The Night Ranger (23 page)

17

G
ARISSA
D
ISTRICT
, K
ENYA

T
he Cruiser thudded along the dirt track like a carnival ride gone wrong, slapping Wells against his seat belt. Its wheels spun up a dust cloud that rolled with it, making it a vehicular version of Charlie Brown’s buddy Pig-Pen. Still, Wells had the windows down. He preferred the acrid taste of dust to the sweet stink of gasoline rising from Mark the cop.

The track dipped over a dry streambed and the Cruiser bottomed out its shocks. Wells laid off the gas, but only for a moment. He knew he risked blowing a tire, or worse, but he had no choice. Five minutes outside Bakafi, he’d seen light in the darkness behind him. No doubt the other cop had found a ride, and the concerned citizens of Bakafi had joined in the fun.

Wells didn’t think they could catch him. But he didn’t think he could outrun them either. They could track his taillights as easily as he saw their headlights. He’d tried to run with his beams off, but flicked them on again a few seconds later. The road was impossible in the dark. He did have a night-vision scope that he’d brought from New Hampshire, standard infantry gear. It strapped over one eye and lit up the night with an eerie green glow. But he didn’t want to use the scope for driving. On patrols or in fixed positions, night vision offered an enormous advantage. But the scopes also provided a strangely flattened perspective. To compensate, most soldiers now used gear that covered one eye and left the other uncovered. Putting the two views together took practice, especially at driving speed on a road as bumpy as this one. So his scope stayed in his pack, and the Cruiser’s lights stayed on. Thus his pursuers could track him no matter how far ahead he pulled. Wells thought he might have a way to use that fact to his advantage, though the trick he had in mind would leave him exposed if it failed. He had a few minutes to decide.

He reached down through the dust for his phone, called Shafer. “Our friends have a location?”

“Not your lucky day, John. It’s gonna be a while.”

“I even want to ask?”

“In the bush, the signals are carried by low-power microwave repeaters before they get to real cell towers. In the U.S., we only use them a few places, like to keep calls from dropping in underwater tunnels. But where you are, they’re a cheap way to get coverage to places where there isn’t enough demand for full service.”

“So NSA can narrow the phone to a single tower—”

“But that still leaves a huge area to cover. They’re not sure there’s any solution, and if there is, it’s gonna take time. Days at least.”

The NSA was so good at solving these puzzles that Wells had hardly considered it might not be able to find the phone in time. He wanted to be angry, but he knew the truth. Like everyone else in the field, he had grown too dependent on the magicians back home.

“Shame. Things are getting messy.” He told Shafer about Bakafi.

“You beat up a cop and broke out of jail.”

“Let’s just say I released myself on my own recognizance.”

“You stole that line, and don’t think I don’t know it. Cop gonna live?”

Wells looked back at Mark and was rewarded with a curse and a cough. “Long as he doesn’t go near any open flames.”

“Even so, you’ve reached your sell-by date. Forget Shabaab. When the sun comes up tomorrow, you’re public enemy number one. And you don’t fit in so good. In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Still leaves tonight.”

“If I were you, my number-one goal would be getting somewhere safe. Though I’m not sure where that might be. Maybe you should beg the UN for help.”

“Funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ve got a line on the Somali militia that took the hostages. The locals in Bakafi know them, call them the White Men because they wear these white T-shirts and bandannas.”

“How creative.”

“They smuggle sugar into Kenya, so they have to be close to the border. Leader’s a guy called Little Wizard. He’s got a reputation as magic. Can’t be killed.”

“How conveeeenient.” This in the voice of the
Saturday Night Live
Church Lady.

“I ever find him, I’m going to ask him the secret.”

Wells heard Shafer typing. “You won’t be surprised to hear that neither the White Men nor Little Wizard are anywhere to be found in our Somali database.”

“If I can pin them down, I don’t suppose there’s a SOG team ready to roll?”

“I believe I just heard you ask for help. This must be even worse than it sounds.”

Wells offered Shafer an Arabic curse that roughly translated into
May your mother ride a dead
camel
, with particular emphasis on
ride
.

