the WRX along the tight curves of the White Mountain Highway. They kept a companionable silence until the interstate. Then she reached over, squeezed his arm. “What are you thinking about?”

  “The hostages. How terrifying this has to be. I’ll take a firefight any day. This, you
try to negotiate, to explain yourself, establish a rapport. None of it matters. Sooner or later they’ll punish you just to prove they can.”

  “Kurland.”

  The name carried Wells to an underground cell in Saudi Arabia. He hated thinking about Ambassador Kurland. Sometimes he wondered if life was anything more than the accumulation of regrets. “Kurland, yes. But I think it must be even worse for women. The fear of rape.”

  “Any man tries that with me, I’m gonna make him pay. Even if it gets me killed.”

  Anne still didn’t see what this kind of captivity meant. What if ten men and not one are holding you? What if they tie your legs apart, make sure everybody gets a turn? “That’s a happy thought,” Wells said.

  They were coming up fast on an SUV, a big Ford that didn’t belong in the passing lane. Anne didn’t bother to slow down or hit it with her brights, just slid by at ninety.

  “You wish you were coming?” Wells said.

  “Yes and no. Mainly I keep thinking about that Makarov of yours. How it’s a lousy pistol and the magazine is too small and it almost got you killed last year. You need to lose it, get something better. But you have this idiotic attachment to it. This sentimental streak I see in you sometimes. I saw you stuff your Ray-Bans in the pack.”

  “You gave those to me.”

  “I’m glad you like them. But they’re just glasses. And the Makarov’s just a pistol and you need a better one.”

  “You get in these spots, it’s not a video game. You’re in close, and whoever shoots first wins. As long as your gun doesn’t jam, and believe me, that thing never jams. Muzzle velocity, caliber, that stuff doesn’t matter. It’s for basement soldiers. Guys playing Battlefield 3.”

  “You’re telling me extra rounds wouldn’t have come in handy last year. Or more stopping power. I don’t mean an assault rifle. I’m talking about a better pistol.”

  She was right, he knew. “I’ll think about it.”

  “When you get back, that might be your Christmas present. If I’m allowed to call it that.”