The Night Ranger (5 page)

“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.”

Wells, who was one-quarter Muslim by birth, had taken Islam as his faith on his first mission for the agency, when he’d gone undercover in Afghanistan to infiltrate al-Qaeda. Over the years, his attachment to the religion had waxed and waned. His relationship with Anne fell outside its bounds. She wasn’t Muslim and they weren’t married. But his faith had returned in other ways in the last few months. He was praying every day, avoiding pork and alcohol. He’d even signed up to audit a class on Islam at Dartmouth, his alma mater, a way to learn more about the religion’s cultural and theological foundations.

“My stocking will be heavy with a Glock.”

“If you’re lucky.”

“You’re my Christmas present. Every day of the year.”

“Listen to you. Getting soppy.”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his trigger finger.” He rested a hand on her thigh.

—

The evening rush was done when they hit Boston, and Anne pulled up to the curb at Logan two hours before his flight. “Be careful over there. And come home quick.”

“I will. I love you.”

She pointed at her eyes, touched her heart, pointed at him. “Now go.”

He went.

3

N
EAR
THE
K
ENYA
/S
OMALIA
BORDER

E
ven with the hood blinding her, Gwen knew the others were close. The heavy black sack allowed only flecks of light, and Gwen wasn’t even sure if those were real or her imagination. But she heard Hailey humming tunelessly, Owen clearing his throat. More than anything, she wanted to see them. At least talk to them. But she’d learned her lesson.

—

Five days before, a few hours after they’d been brought here, wherever
here
was, a man warned them not to talk. She’d been hooded then, too. The drawstring was pulled tight around her neck, chafing, a constant wordless warning. She was in a hut, she knew that much, and her right hand was handcuffed to a chain that seemed to be attached behind her. They were left alone for a while, and then a man walked into the hut with heavy flat steps. Gwen thought he was a big man. Like Suggs.

“Nod if you can hear me,” the man said. The words seemed silly. Of course they could hear him. But Gwen nodded.

“Good. You don’t speak unless spoken to.” He had a soft British lilt, like lots of Kenyans. Gwen had always liked British accents. No more. “If you need the toilet, say toilet. Elsewise, you stay silent. Stay silent and we’ll take off your hoods. If not, they stay on. And I promise, they don’t get easier. We’re going to take care of you. Not hurt you. Do what we say and everything will be fine.”

He walked out with those heavy jailer’s steps. Gwen listened to him go like she could see with her ears. Then nothing. Someone murmured in a language she didn’t know. So much she didn’t know about this place. She wasn’t even sure whether night had fallen. The hut was hot and stifling, and the hood made judging the passage of time nearly impossible. She was exhausted but couldn’t sleep. A while later, she closed her eyes. She imagined Thanksgiving with her family, sitting in her aunt’s dining room, the house warm and bright. Outside, her cousins ran around playing football, tackling each other too hard. When she was thirteen, her uncle Conor nearly sliced off his thumb cutting the turkey. He’d been working hard, straining at the big leg joint, and the knife slipped away and cut into the webbing of his palm. He raised his eyebrows and grinned as the blood pulsed out. Gwen had been just old enough to notice that he’d topped off his scotch glass all afternoon. Her dad tied a dish towel around Conor’s hand to stop the bleeding and drove him to the St. Patrick emergency room downtown.

The kicker came the next year, when Conor brought out a new toy, a power carving saw. Her dad couldn’t lay off.
You want to chop off your whole hand?
Slow-cook it, serve it with the yams?
Conor waved the saw like a baton and muttered about know-it-all doctors until her dad retreated to the living room to watch the Lions.
Is he really going to cut off his hand?
Gwen asked.
Only if we’re lucky
, her dad answered.

But now she wished she hadn’t thought about her family. Soon they’d hear about what had happened. She knew how desperate they’d feel. Three years before, her sister Catelyn had swerved for a deer on US 93, wrapped her RAV4 around a tree. She was put into a medically induced coma to relieve the swelling in her brain.

Gwen refused to leave Catelyn’s bedside for forty-eight hours, until her dad told her if she didn’t take a nap he would ask the docs to sedate her. All along she bargained silently with God—
Let Catelyn live and I’ll go to church every week/never speed again/stop fighting with my mom/be a better sister
. She couldn’t help herself, though she was certain that God didn’t make deals like that. And of course she hadn’t kept her promises, even though Catelyn came out of the coma four days after the accident and recovered completely.

