The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  The concierge swallowed hard, “D’artagnan, yes, of course,” he recovered a cordial smile. “Discretion.”

  Cameron did not directly look back at the concierge, though through his trained attention to peripheral detail, he noticed the concierge’s friendly and genteel gaze shift to a leer as the two made their way to the lift.

  “Who is this guy we’re going to see?” asked Cameron under his breath. “What is his name?”

  Pepe also had metered the concierge’s response, “I do not know who this guy is. The name I was given was Smith, Ibrahim Smith. The concierge though, he was very disturbed.”

  Cameron curled his lip, “Of course he would be a Smith.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  The May Fair Hotel, London Mayfair

  Cameron and Pepe entered the lift and then inserted the keycard into the slot next to the button designating the fourth floor. The cabin rapidly ascended to the luxury level. Immediately they saw which door led to the Amber suite. Halfway down the corridor, a massive bodyguard stood sentinel outside of a doorway, his eyes glazed and fixed on the wall to his front. Cameron and Pepe approached the door. The large man, a giant, did not shift his gaze or girth. The door opened without Cameron or Pepe having to announce their presence. Shadowing the inner frame of the door was another titan as large and solid as the sentinel, though this second guard was animate. He gestured the two men into the suite where, by the door, they saw a chair and a table topped with a monitor displaying the hallway. Behind them, they heard the door close and then the clicks of several locks engaging on top and bottom. The titan then strode past them. “This way,” he said, and led them into the heart of the beige and brown apartment sized suite.

  As the name of the room implied, amber was the predominant theme. The numerous objects d’art in the room were all made of amber, as were the many lamps. The centerpiece of the room was a large L-shaped sofa upholstered with amber hued crushed velvet. In the center of the sofa, so as to treat the room as his dominion, sat a well-groomed dark African man. The man was not young, though he appeared in fine health. The man’s suit was impeccable, and certainly, Savile Row tailored. The man, undoubtedly Mister Smith, was watching a football match on the 42-inch Bang & Olufsen plasma television centered on the wall. Mister Smith was indifferent to Cameron and Pepe entering the room. Pepe and Cameron stood silently and watched the match from the side of the sofa. One of the players kicked a far pass and a raucous noise shot from the stadium crowd through the many surround sound speakers hidden throughout the suite. Mister Smith flashed a glance at the large bodyguard still standing to the side of the two and then wagged a finger at the screen. The bodyguard held up the television remote.

  “Just the volume,” said Mister Smith, his voice deep and absolute. The volume went down. The man still made no eye contact with Cameron or Pepe. “Please, sit. I apologize. Like most men, sport takes me to my youth.”

  “I understand,” said Pepe. He and Cameron sat on a small matching sofa perpendicular to Mister Smith.

  “Our friend in Montreal believes I may be able to help you,” said Mister Smith.

  Pepe nodded, “I would like that. He said that you know Somalia, that you and he were fishermen.”

  Mister Smith chuckled. “Yes, that is true. All of us on the coast were fishermen once, when there were fish. Now I am a diplomat.”

  Pepe scanned the suite, “Our friend also said you were an entrepreneur. I see diplomacy has perks.”

  “Yes, perks. Can I get you anything?” Mister Smith raised his hand again to the bodyguard.

  “No, thank you. We are really on a tight schedule,” said Cameron. “I am sure you understand.”

  Mister Smith let his hand suspend for a long few seconds and then reached for a rock glass on the dark wooden table before him. He lifted the glass, relished a sip of the clear liquid inside, and then continued to speak, “Yes, you have a plane to catch. Listen, I am sorry I do not have any news for you.”

  Pepe dropped his head, “I see.”

  “I have made inquiries though, and I am sure I will have a name for you shortly. Give your number to my man. I could not hold this position without having a pulse on who is responsible for such actions.”

  “Thank you for your time,” said Pepe, rising with Cameron from the small sofa.

  “Do you need a driver or a pilot back to Heathrow?” asked Mister Smith “It is the least I can do. For now.”

