The Saudi, his head still drooping and eyes beginning to well, spoke quietly in almost a murmur, “It is a family residence.”
“I bet you have to use a code with this too,” said Cameron. “A pin number, maybe?” Cameron peered over the card to Taufiq.
Taufiq began to weep.
“Is that true, Taufiq?” asked Pepe. “Do we need a code?”
Taufiq subtly nodded his head.
“What is the code, Taufiq? Tell us the code. We need your help.”
The Saudi spoke in a whisper.
“I am sorry,” said Pepe. “I did not hear you.”
“823,” said the Saudi. “The code is 823. The card works for the elevator and the residence door on the 102nd floor.”
“That’s what the card says,” said Cameron, “102nd floor.”
“You see,” said Pepe. “That was not so bad. Now we can be close to Abbo. The task is almost complete.”
The Saudi nodded again, tears streaming from his eyes.
“And the new woman?” asked Pepe. “The one with chestnut hair and green eyes that has been brought into the harem.”
“Also at the Armani Hotel. He keeps his harem there.”
“On the same floor?”
“No, one floor below.” The Saudi lifted his head, “That key will get you to those floors as well. Except…”
“Except what, Taufiq?” asked Pepe. “Except what?”
“I will need to be with you. Sometimes, not always, sometimes the elevator requests more security.”
“Another code?” asked Pepe.
“Or something biometric?” asked Cameron. “Like a voice imprint, a handprint, maybe even a retinal scan.”
The Saudi hesitated, then said, “A retinal scan,” he paused to gauge Pepe’s reaction and then began to speak quickly. “Particularly if you are visiting floors other than your own, it is all very random, hardly ever actually, that’s why I didn’t think of it, but I will help you, I swear.”
“I see,” said Pepe.
The Saudi watched Cameron press a thumb to his forehead and make a deep frown.
“I will help you,” said the Saudi. “To get Abbo, I will help. Tonight, now. We will go right now.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Pepe. “You have helped enough. We are finished here.”
“Are you sure? There must be more I can do.”
“No, you have done enough.”
“I have?”
“Now, Taufiq, you must understand we need to be confident that you will stay silent. If you were to go to Abbo, or run into Abbo, or if Abbo were to come looking for you, there is too great a chance you may say something.”
Again the orbs of Taufiq’s eyes, plump and pushing from his skull, fought to escape him, “I swear I will say nothing. By Allah I swear, by Allah I swear. Wallah, Wallah.”
Pepe placed his hand on the Saudi’s shoulder, “I believe, you believe that.”
“You promised not to shoot me!” said Taufiq, his face was wet and dripped with tears.
“Shhh,” said Pepe. He leaned in close and placed his cheek near Taufiq’s. “Shhh.”
Taufiq felt a poke in his neck and then great warmth. Pepe pressed on Taufiq’s shoulder, easing him slowly down the wall to his knees. Taufiq placed his hand on his neck where he felt the warmth. His fingers immediately became hot and wet and when he massaged them into his neck, sticky. He pulled them away to see his own bright crimson leakage and attempted to cry out, but no sounds came.
“Shhh,” said Pepe again. Pepe’s face was warm and kind, “Allah waits for you. Close your eyes and go to him.”
* * * * *
Chapter 29
Old Town Dubai
Alastair sat at a table near the edge of the promenade overlooking the Burj Khalifa Lake, the building of the shared name towering above them from across the water.
“You didn’t bring him with you,” said Alastair.
“In a sense, we did,” said Cameron. He pulled a chair away from the table and then sat down. “Pepe has his eyes.”
“Bloody hell. So it came to that.” Alastair’s lips pulled tight and the entirety of his face shifted to the side, a scowl that Cameron recognized and always took as a judgment, and a faux disgust. Cameron had adopted many cues from Alastair over the years. Alastair had an upscale upbringing and recognized when to behave in a fashion.
“It always comes to that,” said Cameron. “That’s why I got the hell out of the game.”
A waiter approached Cameron and bowed his head, “Coffee, Sayyed?”
“Yes, coffee please, with lemon and sweet. Do you have artificial?”
