Alex Berenson: The Night Ranger

She was past thirty now, and the New Hampshire winters had given her hints of crow’s-feet and wrinkles that city girls didn’t get until their forties. But her jeans and sweaters hid a supple body and strong legs. Wells loved watching her walk. At the moment, though, she wasn’t happy to see him.

“Why don’t you go take a shower and let me fix this.”

“I can help.”

“Like you know anything about plumbing. If I weren’t here, you’d have done what you always do. Tossed in a bottle of Drano, and if that didn’t work, bought the really strong stuff, and if that didn’t work, called the plumber. It’s bad for the pipes.”

“I’m feeling very emasculated.” Though Wells had to admit that aside from chopping wood, he wasn’t particularly handy around the house. His survival skills were more primal.

“Where’d you and Tonka go?”

“The usual.”

She turned around, nuzzled against his neck. “You smell good. Like the woods. Tell you what. If I can fix this quick enough, maybe I’ll join you in the shower.”

“Give me a chance to regain my manhood.”

“Something like that.”

—

She didn’t join him. While he was soaping up, he heard the phone. He showered quickly and then brought up logs for a fire in their bedroom. She found him just as he kindled it. “Trying to prove you’re not completely useless around the house?”

“That obvious?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact. Evan called.”

“Evan my son?”

“Is there another Evan? Said it was important.”

That’s impossible, Wells almost said. Just before his last mission, he had visited Evan in Montana. He hadn’t seen his son in more than a decade and wanted to reconnect, explain his absence. Evan had smashed that hope in the time they needed to finish a cup of coffee. He’d made clear that he hated the CIA and viewed Wells as a professional vigilante at best, a war criminal at worst. Wells had left Montana figuring that they wouldn’t talk again for many years. If ever.

Wells couldn’t imagine Evan had woken up today and had a change of heart. He had no idea what his son might want. Not money. His stepfather was a doctor and they lived well.

“Maybe somebody’s pregnant and he doesn’t want to tell his parents,” Anne said.

“I don’t see him coming to me for that. I don’t see him coming to me for anything.”

She handed him her phone.

Despite everything, he knew Evan’s number by heart.

—

“Hello?”

“It’s John.” “John” seemed safer than “your dad.”

“Thanks for calling me back so fast.”

“Everything okay?”

“How are you, Dad?”

The falsity of the last word churned Wells’s stomach.

“Let’s talk about why you called.”

But Evan didn’t seem to know what to say next.

“Something wrong with Heather?” Wells finally said. Wells’s ex-wife, Evan’s mom.

“You know on the news, those aid workers, the ones kidnapped in Kenya?”

“Sure.” The story had taken over the media in the last seventy-two hours. Four American volunteers taken hostage. Dragged into the heart of darkness, most likely by Somali bandits. The cable networks couldn’t get enough of it. The fact that the two women were so photogenic didn’t hurt. If you were going to get kidnapped, being pretty was the way to go. Plus they were all friends, recent graduates of the University of Montana—

Wells realized why Evan had called. “You knew them?”

“One of them, mainly. Gwen Murphy. I’m friends with her sister. Catelyn.”

“Friends.”

“Good friends.”

Words that could mean anything. Wells didn’t push.

“Catelyn’s freaking out,” Evan said.

“I can call some people down at Langley, ask them to watch it. They probably already are.” Wells had resigned from the CIA years before, but he’d stayed entangled with the agency. As a rule, the CIA avoided involvement in overseas kidnappings unless the victims were government employees or the crime had clear political or terrorist overtones. But given the media attention that this case had received, Wells imagined the agency was working its contacts inside the Kenyan security services.

“Dad—John—it’s been five days and Gwen’s family is going crazy. Nobody has a clue. Nobody’s seen them, nobody’s sent any ransom stuff. Brandon, that’s her dad, he’s talking about getting on a plane, going over there. Even though everybody says that wouldn’t help.”

“It wouldn’t.” It would add to the circus. The grieving father, wandering through the camps, passing out pictures as camera crews tagged along. Have you seen this woman? The irony that many people at Dadaab had lost their own children would be lost to the viewers, though not the refugees themselves.

“I told Catelyn about you and she got really excited. She thought—she thought maybe you could look into it yourself.”

The words gave more away than Evan had intended, implying that he’d never mentioned Wells to the girl before now. Wells tried to pretend that didn’t bother him. In a way neither of them could have anticipated, Evan had suddenly seen the value in his father’s skill set. Wells found himself both flattered and angry. “Kidnappings are tricky, Evan. I’m not an expert in them. Or Africa. I’m sure the Murphys are talking to people who are.”

“They can pay. They have money.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Please, Dad. Please.”

With those three words, Wells had no choice. Evan was using him. So? Parents existed to be used by their children. “Look. I’ll talk to the family, the Murphys, and if they want me involved, I’ll do what I can.”

“I promise, they want you. They know who you are. I reminded them about the Times Square thing.”

Several years before, Wells had stopped a terrorist attack on Times Square and briefly become a national hero. But his recent missions had stayed secret, and memories were short. “They remembered that?”

“Wikipedia. Anyway. I’ll tell Mr. Murphy to call you. Thanks, Dad.”

“Glad to be of service.” Wells wasn’t sure whether he was being sarcastic.

—

“So?” Anne said. Wells explained. She took his right hand between hers, squeezed his palm and traced its lines, half masseuse and half fortune-teller. “Had to have been a hard call for him.”

“It didn’t sound hard.”

“He’s a smart kid. He knows what he did. You’re in his life again, whether he likes it or not.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s hoping to get laid. Not that I blame him. If his friend Catelyn looks anything like her sister.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to turn into a dirty old man.”

The ringing phone saved him from answering.

“Mr. Wells? This is Brandon Murphy. Thank you, thank you, for agreeing to do this.” Murphy sounded fevered. Wells wondered if he’d slept since he’d found out his daughter had been taken.

“Tell me what you know.”

Murphy explained that James Thompson, the head of WorldCares, had called four days before—late evening in Montana, morning in Kenya. Thompson said the four volunteers, along with a Kenyan employee named Suggs, had gone missing the previous day.

“From what I’ve read, they were headed for Lamu Island, is that right?”

“It was a few days off.” Murphy sounded defensive. The sleazier cable hosts liked mentioning that the volunteers had been on their way to a vacation. An ultra-luxury resort island off the Kenyan coast, Nancy Grace said. Just the four of them, relaxing . She made relaxing sound like code for having an orgy .

“And Gwen told you in advance about the trip.”

“She was nervous because of those kidnappings a while back, but Hailey—”