  “No, we have a car waiting,” said Cameron.

  Mister Smith again wagged his finger toward the screen. The suite filled again with the sound of the football match. The bodyguard raised his arm toward a sidebar behind Cameron and Pepe. On the end, Pepe found May Fair Hotel stationary and pens. He wrote down a number where a message could be left then turned to tell Mister Smith, but Mister Smith was once again indifferent to their presence. The titan held his hand out and Pepe relinquished the number to him.

  Cameron waited until the two were in the lift before he spoke. “Did you recognize him?”

  “Even after all of these years, his face has not changed,” said Pepe.

  “I was thinking the same,” said Cameron. “He calls himself a diplomat now.”

  Pepe pulled the key fob from his pocket that the driver had given him and then pressed the button. “He can call himself a diplomat all he wants, the man is still a warlord.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 7

  The May Fair Hotel, London Mayfair

  The lift descended past the lobby down to a sublevel.

  “I thought you tapped the button,” said Pepe.

  “I did,” said Cameron. “We probably have to go to the bottom and work our way back up.”

  Cameron heard a slight grunt from Pepe. The meeting with Mister Smith had not been fruitful. A ping rang from the digital panel and the cabin doors opened to two dark African men, one attired in a brown suit, the other blue, both suits cheap. Though they were in a subterranean level, the man in the blue suit was wearing dark sunglasses.

  “Please step out of the lift, gentlemen,” said the man in the brown suit, gesturing toward an older model white Bentley parked behind him.

  Cameron and Pepe shared a glance and a slight nod.

  “I have been to this hotel several times and was unaware there was underground parking. I believe I will have to speak to the concierge,” said Cameron.

  “Apparently this level is invite only,” said Pepe.

  The brown suited man’s eyebrows lifted, “If you please.”

  “Why would we want to do that?” asked Cameron.

  The man in the brown suit smiled widely then took a step back from the doorway. The man in the blue suit stepped back as well, then lifted the corner of his jacket to reveal a revolver.

  “Please,” said the man in the brown suit. “Our employer only asks for a moment of your time.”

  Cameron lifted his hands to the height of his chest and Pepe did the same. “Okay,” said Cameron, “Since you said please.”

  “Invite only,” said Pepe.

  Cameron and Pepe eased from the lift toward the white Bentley, keeping their hands raised high. Leery of any sudden action, the two men in suits shadowed them from a wary distance on either side, careful not to step too close.

  Now out in the open, Cameron could see down the row of parked cars in the garage. At the far end of the aisle, easing slowly into position, was the newer Bentley they had arrived in. Between Pepe’s thumb and index finger, Cameron could see the key fob their driver had given them. Pepe was subtly holding the button down and though they were in a lower level, a level previously unknown to Cameron, the signal was strong enough to reach the driver, a man obviously of privileged information.

  Cameron and Pepe stopped short of the vintage white Bentley.

  “You know we are not getting into that car,” said Cameron.

  The men in the suits said nothing, and stopped as well, one at the rear of the Bentley, one at the front. The f
ront door then opened and out stepped the Bentley’s driver. The driver was also an African man and rather than acknowledge the two men standing with their hands raised, he disregarded them altogether, instead reaching for the handle of the rear door.

  The white suit that exited the rear of the Bentley was neither cheap nor small. Though an odd choice of color, the suit was another tailored on Savile Row, and as impeccable as the one Cameron and Pepe had seen upstairs moments ago. The bald giant towered high over Cameron and Pepe.

  “Relax, gentleman,” said the bald giant.

  Cameron and Pepe eased their arms down. “I suppose you don’t want to call attention to the cameras,” said Cameron.

  The tall man lifted his hand and twirled his finger in a circle, “The cameras went away when the elevator missed the lobby.”

  “I see,” said Cameron. “So what do you want?”

  “Me,” said the tall man, his face not gathering expression, “I want nothing.”

  “Then why the detour?”