“Certainly,” said the waiter.
“That will be all then, thank you.”
The waiter bowed his head again and backed away from the table before changing direction for the bar.
Alastair picked up where they were a moment before. “You got out of the game for the same reason as the rest of us. You were getting too old and too poor to be doing what we were doing.”
“I was tired of killing innocents.”
“Collateral happens and you know that. Besides, I would hardly consider Taufiq Sawar an innocent. The man may have lost his money gambling but he made it as a human trafficker, a slave trader. He will not be missed.”
Cameron grunted, “Vive la Légion.”
“Need I remind you that in combat you act without passion or hatred,” said Alastair.
“You are not the only one that can quote the code of honor,” said Cameron. “Respect vanquished enemies, I remember that part, too.”
“I do as well,” said Alastair. “Collateral, we’ll have a drink for the bastard later. Does that suit you?”
Cameron flashed a glance and a twisted half smile smirk across the table to Alastair for bringing him back to reality.
“So everything was as we thought?” asked Alastair.
Cameron lifted his hands above the table, “Once again our friend in London had the information right to the tee. The secret Armani residence on the 105th floor of the Burj Khalifa, the golden keycard security, the elevator retinal scanner, and he was even right, unfortunately, that Taufiq would try to double cross us.”
“And Christine?”
Cameron sucked in a deep breath, “Right, Christine. He said he saw her, or rather, a new girl with chestnut hair and green eyes that had recently been brought into the harem.”
“Harem?”
“Yeah.”
The waiter returned to the table and set Cameron’s coffee before him. To the side he set a plate of assorted sugar cubes and sachets of artificial sweeteners. “Shukran,” said Cameron.
The waiter bowed his head said, “Afwan,” in response and then again backed away from the table.
Alastair watched the waiter from the corner of his eye until he felt he was clear, “Please tell me this harem is on the same floor.”
“Close, a floor below,” said Cameron. He picked up three yellow sachets from the plate, tore the ends at once together, and spilled the contents into his coffee. He shifted his eyes up toward the tower across the lake, “You come up with any new ideas as to how to get in and out of there while we were gone, or did you spend the whole of the morning with the blonde you disappeared with last night?”
“No and yes, no new ideas and yes I spent a good part of the morning with the blonde. She could not get enough of me.”
“I cannot believe you are still using that same line,” scoffed Cameron. “‘I’m from Kenya.””
“Well, I am, and the ladies love it.”
Cameron twisted and tossed the sliver of lemon rind from the side of his saucer into his cup and then gave a quick stir with the demitasse spoon.
Alastair watched Cameron’s ritual and when he was finished, he asked, “Why the artificial sweet?”
“Are you serious?”
“Well, yeah. That raw sugar is good sugar, besides, you’re a chef.”
“I’m a chef. I eat too much sug
ar. I am trying to watch my intake.”
“Hmm,” said Alastair.
“What? I’m getting older. You should watch your diet as well.”
“My bloody diet is fine, thank you.” Alastair gazed out across the lake. At that moment, the Dubai Fountain, the massive choreographed water system that spread across the manmade Burj Khalifa Lake, erupted and projected water into the air at different heights along the intricate path of the piping.
“Would you look at that,” said Cameron.
“Beautiful,” said Alastair. The high-pressure water jets and shooters of the fountain pushed streams of water to and fro across each other while the water robots made other streams spin and twirl in such a way that they appeared to dance. “You know that fountain can spray 83,000 liters of water in the air at any moment.”
“You don’t say,” said Cameron, and then sipped from his coffee. He was well aware of where this was about to go.
“I read they installed more than 6,600 lights and twenty-five color projectors.”
“Uh huh.”
“They even had fire shooting out one year.”
“Did they?”
“Can you imagine if that was your job, to be the fountain man?”
“Here we go.”
“I mean, what a responsibility to be the man that runs the fountain. What a specialized job. All of that pristine knowledge for only a handful of fountains.”
“I’ve told you before,” said Cameron. “These fountains are run by firms, teams, computers.”
