“Greaser,” Shafer said. “Anything happens, you find us.”
“No need to take it out on him,” Duto said.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Duto led Shafer to an empty conference room and waved his magic director’s key card to unlock the door, let them in. The high-security basement suite of offices where the drones were managed had its own dedicated air- conditioning to defeat the heat that all the computer equipment produced. Arctic jets of air swirled from a half- dozen vents and converged on Shafer’s bald head. At the far end of the room, strings of software code covered three whiteboards. The drone program had more than its share of comp sci Ph.Ds.
Duto reached into his inside suit pocket, came out with a silver-dollar-sized piece of black plastic. He laid the device on the table. A light on top flashed green and red before switching to a steady green.
“You’re seriously worried someone’s listening to us, Vinny? Getting paranoid.”
“Why’d Wells give himself up?”
“Truth. I don’t know. I’m guessing he’s working out a deal.”
“If he’s trading himself for them, he’s even dumber than I thought.”
“I believe you mean braver.”
“Has he said he’s seen them yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay. So I’ve gotten some expert advice, and as long as he doesn’t tell us he’s seen them with his own eyes, we’re still in hearsay mode and we happy three have a free hand.”
Expert advice. Which meant Duto had talked to a lawyer. Presumably to ask what he risked by not immediately telling the White House that Wells might have found the hostages. Shafer wondered if Duto had gone to the CIA’s general counsel. Probably not. Probably he’d asked someone who would answer to him alone. “Inside or out?”
“You think I’d stay inside on this, you’re also dumber than I thought. Justin Lerer.”
Lerer had been a federal prosecutor specializing in national security and terrorism cases before leaving the government. Now he was building a reputation as the best kind of lawyer, the kind who made problems go away before they reached a judge, but who could go to court and win if necessary.
“Know what he said.” Duto wasn’t asking. “That if I wanted to be sure I was clear, I ought to call the White House soon as I hung up with him. I told him that I couldn’t do that yet. Not until we know where John stands.”
“Now you want me to believe you’re worried about him.”
“He deserves a chance, that’s all.” Duto seemed almost defensive, as if he feared that caring about Wells might be a moral failing. “He’s given a lot to this place.”
“You want a medal for not listening to a lawyer? Waiting a couple hours to make a call. Scared little toad. You belong in the Senate.”
“Keep pushing me, Ellis, and I will call the White House. Let them take over. You want to take your chances with that?”
Shafer didn’t need to answer. Wells had no use for politics, and presidents of either party rarely went out of their way to help anyone who wasn’t useful to them, much less anyone who disdained their power and its trappings. Wells didn’t even have the protection of celebrity any longer. After his first major mission, he’d become a public figure. But he’d done everything possible to keep his exploits private in the years since. CIA and Special Forces officers still knew his name, but civilians had forgotten. Besides, his three most recent missions weren’t the type anyone wanted to remember.
So Shafer couldn’t count on the National Security Advisor or anyone else at 1600 Pennsylvania caring about Wells. Whether or not they said so, they would view him as one more ex–CIA operative skulking around Africa for his own reasons. The President’s men wanted the hostages back. Some of them wanted an excuse to invade Somalia, too. As for Wells, he’d have to fend for himself. Duto’s history with Wells was often unhappy, but at least they had a history.
Shafer shivered, and not just from the air-conditioning.
“So when you told Justin Lerer you were striking a blow for truth and justice—”
“He gave me this fig leaf. Long as we don’t have direct eyes-on confirmation of the hostages, either from Wells himself or from the Reaper, we don’t have to call the White House. It’s still rumors and speculation. The fact that things are moving so fast helps. And the fact that nobody’s ever heard of Wizard. And, yeah, the Reaper’s up, but it’s only bombed trucks.”
“For this you paid eight hundred bucks an hour?”
“Eleven hundred. And worth every penny.”
“I’d have to agree. He tell you how long you’d have to make the call once we do see the hostages?”
“Expeditiously, he said. I asked what that meant and he said—”
“Fast.”
Duto didn’t smile. “He said fifteen minutes. Which will still give your boy some time. He also said that we can’t put our finger on the scales, can’t tell Wells what to say. If Wells tells us he’s seen them, that’s it.”
“So are you hanging around down here? Tell me you have a fund-raiser.”
Duto swung his head like a prizefighter loosening up. “No no no. I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with you, Ellis.” Shafer saw that the DCI was enjoying himself. And why not? The hostages were at risk, and the United States might still wind up sending soldiers to Somalia, but Duto had protected himself neatly. As always. If everything went wrong, Duto would say Wells had insisted on going in. Duto couldn’t stop Wells, so he’d ordered a drone to monitor the situation.
Duto pocketed the bug zapper, turned to the door. “Let’s see if your boy can pull it off.”
Shafer’s phone buzzed. He didn’t need to see the caller ID to know it was Wells. He didn’t want to answer, not with Duto here. But Duto heard the hum. He opened his hands:
26
LOWER JUBA REGION
After Wizard dismissed Gwen, she trudged across camp, hoping the storm would wash her clean. She knew Wizard could have punished her far more brutally than he had. Still she hated him for the way he’d made her shame herself.
At the hut, she found Owen leaning against the dirt bike she’d ridden, his thumb against the starter like he wanted to see for himself how she’d messed up. The AK was still strapped across his chest, Yusuf’s blood glinting off its butt. Owen didn’t say a word when Gwen explained what Wizard had said. He fiddled with the rifle, his new favorite toy, flicking the safety. Like he’d known all along that Wizard wouldn’t let them out. She wondered whether he’d sent her out simply to humiliate her, but she was too tired to ask.
She sat against the back wall and ran her hands across the dirt floor, sifting the soft grit through her fingers, a strangely comforting feeling. A few feet away, Yusuf lay under the shredded motorcycle poster. A dribble of blood leaked down his face as he mumbled to himself. Gwen had brought a water bottle from Wizard’s hut. She handed it to Yusuf now. “Drink.”
He looked at her blankly and raised the bottle to his mouth and sipped, his lips working it like a baby’s. The skin on his temple flapped loose, exposing the bright pink flesh underneath, intimate and terrible.
“What are you doing?” Owen said. “He’s the enemy.”
“He’s scared out of his mind. We need to let him go.”
“Then what leverage will we have?”
“Drop it, Owen,” Hailey said. She sat near the doorway, peeking at the men guarding them. The three of them were staying as far from one another as possible, Gwen saw.
“Now you’re on her side,” Owen said.
“Tried your way.”
“If she’d known how to ride like she said, we might be in Kenya by now—”
Gwen stopped listening. She didn’t understand how Owen had turned into a man who wanted to deny this
