The Night Ranger (9 page)

“Was that typical, the roadblock?”

“Moss could tell you better, but I think so. Maybe once, twice a month. But the roadblocks don’t usually last long. Anyway, I don’t know why Suggs didn’t wait, but instead he decided to take this one-lane dirt track that goes maybe a hundred miles south and eventually hits another little track that runs east-west. If they’d taken that second road west, they would have linked up eventually with the main road to Mokowe. But they never got there. The police found the Cruiser on the first road, about ninety miles south of Dadaab.”

“In an abandoned village.”

“Not exactly. When you get there, you’ll see. Eastern Kenya is mostly scrubland and watering holes. The settlements are a few houses each, extended families. The photos show a single hut nearby. Crumbling. Maybe somebody started to dig for water there and thought they had something and then it dried up.”

“Any reason they would have been taken there?”

“From what the cops showed me, the road turns in a way that makes it easy to block.”

“And the car was just left there?”

“Taken off the road, next to the hut. The police found it when they drove down the next day.”

“Is there phone service down there?”

“I think so. From what I’ve seen, even the most desolate parts of the scrub have at least some service.”

“Did you know where they were staying?”

“They were planning to pick a hotel after they reached the island. So, that afternoon, I was talking to the reporter and then, I’ll never forget, Jasper—our security guy—he came in, said he had to tell me something. Since then I just keep waiting for them to show up, like if I take a cold shower or chew off my tongue or something, they’ll walk right in.”

Again, the answer felt canned to Wells. Thompson didn’t strike him as the type to fade into this-must-be-a-dream wish fulfillment. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late and I have just a few more questions. Have you talked to my old friends from Langley?”

“At the embassy, after I was done talking to the State guys, a man who said his name was Gerald came in. He didn’t give me a card, just a phone number. I felt he was more or less telling me where he worked without saying it. He asked for numbers and email addresses for the volunteers and Suggs, too. He gave me an email address, told me to forward any ransom demands. Even if they didn’t seem real. He said they checked the satellites, too, but they didn’t have anything in the area that afternoon.”

“Too bad. That would be the easiest way to track them. He get back to you?”

“Not yet. Which kind of upsets me.”

“It sounds like they’re running databases. They may not be able to do much more. I wouldn’t count on them having too many sources inside Shabaab, and if it’s a smaller group it’s even less likely. One last thing. Tell me about the ransom demands.”

“All junk. Someone emails from a Kenyan email account asking for a million dollars to an account in Dubai. I ask for proof, I get a Photoshopped picture from the paper.”

Wells took a final look around the suite. Two laptops sat on the coffee table beside a black leather wallet. A map of Kenya lay on the bedside table, along with two phones, a Samsung touchscreen and a cheap local handset like the ones Wells had bought.

Then Wells realized. An international phone . . . a local handset . . . and at least one more mobile, the one in Thompson’s pocket. Three phones, if not more. Wells carried multiple handsets so he’d be harder to trace. What about Thompson?

“You have a phone fetish,” he said. “Like me.”

Thompson followed Wells’s gaze to the bedside table. “Local and international.”

“Plus the one in your pocket.”

“Oh yeah, I like to have two local carriers just in case.”

“Sure. Can you give me all your numbers?”

“Of course. And my emails too, the private and the public.” They traded numbers. Wells stuck out his hand. Thompson ignored it and enveloped him in a hug, his thick arms heavy on Wells’s back, palms moist through Wells’s shirt. “You think you can find them, John?”

“I’ll do my best.” Wells extricated himself. He’d never been the hugging type.

“And you’ll go up there tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“I’m going to fly back in a couple days. I’ll see you up there.”

“Can’t wait.”

—

Nearly three a.m. in Nairobi, seven p.m. in Langley. Back in his room, Wells called Shafer.

“No rest for the wicked.”

For a heartbeat, Wells found himself back on the couch at Castle House, his mouth on Christina’s.

“John? You there?”

“I have numbers and an email for the elves to trace.” He gave Shafer everything he’d gotten from Thompson.

“And these belong to—”

“The CEO of WorldCares.”

“Getting conspiratorial in your old age.”

“I just spent an hour-plus talking to the guy. He answered every question I had.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. He drinks.”

“How much?”

“A bottle of wine for dinner.” It didn’t sound that bad when Wells said it out loud.

“Don’t be such a Muslim neo-Puritan.”

“Forget the wine. Tell me why he has two local phones.”