  “The man I work for, now he wants something.”

  “Okay, now we are getting somewhere. What is it?”

  “The two of you came here to visit a man, to ask questions. Is that so?”

  “So what if it is?” asked Pepe.

  The tall man fixed his eyes on Pepe, “My employer wishes for you to stop. What is the expression? You are sticking your nose where it does not belong. Into the business of others.”

  “And if we do not stop?” asked Pepe.

  “First, we will harm your sister, Mister Laroque, then we will come for you.”

  Pepe spoke cool and slow, “It’s a shame those cameras are not on.”

  “And why is that?” said the tall man, for the first time showing a sense of inquisitive interest. He tilted his head and focused a threatening leer toward Pepe.

  In a fluid motion, rotund Pepe propelled himself up and threw his forehead toward the tall man while Cameron simultaneously pulled the chrome Magnum from inside the white belt of the tall man’s suit. As Pepe fell back toward the ground, Cameron put a bullet through the forehead of the brown suit, then spun and put two scarlet holes into the head of the blue suited man. The blue suited man had drawn his revolver free from his waist, yet had not raised his weapon in time. Upon hearing the shots fired, the new Bentley squealed down the aisle toward them. When Cameron spun back around, Pepe already had the tall bald man pinned on the ground with his knee pressed against his chest. The tall man’s African driver was standing beside the Bentley shaking, easing his hand toward his waist.

  “Don’t do it,” said Cameron.

  The driver then made a darting motion toward the grip of his gun only to find himself sliding back against the Bentley on a slick of his own blood. His fingers had not even made a firm grasp.

  Pepe leaned in close to the tall man, “It’s a shame those cameras are not on,” said Pepe once again. “Because I have to let you live to deliver this message to your boss. Tell him, I am coming.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 8

  Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Nairobi

  The fierce Nairobi heat blanketed the tarmac, penetrating the fuselage and enveloping Cameron and Pepe inside. The pilot had cut the air conditioner early, stifling the cabin. Cameron and Pepe took their duffels from the overhead and waited for the steward to open the hatch. The pungent evening air flooded the fuselage when the hatch swung open.

  The jet had traversed from Heathrow, midway to the polar cap, down to this equatorial heat and was now parked away from the terminal. Cameron and Pepe followed the queue out of the hatch and onto the mobile Airstair that was raised to the door from the back of a small truck.

  The balmy darkness hung snug over the tarmac. Porters in brown canvas vests pulled handcarts stacked with luggage and parcels to smaller single and double engine prop planes on either side of the passenger jet Cameron and Pepe were now exiting.

  Between two tattered red velvet ropes leading out of the Jomo Kenyatta international terminal stood a small crowd, above them a large number two marked the entry to the customs desk. As passengers disembarked, the crowd began to thin. Drivers quickly came forward to take whatever luggage their employer or assigned businessmen held in their hands. Family members embraced those returning home and those visiting from as far away as Cambodia and Australia. Halfway down the Airstair, Cameron saw Alastair Main standing at the back of the group with a well-groomed dark haired man.

  Alastair may as well have walked off the cover of National Geographic. Alastair’s hands were at his hips, his elbows wide akimbo, his chin high, and his yellow mane glowed bright against the backlit tarmac. Alastair threw a nod to Cameron and Pepe and then raised his hands out high into the air as he began to saunter toward them.

  Alastair was a Brit, more so a colonial, though he despised the term, as he was born and raised in Kenya. He had served with Cameron and Pepe in the Legion and to them he was a brother.

  When Alastair reached Pepe, he threw his arms around him and pulled him tight. Pepe kissed each of Alastair’s cheeks.

  Alastair threw a firm grip onto each of Pepe’s shoulders. Gruffly, he said, “Will get this beat old man, don’t you worry.”

  Then Alastair released Pepe and threw his arms around Cameron. “The great Dragon Chef of New York.”

