fired it at the oak door to his office. The glass face of the gauge shattered, scattering shards over the carpet. Shafer hadn’t seen Duto erupt this way in years. Though Shafer understood. Like all executives, Duto hated surprises. Surprises threatened the authority he’d spent his life cultivating.
“Is everything all right?” Handy Smurf said through the door.
“Go away,” Duto said. To Shafer: “When exactly were you planning to tell me?”
“I had just hung up with Wells when you called.”
“Waste my time, dance with that sword like a mushy-headed freak—”
“You want to hear what happened or you want to yell at me?”
Duto looked away from Shafer, out the window. Shafer could almost hear him reciting whatever mantra his life coach had taught him. When he looked back again, he was calm. “I want to hear.”
Shafer told him.
“So it was a fake kidnapping—”
“Not exactly. It probably felt real to the hostages. A setup by James Thompson and this fixer, this guy Suggs.”
“Thompson let his nephew get kidnapped and then the kid wound up getting killed?”
“That’s how it looks to Wells.”
“Okay, so the volunteers wind up at this camp, then these Somalis hear about it, attack it, kill the nephew, snatch the others. Which explains the pictures landing today. These guys want money and they want it now.”
“That sounds about right.”
“And where was the first camp? Kenya or Somalia?”
“Kenya, but Wells didn’t tell me where exactly.”
“You two are so clever. Either of you consider he might need help?”
Shafer didn’t plan to confess to Duto that he’d told Wells exactly that. “He’s afraid that when the word about Scott Thompson gets out, the pressure for war will be unstoppable.”
Duto rose, picked up the depth gauge, carefully wound a thumb around its shattered face before plunking it back on his desk. “He might be right.”
“You ought to know by now, this is what you get with Wells. He’s never going to ask for help unless he has to have it. He wants control.” Shafer resisted the urge to add
“So what’s his plan?”
“He didn’t tell me that either.”
“I gave the order soon as I saw the photos,” Duto said. “They’re coming from Dubai to Mombasa.” Mombasa was the second-largest city in Kenya, a run-down port in the country’s southeastern corner, closer to Somalia than Nairobi. “Unfortunately, they don’t arrive until around seven a.m. tomorrow local time. Best they could do even on a chartered jet.”
“So you can’t move on Thompson’s body until tomorrow morning anyway.”
Duto nodded.
“Then let’s give Wells the night, see what he finds. I promise that after the team lands, I’ll get the exact address of the camp and you can send them in.”
“I still have to handle the White House.”
“Tell them the truth. You have an unconfirmed report that Scott Thompson is dead, no location, and you’re following up. We don’t have to tell the families that Wells thinks he found the camp yet either. Same thing. Nothing confirmed, so why mention it.”
“You think your boy can solve this overnight.”
“If he can’t, by the morning I’ll bet he’ll link up with your team.” Especially since James Thompson will be screaming to the Kenyan cops for his head. But Shafer saw no reason to mention that particular complication. “And maybe Nairobi station finds out who sent those emails. Or NSA traces those Somali phones. Lot of shots on goal here.”
“Turning into an optimist in your old age, Ellis.”
“I’ve learned not to bet against John. Anything else, Vinny?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then I’ll be leaving.”
Duto pointed at the door. “Don’t let it hit you on the ass, et cetera.”
“I’m glad we have the kind of frank, honest relationship where you don’t feel the need to be polite.”
13
BAKAFI, KENYA
The King Fahad Infirmary was better than nothing. But not by much.
It had six narrow beds draped with mosquito nets stretched thinner than a drag queen’s panty hose. It had three almost expired bottles of doxycycline. It had one patient, a woman, her cheeks sunken, belly swollen, breathing a slow unsteady rattle. And it had a doctor, or at least a man in a grimy white coat, napping in a chair when Wells carried Wilfred inside.
Wells laid Wilfred on the bed farthest from the dying woman as the doctor walked over with no great urgency. He extracted thick plastic glasses from his pocket and wiped them cleanish on the hem of his coat. He rustled in his pocket for latex gloves, pulled them on, laid a finger against the bloody gauze taped to Wilfred’s thigh.
“You have AIDS?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“No HIV, no AIDS.”
The doctor pulled off the gauze. The ride had loosened the tourniquets and blood trickled from the bullet hole. “What happened?”
“Shot myself.”
“Shot yourself?”
“When bad things happen to good people,” Wells muttered.
“What time?”
“Three, four hours ago.”
The doctor laid two fingers against Wilfred’s neck to take his pulse. “You feel cold?”
“Little bit.”
The doctor looked at Wells. “How long did he bleed before you put these on?”
“A few minutes. His jeans were soaked.”
“I can try to take out the bullet, but I don’t recommend it. My best advice, I stabilize him tonight. Clean the wound, give him antibiotic so it doesn’t infect, fluid for the blood loss, elevate the leg, put pressure on. You take him to a hospital tomorrow.”
More or less what Wells had expected.
“But I have to stay here tonight to watch him. Stay up all night. It cost fifteen thousand shillings”—almost two hundred dollars.
“Supposed to be free,” Wilfred said.
“Can’t stay awake on this government salary. Can’t buy coffee.”
“Fifteen thousand’s fine.” Wells reached into his pocket, peeled off the shillings. The doctor opened his mouth like a frog after a fly as he stared at the roll of bills. Wells realized too late that he should have kept the money hidden.
“I give him medicine for the pain, five thousand shillings more.”
“No more for this hustler,” Wilfred said. “I take the pain.”
Wells peeled off five thousand more and then stuffed the rest of the money away. “What about her?” He
