“Yeah. One was blank. We don’t know what it means. Could be a mistake.”
“Does Wells think he’s involved?”
“If he does, he hasn’t told me. What does the station think?”
“The last few years they’ve focused on the relationship with the Kenyan police and Interior Ministry.”
“Meaning they don’t run any decent agents on their own in Kenya and are stuck with what the Kenyan government tells them.”
Duto didn’t disagree.
“And the Kenyans are saying privately what they’re saying publicly? That they’re sure it’s Shabaab.”
“Yeah. But when we ask them for details, to tell us where they think the hostages are so we can put a rescue plan together, they say they don’t know yet, they’re still working. And by the way, so far they’ve made clear that they don’t want us to run our own investigation. More or less insisted we stay in Nairobi. I’m starting to think we may have to go around them.”
—
As always, Duto had figured out how to play both sides. By using Wells as a back-channel investigator instead of the agency’s officers in Nairobi, he would avoid any blowback in case the Kenyans were telling the truth and Shabaab was holding the hostages. In that case, the Kenyans would be furious if the CIA interfered. They’d complain to the White House, and Duto would leave Langley on a less than triumphant note. Using Wells would let Duto skip that trap. He’d look like a hero if the Kenyans were wrong about Shabaab, and lose nothing if they were right.
“What do you want from me, Vinny?”
“Wells gets a lead, you let me know ASAP. Whether it’s Shabaab or not.”
“And you’ll put something together to save the hostages. Something that doesn’t involve SEAL Team Six.”
“That’ll be a White House decision. They want to use Special Forces, no problem. But realistically, it’ll depend on the size of the opposing force and on timing.”
“Long as you get full credit for finding them.”
“It’s not about credit, Ellis.” Duto almost sounded sincere. “Point is, Wells needs our help—”
“How’s that again?”
“He wanted NSA to run those numbers, didn’t he? He wants our help, he’s got to give to get. And if he understands the stakes, he’s more likely to agree. So make sure he understands them.”
“This mythical invasion.”
“You don’t believe me, call your friends in the five-sided building.”
But Shafer knew what they’d say. The story rang true. He could already imagine the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs beating the drums on the weekend’s talk shows, the Secretary of State’s op-ed in the
Finding the hostages quickly was the only way to make certain a war wouldn’t happen.
“What if Shabaab has them, Vinny? You know that’s possible.”
“Then I guess we’ll go to war. But at least we’ll know what we’re doing.”
“Fine. I’ll tell him.” Duto had steered him as effortlessly as a jockey on the homestretch. “But you know no matter what I say, he’ll do what he thinks is right.”
“I’m counting on it.” Duto sat back in his seat, reached for his phone. Then he reconsidered. “You know, Ellis, don’t you think it’s time for you to admit you belong to the agency as much as me? Maybe more. I’m the one who’s leaving. Your little idiosyncrasies, the ugly clothes, all the rest, they’re just part of the shtick.”
“I speak truth to power, Vinny. I don’t kiss its ass.”
“Sure you do.” Duto’s voice was smooth. Soothing. He sounded like an oncologist delivering bad news.
“You know, Vinny, towards the end of the thing in Kabul”—Wells’s last mission, where he’d gone to Afghanistan to look for a traitor inside the CIA station—“I thought you might be human after all. Humbled by what had happened. It made you harder to hate. I should have known it wasn’t real. And, I have to admit the truth, I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m glad you’re back, Vinny.”
“I sleep fine.”
The convoy rolled up to Shafer’s house, clogging his gentle street.
“I know it. Try not to choke on a pig in a blanket at your fund-raising fellatio tonight.”
“That’s sweet, but you know I can’t fund-raise yet, Ellis. Call John.”
Shafer popped open the armored door with his bony old man’s shoulder like he was escaping a four-wheeled tomb. “Aye aye, captain.” He saluted, slammed the door hard as he could, and watched the Suburban roll away with his mouth twisted into a powerless scowl.
8
NEAR THE KENYA/SOMALIA BORDER
Gwen crawled across the dusty African plain, trying to ignore the thorns digging into her belly, the big black caterpillars teasing her legs. She didn’t need to look back to know the man in the Joker’s mask was chasing her. Ahead she saw Dadaab and the acacia tree where she read to the boys. Safety. But as she crawled closer, she realized she wasn’t in Kenya. The refugees wore threadbare striped uniforms. They had mouse heads and human bodies and they waved merrily to her.
She woke in the darkness.
—
Fortunately, she was no longer hooded. The Joker had punished them for only a day before removing their hoods. He didn’t bother with another warning. He’d made his point. For the next two days not much happened, but they did get more food. Canned fruit for breakfast, boiled eggs for dinner. Not a great long-term diet, but it satisfied their basic caloric needs, and the food could be prepared easily. Even the eggs could be boiled over a hot plate, no open flame required.
Gwen was convinced now that Suggs had set them up. Otherwise, how could the kidnappers have known they’d be on that road? Either they’d been trailed as soon as they left Dadaab, or someone from WorldCares had given them a heads-up. And Suggs was the one who’d changed their route. He was probably hiding in a hut nearby, working out a deal with James Thompson. Gwen wondered if being forced to sit in silence was good for her. Without YouTube or Netflix or texts from her girlfriends to distract her, she was relying on her own mind for the first time in years. Maybe ever.
Not that she planned to thank the Joker.
—
Late on the eighth night of captivity, the Joker returned. He held a camera in one hand and a page of
Gwen wanted as much as she’d ever wanted anything to walk up to the Joker, put her hand on his arm, lock eyes with him, smile. Then knee him in the balls hard enough to make him piss blood. She’d done it before, to a Sigma Chi who’d raped one of her sorority sisters.
When the Joker gave her the paper, she held it beside her face with her free left hand and glared at the camera. She raised her middle finger a fraction of an inch, silently cursing the Joker, his proof of life, his ransom demands, and most of all his mask. “Smile,” the Joker said.
She lifted her finger another fraction. He didn’t seem to care, or even notice.
“Good. Very pretty.” He took back the paper, turned to Hailey—
And gunfire punctured the night. A man shouted and another took up the cry and then the shooting and