  Cameron met the Brit solidly, eye to eye, “Al, good to see you, I didn’t expect you to meet us in Nairobi.” Cameron flashed a glance at Pepe, then back to Alastair, “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  “Me too,” said Alastair. “That’s why I came myself. I don’t want you to have to waste time.” He grabbed the shoulder of the dark haired man to his side. “This gentleman is Ari. The best bush pilot I know, and Ari, this is Kincaid and Pepe. My brothers.”

  Pepe and Cameron in turn each shook Ari’s hand.

  “Ari will be taking us out to Lanta. First we will need to get you checked in,” said Alastair. He spun around to search back toward the terminal, scanning the tarmac until he found what they needed. Near the hatch of a small plane, two Kenyans in customs uniforms were reviewing a clipboard. Alastair raised his hand to signal. One of the uniformed men responded with a nod.

  “Do you have any other bags?” asked Alastair.

  “This is it,” said Cameron, referring to the duffels he and Pepe each held on their shoulders.

  “Good,” said Alastair. “That way we don’t need to go inside.”

  The uniformed man approached the four men.

  “Get your papers ready,” said Alastair. “I assume you’re travelling French.”

  “Whenever I can help it,” said Pepe.

  “Ha, that’s funny. I’ll take them please.”

  Alastair lifted his arm in the direction of Cameron and Pepe as the customs agent approached. “These are the two men I told you about.” With his other arm, Alastair presented their passports. The man’s face held little expression. The agent slowed as he neared, a self-righteous scowl crawled across his face, and then he stepped closely in front of Alastair to receive the passports. Alastair may have paid this man, yet the sudden drop of his brow and quick pierce of his eyes removed any ambiguity, he was charged a fee for service, not for employ. The agent flashed a quick glance at the other three men beside Alastair to ensure all eyes were on him, for what good is power without witness. Without opening either passport, the agent unsnapped a leather pouch on his belt, dug his fingers around inside, and then took out an automatic rubber stamp. He flipped open the first passport to the last page with no interest in seeing the photo. The uniformed man placed the automated stamp on the page and then peered up at the four men under the rim of his hat, his eyes scanning in a threat of authority.

  “No other bags?”

  Alastair answered quickly, “No.”

  The customs agent pushed down on the stamp, flipped the other passport open, and brought the stamp down again in one smooth action. He handed the passports back, then slipped the stamp back int
o his pouch.

  The customs man pulled slightly at the front of his hat, “Good evening, gentlemen.” The men nodded in return as the uniformed man headed back toward his colleague.

  “That was efficient,” said Cameron.

  Alastair sighed, “Cheap as well. Pretentious lot, these airport trolls.”

  “My helicopter is over here,” said Ari.

  “Let’s get to it before somebody we don’t know starts asking questions,” said Alastair.

  They walked toward the small planes near the domestic end of the terminal. That end of the terminal was dark; there were not that many flights that came through Nairobi at night. The area of tarmac past the planes was also without light. With the terminal and runway lights to their backs, they could only see a short way in front of them, after that, only darkness.

  The night enveloped them and then the stars revealed themselves.

  Cameron could not resist looking into the early evening equatorial sky. Few, if any, stars could be seen from Manhattan. Above and around him was the Milky Way, seemingly close enough to touch. He sought out the distant horizon and then let his eyes circle above, around, and back to the terminal, an oasis behind them, a luminous dome that had shielded the stars from them moments before, now silhouetted with a million points of light.

  In front of them, the dark form of the helicopter further materialized with each step.

  Ari opened the side and then front doors. “Al, you’ll want to get your mates set,” said Ari, and then he climbed up into the cockpit.

  Pepe leaned over to Alastair, “Do you usually fly at night?”

  “Heh, heh, no worries,” said Alastair softly, “Most don’t. Ari can, by instruments or blindfolded.” He clutched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, pressing his index finger into his forehead. “Like a pigeon.”

  A light flipped on inside the cabin. Alastair grabbed an interior handle to pull himself up. Pepe grabbed his arm, stopping him.