Until now those days had been the worst of Gwen’s life. Her parents probably felt the same. But at least they had known Catelyn was being cared for and wasn’t in pain. This time, they wouldn’t have those certainties. They would be in hell, thanks to Gwen’s own foolishness. Let’s go to Lamu! What a great idea!

She wanted to cry, but she bit her lip so she wouldn’t. She had to control her emotions, focus on the reality of this place. She leaned against the rough brick wall, counted to one hundred and back to zero. Up and down and up and down. The air in the hut cooled. Her back ached and her legs cramped. Her belly was empty and her mouth was dry. They hadn’t given her any food or water. In the infinite darkness she pressed her lips tight and rasped her tongue against her teeth. Weirdly, she wasn’t scared. Not at the moment. She was sure she would be in the days to come. But for now she was just deeply physically uncomfortable.

She remembered her sixth-grade teacher, Edwin Granger, explaining the rule of three: three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. Granger had been teaching them state history, the Johnson party. The Johnsons were pioneers trapped by an early-season blizzard in the Bitterroots. They would have been Montana’s version of the Donners, only they got lucky and caught a thaw and found their way back to the plains.

The story stuck with Gwen in part because Granger had creeped her out so much. He had pockmarked skin and jet-black hair that she knew now must have been dyed. In September he treated her like everybody else. By June she couldn’t escape the way he looked at her. Fortunately, he didn’t try to touch her, never even said anything inappropriate. But his squinty blue eyes had stayed with her. Her first taste of unwanted male attention.

Granger lingered over the tale of the Johnsons.
I want
you all
to understand the power of these mountains,
he’d said. Gwen wasn’t impressed. Everybody in Montana knew that blizzards could hit the Bitterroots as early as in October. The Johnsons should have waited for spring. Instead, only the blind luck of a warm December saved them from their own stupidity. Otherwise they would have been sharpening axes like the Donners.
What’s for dinner, honey?

Now Gwen knew what had happened to all the pioneers who hadn’t made it. One big mistake and then a couple small ones. For example,
Let’s go to Lamu.
Followed by
Forget the main road
. Just like that the wagons were stuck in axle-high drifts with the snow still coming. And all the Africans in the world couldn’t dig you out. Not in three days or weeks or years. Suddenly she was back in Granger’s class. She needed water, she was so thirsty. She raised her hand and said,
I’ll do what you want if you just let me get a drink, whatever you want
. He said,
Wake up,
but with a British accent. She tried to stand, only her hand was stuck in the desk—

She opened her eyes, but she was still in the dark. Nothing made sense. Then she remembered the hood. Strange to wake to darkness. Someone reached behind her neck. She twisted her head in panic. “Easy,” a man said, the same British accent she’d heard the night before. The drawstring loosened and the hood came up, the fabric rubbing her face—

And she saw. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized what a gift sight was. Even though all she saw was a windowless brick hut maybe twenty feet square, lit by a battery-powered lantern that barely cut though the dirt in the air. The hut was warming. It must be morning, so somehow she’d slept for several hours. A coat of dust covered her tongue. Her joints were stiff and cramped from the hours against the wall. She felt like she’d been stuck in the worst seat in coach on the longest flight of her life.

At least their kidnappers hadn’t split them up. The others already had their hoods off. Scott sat against the back wall, with a nasty purple bruise on his cheek from the beating he’d taken during the kidnapping. He caught her looking at him and winked. She thought she’d imagined it. Then he winked again. Had to prove how cool he was. A frat boy to the end. Gwen knew she should be furious with him. This trip had been his idea. Still she was glad to have him. She felt somehow that nothing too terrible could happen with him here.

Owen sat directly across from her. He smiled when he saw her looking, but the grin felt forced. Painted on, by the worst painter alive. She hoped he wouldn’t do anything dumb to prove that he wasn’t afraid. Hailey was closest, a couple feet to her left. She gave Gwen a half-nod, nothing more.

They were all held the same way, their right hands chained to posts set in the walls about eighteen inches above the mud floor. The chains were maybe four feet long, so they had some flexibility to move. They could even stand. And Gwen was relieved to see that the kidnappers had set bottles of water beside each of them, the big two-liter kind.

Still, the hut was miserable. A musky smell filled the room, not just sweat but something richer, murkier. She had noticed it in African men before. Pre-kidnapping Gwen would have wrinkled her nose and walked straight out. But new Gwen could already imagine a place worse than this. A shorter chain. A hood that never came off. Worst of all, being alone.

