Alex Berenson - The Night Ranger

“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.”