The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  “That’s the man from London, all right,” said Cameron. “Looks like he is stepping away. Good.”

  Cameron slipped his hand into his thobe and retrieved a bright pink folded note revealing a picture of a hawk and the number one hundred. He held the paper toward the boy.

  Rehan’s eyes widened. He snapped for the money.

  “Hold on,” said Cameron, lifting the bill above the boy’s reach. “This dirham is yours as well as the others we promised.” He handed Rehan the bill.

  “And the rest?” asked Rehan.

  “First I need you to go down there and tell the Saudi that two Frenchmen are here to see him.”

  “But you speak English.”

  “And so do you,” said Pepe, “so what?”

  Rehan nodded and scurried down the grandstand toward the camel pit, his dusted shirt and trousers blending into the tan sand and shadow below the grandstand. He wove his way through the crowded staging area, disappeared, reappeared, and then popped up in front of the man. The Saudi, elegant in his pristine white thobe, froze mid-gesture of explanation to his trainer of how he saw the race that was to be run, and then tilted his head down to the urchin pauper boy before him. Rehan held his clasped hands up to the man and then swung back around toward the grandstands and pointed with the same overextended arm and waggling hand he had used a moment before. The Saudi fixed his gaze near Cameron and Pepe, his eyes searching.

  “Smile and wave,” said Cameron as he subtly raised his hand. Pepe did the same.

  Having seen their signal, the Saudi smiled, slightly bowed his head, and waved back. He held up his hand with the palm upwards and all of the fingers together and made a small movement with his wrist to signify he was almost finished and then he turned back to his trainer.

  “Watch this,” said Cameron.

  “He will not leave until he has a reward,” said Pepe referring to the boy, still standing in the Saudi’s shadow. The Saudi appeared surprised to realize the boy was still there. He said something to Rehan, and then attempted to return to the trainer.

  “Not that easy,” said Cameron, and he was correct, as the Saudi next gave Rehan something out of the leather pouch. Only then did the boy disappear again into the crowd.

  “I don’t know about this guy,” said Cameron.

  “Considering he is friends with Abbo, that should tell you enough. Then again, he is willing to betray him to us, so...”

  “Even that makes me queasy. I mean, we’re here for the morning races. Only sheikhs race in the morning and this fella owns a camel.”

  “A lipstick wearing camel.”

  “I think they are all wearing lipstick. Anyway, if this guy is a Royal Saud why is he willing to talk to us? What’s the deal between him and Abbo anyway?” asked Cameron.

  “He owes Abbo money,” said Pepe. “A lot of it.”

  “This fella appears to be loaded.”

  “All appearances. My contact tells me this man is way down on the Saudi food chain, barely on the radar. He is in hock over his head. That is why he will talk to us. We erase Abbo and—”

  “His debt is erased,” finished Cameron.

  “Voila.”

  “Must be quite a debt.”

  The boy shot up from the bottom the grandstands. “He is coming. He says he has to be fast as the race is to begin.”

  “I’m sure he has a lot riding on that little robot,” said Cameron.

  “Excuse me, sir?” asked Rehan.

  “Wagered, I am sure he has a lot wagered.”

  “Oh, no. I am sure he does not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Gambling is strictly forbidden.”

  “Then why is he so pumped up?”

  “Oh, the prizes are great. A luxury SUV, a luxury car, and yesterday someone won twelve luxury cars. And in the morning race, if you win, or place in the top three, another sheikh will surely purchase your camel for great riches.”

  “Bingo,” sad Pepe. “He wants the prize money. A passive way to stay liquid.”

  “Okay, here he comes,” said Cameron.

  “Run along for now, little one,” said Pepe, a fifty-dirham bill already extended. The boy grabbed the bill, then rolled his eyes at Pepe. Pepe began to stand, “Go on, and come back when the race begins.”

  Rehan scurried back down the grandstand steps the way he had come, circumventing the Saudi along the way. The Saudi raised his arms, scowling as the boy passed around him.

