Alex Berenson: The Night Ranger

“Looks like we’re going across the continent, not on a two-night holiday,” Owen said. The four stood by the Toyota, waiting for Suggs. It was just past dawn. The air for once felt crisp, the stink of diesel gone. Gwen saw why Hailey liked this hour.

“When did you start saying ‘holiday’?” Scott said. “It’s a vacation. Or maybe research.”

“Research for what?” Hailey said.

“The book I’m writing. Still trying to pick a title. Which do you like, ‘I Heart Refugees’ or ‘Kenya on Three Handouts a Day’?”

“Shouldn’t you read a book before you try writing one?”

“I don’t see why.”

“You know what I love about you, Scott?”

“Nothing?”

Hailey laughed. “You think you know how ridiculous you are, but you have no idea.”

Suggs walked across the compound’s central courtyard toward them. He had a big man’s rolling gait, short wide steps. He held a thermos and wore a bright orange polo shirt and lime-green pants. A pistol on his right hip completed the outfit.

“He planning to play eighteen at the Dadaab country club?” Scott said.

“I can never tell whether he’s riffing ironically off the African-fixer look or embracing it,” Owen said.

“That is a very good question.”

“Ready?” Suggs said.

“As we’ll ever be,” Scott said.

“We’ll be in Mokowe in four, maybe five hours.”

“Then the boats?”

“They will be happy to see you, I promise. Real Americans with real American money. Every Kenyan’s favorite.”

“I feel so loved,” Owen said.

No one argued when Scott took the front passenger seat. The other three sat in back, Owen in the middle, splaying his legs for maximum thigh-to-thigh contact with Gwen. Suggs shoved his gun under the driver’s seat and out the front gate they went. Gwen had a knot in her stomach, a mix of excitement and nervousness. She remembered feeling this way at her junior prom, knowing she’d be losing her virginity before the night was through. More than six years had passed since then. Amazing.

“What are you thinking about?” Hailey said.

“How glad I am to be on this trip with all of you. Even Scott.”

“The Wisdom of the Barbie,” Scott said.

Suggs stopped at the guardhouse to register their departure. But he seemed to hear something he didn’t like from Harry. They had a short, heated conversation in Swahili. Then they rolled out to the dirt track that led around the camp to the main Dadaab road. At this hour the camp was mostly quiet. A little boy, maybe four years old, stood naked by the side of the road, peeing, his face creased in concentration on his task. Suggs stopped and yelled something. The boy looked up and grinned and waggled his penis, sending a stream of urine side to side. Suggs honked and rolled on.

“We are the worst aid workers ever,” Owen said.

At the intersection of the camp track and the main road that led to Dadaab, Suggs turned right. Gwen didn’t get it. She had always thought Dadaab was left.

“Aren’t we going north?” Owen said. “Back to Dadaab and then west to Garissa and then make a left and head southeast.”

Suggs pulled over. “The guard, he says the Kenyan police have a big roadblock up there. This way goes south past Bakafi and then west and then picks up the same road to Mokowe. No tarmac”—the Kenyans called pavement tarmac—“but I think it’s safe. The bandits stay closer to the camps, between here and Garissa. To the south there’s no place for them to hide. You’ll be in Lamu by noon.”

“We were going to stay on the main roads,” Scott said. “That was the plan.”

Suggs looked them over. “You think I want to be kidnapped? They kidnap you, they ransom you. You’re Americans, right. They kidnap me, they—” He put a finger to his head and pulled the trigger. “Nobody going to spend so much money feeding me”—he laughed a big man’s laugh, ho-ho-ho—“Suggs is telling you, this way is safe. But you decide for yourself.”

“It’s fine by me, if it’s okay with everyone else,” Scott said. “What do you think?”

“You trust this guy?” Hailey said.

“I trusted him with my life last week when we went to Witu. He’s talked convoys out of roadblocks, all kinds of stuff. He’s worked for WorldCares for years. Yeah, I trust him.”

“Well, I believe what he says about not wanting to get kidnapped. Nobody likes a fat hostage,” Hailey said. “I’m in.”

“Owen?”

“Okay.” Though Owen didn’t sound sure to Gwen.

“Gwen?”

She wanted to say no, take me home. But she knew what would happen. They’d come back in three days and tell her what a great time they’d all had and how lame she was for missing out. Scott would be merciless. “Let’s go.”

“All right.” Suggs put the Land Cruiser in gear and they rolled away from Dadaab down the soft red dirt road.

And the real nightmare began.

1

DADAAB

James Thompson’s voice rose. Again.

“There are people who say we can’t do anything about this. Americans who say that. That we should let these Africans fend for themselves, starve for themselves. That they did it to themselves by having so many kids. That we can’t afford to help them. You know what I say to that?”

“Tell me,” Paula Hutchens said. They were in Thompson’s office at WorldCares headquarters at Dadaab. Like the rest of the compound, the room was unadorned, the furniture simple and thrifty. A poster behind Thompson showed a black girl running hand in hand with a white boy.

“I say letting kids starve is not in keeping with our principles. And I’m not afraid to tell you it’s racist. If these children had white skin and not black, you think anyone would be saying, Let them die? Let me tell you, we’ve forgotten how lucky we are. Even worse, we’ve forgotten the duties, the obligations, that come with that luck.”

Thompson stopped speaking. He leaned forward in his chair, stared at Hutchens like he could see through her. Hutchens had only met Thompson a few hours before, but already she was getting used to that look. The man had presence.

Thompson was in his late forties, with broad shoulders and thick lips and meaty hands. He wasn’t tall, but his bulk made him formidable. He looked like a bailiff. Or a pit boss. When he got excited, he spread his hands and raised his voice. He sounded like an old-time preacher. In reality, as he’d told Hutchens, he came from a family of railroad workers. He ran WorldCares/ChildrenFirst as a secular organization, no proselytizing allowed. “We’re here to feed the hungry and help the sick. We look after their bodies. Their souls are their own business, as far as I’m concerned.”

Hutchens could already see that James Thompson would star in her feature on the aid groups at Dadaab. Fine by her. She was a reporter for the Houston Chronicle . Normally she covered the mayor, but the paper had reached into its not-so-deep pockets to send her on a ten-day reporting trip to Kenya. Roy Hunter, the Chronicle ’s publisher, had taken an interest in Dadaab after his daughter read a book about Somali refugees. Every few months, Hunter called the paper’s editor and demanded a series on something that had caught his attention. Deep-sea fishing in the Gulf. The potential for hypersonic passenger jets. HOUSTON TO HONG KONG IN TWO HOURS? IT’S POSSIBLE!

The editor knew better than to argue with the man whose name graced his paycheck. He looked for a plausible excuse to send a reporter to Kenya, and found it in WorldCares and other Texas-based aid organizations working in Dadaab. Now Hutchens was working on a series tentatively called “Texans with Heart.” It had been “Texans Who Love the World” until Hutchens pointed out that the title sounded like a bad porn movie.