Alex Berenson - The Night Ranger

“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.”