  Cameron and Pepe began to rise as the Saudi reached their seats. He waved his hand to gesture they remain seated. The Saudi faced the track, smoothed the length of his thobe, and then without shifting his focus away from his camel, took a seat next to Pepe.

  “Ahlan wasahlan,” Pepe greeted the Saudi, being sure to mirror the man’s mannerism of keeping his attention toward the track and not obligating him to make eye contact.

  “Ahlan feek,” said the Saudi.

  Now that the man was up close, Cameron and Pepe were able to see that the Saudi, as described, was a younger man, perhaps late twenties, with the handsome look of an aristocrat. His face was smooth and his eyes jeweled. Having met this type before, they were able to discern this man was arrogant and spoiled, most likely the flaws that were key to his undoing.

  “A fine morning for a camel race,” said Pepe in his most congenial manner.

  The Saudi’s voice betrayed his disdain and disgust for the two men beside him. His eyes remained fixed on his camel down below, “So you are the Frenchmen from Montreal?”

  “Oui,” said Pepe.

  “Have you ever been to a camel race before?”

  “No. I cannot say that I have.”

  “Well, let me tell you. There has not been a good morning for camel racing in years, not since they started wrapping these electronic devices in Arabian cloth and weaving them into the saddlebags. Age old tradition tossed aside for public relations.”

  “I see. The human jockeys were better?”

  “Much better,” said the Saudi, and for the first time, he allowed himself to inspect Pepe and Cameron. Then he returned his focus to the red painted camel, “Anyway, I understand you are looking for a mutual friend.”

  Pepe and Cameron, of course, were not unnerved at this joke of a man and continued to feign interest in the pit below, even in the brief moment the Saudi had turned to them. “Yes,” said Pepe, “I was told you would be able tell us where to find this…friend, in Dubai, and more importantly, assist us in getting us close to him.”

  “You understand correctly.”

  “So will you do this?” asked Pepe.

  “Yes. I will help you, though there are some conditions.”

  “Conditions? What do you mean?”

  “It was made clear to me that your intentions are to kill our friend.”

  “That may happen,” said Pepe.

  Cameron slipped his hand into his thobe, wanting to be near his weapon if needed.

  “I am good with this. And though your business is not my own, I did have to ask myself why you would want to do such a thing.”

  “I assure you, our action will serve us both,” said Pepe.

  The Saudi turned his head and faced Pepe, “Well, I did some digging, and it is like this, Mister Laroque.” Pepe took measure of the Saudi’s expression. The Saudi continued, “I need to think of my best interest. Were you not to succeed, how do I benefit?”

  Pepe, his face calm and voice kind, matched eyes with the Saudi, “We are here to do business. What do you want?”

  The Saudi patted Pepe on the leg, “I am glad you understand. I need a small fee. Insurance, if you will.”

  Pepe’s voice drew cold, “How much?”

  The Saudi again put his attention on the camel pit, obviously annoyed, “What is he doing now?” The Saudi fruitlessly raised his hand toward his trainer.

  Pepe repeated his question again, his voice deeper, “How much?”

  The Saudi faced Pepe and this time placed his hand on his shoulder, “Th
e fee will be one million US dollars, Mister Laroque.” He then smiled and began to stand.

  “That is no small amount,” said Pepe.

  “No,” said the Saudi, “that is the amount, however, that Abbo is offering for information concerning his son. Listen, I have to get down to the track. When I have finished I will return for your answer.” The Saudi began to start toward the camel pit then stopped himself. “Oh, there is one more thing.”

  “Yes,” said Pepe.

  “Something to help you decide.”

  “On with it.”

  “A new woman has been brought into Abbo’s harem,” said the Saudi. “A woman with chestnut hair and green eyes.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 24

  Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, Dubai

  Scattered shouts rose to howls and then a collective roar as people began to rise in the grandstands. On every tiered level, those nearest the front massed forward, tightly pressing against each other, folding those at the edge over the railings.