“Duto ordered a team to Mombasa, but they don’t land until tomorrow morning. It’ll be too late for them to do anything but get you out of there. It’ll be something of a miracle anyway. We’re going to have to beg the Kenyans to look the other way. That means me begging Duto, and you know how I feel about that.”

“I think I can find them. Tonight.”

“John. You cannot go into Somalia on your own. Suicide. And even if you could, even assuming you’re right and these White Men are based near the border, that’s, what, a zone sixty miles long, forty deep, twenty-four hundred square miles of scrub. How will you narrow that down?”

Wells explained, waited for Shafer to respond. And waited.

“Ellis?”

“I’m thinking. What if your new friend loses it when he realizes what you’ve done, shoots you and the volunteers?”

“Why would he do that?”

“You’re asking for rationality from a Somali warlord named Wizard?”

“He wants a deal. He took them last night, and he’s already looking for ransom.”

“This is beyond foolish, John. Way too many variables. The only reason we’re still talking about it is that you’re so far out on the ledge already. I’m not sure the Kenyan police will let you surrender under any circumstances. No doubt they’re thinking dead or alive.”

The headlights behind Wells were creeping closer. He edged down the gas pedal and the Cruiser surged. Meanwhile, Shafer had gone quiet again. Wells could almost see Shafer in his office, pulling on the last wisps of his hair, the Sideshow Bob tufts that stretched over his ears. He’d be scanning a map across his desk, looking for answers, not finding them.

“I have to ask Duto,” Shafer said. “I can’t promise what he’ll say. Even if he goes for it, I’m not sure how fast we can get operational. And you’re going to have to get this guy to bite. You really think you can do that?”

Almost too late, Wells saw a foot-high rock about to lance his left front tire. He braked, twisted the steering wheel right. The Cruiser skittered sideways like a two-ton puppy just learning how to run. Its right front tire slid into a rut and the ugly screech of metal on rock filled the night and the Cruiser tipped, its left back wheel coming off the ground. The jerricans and spare tire and Mark all banged around the cargo compartment. Wells kept both hands on the wheel and feathered the brake and the Cruiser leveled out, though it now had an odd clicking coming from the right front tire like the bearings were damaged. Wells edged it back onto the track. The steering felt loose, but after a few seconds the clicking stopped and the Toyota kept moving.

“Didn’t sound good,” Shafer said.

“Work your end and let me make my call.”

“Talk soon.
Adiós, amigo
.”

—

Wells drove in silence, rehearsing his lines. Then he reached for the phone he’d taken from the dead White Man at the camp. He found the missed-calls register and the most recent incoming number. Odds were it belonged to Wizard. He called Wizard’s number from his own Kenyan phone. Two rings later, someone answered in a language he didn’t understand.

“Do you speak Arabic?” Wells said. In Arabic. The phone went dead. Wells called back, repeated himself. “
Aribiya
,” the man on the other end said.

“Nam.”
Yes. Even if Wizard didn’t speak Arabic, some of his men must. Wells heard shouting, then a new voice.

“You speak Somali?” the man said in Arabic.

“Only Arabic. Is this Wizard?”

“How did you get this number?”

“I have an offer for him. Him only.”

“You’ll have to tell me. Wizard doesn’t speak Arabic. What’s your name?”

“Jalal. From Syria.”

“What do you want?”

“The hostages.”

Wells heard a conversation in what must have been Somali. Then: “What hostages?”

“Tell Wizard I know who he is, I know he has them. I want them. I’ll pay for them.”

Another off-line conversation before the man returned. “You come to us?”

“Yes,
inshallah
.”

“How much will you pay?”

“One million U.S.”

“One million each.”

“Too much.”

“That’s the price.”

Wells reminded himself not to seem too eager. “One million for all three. I have it with me. You get it tonight.”

Whispering. “Wizard wants to know, what will you do with them?”

Wells hadn’t expected that question. He hesitated, wondering what answer the man wanted. “That’s my business,” he finally said.

“Wizard says they belong to him, and he must know.”

Wells tried to put himself in the tattered shoes of this Somali warlord who had killed Scott Thompson. He was poor. He was Muslim. He wasn’t part of Shabaab, but he probably didn’t have much love for these rich Americans. “I’m sure he can imagine what I’ll do with them. I won’t treat them like kings, I can promise him that.”