“I’ll do my best to find out. Maybe I’ll do a little bit of research into WorldCares, too. That press conference rated five hankies. I wanted to go over there my own self.”

“You do, I’ll feed you to the lions.”

“How Old Testament. I’ll call you after we run the numbers. Could be a day or two.”

“Night, Ellis.”

“An honest man’s pillow is his peace of mind.”
Click.

5

L
OWER
J
UBA
R
EGION
, S
OMALIA
,
NEAR
THE
K
ENYA
/S
OMALIA
BORDER

L
ittle Wizard knew about the hostages. Four wazungu and a fat Kenyan. They were over the border in Ijara District, north and east of Ijara town. Of course Little Wizard knew. He knew everything that happened in the lawless zone where Somalia met Kenya.

Little Wizard was twenty years old. He’d been born Gutaale Muhammad, but no one called him that. Not since a firefight four years before in Mogadishu. Gutaale was at the point, leading a half-dozen other teenage soldiers. He was a scrap of a boy, wiry and strong, with light brown skin and tightly curled hair. They walked around a corner, past a burned-out building that had been a guesthouse for aid workers decades before, in happier times. Gutaale looked up to see a boy even younger than he was leaning out a second-floor window twenty meters away. The boy swung an AK out the window, shooting wildly. Not a boy, then. An enemy soldier. Gutaale was about to fire back when all the air went out of him. Like he’d fallen from the top of a high tree. A killing shot. He doubled over, went to his hands and knees. Blood trickled from his stomach, just below his ribs. A wrecked pickup truck lay five meters away. He dragged himself to it and lay halfway under it in dust and mud.

He closed his eyes and listened to the pops of AK fire. Then the unmistakable whoosh of a rocket-propelled grenade. An explosion shook the truck above him, followed by a high-pitched scream. Waaberi, Gutaale’s best friend, always carried an RPG. Gutaale’s killer would die with him. The thought pleased him.

The shooting and shouting went on awhile. Gutaale didn’t much care. He closed his eyes and listened. The noise seemed to be a long way off. Finally it stopped. His friends would surely come for him now.

“Move on,” yelled Samatar, their nineteen-year-old commander.

“Gutaale,” Waaberi said.

“We can’t help him now. He’s gone. On the way back.”

Their feet crunched as they walked past the truck. They turned a corner and the shooting started again, single shots at first, then longer bursts. Gutaale lay in the dust and waited. No doctors or hospitals for him, not even the room at the back of the mosque that served as an infirmary for wounded fighters. A few minutes more passed. The shooting moved away. And Gutaale realized something strange. He felt stronger.

He crawled from under the truck, forced himself to his hands and knees. He raised his head over the side of the pickup. He was alone. Smoke billowed from the second-floor window where the boy who shot him had stood. Gutaale stumbled across the road and hid behind a pair of rusted oil drums. He breathed deep, feeling the burn in his belly. The bullet hole glowed pink in his brown-black skin. He reached down for it, pushed the tip of his finger inside. As gently as if he were touching a woman. Still too hard. The muscles around the wound pulled back and the pain spiraled inside him. Foolish. He reached behind his back, found the exit wound just above his hip, the skin around it slick and wet. He put his fingers to it, careful this time. He found a trickle of blood, nothing more. Like water from the dried-out wells in Bay Region. He wasn’t sure how, but he sensed that the bullet had gone through him without hitting anything important. Not the heart or the lung or the other parts whose names he didn’t know.

He would have to get the wounds stitched up. He would have to take the money hidden in his shoes to buy the special cream that kept them from getting infected. But he was sure he wouldn’t die. When boys were dying, their eyes rolled up. They soiled themselves and screamed. They couldn’t talk or stand. The fear settled into their eyes and then it left and then they died. Not everyone who died had all those things, but everyone had some. He had none. He was going to live.

The bullet had come and his body had rejected it, pushed it aside. Like he was metal and it was flesh instead of the other way around. Gutaale remembered a movie called
Terminator
about a man who was a robot. But he wasn’t a robot. He was hungry and thirsty like other boys. He wanted women like other boys. So he was better than a robot, he was a man with a robot’s strength. He was a wizard. He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them and tasted his wizard blood.

A minute later, his friends came back around the corner, their heads hanging. Gutaale wondered if they were sad, sad he’d died. He ducked behind the oil drums and waited. They could have spotted him, but they were looking for a corpse, not a living boy. Not a wizard.

“Gutaale,” Waaberi said.

