Abbo had taken the bait.
Cameron stopped at the end of the table and smiled a wide, toothy unassuming smile, the smile he reserved for television and fans.
“Yes, sir, I am,” said Cameron.
Peter placed his hand on Cameron’s shoulder, “Mister Cameron Kincaid, may I introduce Mister Abbo Mohammed.”
* * * * *
Chapter 31
At.mosphere Restaurant, Burj Khalifa Level 122, Dubai
Many aspects of Abbo Mohammed were fitting for such a man of his physical stature while others were magnified by pure narcissism. Every gesture was flamboyant, surreal, and larger than life. To hear Abbo speak was peculiar; though he had not mastered the English language, his voice was deep, clear, and each word was enunciated at the peril of being missed. His posture was unnaturally erect. His eyes cast a sidelong leer to Cameron across the table, “Mister Kincaid, thank you so much for joining us.” Cameron gauged Abbo was a man that sought to peer deeply into the minds of others, to decipher them. “How fortunate for us that you happened by. Can I offer you some champagne?” In a broad flowing display, he extended his arm to present the bottle of Ruinart Rose chilling in a tableside ice bucket.
“I’m afraid I am limited to seltzer and lemon this evening,” said Cameron, his voice apologetic, that of the fool to match the toothy grin he still wore. He placed his hand above his stomach, “All of the travelling.”
Abbo widely smiled in return, tilted his head slightly to the side, and then nodded. “I understand quite well. My last trip to New York threw me for many days. All of the long flying, I believe.”
Through Cameron’s hidden microphone, Pepe and Alastair were able to hear Abbo’s deep voice stumbling through English with defiant clarity. As according to plan, Abbo had recognized Cameron and invited him to his table. All Cameron’s team needed to do was wait for the next phase.
“I am sorry, I have been rude,” said Abbo. “May I introduce Mary and Antoinette?” The beautiful dark haired women, one on each arm, wore silk camisoles in lieu of blouses, one patterned with red roses and trimmed with Habutai lace, the other less conservative in comparison, a sequined sheer black silk tank top.
“Hello,” said Cameron. He shifted his eyes to each of the women, “Marie and Toinette.”
“Mary,” said red roses. “And Antoinette,” corrected sequined sheer.
“Ah.”
“Hello. Welcome to Dubai,” said Mary, her voice that of a trade show hostess.
Cameron’s eyes widened.
“You are surprised by my American accent, Mister Kincaid?”
“Should I be?”
Mary coyly lowered her green eyes away from Cameron to a solitary sugar cube plated before her. She playfully twirled the cube around the saucer with the end of her red enameled fingernail, “Some men are.”
“I am not some men.”
Mary flirtatiously tilted her head and eased a glance up at Cameron, “I am sure you are not.”
“Yes,” laughed Abbo. “Mary is from middle of America.”
“I am from Belgium,” said Antoinette, her green eyes puppy wide, her long enameled nail pressing the edge of her lower lip.
“So then it is true,” said Cameron.
“What is, Mister Kincaid?” asked Antoinette.
“Dubai is the land of many delights.”
Abbo laughed deeply.
“That amuses you?” asked Cameron.
Abbo composed himself, “You are a man that appreciates fine things. Please be my guest and educate me in the designs of this menu,” he paused and shifted his pupils side to side to each of the women. “And dessert is on me. What do you say?”
Cameron maintained an aloof tone, “I say let’s order the first course.”
* * * * *
Chapter 32
Paris Countryside, Fifteen Years Before
Christine peered over the crinkled road atlas into the withered brown field. “The farm is supposed to be right up here,” she said. “That is an orchard.”
“Where there is an orchard there is usually a farm house,” said Cameron. “I’m sure the farmhouse is right over this rise.” He wrapped his fingers tightly around the knob of the gear stick and lunged his shoulder forward. The gearbox of the old Citroen 2CV ratcheted loudly, resisting his effort. He nudged the shifter again. The car jolted forward, then the motor began purring smoothly up the hill.
“There, you see?” said Cameron.
Through the tops of the bare scraggly orchard trees, the crest of the hill revealed the weathered tin and shingle roof of a barn. Christine held the atlas tightly to her chest, straightened her back, and then extended her neck. The corners of her cheeks rose and she spoke with an elevated pitch, inhaling her words, “Oui, oui, that is the farm, Cameron.”
As the Citroen topped the hill, the rest of the farm was revealed. The house was attached to the barn. The aged stonework façade was intermingled across the two buildings. Christine began to tap her feet. By the time the car reached the small bridge at the bottom of the hill, she had started to slap Cameron’s thigh to punctuate her remarks, “Look, look! See those little chocolate pooches in the yard. How cute!”
Cameron wheeled the Citroen into the pebbled drive of the farm and began the fight with the gear stick to shift the car into neutral. Christine did not wait for him to turn off the ignition. As soon as the vehicle slowed, she opened the thin door and made her way to the band of puppies frolicking in the yard. The gearbox quarreled loudly, yet above that were Christine’s giggles and laughs.