  “Would you look at that,” said Cameron.

  Still a kilometer away, an elongated cloud of dust rapidly rounded the outside turn of the Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, a rolling haze that covered all except the front-runners of the consolidated pack of painted camels and the pace keeping armada of white four-by-four Land Cruisers. Sporadic bursts of sunlight gleamed off the windscreens of the Land Cruisers that briefly slipped the grasp of the looming dust to shuffle for position. Striding forward at remarkable speed, the camels appeared to hover above the hot desert track—a Fata Morgana, a mirage—the trailing racers obscurely fading in and out of view.

  “They are making good time,” said Rehan.

  “They seem to be running themselves,” said Cameron. From the grandstands, the tiny electronic robot jockeys appeared to be mere colored cloth atop the lean camels’ backs.

  “They are not,” said Rehan.

  Cameron flashed a glance to size up the boy, unsure of the response. He decided to go along, “The remotes are in the four-by-fours?”

  “Yes, and some of the cameras are on the bonnets.”

  “The bonnets?”

  Rehan gestured, “On the top.”

  “Right, the people riding rigs on the tops of the Land Cruisers. There are so many.”

  “I once saw a race with forty SUVs, they will not allow more.”

  “Too many camels?”

  Rehan laughed at Cameron’s comment, “No, of course not. The Bedouin will race a hundred camels. The sheikhs race with the SUV. More than forty is too many Land Cruisers.”

  “Ah,” said Cameron.

  Pepe leaned into Cameron’s ear, “Are you ready?”

  Cameron nodded.

  “We need to go now, little one,” said Pepe. “Take us to where the man’s car is parked.”

  “Can we see the end of the race?” asked Rehan.

  Cameron patted the boy’s shoulder, “We will watch from the monitors. Let’s go while we can.”

  “This way then,” said Rehan, already in motion.

  Rehan had a sense of the crowd. He moved through the openings behind and around the large gathered groups, instinctively avoiding the bottlenecks at the stairwell landings and the congested entrance to the interior concession area, where those that had been lining the corridor in wait for the bathrooms were now pushing out toward the track. Cameron and Pepe stayed close behind, choosing to mimic the boy’s snakelike maneuvers rather than lose pace and have to awkwardly chase after him. Still, Cameron and Pepe were grown men and though agile, young boys they were not. Fortunately, the Al Marmoom guests were focused on the last minutes of the race, intoxicated by the elixir of the finish line.

  The concession area in the belly of the grandstand was predominantly empty, with the exception of a few men scurrying from the kitchens. Each carried a brass pot of cardamom-infused coffee, fresh brewed for the regal passengers of the four-by-fours about to finish the race. The monitors covering the walls featured the high definition live action of the camels up close, their tongues loosely draping their ears and pasty saliva spewing from their mouths. The small bulk of the robot jockeys on the camels’ backs were clearly visible and the attached whips, engaged for the final stretch, could be seen rhythmically striking the rear quarters of the lumbering beasts.

  Above the three, the excitement of the crowd began to build.

  “It is almost finished,” said Rehan.

  The roar and movement from above amplified to a thunderous roar in the concrete cavern of the concession space.

  Cameron raised his voice, “And then what?”

  “As soon as each race finishes, the sheikhs and royals step out of their cars to greet spectators and the people rush to them, eager to congratulate the winners.”

  “Everyone rushes down?”

  “They may all win a prize,” said Rehan. “Sometimes the sheikhs are very generous. Like the great Oprah.”

  A new image dominated all of the monitors, across which flashed first a purple, then an orange, and then a blue-blanketed camel; none of the three belonging to the Saudi. The hollers and applause that had been gradually building now peaked in a raucous crescendo, a final outburst of excitement that expired to a murmur and the unmistakable sound of an exodus from the seating area above.