“But there is one man, Kincaid. One man for each fountain that knows that fountain, that keeps the whole thing running like clockwork. A handful of master fountain men around the world. Sure, the Dubai Fountain is the largest, but think, there is another guy that runs the Bellagio Fountains—”
“Yeah, that reminds me, I read an article in the Times that the same people that built the Bellagio Fountains built the Dubai Fountain, they build all of these fountains.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Alastair, “the Fountain of Wealth in Singapore, the Magic Fountain of Montjuic. Kincaid, the Big Wild Goose Pagoda Fountains were built in 652.”
“652, I know, you’ve told us a hundred times, your fountain fetish is well known and noted, and what I meant was that a firm built these things to be run by firms. I don’t think there is just one fountain guy.”
“Sure there is.”
“I thought we were out here to check out the tower. I should have known.”
“Well, I said I have no new ideas, I do have an old one. Watch this,” said Alastair. On cue, five super shooters projected streams far above the rest of the water dance. “Whoa, now that is pretty high, at least seventy-five meters.”
Cameron followed the jets of water up above the lake. As the water crested, a series of loud booms echoed through Old Town.
“What was that?” asked Cameron.
“The water shooters have to use a lot of pressure to push the water that high. They are very loud. They have extreme shooters they never use that push the water up over a hundred fifty meters. Bloody shame.” Alastair winked at Cameron. “They would make your ears rattle.”
Cameron slapped his hand down on the table. “Alastair, you are brilliant.”
“True,” said Alastair. “I have been waiting for chance to be the Fountain Man, at least for a night.”
* * * * *
Chapter 30
At.mosphere Restaurant, Burj Khalifa Level 122, Dubai
The doors of the express elevator opened on the level 123 sky lobby, 450 meters above the promenade of the Dubai mall, where Cameron and Alastair shared coffee earlier in the day.
“Now this is class,” said Cameron, the movement of his lips imperceptible as he spoke. No longer dressed in the incognito local garb of the thobe and ghutra, he nonchalantly adjusted the cuffs of his collar shirt and the Armani dinner jacket he’d purchased from the boutique, “Can you fellas hear me all right?”
From a small device hidden on the inside of Cameron’s ear, Pepe responded, “You are coming in clear.”
“Crystal,” said Alastair. “Can you hear us?”
“Perfectly,” said Cameron. From the express elevator, Cameron entered onto the top of a two-story art installation of dynamic light and ambient music. “You wouldn’t believe this place.”
“I am sure,” said Pepe, “though I do not think just anyone can land a same-day reservation for the At.mosphere restaurant, Monsieur Dragon Chef.”
“Very true, that’s not what I meant, though,” said Cameron
“I thought that girl at reception was going to faint,” said Alastair.
“Very funny, you two should put on a show. Listen, out of the elevator there is an amazing mahogany cantilevered staircase that is lit up as elaborately as that fountain show down in the lake. Which, by the way, I can see clearly out of the floor to ceiling window 123 floors below, along with everything else in Dubai.”
“Cantilevered staircase. You mean suspended in mid-air?” asked Alastair.
“Exactly, I’m telling you, this is surreal. Remember those computer flight simulations we used to sit through? Well oddly, they were more realistic than this. I swear there is a toy city to my left.”
“You’re high enough up for a low flight plan,” said Alastair. “What is to your right?”
“And to my right, below me, is the entrance to the restaurant, mahogany walls, the floors are café au lait limestone and hand tufted carpets, and I am pretty sure the furnishings are Adam Tihany.”
“Adam who?” asked Alastair.
“Adam Tihany,” said Pepe. “He designs all of the restaurants and hotels. Kincaid goes on about him sometimes.”
“Adam Tihany is widely regarded as the preeminent hospitality designer in the world today,” said Cameron.
“See,” said Pepe.
“Gotcha,” said Alastair. “I don’t suppose you see the target.”
“No, not yet. Give me a moment, here comes Peter, the maître d’. I usually try not to be too obvious.” Cameron lifted his arms and raised his voice, “Peter, good to see you.”
