“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,
“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.
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 the 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
“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
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.”
