The Night Ranger

drinking that holy blood . . . The song was called “Lost in the Flood.” It was nearly as old as he was. He hadn’t thought of it in years.

“I’ve never kissed an African.”

“Is it different?”

“Different and the same.”

“I’m glad.” She put a hand on his leg, smoothed her fingers toward his crotch, leaned over. He wondered how far she would push him, how far he would go. Then she pulled away, stood, smoothed her dress.

“You can have your permit. I’ll say you’re a doctor going to the camps. That should work.”

“Thank you.”

“Also, I need three thousand dollars.”

His face must have betrayed his surprise.

“You think I’m joking? Because you’re pretty? Anyway, three thousand is cheap.”

“If you say so.” Now Wells really felt like a starlet, toyed with and tossed. She’d proved to both of them that she could have her way with him and then proved that she didn’t care.

Outside, a knock. “Everything all right?” Wilfred said.

“We have a deal,” Christina said.

—

“What happened?” Wilfred said as they drove back downtown.

“She’s strange. Like you said.”

“You know, Kenyans, we believe in wizardry. That the spirit world has power here and certain sorcerers can reach it.”

Did Wilfred really believe Christina was a witch? Wells didn’t want to know. “Any woman can be a sorceress if she wants to be.”

“So what happened? Truly.”

Wells ignored the question. His lips still burned with her. He wanted to remember every detail and at the same time forget. Aroused and ashamed. But soon enough only the shame would remain. How could he respect Anne so little? He loved her, cared for her, but in their three years together she’d never jolted him this way. Only Jennifer Exley, his ex-fiancee. But he’d lost Exley long ago and she wasn’t coming back.

Fine. Forget Exley. Forget them all. Forget everything but the mission.

He’d done it before.

“What’s next?”

“Now we have this permit, you don’t have to come to the police.”

“You can get it without me?”

“Yes. Go to your hotel. Take a nap.” Wilfred grinned. “You look tired.”

Wells chose to ignore this little dig. “And we leave tomorrow morning.”

“Early as you like. The drive is maybe five hours.”

“All right.” Then Wells remembered. “Do you know anything about a press conference today? About the kidnapping?”

“Yes. The Hilton. Eight p.m.” Wilfred’s accent gave the word a pleasant sound, Hill- ton.

“The police are having a news conference at a hotel?”

“Not the police. James Thompson.”

“The man who runs the WorldCares charity.”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t he in Dadaab?”

“He came to Nairobi this morning to speak to the police, the Interior Ministry. That’s what the newspapers said.”

“Has he said what he’ll be talking about? Progress on the investigation, anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

Wells leaned forward. “Martin, forget the Intercontinental. I’ll stay at the Hilton.”

—

The Hilton was a twenty-story-tall cylinder in southeastern downtown, near Moi Avenue and the busy River Road neighborhood. Until 1998, the American embassy had been located nearby. Then al-Qaeda blew up the embassy, killing 258 people, mostly Kenyans, the first major attack in the terrorist campaign that culminated in September 11. A memorial garden now occupied the embassy’s site. The new embassy was miles to the north, in a rich neighborhood called Gigiri that was also home to the presidential palace. Wells imagined the place was a fortress. He wondered if he’d see it this trip.

The Hilton had security, too. A metal gate blocked the driveway. Everyone entering the lobby passed through a metal detector. But Kenyan culture was naturally friendly. The checks felt halfhearted, nothing that would stop a determined bomber. Despite setting off the detector, Wells was waved through. Inside, the Hilton looked like Hiltons everywhere, bright and clean and friendly-efficient, the front desk attendants wearing bright red jackets. In five minutes, Wells had a room.

Upstairs he set a wake-up call for 7:30 p.m. He found the pocket-sized Quran he’d tucked into his backpack and lowered his head to the faded blue carpet. The midday prayer had ended hours before and the sunset call was still hours away, so he prayed free-form: Help me, Allah. Help me to be a better person. Give me the peace that only you can grant . . . Really, the prayer could have been the same to any God. But not the language. The language was Arabic, and Arabic took Wells back to the North-West Frontier, his purest years. He had lived in those mountains without the consolations of the flesh, without a warm house or a soft bed. And certainly without women. He had lived without killing, too. He had lived almost as a monk. Gaunt as that life had been, he missed it for its very emptiness. But he’d left the mountains behind. They were closed to him now. He had chosen the world and all its complications. He had chosen this mission. So he prayed for the strength and insight to find the kidnapped. Then he pulled the shades and slept.

—

The press conference was on the Hilton’s mezzanine floor, in the Simba Room. Wells expected a reporter or two, maybe a guy with a digital video camera uploading to YouTube. But when he arrived at 7:45, a half-dozen camera crews were in place. He had known this was a big story, but he hadn’t realized just how big. He understood now why Thompson was holding the conference so late in the day. Eight p.m. in Nairobi was noon in New York. From what Wells could see, CNN and Fox were setting up to carry it live.

Precisely on time, James Thompson walked to the lectern. He wore khaki pants and a plain white long- sleeved shirt and held a notepad. His face was lined and tired, like he hadn’t slept much in the last week. “Is everybody ready? I have a short statement and then I’ll take questions.”

“Can you wait a few seconds, Mr. Thompson?” the Fox reporter said. “We’re still in break back home.”

“Say when.”

The Fox reporter held up three fingers, two, one, then a big thumbs-up.

“Hello, everyone. My name is James Thompson and I’m the chief executive of WorldCares/ChildrenFirst. I’m speaking to you from Nairobi, Kenya. I know there’s tremendous concern around the world for our kidnapped volunteers and the driver who was taken with them. I thank you for your thoughts and prayers. We’ve had so many questions, I’d like to fill everyone in on what’s happening. Then I have a message for the kidnappers themselves. I’ll finish by taking questions from the reporters here.” He spoke slowly, as if the pressure of the worldwide audience had finally hit him.

“As many of you know, Hailey Barnes, Owen Broder, Gwen Murphy, and my nephew Scott Thompson disappeared one week ago. My staff and I are working with Kenyan authorities to bring them home. I regret to tell you that we still have no specific information on their location. As has been publicly reported, several days ago Kenyan police recovered the vehicle they were driving when they were taken. Police are interviewing villagers in that area. I’ll leave it to them to update you on what they’ve found. I can only tell you that we have not received credible ransom demands or proof of life.” On the last three words, Thompson’s voice broke. He looked down, then squared his shoulders and faced the camera.

“While we wait for these kidnappers to come forward, thousands of you have already reached out to WorldCares/ChildrenFirst to ask how to help. You have our thanks. I hope that you’ll take a few minutes to learn