The Night Ranger (7 page)

“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.”