The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  “I’m sure he did and this was nowhere on his radar,” said Alastair. “If what Nikos is saying is true, Abbo never meant to harm him. He was flexing old school tribal muscle. I don’t think he ever meant to harm anybody. I mean, bloody hell, we found Nikos with his son in a luxury apartment.”

  “From Abbo’s perspective,” said Isaac, “his son was killed by a hit squad.”

  “Isaac’s right,” said Alastair, “he’ll be seeking some bloody twisted flavor of Somali vengeance.”

  “Then we need to hit first,” said Cameron. “Alastair, do you think we can get Stratos on board for more financing?”

  “I don’t see why not. He’s a pretty honorable fellow, perhaps he can get Abbo to simply hand her over,” said Alastair.

  “I doubt that is going to happen now that Abbo is less one son,” said Cameron. “If Isaac is right, then Abbo may be under the impression Stratos himself offed the kid. Pepe, can your contact back in Montreal put us back in touch with Dada?”

  “I don’t know. I will make the call,” said Pepe.

  “Why would you want to contact Dada?” asked Isaac.

  “We may need some additional connections and intel to hit Abbo and if we’re doing Dada a favor, he can do us one.”

  “That’s a dangerous game,” said Isaac.

  “I game we’re already playing, Isaac,” said Cameron, “and it’s too late for Pepe and I to quit. Pepe, do you suppose your contact would know where to find Abbo?”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt they are that informed,” said Pepe.

  “If not, I have another friend close by,” said Cameron.

  “Here in Kenya?” asked Alastair.

  “Here in Lamu.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 21

  Shela Village, Lamu

  Maggie Soze began life as a socialite and then, after finding her way through the world, found herself in West Africa married to a lodge owner she affectionately nicknamed Tarzan. When the marriage ended, she parlayed her experience and connections into a career in freelance journalism. Cameron had become acquainted with Maggie in New York. When stateside, she was a frequent guest of Cameron’s restaurant Le Dragon Vert. Maggie had moxie, something Cameron appreciated. She was as likely to order a rock glass of scotch as a glass of wine.

  “It’s like we’re on a boat,” said Maggie, “floating right through the channel along with the dhows.”

  “Yeah,” said Cameron. “The suite I’m in is recessed behind the beach and lawn, no air flow. I think there is actually a breeze here.”

  Maggie eased her eyes shut, tilted her head back, and inhaled deeply through her nose. “I do believe there is.”

  Maggie slowly brought her head forward and opened her pool blue eyes into a fixed lock on Cameron’s. “You know I love the Peponi. You picked a great hotel. The food here is outstanding. Is that what brought the Dragon Chef?”

  Cameron laughed. “No, though I am a bit hungry. What do you suggest?”

  Maggie relaxed her gaze. She slid her turtle shell glasses over the bridge of her nose and reached for the one sheet menu. “Well, let’s see what’s on special today.” She peeked over the rim of her glasses. “The Peponi is not Le Dragon Vert but still pretty good.” She veered her attention back toward the menu, “Oh yes, you’ll love the prawns.”

  “Right, I read about them in the New York Times.”

  “Is that how you heard about this place? I have to say I was surprised when Claude called me.”

  “Yes, I did read about the Peponi in the New York Times but no, that is not why I am here. Actually, a friend made the arrangements for us.”

  “Us?” The corner of Maggie’s mouth curled up mischievously.

  “Us as in a group of friends,” said Cameron. “Men. We were in Laikipia and...”

  “Oh, and you wanted to get to the coast. I get it. I can’t be land locked too long either. There's nothing like a seafront stroll through Shela. Did you know this is a world heritage site? UNESCO.” Maggie arched her eyebrows and then removed her glasses, holding them away from her in the air for a moment to inspect, and then, finding no flaw, she set them on the table.

  “I was not aware of that,” said Cameron.

  “That’s why there are no cars. Have you been on the seafront when the fishermen bring in the afternoon catch?”

