“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 th
e 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.
“Where you wan to meet?”
“Your camp.”
“Tell me where you are, I come get you.”
“Try again. You know the road that runs north of the camp you raided last night?”
“I know every road in Ijara, mzungu.”
“Congratulations. Let’s meet at the border on that road. I’ll have your money.”
“What time?”
The clock on the Cruiser’s dashboard read 11:45. Wells wanted Wizard to believe he had time to put his own trap in place. Plus Shafer would need as much time as Wells could give him. “I need to get the money from my people. Two-thirty a.m. Two hours, forty-five minutes from now.”
“Two-thirty a.m.”
“Be there or be square.”
18
LANGLEY
For the second time this day, Shafer faced the dubious honor of a trip to the seventh floor. Getting Duto’s help would require face-to-face pleading. Especially after the hiccup earlier.
He found the director sitting at his desk, hands folded, lips furled. The expression was no doubt meant to look serious-yet-sensitive. It came off as constipated to Shafer. On the couch beneath the Katana sword, a fiftyish man with a drinker’s bulbous nose sketched in charcoal on an oversize pad. The man’s name eluded Shafer, but his face was familiar. It belonged to a New York artist known for tasteful portraits of the powerful. Evidently, Duto had decided that his tenure as director merited a higher-caliber artist than the usual D.C. portraitists. Normally, Shafer would have happily skewered this vanity. With Wells’s life at stake, he contented himself with a mild cough. The painter scurried off.
“Affairs of state,” Shafer said.
“You get three minutes. Wouldn’t even sit down if I were you.”
“Can we get a Reaper over southwestern Somalia in the next hour?”
Now Duto grinned, the leer that was his version of a real smile. Shafer wished the painter were here to see it, though no doubt it would send him through another fifth of scotch.
“Thought you were against unmanned aerial vehicles in no uncertain terms, Ellis. Thought we abused them, the poor terrorist on the other side has every right to an attorney, should he be unable to afford an attorney we’ll provide him with one, preferably a nice Jewish boy whose head said terrorist can cut off at his leisure, et cetera.”
Ouch. Of course Duto remembered Shafer’s complaints about drones. “A place for everything and everything in its place. Anyway, most likely we’d only use it for surveillance.”
“So the Hellfires are just for show?”
“More or less.” Shafer explained Wells’s plan to free the hostages. He glided over the fact that Wells was still trying to set the meeting with Little Wizard.
“So Wells gets there and then what? He talks this guy into letting them go?”
“Even if he’s wrong, he’s doing us a huge favor by finding them. NSA’s shooting blanks.”
“I know. I told them to tell me if they locked it down. Before they told you.”
Duto’s way of making sure Shafer knew where he and Wells stood. “So Wells finds ’em, worst case, you know where they are. You can chopper that SOG team in tomorrow. Avoid a war. That’s what you want, right?”
“Assuming Wizard doesn’t kill the hostages as soon as Wells gets there.”
“He’s not killing them. He wants to sell them. Why else go to the families as soon as he caught them?”
“Ellis. The three-minute rule is off. Take a breath. Sit.” Duto pointed at the couch.
Shafer sat.
“Just so I have this right. Wells is putting together a meet with some Somali warlord none of us have ever heard of who’s probably ready to unload a magazine in him just because. I know he likes to run his own shows, but this feels more like a death wish. And you want me to put up a drone for the only backup he’ll have.”
Shafer feared Duto might be right. But being honest with Duto rarely paid. As in never. “Death wish has nothing to do with it. Sometimes I think he’s half Jack Russell. Once he starts a mission, he can’t stop. Makes him crazy. And this time it’s for his son.”
“We don’t put up the drone, he’s still going in, isn’t he? Try to find them on his own somehow and bang his way out.”
“He’s never lacked for confidence.”
Duto turned away from Shafer, looked out the window. Shafer could almost hear him working through risk and benefit. Finding the hostages would be huge in his run for the Senate, especially since Wells would never try to take credit. But if they died after Duto put up the Reaper, would he be blamed? Did Wells have any chance of pulling off this stunt? Wells’s own life was a tertiary consideration. At most.
Thirty seconds passed in silence before Duto spun back to Shafer and flipped up his laptop. “I’ll call Djibouti.”
The CIA operated Reapers out of bases in Ethiopia and Dji
bouti, near the tip of the Horn of Africa, halfway between Yemen and Somalia. Drones were built for stealth, not speed. The Reaper topped out at about two hundred sixty knots, just under three hundred miles an hour. On the other hand, it didn’t need many preflight checks. The techs could put one in the air in four minutes.
Duto picked up his secure phone, consulted his laptop, punched in a number. “Hello. Hello? This is Vinny Duto.” He grinned at Shafer. “No, I’m serious. It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. Turn the music down and we’ll run the codes and I’ll tell you what I want.”
Five minutes later, Duto cradled the phone, gave Shafer a thumbs-up.
“So your boy’s luck is improving. They’ve got a Reaper over Mog right now, and they graciously enough are going to switch the link and let us run it from downstairs.” Pilots guided drones from a half-dozen bases worldwide, but Langley had its own link so that senior CIA officials could oversee the highest-priority, highest-risk missions in person.
“It’s good to be king,” Shafer said.
“You’d better get down there, tell the pilot what to look for. And Wells needs to understand that I’m looking over your shoulder on this. My first and only priority is saving those hostages. He’s not an employee, he’s not a contractor, as far as I’m concerned he’s a random armed civilian on site.”
“Not sure I understand what you’re saying, Vinny.” Though Shafer did. He’d understood before Duto even wasted his breath giving the speech.
“What I’m saying is we didn’t get him in there and it’s not our job to get him out—”
“Thanks for your help, Vinny.” Shafer offered the Director of Central Intelligence his twin middle fingers and walked out.
19
IJARA DISTRICT
Wells reached the T junction that marked the end of the road from Bakafi in good spirits. Despite the ominously loud rattling from the Cruiser’s right front wheel, he’d lengthened his lead over the Kenyans. And Shafer had just assured him that a Reaper would be in position within an hour. Shafer didn’t tell Wells what he’d promised Duto in return for this benediction, and Wells didn’t ask. Some questions were best posed after the close of business.
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