Having successfully parked the car, Cameron opened his door and spun his feet out onto the stony driveway. He stayed seated for a moment, captured by the splendor of Christine rolling on the lawn with four puppies on top of her. Little chocolate labs near the same color as her long, now wild and sprawling, chestnut hair. Whimsically, she snickered and smirked. She communed with the small animals with quirky squeals and squeaks. Christine allowed the little paws of one to push her to one side and the muzzle of another to toss her onto her back. She let them bathe her face with thousands of little tongue kisses.
Cameron was mesmerized by the amount of joy these Labrador pups brought this innocent beauty. The image became interspersed with lightning flashes of chestnut haired children rolling across the lawn with their mother. Cameron saw himself there in the yard as well. In that instant, Cameron saw a possible future of a family in love and at play.
* * * * *
Chapter 33
Abbo’s Harem Suite, Burj Khalifa Level 104, Dubai
Cameron stood at the corner of the glass walled suite, high above the city of Dubai. He peered into the vast blanket of twinkling lights that speckled far out toward the Middle Eastern horizon. Relieved of his Armani dinner jacket, he still wore his collared shirt and slacks. His tie was loose yet knotted. Mary had disrobed for him. He had smiled and then faced the window. Perhaps she thought him coy, playing a game, while ironically he was at odds facing her beauty, a beauty so reminiscent of Christine. Mary stepped up behind Cameron, seductive in her stride, and slowly draped her arms around his shoulders, resting her cheek against his back.
“You made a wise choice,” said Mary. She pressed her naked body against Cameron.
“Did I?”
Mary held Cameron as Christine often had, her arms wrapped around his broad chest, her head resting on his shoulders, her pert breasts pushed into his back. Christine was most likely captive in the next room awaiting liberation from Abbo. In facing the window, Christine’s memory had been invoked rather than defused. Cameron had a mission that Mary was part of, yet an act so natural as being with a woman, a woman devoted to indulging sensual pleasures, was at the moment the cause of mental duress.
“You know, Abbo is rarely so generous,” said Mary, her nimble fingers worked the knot of Cameron’s necktie, effortlessly loosening the silken material.
“Is that so?” He raised the end of the now loose tie and slowly pulled the thin piece of sil
k from around his neck.
“Well, he only shares me with very special men.” Mary unfastened the second and third buttons of Cameron’s shirt and then slid her hand beneath the tight fabric to slowly caress his flesh.
“He considers me special?” asked Cameron. He felt her sigh deeply behind him, quivering as her widespread fingers tightly strummed along his muscular chest. Cameron rested the lids of his eyes closed and allowed himself to release his restriction. In his lowered hands, he folded the long tie mid-length, then slid his hands to either end.
Cameron remained still, flexing his chest with deep breathes that further excited Mary and prompted her to eagerly unfasten the other buttons of his shirt, until his naked front was a field of flesh for her wide spread hands to soak in all at once.
Since Abbo had invited Cameron to ‘try’ Mary, Pepe and Alastair had maintained silence, all the while listening through his hidden mike. When Alastair spoke into his ear, he was not surprised. “You are special, Kincaid,” said Alastair, mirroring Mary’s sensuous tone. The levity was reminiscent to past undercover missions when Alastair would observe from a distance rooftop or darkened window. “Any sign of Christine?”
Cameron was not in a position to respond. With the silk tie firmly in his grasp, he slid his fingers over Mary’s and entangled her hands into his.
“Of all those green eyed girls, you stood out,” said Cameron.
Mary cooed, then said, “The sheikh like girls with chestnut hair and green eyes.”
There was no visual component to the surveillance kit, only the earpiece and the microphone. Alastair and Pepe were not privy to what Cameron had seen. They did not see Mary and Antoinette at the table eighteen floors above, nor did they see the other women lounging half naked in the communal area of the harem suite. Abbo Mohammed had a deep fetish for women of a certain type and had built up a collection. Cameron painted a picture with the clues he dropped in conversing with Mary, so that they could understand.
“Oh my,” said Alastair. “That is wrong.”
“Cameron,” said Pepe, “find her and get her out of there.”
Cameron released one of Mary’s hands to ease her around to the front of him in a way that allowed the tie to encircle her and then, his head bowed, he pulled the strip of silk to bring her against him, so that they pressed cheek to cheek. The heat of her breath burned into him. He slid his lips across her face and into her mouth.
Cameron kissed Mary deeply and she tasted sweet. His kiss excited her. She pressed herself into him, to devour him. She clutched the sides of his shirt and pulled. He tightened the hold of the tie around her upper shoulders to stay her arms. She fell to her knees and frantically positioned herself to take him into her mouth.
“Hold on,” said Cameron. “Not too fast. Let me help you to the bed.”
With a smile, Mary gazed up at Cameron and then rested herself into the slack of the tie. “You’re the boss,” she said. The tie became Mary’s reins and Cameron held the ends tightly. Playfully, she maneuvered herself over to the bed. Cameron let loose the tie as she climbed onto the mattress.
Mary rose to her knees to where Cameron stood at the end of the bed.
“So how does an American girl end up in Dubai?” asked Cameron.