  “No, why?”

  “Quite a spectacle, cats by the herds show up.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Maggie sat back in her chair and straightened her back. “Spit it out. What’s up?”

  Cameron sighed, then furrowed his brow. “Remember that article you wrote a while back on the kidnappings near here?”

  “Hmm, the Manda island abductions across the channel. How could I forget? After I wrote that article I had to watch my back, as did every other journalist. Various mzungu and wazungu around Lamu—”

  “Mzungu and wazungu?”

  “Foreigners and whites, Swahili, dear,” Maggie arched her brows again and nonchalantly looked to either side of the table for eavesdroppers. “I was threatened more than once by foreigners and whites with business interests in the tourist sector, and in one case I was physically assaulted because I wrote that magazine article.”

  “You were physically assaulted?”

  “Well, I wasn’t beat up. I was doused with a bucket of ice water. Kind of refreshing in a hot place like this, actually. The intent was there, though. Hey, I just wrote the article and the Associated Press picked it up. No fault of mine if there is no security over on Manda. Tourist cancellations started coming in way before I wrote a story about the pirate-slash-tourist kidnappings in Kenya. I mean they have three police patrol boats that never leave the dock because the money that’s earmarked for hotelier security ends up in some politician’s pocket.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah, this place is paradise but there is a reason they call the government serekali.”

  “Swahili again, and why is that?” asked Cameron.

  “As I understand, the Swahili words siri and kali mean secret and fierce.”

  Cameron nodded his head. “And the pirates?”

  “Probably no different than the rest of them, taking payoffs. Those abductions were just some strays, off the reservation, if you will. As were the other abductions you have heard about. The female journalist that was held and raped a few years ago, and the aid workers. Thugs took those poor people, the equivalent of teenage street gangs. Those gangs are not the real power up there. There is a lot more going on.”

  “Like Abbo Mohammed?”

  Maggie’s eyes lit up, “Wow, now we cut to the quick. You picked a hell of a name to drop.”

  Cameron let his smile go subtly coy, “So is he a local player or what?”

  Maggie sat silent for a moment, smiling at Cameron.

  “You’re sizing me up,” said Cameron.

  “You’re a chef,” said Maggie.

  “Among other things,” said Cameron. “So off the record, what can you tell me about Abbo?”

  “Off the record?”

  “All off the record. I like to keep private.”

  “Okay, I’ll play. So, Abbo Mohammed is ‘the’ local player. If you did not know, he runs a little group not far north from here called the Volunteer National Coast Guard, and that little group, like some other groups up the coast, has a nasty reputation as a band of pirates. But they’re not.”

  “They’re not?” asked Cameron.

  “No, they are not. Well, they are and they aren’t. Semantics.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Their designation as pirates is a bit of a misnomer. A better word might be...”

  Maggie pursed her lips pondering a word choice.

  “Warlord, militia,” said Cameron.

  “Cartel,” said Maggie. “Their reputation as pirates has actually helped them in the past, creates this picture of a rag tag group of unwashed men in rags tearing around in little wooden skiffs. Detracts
from what they actually are.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The strong arm of the northern horn of Africa. They control shipping in the Indian and western Pacific oceans, parts of Indonesia and South America now too, and they run grift across all of these waters.”

  “Grift?”

  “That’s their big money. All of those yachts, ships, and freighters that are picked up bearing precarious flags, a good portion of them are prearranged insurance scams or illegal cargo transfers under the guise of a siege. There’s protection money for the giant fisheries, and Lord knows what they’re dumping in the waters out there.”

  “That sounds like a lot,” said Cameron.

  “It is. As pirates, they’re documented around 120 million US dollars a year. I hear the real numbers are more like three billion.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah,” said Maggie, “probably still a lowball. It’s never where you see it.”

  “I guess not. No wonder they have such a strong foothold.”