Peter, a tall thin Brit, glided toward the landing of the stairs, his hands clasped and raised to Cameron, still a few steps up. “Cameron Kincaid, welcome, welcome, so great to see you. I could not have been more pleased when you called.” Peter placed both of his hands around Cameron’s and Cameron in turn lifted his arm to Peter’s shoulder. The two walked together side by side.
“What brings you to Dubai?” asked Peter. “Opening a little competition, perhaps?”
“Not on this trip, though I could hardly compete with what you have here. You said if I were ever in the neighborhood to stop by, so...”
“Certainly we are so glad to have you, and thank you so much for the compliment, I so enjoyed Le Dragon Vert. Your restaurant is a true jewel in New York. We have worked hard with what we have. You have to see what the chef has done with the Josper oven.”
“I intend to,” said Cameron, “literally cooking without gas.”
The two entered the lounge area. The dramatic ambience of the suspended stairwell was accentuated with heavy hues of amethyst and a complex blending of ornate velvets. Cameron realized now that the esoteric music he had heard since coming off the express elevator originated from the harpist playing near the end of the bar. Peter led Cameron toward a small table. Cameron veered to the high bar, the sheer white backlit glass reminiscent of the milk bars of the last century.
“I’m fine at the bar, Peter,” said Cameron. He rattled his fingertips across the edge of the bar and spun back toward Peter. “Even from here the view is incredible.”
Peter shifted his view to the same direction. “Yes, we have a spectacular view of World and Palm Islands from here and of course, Atlantis at the end. And over there…”
“The Burj al Arab. Yes, I see.”
Peter smiled and nodded.
Pepe and Alastair had been anticipating Cameron’s statement, ‘Ev
en from here the view is incredible,’ as that meant he had sighted their target, Abbo Mohammed. Now would Abbo see Cameron? The plan was simple. They knew Abbo regularly dined in the At.mosphere Lounge and they knew that Abbo was by nature a connoisseur of cuisine, celebrity, and of all things deemed great and fine. Cameron had dropped his cover to secure a reservation at the At.mosphere, anticipating an encounter with Abbo. Cameron’s plan was to have the maître d’ place him at the bar near Abbo and let natural events play out. The team had calculated that Abbo, once noticing Cameron, would be excited at an opportunity to meet the celebrity Dragon Chef, and would insist Cameron join him at his table. Abbo, of course, would have no idea that Cameron Kincaid, the famous New York celebrity chef, was one of the numbers involved in his son’s disappearance.
“Would you mind indulging me for a closer look?” asked Cameron.
“Certainly,” said Peter. He nodded to the bartender, “Edward can you prepare a —” he glanced at Cameron.
“A lemon seltzer would be fine,” said Cameron.
Peter again nodded with a closed smile and then led Cameron toward the seaward window, a path that ran directly next to Abbo’s table. Abbo sat at the small table’s head between two elegantly dressed chestnut haired women. Cameron crossed directly in front of Abbo. He did not make eye contact, yet he revealed as much of his face as he could to be sure Abbo had a good look, at one point pausing to glance across the room. Abbo was not an unhandsome man. Dressed debonair, his dark Somali complexion seemed almost regal in the complimentary interior of the At.mosphere Lounge. The contours of his strong cheeks and jaw were reminiscent of his son Feizel. The women beside Abbo almost caused Cameron to stall in his stride, each a visage of Christine.
Resolute, Cameron pressed forward to the window, “Breathtaking, Peter, absolutely breathtaking. What can’t you see?” Another code for Pepe and Alastair, meaning Christine was not with Abbo.
“We are very fortunate.” Peter leaned in to Cameron, “Though this is not New York.”
“Beautiful all the same,” said Cameron.
The two sauntered back toward the bar. Abbo was speaking rapidly to the woman to his left and she in turn was relating what he said to her mirror on his other side. All three were flashing glances in Cameron’s direction as he drew closer. When Cameron and Peter were about to reach the end of Abbo’s table, he spoke, his voice deep, booming, “Excuse me, Sayyed, a thousand pardons. My lady friend insists that you are the television chef Cameron Kincaid.”
The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2) Page 12