  “This way,” said Rehan, leading Cameron and Pepe to the back of the concession space. Once free from the cavernous echo of the interior, the day drew new calm. Eyes widened and jaws slacked, Cameron and Pepe attempted to refresh their hearing. The space not enclosed by the concession area was used for private parking, which extended to the farther portion of the grandstands and wrapped around to access the racetrack. The palatial back of the grandstands opened out into an oasis of precious green lawn and palm trees, the centerpiece of which was a large, round pool fountain and an aesthetic bridge to the outside parking area beyond.

  “I don’t think I have ever seen so many Maybachs and Mercedes at once,” said Cameron. “This place looks like a dealership.”

  “Billboard included,” said Pepe, referring to the oversized digital monitor mounted above the parked cars.

  Rehan was not fazed, “The camel minders wait for their camel to cross the finish line so they can escort him off the track. The trainer will be with the four-by-four, leaving your man to come through here. Everyone else will be trackside with the winners for some time.”

  “You’re sure of that?” asked Cameron.

  “His highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum was a winner today, so he will be greeting admirers. Everyone will be lining up to congratulate him. His highness is very generous.”

  Pepe smirked, “The number one guy himself. You know, I truly and honestly respect and admire him. From what I hear, on many accounts across sources, he really is a nice person, cares for his people, and for the reputation of his country.”

  Cameron rolled his eyes, “I’ll take note of that.”

  Rehan reached into his pocket and retrieved a black key fob, “I parked your Mercedes there. That Maybach over there belongs to the man from the Kingdom.”

  “The white Maybach there?” asked Pepe.

  “No,” said Rehan. “The black one.”

  “Okay,” said Pepe. He held his hand out for the key fob and the boy pulled his arm away.

  “Don’t worry,” said Cameron. He held two hundred dirham bills up and the boy slapped the key fob into his hand in exchange. Cameron grinned at Pepe. Pepe scowled and then peered up at the monitor.

  “What are they smearing all over those camels?” asked Pepe.

  “The heads and necks of the three top placers from the race are smeared with saffron paste before being paraded in front of the spectators,” said Rehan.

  “Saffron?” Pepe glanced back at Cameron, “Saffron is expensive, oui?”

  “I believe the winning camels are ceremoniously doused in turmeric,” said Cameron, “essentially low quality saffron.”

  Pepe grunted then shifted his eyes past Came
ron’s shoulder. The Saudi and his driver, a giant of a man, were walking along the far edge of the parking structure toward the black Maybach. The Saudi was speaking on his mobile phone and had not yet noticed Cameron and Pepe near the concessions entrance. “There he is,” said Pepe, “right on time. Good job little one. Get along now.”

  “Call my mobile if you need anything else,” said Rehan, then he slipped past the two men back through the entranceway.

  “Call his mobile,” muttered Cameron.

  “Don’t worry, I have his number. Things are different here you know.”

  Cameron pursed his lip, “I guess, you ready?”

  Pepe nodded, “Yeah, let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 25

  Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, Dubai

  Cameron and Pepe sauntered across the aisle of the parking area to the black Maybach that Rehan had told them belonged to the Saudi. As there were at least three other black Maybachs in this small section of the structure alone, there was a chance that the boy may have been mistaken.

  The Saudi and his driver were steps away before they realized that Cameron and Pepe were waiting beside the Maybach to greet them. The Saudi said something into his mobile that they could not hear and then slipped the phone into his bag. He then gazed at Pepe with a closed smile, a smile of contentment and satisfaction.

  “Ahlan wasahlan,” said the Saudi.

  “Ahlan feek,” said Pepe.

  “I honestly did not think I would see the two of you again so quickly.”

  “You mentioned you needed an answer after the race,” said Pepe.

  The Saudi clasped his hands together in front of his chest, “So I did.”

  Cameron took one half step forward, “How was the race, by the way?”

  The corners of the Saudi’s mouth dropped. He slowly faced Cameron.

  Cameron continued, “I mean, you didn’t even place did you?”

  The Saudi let both of his eyes briefly rest shut and then reopen, “No, I did not. My robot did not respond accordingly.”