  “They’re allowed a foothold because they’re suppressing Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. The cartels are clan driven and even though Al Shabaab is predominantly intertwined, the cartels are the decision makers. As long as they’re funded, they are in charge,” said Maggie.

  “Al Shabaab means the youth,” said Cameron.

  “And the clans are run by the elders.”

  “And Abbo is an elder.”

  “Technically a sheikh maybe, I don’t know. He is the cartel elder.”

  “Where can I find him?” asked Cameron.

  “You want to find Abbo Mohammed?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Sure I know. He’s not that hard to find. He holds up where all the shady billion dollar deals take place. You’ll find Abbo Mohammed in Dubai. What do you plan to do, march in and cook him something?”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Cameron. “Actually, we have a friend to help us make contact, Ibrahim—”

  “Ibrahim Dada!”

  “You know the name?”

  “Don’t be fresh. You should be real careful of the friends you are making lately.”

  “I can use the help, so right now I am going with the old saying ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend,’” said Cameron.

  Maggie leaned back and peered into Cameron’s eyes, “I hope you know what you’re doing. The old saying you should be concerned with is ‘with friends like that, who needs enemies?’”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 22

  Paris, Fifteen Years Before

  Christine entered the small galley kitchen and agilely slipped her naked body behind Cameron as he buttered golden chunks of the egg-fried bread he had prepared from the remnants of last evening’s loaf. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, rested her cheek on his upper back, and made a warm purring sound. Cameron felt her nakedness through his thin cotton shirt. Her warmth prompted his chest to flex as she squeezed.

  “Bonjour, l’amour,” said Cameron, his voice soft and sing song.

  “I cannot believe you were up so early,” said Christine, her eyes still closed, heavy with sleep. “What time is it?” she nuzzled further into Cameron’s shoulder muscles.

  “I did not want to wake you until breakfast was ready,” said Cameron.

  “Did you make coffee?”

  “Yes, and it’s not that early.”

  “No? I do not believe you.” Christine softly nudged her head deeper into Cameron’s shoulder. “We should go back to bed.”

  Cameron smiled contently and began to place the bread onto a plate, “What happened to going out today? Remember? A walk by the river, a gallery, maybe a trip to the country.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Christine. “I want to do those things today.” She lifted her head and tugged Cameron’s shirt, turning him toward her. “That would be so nice. To have you for myself today.” She lifted her arms up over his shoulders and pulled herself close to him. He met her with a kiss. First a long one and then two fast smooches. Her lids sprung open, her green eyes lively and jubilant, awaken by his touch.

  “Whoa,” said Cameron. “Where did that come from?”

  “You remind me, I love you.” Christine grabbed a piece of the bread from the plate and the jar of jam from the counter, “First you must feed me. I am so hungry.” Her eyes and mouth both went wide as she tore off a chunk of the bread. Mouth full, cheeks puffed, she smiled at Cameron, and then slipped past him toward the table.

  Cameron set the plate of egg battered bread on the table along with some goat cheese, honey, and the coffee. When he sat, Christine was already voraciously under way with breakfast. Cameron laughed and Christine returned a full smile. Cameron bit into a piece of bread and then chuckled. He placed his hand over his mouth.

  “What?” asked Christine.

  Cameron pointed at the corner of his mouth as if he were Christine’s mirror. She put a finger near her lip, “Oh,” she said, and wiped away a splotch of honey. Cameron’s smile did not fade. Christine lifted her brows in question. “And um,” Cameron tapped his chest. She looked down, “Oh,” she said. She gave him a toothy bread-filled grin. Then with her pinky she dabbed at the drops of honey that had drizzled upon her breasts, rubbing them into her flesh.

  “I guess they were hungry,” said Cameron.

  “I cannot help myself, this food is so good. I did not know I had spices on my shelves.”

  “Only cinnamon and sugar.”

  Her eyes went wide again, her head wobbled side to side, “Only cinnamon and sugar? I would not know the first thing to do. You, my love, are in the wrong line of work.”