“His own doing,” Samatar said. “He danced around, dared them to shoot. Like no one could hurt him.”

The wizard—for Gutaale already thought of himself that way—didn’t remember dancing or daring anyone. No matter. Samatar was more right than he knew.
No one can hurt me.

“He fought the best of all of us,” Waaberi said.

Behind the drums, the wizard smiled. His truest friend. Waaberi would be his lieutenant, now and forever.

Waaberi squatted, looked under the pickup. “Here, wasn’t it?” He waved the others over. “He’s gone.”

“It’s not possible.” Samatar knelt beside Waaberi. “Damn him. I wanted his shoes.”

“See the blood. Someone took his body already.”

The wizard stood from behind the oil drums. “I did, my brothers. I took my body.” They turned to him, and he saw awe in their eyes. And fear. “I took it and gave it back to myself.”

War and famine had killed most of Mogadishu’s birds. Not the gulls. They went to the sea when the streets exploded. One was circling over the street. It offered its ugly cry,
caw-caw, caw-caw
. It circled down, landed on the drum beside the wizard.
Caw-caw! Caw-caw!

One by one, the other boys came to him, touched his wounds like disciples. Samatar hung back. “You were lucky. Nothing more.” He looked at the others. “He was lucky. Sometimes people are lucky.” His voice trembled. “Or a djinn.”

The wizard didn’t argue. He looked at Waaberi, sure Waaberi would know what to do. “If you don’t believe, then go,” Waaberi said. “Leave us.” He lifted his rifle. The others followed. And Samatar ran.

—

From then on, the men on that patrol called Gutaale Little Wizard. A month later, he and the others left Mogadishu for Lower Juba, the region in southwestern Somalia where he’d grown up. Only a line on a map split Lower Juba from Garissa and Ijara districts in Kenya. The region had two distinct climates. Near the coast, breezes from the Indian Ocean brought humidity and heavy seasonal rains. Creeks fed mangrove forests and swamps filled with giant black centipedes and snakes like the green mamba. The centipedes were ugly but harmless. The mamba was a skinny, beautiful creature whose fangs held venom that paralyzed in minutes and killed in hours. The swamps couldn’t be farmed or ranched, and almost no one lived in them. Luckily, they didn’t go on forever. Around forty kilometers inland, the ocean lost its influence. The wet breezes ended, and the creeks and swamps vanished.

But the dry region was only slightly more hospitable. Farming was nearly impossible, and even the deepest wells couldn’t be trusted. Even before the drought and war, the region had been sparsely settled, with a handful of villages scattered across thousands of square miles. Now most of its inhabitants had fled for Dadaab. The rest had clustered into the few villages with reliable water. Little Wizard and his men faced no resistance when they moved into an abandoned village called Bora. At first they survived by smuggling sugar into Kenya. Kenyans loved sugar, but the Kenyan government taxed it heavily, creating an opening for smugglers. Wealthy Somalis bought sugar by the ton in Dubai and shipped it to Mogadishu and Kismaayo. From there, militias trucked it across Somalia and into Kenya. Crossing was easy. For long stretches, the border wasn’t even fenced. The Kenyan police rarely operated in the area. If they had to approach Somalia—if, say, a light plane crashed near the border and they were ordered to recover the pilot’s body—they traveled in packs of a dozen or more officers from their headquarters on the coast. Otherwise, they avoided traveling within thirty kilometers of Somalia. They knew the militias outgunned them, and they feared being kidnapped.

Little Wizard used his sugar-smuggling profits to build a small but potent militia. On missions, his soldiers wore white T-shirts and kerchiefs to hide their faces. Villagers called them the White Men. Besides smuggling, they survived by charging aid convoys to pass through the region and collecting protection money from villages.

The White Men had about sixty-five soldiers. They could have had more. Every day, hungry men and boys trudged across the north part of Lower Juba on their way to the refugee centers in Kenya. More than a few had tried to join. But Little Wizard preferred a small force. His men could break camp in hours. They could live for months on food and water that a larger force would exhaust in weeks. Still, they had the firepower they needed to block humanitarian convoys and extract what Wizard called a toll, five percent of the food the trucks carried.

Little Wizard sometimes wondered whether the people sending the food understood that militias like his took most of it. Only a little reached the refugee camps in Bay Region. Even there the armed men who lived in the camps took most of the rest. Did these foreigners know that their plastic sacks of grain and sugar fed—literally—the war and the soldiers who fought it? If they knew, why did they keep sending the trucks?

