leaving. She did that most days to let us know she was okay. Morning for her, the night before for us.”
“Her message that morning was routine.”
“Yes. And we asked her to email us when she got to Lamu, which would have been overnight for us. But when I woke up the next morning and checked my Gmail I didn’t see anything. I figured, okay, she’ll send something soon. Or maybe Lamu doesn’t have good Internet. I checked during the day and I didn’t hear anything. I was getting nervous.” Murphy paused, breathed deep. “Then, afternoon in Missoula, early in the morning over there, Thompson called. He said he didn’t want to worry me but no one at WorldCares had heard from any of them since the previous morning. Including the driver, this man Suggs. He asked if Gwen had checked in with us.”
“Did he say he thought they’d been kidnapped?”
“Not at first. He said his security officer had checked with the hospitals and the police and the Interior Ministry and hadn’t heard anything, but they’d check again in the morning when the offices opened. That maybe the police detained them for some reason. I brought up kidnapping. Me. Not him. Like he didn’t want to mention the word. He said yes, that’s also possible. I got angry, told him he was supposed to be keeping my daughter safe. He said he understood how I felt, that his nephew was with her and that he hoped they’d all be back safely very soon.”
“Then what happened?”
“We couldn’t sleep, of course. I emailed all her friends here, asked anyone if maybe she’d emailed them, but she hadn’t. And we called Hailey, Owen, their parents, and they hadn’t heard anything either. Then, a couple hours later, James Thompson called back, said that they’d double-checked with the police and that we had to assume the worst. His exact words. We must assume the worst, he said. I’ll never forget that. Because the most irrelevant thing went through my mind. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me. That’s what I thought at that moment. I’m a fool.” Brandon Murphy fell silent. Wells waited. There was nothing to say. Finally, Murphy spoke again. “The next news we got was maybe twelve hours later.”
“So this is close to two days after she left the camp for Lamu—”
“Yes. So much time wasted, and I don’t understand. Anyway, Thompson called back, said the Kenyan police found their SUV on a dirt road about a hundred miles south of Dadaab. That they were gone and that the police assumed they’d been taken over the border. To Somalia.”
“Did he say anything about damage to it, the SUV?” Damage, as in bullet holes or bloodstains.
“No, and I didn’t ask. I guess I should have. I did ask whether the police had found evidence that anyone had been hurt. He said no.”
“That’s good.”
“And then the media got wind, and since then, the last three days have been crazy. The police are helping us, they moved the TV trucks off our block, but if we leave, it’s like sharks.”
“My son said you haven’t received a ransom demand.”
“No.” A single word that carried a world of despair.
“And you’ve been in touch with Thompson since he told you about the SUV.”
“At least twice a day. But he says it might be weeks before anybody makes a demand. Even months. He says that doesn’t mean anything except that they may be moving the hostages to somewhere they consider more secure.”
“More secure” no doubt translated into “deeper in Somalia,” but Wells saw no reason to say so. “You spoken to anyone besides Thompson? Either in the U.S. government or the Kenyan?”
“A woman at the embassy named Kathy Balfour. Not sure of her title, but I could find it for you. She said they were pressing the Kenyan police. She put me in touch with an officer in Nairobi, a colonel. Russell Mesuru’s his name. He told me the case is their highest priority.”
“What about the FBI or the agency?”
“I’ve been talking to an FBI agent, Martina Forbes—she’s in Washington. She said they work with the CIA and their first step is they try to trace cell phones and computers, that kind of thing. They’re already working that angle but they’ve gotten nothing so far. The next step is probably a ransom demand, she said, but they prefer to let the host country take the lead unless they have no choice.”
An answer more forthcoming than Wells expected. And the FBI had been surprisingly aggressive considering that the aid workers had disappeared only five days before. The publicity was having an effect.
“But I have a strong impression that the Kenyan police don’t have much chance of finding her even if she’s still in Kenya. And no chance if she’s in Somalia. Do you think I should go over there?”
Murphy was probably right about the skills of the Kenyan police, though Wells didn’t want to upset him further. “Not right now. It might attract even more attention, make matters worse. Have you talked to anybody who specializes in these situations?”
“A place called Kroll. In New York. They told us they manage negotiations and payments, not rescues, that until we got a ransom demand it didn’t make sense to involve them. I’ll spend everything we have to get Gwen back, but since they said they cost like ten thousand dollars a day, I figured I’d hold off for now. More money for ransom, if it comes to that.”
“But WorldCares must have kidnapping insurance.”
“The way Thompson explained it to me, it covers volunteers as long as they’re in the camps or working on assignments. Like an aid convoy. Not on vacation. And since everyone in the world knows they were headed to Lamu—”
Murphy broke off. Someone must have told him that Somali kidnappers often asked for ransom payments of millions of dollars. Without insurance, the family might lose everything.
“So you think I can be helpful,” Wells said.
“Your son says you’re the best at this.”
“East Africa is not my area of expertise.”
“Mr. Wells, my wife hasn’t slept in four days. I mean, not one minute. She blames herself, she blames me, she blames everybody. All night last night she paced around the bedroom counting her steps. She got to twelve thousand and then told me she wanted to jump out the window. I would have called an ambulance but I know it just would have made the reporters even crazier. You want me to beg you, I will. You want me to pay, name your price.”
“You don’t have to beg. Or pay. Just email me a note saying that I’m your representative over there and you authorize me to find your daughter.”
“Of course. And I’ll tell Jim Thompson you’re coming.”
“No.” Wells wanted to meet the head of WorldCares on his own terms.
“All right.” Though Murphy sounded uncertain. “When do you think you might go?”
“Tonight, if I can find the flights.”
“Mr. Wells. Thank you, thank you.”
“I’ll do my best. I can’t promise a miracle. She might be dead already, you understand?”
Murphy wasn’t listening. “God bless you.”
As if Wells had already saved his daughter.
—
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?”