  Cameron took in a slow breath. The flat was shielded from the morning light by shadow and curtains of lace, yet Christine’s green eyes shone bright. To him, she embodied beauty. Her physical beauty was undeniable, her long chestnut hair wildly flowing over her bare shoulders. No man could resist the charms of perfectly formed pert breasts slathered in shining droplets of honey. Certainly, they shared lust. To Cameron though, Christine also held the beauty of innocence, happily rocking side to side as she ate, now humming a song, most likely one of her own creation. Most of all Cameron believed—wanted to believe—that Christine did not know the work he did when he was away from her. When Cameron was by her side, that man was someone else.

  “Cameron,” said Christine.

  “Oui, l’amour,” said Cameron.

  Christine tilted her head to the side and gazed into Cameron’s eyes. He could become lost in those eyes and never go back to Corsica, to the regiment. Maybe one day.

  “Today,” said Christine. “I want to look at puppies.”

  “You want to look at puppies?”

  “Yes, puppies. One of the girls has this beautiful new labrador. She says he is a chocolate Lab. He is very cute and keeps her company when…”

  Christine shifted her eyes down to the table and bit off a small piece of bread. She chewed the piece more slowly than needed. Cameron waited for her to finish her sentence and when she did not he prompted her, “When…?”

  Christine sighed and then sat upright in her chair, still peering at the table. “I do not want to think bad thoughts today. I need you to go with me to find a puppy to keep me company for when you are not here.” She slid her eyes up from the table to meet Cameron’s again, at the same time grasping his fingers into hers. Playfully pleading, she said, “Would you do that, Cameron? Would you go with me to find a chocolate Lab puppy?”

  Cameron leaned forward and responded in the guise of a playful lover, “Oui, of course I will go with you to find a chocolate Lab puppy.”

  Christine lurched forward and planted a kiss on Cameron, wrapping her hand around his head so that he could not escape. When she sat back into her chair, the toothy smile returned to her face. “Fabulous,” she placed her hands flatly together, “I know just the place in the country, and then we can have a picnic.”

  Seeing Christine so satisfied and joyful, Cameron could no
t help feeling the same. To simply make her happy made him happy. Cameron again imagined a world where he could easily stay here in Paris.

  Again Christine’s face became serious, “Cameron.”

  “Oui, l’amour.”

  “Thank you for being here with me.”

  “Where else would I be?” Cameron placed his arm across the table and Christine rested her hand in his.

  Christine smiled. Then a brief moment later, “Cameron.”

  “Oui, l’amour.”

  “Thank you for making this lovely breakfast.” Christine offered her cup to Cameron, and then sheepishly asked, “May I have more coffee?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 23

  Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, Dubai

  From his seat in the grandstand, the stringy twelve year old flung his naked arm down toward the starting gate pit. From the sea of owners, trainers, and entourages packed tightly behind the twenty-three painted camels, the boy singled out one man. “That’s him in the full body thobe and ghutra.”

  “Very funny, little one,” said Pepe. “They all are wearing thobes and ghutras.”

  “We’re wearing thobes and ghutras,” said Cameron. “Can you be more specific?”

  In his tattered desert tanned t-shirt and matching light denim pants, the boy, Rehan, was the only person on the grandstand not wearing a thobe and ghutra. The boy shrugged the shoulder of protruding arm, “You said you wanted the younger man from the Kingdom.”

  “Yes,” said Pepe.

  “He is there in the white thobe and red checkered ghutras.” The boy pressed his arm out farther, wagging his hand toward the man. “There behind the red painted camel with the green robot. The one with the number nine on the side, talking to the tall bald man.”

  “Yeah,” said Pepe. “I see.” He fixed his eyes on the man the boy had described, the only one of the small Arab horde to wear a red-checkered ghutra, was close to his trainer, passionately gesturing toward the length of the track. “Yes, that’s him.” Pepe tilted his head close to Cameron, “And look who is with him, our friend from the London garage.”