“By assistance, do you mean surveillance? A military operation? Both? And could that take place in Somalia?”
“That’s a question for the ambassador, not for me.”
“Are any United States agencies involved in the search? Like the CIA or NSA?”
“I don’t mean to be unhelpful, but again, that question should go to them. I can say that the FBI routinely consults on the kidnapping of Americans in foreign countries.”
“John Sambuti from Fox. Is WorldCares prepared to pay for the safe return of the volunteers?”
Thompson paused. “Ransom is sometimes paid in these cases. But as I mentioned, we haven’t received a credible ransom demand, so considering that option is premature.”
“Are you worried that all this attention may drive up the ransom price?”
“That’s a good question. I hope not.”
“One more, sir. Is there any evidence that the Somali Muslim terrorist group al-Shabaab is involved in this kidnapping? We know they’ve kidnapped Westerners before.”
“I’m sure you know that the Kenyan police have named the Shabaab group the most likely suspect. They haven’t shared specific evidence with me.”
“Have they with the U.S. government?”
“I don’t have the answer to that. But this is a very good moment for me to remind everyone that WorldCares/ChildrenFirst does not proselytize. Need crosses all faiths, and so do we. We help every child we can and we never ask about religion. Never. And we welcome volunteers of all religions, including Islam, of course.”
In other words: Dear Shabaab, if you do have them, please don’t cut off their heads to make a point.
“One more,” Thompson said. A boyish-looking guy with long hair raised his hand.
“Jeffrey Gettleman,
New York Times
. Sir, since the kidnapping, the Kenyan government has restricted access to Dadaab, saying that the camps are too dangerous except for essential aid workers. Even journalists are barred. These volunteers had no experience in a high-risk zone. Do you think your organization bears responsibility for what’s happened?”
Trust the
Times
guy to play hardball. Thompson’s jaw tightened. “If you’ve been to Dadaab, you know the camps are very large. Some areas are safer than others. We operate in relatively safe zones, and we have our own security officers watching our compound. So far there’s no evidence that anyone from the camps was involved.”
“But especially as you get closer to Somalia—”
“I hope everyone will remember my nephew Scott is one of the kidnapped. I would never have let him travel to Lamu if I thought he was at risk. I hope that answers your question, sir.” Sir, meaning asshole. “Thank you all for listening. Please pray for our brave volunteers.”
As Thompson stepped away from the podium, reporters surrounded him. “I hate to put you off, but I have to talk to the police. If you have questions later, I’m in room 1401.”
—
Four hours later, just past midnight, Wells rapped on the door of Thompson’s room.
“Hello?” Thompson sounded exhausted. Good.
“My name’s John Wells. We need to talk.”
Heavy steps, then the door opened a fraction, the panic bar still in place. Thompson peered out. His face was blotchy and red. He wore boxers, nothing else. His chest was weirdly hairless, as if he waxed. He rubbed his eyes, tried to muster a smile. “Can we do this tomorrow or do you have a deadline back home to meet?”
“I’m not a reporter. I work for Gwen Murphy’s family.”
“I don’t understand.”
Wells handed over the email from Brandon Murphy.
“This doesn’t look very official.”
“The Murphys will be glad to confirm it.”
“You’re a private investigator? They’re paying you?” With a slight emphasis on “paying.”
“Let me in and I’ll explain.”
“In the morning.”
“Now. Just pretend I’m a reporter. There’s plenty around.”
Thompson seemed to understand the implied threat that Wells might complain publicly if Thompson refused. “Let me dress.” He shut the door. When it reopened, Thompson was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of khakis. Good. The day had been too long. Wells couldn’t face that hairless chest.
Room 1401 turned out to be a suite, with a view southwest over the Kenyan parliament. The remains of a steak sat on a room-service tray, and an empty bottle of wine sat on the fridge. Wells found the room’s luxury mildly irritating. He supposed that Thompson needed the space to meet reporters. He needed to eat, too. Didn’t mean he was a bad guy. Thompson gestured at an overstuffed chair and Wells sat.
“You asked if the Murphys are paying me,” Wells said. “The answer’s no. My son knows them. They asked me to come, so I came. I used to work for the CIA, but I’m retired now.” The abridged version of Wells’s career.
“Have you worked in Africa before, Mr. Wells? You speak Swahili?”