Finally, Gwen focused on her captor. As she’d guessed, he was a big man, six feet tall and heavy. Fine. And wearing a disguise, a full-face Joker mask. She understood that he didn’t want them to recognize him. But she couldn’t imagine why he’d chosen this particular mask. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer, either.

“You see the water beside you,” he said. “Drink it carefully. It’s all you get for the day.”

“What about food?” Owen said.

Gwen didn’t know whether Owen had forgotten the warning about speaking or simply wanted to test its limits. Either way, he’d made a mistake. The Joker squatted beside Owen, grabbed the water bottle. And then carefully, deliberately, unscrewed the cap and stood and tipped the bottle over. Gwen couldn’t have imagined how closely she could focus on such a simple act. The stream of colorless liquid flexed thick and thin as it poured out of the bottle’s plastic mouth. Inside the container, air bubbles rose and popped. Gwen felt herself reaching with her free left hand for her own bottle, feeling its heft. Three days without water. Did that rule apply in a hut that would be a hundred degrees by the afternoon?

When the Joker stopped pouring, the bottle was still half-full. Owen shook his head, stared at the floor. The Joker set the bottle down. He seemed to smile behind his mask, though Gwen couldn’t be sure.

“You can live a long time without food. As my people will tell you. Months. Water is what you need. I hope I don’t have to explain again. No speaking unless spoken to. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late.” He laughed, a rich velvety sound,
Oh-oh-oh,
and walked out.

This man was enjoying himself, Gwen thought. He was performing, the surest sign of his power. He didn’t care that they hated him. He knew they would have to choke down their hate. She saw now: This was what it meant to be powerless. Something else, too: The refugees must feel this way all the time.

After a while they reached for their bottles, sipped in silence. Casually, Gwen checked out the guard. He sat beside the black blanket that covered the doorway on a cheap plastic chair that slumped under his weight. He was young and rangy and tough. Scott, with his pumped-up arms and thousand-crunches abs, might have had a chance against him. If Scott weren’t chained to the wall. If the guy didn’t have a pistol in his hip holster.

For the next three days, the hoods stayed off, and every morning they got two liters of water.

—

Then they made a mistake. Gwen made a mistake.

She was sure Sunglasses was asleep.

Three guards watched them in shifts. The overnight guard wore wraparound sunglasses and was the nastiest of the three. He didn’t speak, not even hello or good-bye. He didn’t like to be bothered about the bathroom. Maybe he was just angry that he’d drawn the overnight shift. Gwen called him Sunglasses. Not out loud, of course.

On that fourth day of captivity, Gwen decided she needed to talk to Hailey. They were all in the same room, and yet the others might as well have been a thousand miles away. So she held her pee the whole afternoon and evening. By the time Sunglasses came in, she couldn’t think about anything except how much she had to go. Sunglasses checked their chains, as the guards did each shift. Then he went to his chair and dimmed the electric lantern. Gwen closed her eyes and waited, counting to one thousand and back down. She was sure she would have fallen asleep if not for her aching bladder.

Finally, she opened her eyes. She felt wrung out and empty. When she moved her head, she saw streaks of red and white, like her brain couldn’t keep up with her eyes. She hadn’t known until now that she could be this tired and still be awake. The others were quiet. Gwen looked at Sunglasses. He slumped in his chair, legs kicked out, arms loose. His breathing was slow and deep. He was out.

Still, she counted another five hundred. Her heart pounded so loudly she had the crazy fear it might wake everyone in the room. Finally, she leaned toward Hailey, making sure her chain didn’t clank. For a second, less, she hissed, the sharp ugly sound that she and Hailey used at crowded parties to get each other’s attention.

Hailey opened her eyes. Pure 200-proof panic filled her face and then she focused on Gwen. “Hailey.”

Hailey raised a finger to her lips.

Gwen nodded at the chair where Sunglasses slept. “He’s out.” She realized that she’d been so focused on getting to a moment where she could speak that she hadn’t thought about what to say. “How are you?”

Hailey shrugged. Like,
You woke me to ask me that?
She was right, too. Sick or well hardly mattered.

“Better question. Did Suggs set us up?”

Suggs had been taken with the rest of them, but they hadn’t seen him since. Maybe the kidnappers had killed him. Or maybe he was working with them. Scott was the only one who knew him at all, and even Scott probably knew less than he thought.

“If we’re lucky.”

Gwen shook her head:
I don’t understand.

“It’ll give the police a lead. Also he can reach out to James, make a deal. WorldCares can pay these guys off, get us back quietly.”