“You are al-Qaeda?”

“I don’t say yes or no.”

More whispering. “Wizard says you can’t have them.”

What? Wells was so surprised that he almost said the word in English before catching himself. “We’ve agreed,” he said in Arabic.

“He wants one million for each.”

“I can’t give him all of that tonight, but he’ll have it.”

Another pause. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t have them for any price. They’re not for you.”

“Is this a joke?”

“He wants to sell to their families.”

“If he doesn’t give them to me, then my men and I will come to your camp and take them. And I promise, you fools will wish you’d taken my money.”

“Wizard says, come and get them, then, Arab whore.”

The line went dead.

—

For a minute that stretched to five, Wells replayed the conversation in his mind. He was sure he had understood. His Arabic was as good as ever, and the connection had been clear enough.
You can’t have them for any price. They’re not for you.
Was it possible Wizard’s conscience was bothering him? Then why hadn’t he freed the hostages? After everything he’d seen, Wells mistrusted any explanation that relied too heavily on the milk of human kindness. More likely Wizard just didn’t trust an Arab who’d called him out of nowhere to pay him a million dollars.

Whatever the man’s logic, Wells faced a more immediate problem. He’d hoped the offer would convince Wizard to give up the location of his camp. Now Wells needed a fresh lure. He wondered what Wizard would make of a second unexpected call in just a few minutes. At least this time he’d recognize the number. Anyway, Wells was low on options. At the end of this road, he’d have to turn east toward Somalia or west, back into Kenya. In that case he’d try for the United Nations compound at Garissa, hoping to win shelter until the SOG team extracted him. But he had no guarantees that the UN would take him in, and anyway, he wasn’t sure the Cruiser could reach Garissa, which was at least two hours more of hard driving. The front right wheel was clicking again, and Wells thought that under the gasoline and dust he smelled the acrid burn of plastic overheating.

Again Wells found the missed-calls registry in the dead Somali’s phone. He punched the call button. “Muhammad?”

“Muhammad’s dead, Wizard,” Wells said in English. “Gone to the other side. And I don’t mean Kenya.”

“Who this?”

“Fantastic. You speak English. I’m the American, the mzungu in the Land Cruiser. I came through Bakafi this afternoon. Muhammad sent you my photo before I shot him and those other half-trained scraggle boys you call soldiers. Bang bang, they’re dead. You give them AKs, but that doesn’t make them fighters. And I’ll let you in on a secret. Those white shirts are big fat targets.” Wells wanted to infuriate Wizard into making a mistake.

“I
don’
believe you.”

“You think Muhammad gave me his phone because I talked nice to him? Him and the others, they’re rotting back at that camp where you took the hostages. You
don’
believe, go see for yourself. But I warn you the hyenas already have. They’re having a hyena feast tonight.”

The man spat at him in Somali.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I want the hostages back, the three who are still alive. I know you killed one, left him at the camp.”

“Them wazungu popular tonight. Americans, Arabs, Ditas, everybody want them.”

“In Bakafi they told me you think you can’t die. African nonsense. I’ll put a bullet in your head and you’ll die like everyone else. You understand?”

“The last man who spoke to me this way was the other American. The one at the camp.”

Wells didn’t want to anger Wizard so thoroughly that he’d refuse to speak. “I called you to make a deal.”

“Who you work for?”

At least Wells knew the right answer to that question. “Their families.”

“The price for them, three million U.S.”

“The price is fifty thousand dollars and I let you and your soldiers live.”

“You killed four my men already.”

“You killed Scott Thompson. Call it even.”

Wells knew Wizard had every reason to believe that Wells was trying to trap him. But he thought Wizard would have to respond, if only to see whether he could somehow turn whatever snare Wells was setting.

“Fifty thousand not enough. One hundred fifty.”

“Gonna take me a little while to put that money together, but okay.” Wells was happy to agree, though he knew that Wizard would never hand over the hostages for one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Wizard probably knew that Wells knew. The whole conversation was what the ranchers in Hamilton back in the day called ten pounds of bull in a five-pound bag.