“I’ve worked a lot of places.”
“I guess that means no. So you don’t speak the language, you have no experience here. What are you planning to do besides come to press conferences? Like that jerk from the
Times
said, Dadaab’s shut.”
“I have permits.”
Thompson wrinkled his nose like he’d just smelled something unpleasant. Like he’d realized for the first time that Wells might be hard to shake. “Then you’ll be in the way there instead of here.”
Wells stood, looked out the window. Even at this hour, the downtown streets had plenty of traffic. “It’s late. We’re both tired. Let’s try this again. Gwen’s family wants my help. Whoever you’re dealing with at the embassy, I guarantee you they’ll know my name. Let’s have a civil conversation about what happened up there, what you know. Maybe I can help.”
Thompson tented his hands. “A civil conversation. Where do we start?”
Wells sat back down, pulled a pad from his jacket. “At the beginning. What was WorldCares doing at Daadab? How’d you get involved?”
“We came in late. To be honest, we’re not what you’d call a top-rank aid organization. Catholic Relief Services, CARE, those groups have been around a while, they have tremendous infrastructure. They were in Dadaab early. But they got stretched because the camps grew so much. They put out the call in the aid community, asked for help. Several groups stepped up, including us. We took over some food distribution at Haragesa, that’s one of the older camps, so CARE could push forward. After we got settled, we started on our specialty, services for children, broadly defined. Clothes, vaccines, vitamins, books, high-calorie food, whatever we can source and bring in for preteen kids.”
“Teaching?”
“That’s under local control. We give English lessons where we can, on the theory that knowing English is never bad. But we don’t promise it. Too expensive.”
“And how big is WorldCares?”
“About nine hundred employees.”
“Big.”
“It sounds more impressive than it is. That’s mostly local nationals in the countries where we work, Kenya, Haiti, the Philippines, a few other places. In terms of Americans, Westerners, about seventy. Mostly back home in Houston. Usually we have no more than two to five Westerners living in the countries where we operate. They’re too expensive. A foreign employee in Kenya costs one hundred fifty to three hundred thousand dollars a year.”
“Three hundred thousand? For an aid worker?”
“That includes housing allowances, six to eight weeks of vacation. These are tough jobs. People need a break. Insurance, medical and life. It adds up. The locals are a lot cheaper. Plus the United Nations encourages aid groups to hire locally.”
“Build expertise.”
“Correct.” A phone buzzed in Thompson’s pocket. He pulled it out, looked at it. “The Associated Press.” He stuffed it away. “They can wait. You were saying?”
“So why bring over these volunteers?”
“‘Volunteers’
being the magic word. The cost to us was close to zero. And when my nephew proposed it, I initially thought they’d be around six weeks or so. Not three months–plus.”
“They get along with the full-time workers?”
“As far as I know, John. Look, you’ve seen the pictures. Who wouldn’t want Gwen and Hailey around? Gwen tutored English, Hailey worked at the hospital, Owen and Scott helped with manual labor. All in all, I’d say they did a decent job. Better than I would have predicted.”
“When did they decide to go to Lamu?”
“Maybe two weeks ago. Scott’s idea.”
“Any particular reason? They could have gone on safari or climbed Kilimanjaro or come to Nairobi for the weekend. Why Lamu?”
“I didn’t ask, but I think Lamu has a certain cachet among aid workers, backpacker types. One of those places that only the cool people know about.”
Odd that Thompson didn’t put himself in the category of aid worker, Wells thought. But then, he was more of an executive, right down to his use of Wells’s first name in the conversation. Always use the other person’s name; it establishes a bond. Every management seminar on earth taught the trick.
“Ever been to Lamu yourself, James?”
“Truth is I haven’t spent all that long in Kenya. I came just about five weeks ago. I’d heard that the situation was getting tougher and I wanted to see for myself. In fact, I was supposed to leave this week, be in Haiti right now.”
“Before that, when was the last time you were here?”
“Maybe a year ago. I split my time between Houston and the country ops.”
“So who’s in charge on a day-to-day basis?”
“Her name’s Moss Laughton. Irish. Her title is director of logistics.”
“And she’s up there now?”
“Better be.”
“Okay. So this trip to Lamu, you didn’t mind.”