—

When the Kenyan army invaded Somalia, Little Wizard knew he’d been wise to keep his force small. The Kenyans said they’d come for al-Shabaab, but they didn’t care that groups like his didn’t support Shabaab. Because Somalia had no central government, villages banded together to defend themselves. Some paid taxes to Shabaab. Others formed self-defense groups to keep raiders at bay. Villages too weak or too poor to protect themselves were overrun.

Shabaab flourished in the chaos, becoming the strongest and largest of the militias. But Shabaab didn’t truly govern Somalia any more than anyone else. Outside its base towns, it had only provisional control. It lacked the firepower to stamp out groups like the White Men. And Little Wizard wanted nothing to do with Shabaab. He was Muslim, but not like them. As far as he was concerned, a man’s prayers were his own business. The Shabaab fighters were fanatics who would have stoned Wizard to death as a heretic for his name alone.

But the Kenyans seemed to think that any armed group in Somalia was an ally of Shaabab. And they had tanks and planes, weapons the Somali irregulars couldn’t match. Little Wizard didn’t try to face the Kenyans. He ordered his men to pick up and melt south into the swamps, letting the soldiers roll past, into Shabaab’s heartland. As far as he was concerned, every Shabaab fighter the Kenyans killed was one fewer for him to worry about.

The Kenyans had pulled out of Somalia a couple months before, after killing hundreds of Shabaab fighters. Shabaab still had plenty of men in other regions, but it basically no longer existed in Lower Juba. Wizard relaxed, figuring he’d escaped his biggest threat.

He knew now he’d made a mistake. Three weeks before, Awaale, the leader of a militia called the Dita Boys, asked him to meet. Little Wizard didn’t want to go. He had nothing to say to Awaale. As far as he was concerned, the Dita Boys were undisciplined at best, vicious killers at worst.

On the surface, the Ditas and the White Men had a lot in common. Both would trash wells of villages that refused to pay protection. And, yes, the White Men killed villagers who fought them. But Little Wizard had strict rules for his men. A year before, he’d caught a new recruit raping a six-year-old girl. Wizard and Waaberi tied the rapist to a tree and beat him until his face looked like a melon that a truck had run over. Then Wizard ordered his men to come round.

“This is what we do to men who fuck children.” Wizard pulled the knife strapped to his calf, a weapon made for murder with a black plastic handle and serrated blade. He sliced off the rapist’s clothes and took the man’s limp, blood-spattered penis in his left hand as he raised the knife with his right.

“Please,” the rapist said, the words barely audible through his split lips. “Anything else.”

“Your choice.” Wizard plunged the knife into the man’s stomach. The man’s shoulders lifted in shock. For a moment, before the pain took over, his eyes widened and he raised his ruined face. Then he grunted, tried to scream. Wizard pulled the 9-millimeter pistol he carried in place of an AK, put it to the man’s head, pulled the trigger. The man’s brains moistened the tree behind him.

Wizard turned, faced his men.

“I have told you before. This one didn’t understand. We don’t rape. We don’t steal. We take what we need, what I say we need, and no more. We are soldiers. We are an army. You want to be a beast, fight for someone else. Not for Wizard.”

He pulled the knife from the rapist’s belly, sliced open the rope, left the corpse on the ground with its guts hanging out. There were no more rapes.

—

The Dita Boys were different. Little Wizard knew what they did to refugees they caught crossing their territory. Especially women. He wished he could turn down the meeting. But he had to know what Awaale wanted. They agreed to meet in neutral territory, a watering hole on the edge of a village called Buscbusc, the strongest town left in all of Lower Juba. It had a sixty-man self-defense force. The militias left it alone.

Little Wizard arrived two hours early with fifteen of his best men. They convoyed in two pickup trucks with .50-caliber machine guns mounted in their beds and two armored Range Rovers. The armed pickups, called “technicals,” were the most common fighting vehicle in Somalia. The Rovers were more unusual, stolen from a UN lot in Mogadishu. They were Wizard’s only indulgence. He’d spent $180,000 on them, half his profits of the last two years. They had run-flat tires, bulletproof windows, thick steel plates in the doors. They’d stop anything up to a machine gun round, maybe even a rocket-propelled grenade if it didn’t hit a window. Wizard was unduly proud of them. When they needed repair, he brought in parts from Kenya. Being chosen to ride in a Rover was a mark of pride among the White Men.