Alex Berenson: The Night Ranger

She couldn’t claim to know much about the issues over here, but she’d done some research on WorldCares before she’d come over. The group had grown a lot in the last few years. After meeting Thompson, she saw why.

He leaned forward now, lasered in on her with those blue eyes. “What do you think, Ms. Hutchens?” He had a slight southern accent that took the edge off his ferocity.

She hated when sources tried this tactic. Reporters didn’t have much going for them anymore. Her job security and prestige had evaporated years before. But she still had the privilege of asking the questions, not answering them. “About what?”

“About this. All of it.”

“I’m a reporter. My job is to tell your story. In any case, I just got here.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, that’s a bunch of junk. People look to you for advice. They want the newspaper to tell them what to think.”

“I’ve never noticed that, Mr. Thompson. Though the idea does have a certain appeal.”

“I’m not joking. I’m serious as a heart attack. I’m publishing a book next spring. Called ‘The Children Will Lead.’ I want the world to know. It’s a crime to let these people suffer. And I’m not saying do everything for them, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying work with them, build something together.”

“I get it.” Her digital tape recorder beeped. She decided to bring the interview to a close. For now, anyway. She had a feeling that Thompson wasn’t done talking, and might never be. “I’d like to see a little bit of the camp itself today, if that’s possible. You know, since I got here this morning, I’ve hardly seen a refugee.”

“Today may not work. We don’t like to send people out late in the afternoon for security reasons. But tomorrow morning, sure.” Thompson settled back in his chair. “And you’ll still be here when my nephew and our other interns get back, right?”

“When will that be?”

“Two days, three at most.”

“I should be here, yes.”

“I think they’d give you a really good perspective. The four of them just graduated college and they’ve been here three months working seven days a week. Finally I told Scott, that’s my nephew, take a couple days off before you burn out. They went to Lamu.”

“What’s Lamu?”

“Island just off the coast. Amazing place. So I hear. Never been myself.”

“I look forward to talking to them.” She slipped her recorder into her computer case.

“Feel free to talk to anyone you might like on our staff. I’ve told everybody to do their best to answer your questions. Open-door policy.”

“I appreciate that.”

A heavy knock on Thompson’s door, which was in fact closed. Hutchens turned around to see it swing open. The guy who ran security—she couldn’t remember his name, something weird—strode in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but something important’s come up.” He looked at Hutchens.

“I was just leaving.”

“No, please. Whatever he has to say, I don’t mind you hearing.”

The security officer hesitated. Then: “It’s the interns. Your nephew and the others. No one’s heard from them.”

“What about Suggs?”

“Not him either.”

“That can’t be. They were going to call when they got to Mokowe.”

Open-door policy or no, Thompson realized she’d just heard something she shouldn’t have. “Ms. Hutchens, can you go back to your trailer for a few minutes, let us sort this out?”

—

Hutchens sat forgotten for the two hours, as the sun set and the compound’s lights kicked on. Through her screened window, she heard hushed, urgent voices. Finally, just as she was about to head back to Thompson’s office and demand to know what was happening, a heavy knock rattled her door. Thompson stepped in.

“There’s really no way to keep this from you. My nephew and the others, plus the Kenyan driving them, they’ve disappeared. Their phones are off, they didn’t check into the hotel in Lamu, their Land Cruiser didn’t reach Mokowe.”

“An accident?”

“Unlikely. Someone would have called us. It’s possible”—he hesitated—“it’s possible they’ve been kidnapped.”

“I’m so sorry.” She was, too. But the reporter in her had one thought: Great story. And all mine .

“I have to ask you not to write about this. Or tell your editors.”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“Their safety—”

“If they’ve been kidnapped, then every aid worker in Dadaab is at risk, every tourist in Kenya. They have a right to know.” The right to know. Every reporter’s most sacred cow.

“At least give us time to make sure. Try to get them back quickly and quietly.”

Hutchens considered. “Look, Houston’s nine hours behind, it’s morning there. Tell you what, I won’t do anything today. But tomorrow morning there, afternoon here, I have to call my editors and tell them.” What she didn’t tell him was that she planned to spend the night and morning putting together a biography of the four volunteers and Suggs. This story would be big.

“That’s the best you can do.”

“It’s more than I should do.”

“I’ve never understood until now why people don’t like reporters.”

“Sorry you feel that way.” Over the years she’d had a lot of practice saying those words. They never worked, and they didn’t this time. Thompson pursed his lips in disgust and turned away, slamming the door to her trailer as he went.

2

NORTH CONWAY, NEW HAMPSHIRE

John Wells ran.

Over the river and through the woods. Wearing only a T-shirt and shorts despite the cold. His legs burning but his breath level and easy. His heart pumping twice a second and more. Tonka, his boon companion, a stride behind, matching him on four legs.

The trail curved through grizzled trees in the low mountains outside North Conway. Gray wallpaper covered the late-afternoon sky. Wells kept his head down to watch the roots and dips in the trail. He hurdled a puddle left from rain two nights before, landed clean, ignored the twinge in his left leg.

For Wells the woods offered a special sorcery, the magic of leaving himself behind. The missions, the kills, the towns and villages with names he could barely pronounce. He had lived in a world that few Americans outside the military ever saw, the North-West Frontier and the Bekaa Valley and the other red zones. Running here, he worked up an honest sweat, not the stink of tension and sleepless hours. These runs set him free from the question that had plagued him since the Arghandab: Had he acted justly? Francesca didn’t bother him. Alders did.

Though in some ways the question didn’t matter. The word once writ couldn’t be undone, et cetera. No one else could help him answer, not Shafer, not even Anne. So Wells ran.

—

Back at the farmhouse he found Anne in the kitchen, squatting beside the open cabinet under the sink, which was full of dirty dishwater. Two wrenches and a penlight were laid on a rag on the floor. Wells squatted behind her, smoothed her hair away, kissed her neck.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

She was a cop in the North Conway Police Department, though she was thinking about joining the state police, which investigated many murders and major crimes in New Hampshire. She and Wells had been together almost three years. In the last few months, she’d stopped asking if he thought they should marry. Maybe she thought he risked his life too casually to commit to a marriage, much less a family. Maybe she had her own reasons for taking marriage off the table. He couldn’t bring himself to ask. He was happy to be with her this way for as long as she would let him.