Alex Berenson: The Night Ranger

—

Wells hung up, called Ellis Shafer, his old boss at the CIA.

“John. Word travels fast.”

“What?”

“That’s not why you’re calling?”

Wells waited. He knew from experience that silence was the only way out of these conversational cul-de-sacs with Shafer.

“The big man is out. At the end of the year. I speak of the capo di tutti capi. The one we call Vincenzo.”

Shafer was being cute because this was an open line and because he liked being cute. Vincenzo was Vinny Duto, the CIA’s director. Wells didn’t like Duto, but part of him would be sorry to see the man go. The informal arrangement between Wells and the agency might not survive a new regime.

“What’s he doing?”

“Eight ball says running for the Senate. You were right, John. He’s looking at the big one and he needs some real-life political experience.”

“Does he even have a party? Or a state?”

“Democrat of Pennsylvania. I know he appears to have arrived on this planet a full-grown sociopath, but he was in fact born in Philly.”

“Democrats aren’t going to vote for him. He was neck-deep in rendition and all the rest.” As Wells and Shafer knew personally.

“He can’t run as a Republican. Too liberal on the social stuff. Guess he figures aside from the ACLU types Democrats don’t care about rendition any more than Republicans. He’s right, too. He’s got a shot.”

“Let’s see how he does the first time somebody asks him a question he doesn’t like.” Duto was not exactly warm and fuzzy. Over the years, he had learned to check his temper. Still, he was a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed, and that attitude was hard to hide.

“Don’t be surprised if he calls to say bye. I think he’s getting sentimental. He’s got me on the calendar for a valedictory lunch. I’m not sure if I’m the main course or just an appetizer. So what’s up?”

Wells explained, not mentioning Evan.

“I’ve only been following it on TV, but I’ll see what we have and call back.”

Wells spent the next half hour arranging travel. Nairobi was more than seven thousand miles away, and no nonstops ran between the United States and Kenya, not even from New York. It was already past six p.m. He would have to catch an overnight from Logan to Heathrow. Then he’d be stuck in London several hours until he connected on a night flight to Nairobi. With the time difference, he’d arrive the morning after next. A lot of lost time, but he couldn’t do better without a private jet, and even that would save only a few hours.

Wells booked the tickets under his own name. No reason to be tricky. His diplomatic passport would let him carry a pistol and ammunition and, maybe most important of all, a wad of cash big enough to get out of trouble. Or into it, if necessary.

With the flights arranged, Wells grabbed his backpack, sending Tonka into hiding. The dog knew what the pack meant. Wells kept his pistol and cash and other unmentionables in a locked trunk in the bedroom closet. He took fifty thousand dollars, the Makarov, two passports, and a satellite phone. He hesitated for a moment and then grabbed a handful of other goodies that might be tough to come by in Kenya. Finally, the vintage Ray-Bans that Anne had given him before his last mission. He kept them locked up so he wouldn’t lose them. They were lucky.

Anne had disappeared into the spare bedroom while he packed. She came back with copies of the email from Brandon Murphy designating Wells as his representative, plus a pile of stories and blog posts about the kidnapping and the world of the camps at Dadaab. “Background.”

Wells kissed her.

His cell trilled. Shafer. “Tell me.”

“None other. So I have to tell you this one is tough. On a bunch of levels. As far as we can tell, no single group over there runs these kidnappings. The goal is to grab people, get them onto Somali soil, so the Kenyans can’t get them very easily. After that, as long as you can keep paying your guards, you can hold them basically forever. Somalia has no real central government, no police, no legal authority to step in. Sometimes, these boats that get taken in the Gulf of Aden, the shipowners pay to get their vessels back but not the sailors themselves. So the sailors are held for years, until either the kidnappers take pity on them and let them go, or else they cut their throats.”

“We don’t interfere.”

“You know that since 1993, Black Hawk Down, we prefer to pretend Somalia doesn’t exist. We’ll hit anyone linked to AQ with drones when we get a chance, and we know some groups involved in piracy, because we can identify vessels and the ports they operate from. But the west side of the country, the Kenyan side, it’s just gangs, mostly. We don’t have much. The Kenyan police have given us a few names, but no photos or locations or anything real. Frankly, we don’t pay much attention, because mainly it’s Somali-on-Somali violence. No ships, so no shipping companies complaining.”

“No white people.”

“You said it, not me.”

“You have any good news, Ellis?”

“I have one piece of advice. Think about playing up the Arab thing. Kenya and Somalia are close to the Arabian Peninsula. There are businessmen there from Dubai and Lebanon. Stick to Arabic when you can, wear the right clothes, you’ll stand out less.”

“Makes sense.”

“And I’ll put in a word for you with the COS”—chief of station—“in Nairobi. Name’s Tania Roddrick. For all the good it’ll do.”

“Know much about her?”

“She’s young, only been there three years. Speaks Swahili. Ambitious. African-American. On the surface she has a good relationship with the Kenyan government, but I don’t know how deep it goes.” What Shafer really meant was Be careful of her , but neither man needed the words spoken out loud.

“Anything else?”

“Just my gut, but I’m not sure the Kenyans are that interested in solving this. Kenya’s thoroughly sick of those camps. A few dead volunteers might be what they need to close them.”

“Wonderful world.”

“Indeed. John. Mind if I ask why you’re sticking your nose in this? Besides boredom and a vague desire to do good.”

“Evan.” Wells explained the call. Shafer already knew the backstory.

“Good enough, then.”

“For once nothing sarcastic.”

“He’s your son. I get it. Anything I can do, call me.”

“Thanks, Ellis.”

—

“I’ll drive you to Logan,” Anne said.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I’ll drive you.”

At the front door, Tonka blocked him. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” But the dog wouldn’t move, and after a minute of negotiating and scratching behind the ears, Wells had to drag him aside. Wells tossed his pack into the back of his Subaru WRX and settled into the passenger seat, letting Anne drive. The flight was leaving in four hours, and even with his fancy passport and first-class seat he didn’t have much time. The shortest route was nearly straight south on 16, but both he and Anne preferred to dogleg southwest to 93 and make up the extra miles with speed. Like him, she had a heavy right foot.

She drove expertly, singing the WRX along the tight curves of the White Mountain Highway. They kept a companionable silence until the interstate. Then she reached over, squeezed his arm. “What are you thinking about?”

“The hostages. How terrifying this has to be. I’ll take a firefight any day. This, you try to negotiate, to explain yourself, establish a rapport. None of it matters. Sooner or later they’ll punish you just to prove they can.”

“Kurland.”

The name carried Wells to an underground cell in Saudi Arabia. He hated thinking about Ambassador Kurland. Sometimes he wondered if life was anything more than the accumulation of regrets. “Kurland, yes. But I think it must be even worse for women. The fear of rape.”