“My understanding before this happened was that parts of the camps were troubled, but eastern Kenya was mostly safe. Al-Shabaab has a few thousand men at most, and they’ve lost ground. They’re in Dadaab because they’re getting squeezed.”
“But haven’t there been kidnappings in Lamu?”
“That was before the Kenyans went into Somalia. Since then, no. The locals there know that tourists pay the bills.” Thompson leaned forward, put his meaty hands on his knees, locked eyes with Wells. “John, I swear to you, I told Gettleman the truth. If I thought my nephew was in danger, I wouldn’t have let him go.”
He spoke with conviction. Whatever the truth, Wells didn’t doubt he’d pass a poly. “Tell me about the driver. Suggs, right? He hasn’t come up much. Are you keeping his name out of it on purpose? Could he have been involved?”
“Possibly, yes. We called him Suggs, but his real name was Kwasi. He was our best fixer and he’d worked for us since almost our first day here. We paid him one hundred twenty thousand shillings a month. Close to fifteen hundred dollars. The most by far of our Kenyan employees.”
“But much less than the mzungus. He ever get upset about that?”
“Just FYI, John, the plural of ‘mzungu’ isn’t ‘mzungus.’ It’s ‘wazungu.’” Letting Wells know exactly how much he didn’t know. “And no, he never got upset. Local nationals know the score. As a rule, they’re happy to have these jobs.”
Wells wasn’t so sure. “He have a family?”
“Married, two kids.”
“They live in Dadaab.”
“No. Nairobi, I’m not sure where. Suggs was Kenyan, not Somali. But he’d worked the camps long enough that he was connected inside.”
“You met his wife?”
“Not yet. I should.”
“And you’ve talked to the other fixers and Suggs’s contacts in the camps?”
“Moss and our security guys have talked to everyone who works for us. Nobody will admit to knowing anything. As for the camps, that’s harder. Our security guys don’t have any authority. It’s up to the police.”
“And have the police had those interviews?”
“If they have they haven’t told me.”
“Doesn’t that bug you? They’ve been quick to put this on Shabaab.”
“It disturbs me. It doesn’t necessarily surprise me. Kenya’s deeply corrupt and the police are what you’d expect. If not worse.”
“They’re not Sherlock Holmes.”
“They’re not even the Pink Panther.”
“Okay, going back to the trip, your nephew specifically asked for Suggs to drive.”
“That’s right. A few days before.”
“Did Scott say whether he’d suggested the trip to Suggs or the other way around?”
“It wasn’t clear. I think he phrased it like, ‘We want to go to Lamu next week. Suggs says he’ll drive if that’s cool with you.’ That’s how Scott talks. I said fine.”
“Let me just detour for a second. Gwen and Hailey. They ever complain about problems with men in the camp, harassment, anything like that?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Okay. So, in the days leading up to the trip, anything unusual happen?”
“Not that I can think of. My publisher back home had sent me the final proofs for my book. I was spending time on those. And Paula, this reporter from Houston, was coming to visit, so I wanted to make sure everything was ready.”
Wells barely stopped himself from saying something like: Sounds like you were very involved in feeding hungr
y
kids.
“I can guess what you’re thinking,” Thompson said. “But the
Chronicle
story was going to be important for fund-raising, and fund-raising matters. There’s a lot of good causes in the world. We don’t get our share of donations, we can’t do the work we want. I was happy to have Paula come, see our work. Naturally this was before the kidnapping. She set up the trip a couple months ago.”
Wells wondered if Thompson had come to Kenya to be here when the reporter showed up. A hands-on chief executive instead of a guy calling the shots two continents away. But so what? Up close Thompson came off as slicker than Wells would have liked, but the truth was that WorldCares was a business, with employees all over the world.
“Okay, the big day comes, they pile in the Land Cruiser, head out. You say good-bye?”
“No.”
“You didn’t say good-bye to your own nephew?”
For the first time, Thompson seemed slightly defensive. “I thought he’d be back by the end of the week.”
“Then what happened?”
Thompson went to the window, looked out into the Kenyan night. “They vanished. Into thin air, that’s the cliché, right? And true in this case. No emergency calls, emails, nothing. Scott told me that they were planning to go north to Dadaab, then west to Garissa and down, but I guess the Kenyan police had blocked the road north that morning, so they went south instead.”