“I knew that enticed you.” Mary clutched the sides of Cameron’s open shirt again. She opened her mouth wide to fully kiss him, pushed her tongue against his chest, and then slowly raked her teeth closed, once, then twice, and then tilted her head up. “I was doing an escort trip with an older man, an American, to Kuwait city and one of Abbo’s men discovered me.”
“Discovered you? You were abducted?”
“No, silly, though that’s kinky. I was offered a two year contract for more money than I ever thought I would see, and that was three years ago.”
“A contract?”
“Sure, all of the girls here are under two year contracts. I am the exception. Not bad for a girl from Iowa.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Mary nuzzled against Cameron again, “I would do you for free though, even if Abbo had not asked. I have to admit I’m a bit of a celebrity groupie. A celebophile.”
Alastair spoke in Cameron’s earpiece, “I think I’m becoming ill.”
“So nobody is here against their will?” asked Cameron.
Mary rested down on her shins and peered deep into Cameron. “Not at all,” she lifted the silk tie from the mattress. “But, I suppose if you like your concubines tied,” she wound the silk around her wrists and then raised them to Cameron, “we can play that game.”
“That’s not what I meant. Someone said something to me about the new girl.”
“I assure you that little French whore got a great contract. She used to be a model, I think.”
“Now, Cameron,” said Pepe.
“Where is she, the new girl?”
“Why do you care? You have me.”
Cameron lifted Mary close to deliver a passionate kiss. He inhaled as he kissed her, taking the air from her, causing her to swoon. He eased back. A faint plea of a breath slipped from her, his charm overwhelming. He lowered his voice, “I was thinking maybe…”
Mary was anxious, “Oh, you are greedy.” She bit her lower lip and then said, “I’d rather have you to myself, but that could be fun. I have wanted to try her out since she came in. C’mon, let’s go get her.”
Mary spryly launched herself from the mattress, towing Cameron by his shirt.
“You know I interviewed her,” Mary teased.
“What does that mean?”
Mary, comfortably nude in the dim light of the suite, glanced back at Cameron with a coy smile, “Wouldn’t you love to know.”
The hallway from the master bedroom led toward the center of the suite that sprawled almost the entirety of the floor. Mary walking naked through the corridor had no affect on the other tenants, all of whom were in different stages of dress, most topless in only panties, others fully nude.
“To interview means I look for what the sheikh likes and make sure flaws do not slip through. I have been with him the longest and know quite well what demeanor fits best.”
They crossed the lounge area of the suite and entered the hallway leading into the other wing.
“So you actually interview?”
“In all kinds of places, all around the world. This is her room here.” Mary knocked lightly on the closed door, “Babette, it’s me Mary. I have a handsome present for you.”
“Babette?” asked Cameron.
“Yes, I told you she is French, from Marseille I believe.”
The door opened to a beautiful green-eyed girl.
“It’s not her,” said Cameron.
“Excuse me?” said Babette.
Cameron spun around and pushed open the door across the hall, startling a girl painting her toenails on her bed. “What are you doing?” asked Mary. Cameron continued down the hall, opening one door, and then the next, “She’s not here. She must be upstairs.”
“Understood,” said Pepe. “I am on my way.”
* * * * *
Chapter 34
Burj Khalifa Level 104, Dubai
Cameron backed into the corridor, holding the door of Abbo Mohammed’s 104th floor harem suite slightly open with the toe of his shoe. He slipped on his Armani dinner jacket, extended his arms, and then flexed his neck side to side. From the inside of his jacket, he retrieved two smooth stainless steel cylinders, the size and shape of cigar flasks. He twisted the metal dials affixed to the ends of the tubes to wind each counter clockwise and then held them up to ensure they were slowly spinning clockwise again. Cameron tossed each, one at a time, with a swift underhand pitch, back into the heart of the suite. From the door, the far glass wall lent a vastness to the space.
“These are going to be enough to gas the whole flat?” he asked.
From the tiny device resting inside of his ear canal, Alastair replied, “The compression on those canisters will disburse the gas across th
e entire floor. If you sent two cans into the central area, they’re going to waft in an amnesia fog.”
Pepe added, “In a few moments, they will never remember that celebrity chef Cameron Kincaid paid them a visit.”
“Hmm,” said Cameron. “Their loss.” He smirked, and then gently eased the door closed with his cuff.
That part of the mission finished, Cameron snapped his fingers on both hands then reached up to fasten the knot of his tie, spinning on his outward foot toward the elevator.
In the center of the corridor, a muscular man in a dark suit was peering at Cameron. Cameron smiled at the man and sauntered past him to the front of the elevator, the whole while adjusting the knot of his tie.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the man, now behind Cameron’s shoulder.
“Yes?” said Cameron. He focused on his dull reflection in the stainless steel doors, and then quaffed his hair with the palm of his hand.
“What did you throw into that suite?”
“I’m sorry?” Cameron ran his index finger over his brows, indifferent to the man’s inquiry.
“You threw something back into the suite when you stepped out. What was it?”
“Oh,” Cameron gestured his thumb back to the door, “you mean when I…?”
“Yes, when you exited the door.”
“Well, those were gas canisters. Like knockout gas, except those were for forgetting, kind of roofied them all at once, if you will.”
The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2) Page 13
