The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  Apart from the Clef d’Or concierge, the lobby was empty. The dull grey light of dusk poured in from the street onto the ruby-laden Baccarat chandelier and surrounding eclectic objects d’art transforming the lobby of the finest hotel in London to a sleepy Tuesday evening gallery.

  There was no sign of Dada.

  Cameron moved first one and then his other foot back before spinning toward the direction he came. He quickened his stride and then with a glance back to ensure no one was watching, eased up to jog the few steps to the stairwell.

  Before the stairwell door closed, Cameron propelled himself inside, scrambling from landing to landing, down to the lower level. He suspected he could access the secret sublevel parking structure that he and Pepe had discovered days before from here. The humid service floor was eerily vacant. Giant tumbler dryers whirred around him. Cameron raised his weapon and began to prowl through the narrow spaces between the tall laundry machines.

  From the corner of the room he heard the clank of a metal door closing.

  Cameron marched toward the corner. He found a door behind one of the mammoth industrial dryers. He loosely clutched the latch, pressed his shoulder to the door, and readied his P226. He began a mental four count and on two, he pushed and released the latch while forcing his shoulder into the door. The door flung open to the garage and found two young men dressed in the garb of May Fair service staff, one holding a spliff, the other a lighter. Their eyes went wide and mouths agape.

  “We’re on break,” said the one holding the spliff.

  Cameron’s P226 was still raised high. He shifted his eyes from the boys to the expanse of the garage and then back. Both of the boys were fixed on his weapon.

  “Maybe our break’s over,” said the young man holding the lighter.

  “Yeah,” said Cameron. “I think so.” With a side step, he pushed the door open further. He flicked his head at the two and then added, “We have a security issue. You’ll be safer inside.”

  The boys looked at each other. “Safe is good,” the boy with the lighter said to the one with the spliff. They nodded at Cameron and then scurried past him into the safety of the laundry room.

  Cameron slowly stepped away from the door. He peered deep into the underground garage, this time detecting movement on the far side near the exit. The shining white bonnet of a vintage white Bentley skimmed above the tops of the newer luxury cars in the lot. The car was surely the same vintage white Bentley Cameron had seen on his last visit below the May Fair. The same Bentley he and Pepe thought belonged to the tall bald man and, by relation, to Abbo. Moments ago, he had met the tall bald man, Colonel Tijon, which meant the Bentley belonged to Dada.

  Outside, somewhere on the street, was the driver Pepe had hired on their last visit, yet no backup car had been parked underground. They had not missed the detail. They had decided that the budget was light for an expense that, ironically, they had agreed was of unlikely use.

  Boosting a car was an option, though that could draw too much attention and odds were that the vehicles parked in this secret lair would all be easily traceable through a LoJack system or, like Cameron’s own Mercedes, would simply shut off once reported stolen. He could contact their driver to follow Dada, though that would not really be necessary. There was another way to track the warlord. Pepe’s local contacts had access to the London closed circuit camera systems, the London CCTV. To find a vintage black Bentley would probably be close to impossible. Finding a vintage white Bentley in the London vicinity would not be so tough.

  Rather than return to the stairwell, Cameron went to the lift. He slid in his keycard to return to the fourth floor luxury suite lrbrl. The depth of the sublevel made his earpiece inefficient, silent, so he did not attempt to speak to Pepe until the lift was clear of the lobby.

  “I am on my way back,” said Cameron. “Are you still in the suite?”

  No answer.

  Cameron waited for the slow lift to climb another level to speak again, though he was sure the tech was well clear for reception.

  “I’m forty-five seconds out,” said Cameron. He was confident that Pepe was still in the suite. Pepe would respond if he had gone to the street. For some reason Pepe was silent.

  The P226, having dodged the cameras of the lift, was again in Cameron’s hand as the metal doors slid open. Halfway down the silent corridor, the corpse of the massive guardian remained twisted in the same collapsed pose. There were no alarms, bells, or whistles, emanating from the small camouflaged boxes mounted on the ceiling and walls. Only the subtle roars of the football match flowed from the Amber suite.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 44

  The May Fair Hotel, London, Mayfair

  The stench at the entrance of the luxury suite was far worse than it had been minutes earlier. The giant behind the door had bled out from his self-inflicted wound and, in course, had released his innards. In the brief instant Cameron took to cross the threshold, his eyes flooded. He made a note to himself to leave through the bedroom as Dada had, and then, remembering that the door was bolted, scrunched his face. Cameron stopped in the hall, his P226 ready to fire and his stomach ready to vomit from the smell of putrid sweet sewage at his back. He mentally repeated the mantra, In through the mouth out through the nose.

  The roars of the crowd emanating from the surround sound system had escalated due to some play or maneuver Cameron could not see. He gleaned for any sound other than that from the match—walking, shuffling—yet there was nothing.

  Pepe could be beyond his line of sight, yet so could Tijon.

  The odor behind Cameron was unbearable. His stomach knotted and he caught a wretch in the back of his throat. He had to move. Led by his weapon, he entered the main room.

  The room was empty, no Pepe, no Colonel Tijon.

  To Cameron’s right, the door to the master bedroom, the door Dada used to escape, was closed. To his left, a haze of dust floated above the remains of the dining table and an array of bullet holes and cracked plaster bordered the door from which Colonel Tijon had entered. The carpet between Cameron and the doorway was matted with countless fragments of broken glass from the disintegrated tabletop. He crept toward the open door with all of the stealth he could muster, unable to silence the glass crunching beneath his feet.

  Cameron froze, the doorway a mere step beyond.

  The adjoining room was quiet. Cameron raised his foot to take another step. Mid-step he heard an abrupt smack of metal slapping against a surface. Far inside the room, something had dropped onto a tabletop. A slow rickety creaking followed. The unmistakable creak of an old desk chair, taking the weight of a stout man, or a tall one.

  In a sleek move, Cameron let himself fall forward into the doorway, so that as he spun toward the far side the room, his body was lower than a predicted line of fire.

  No weapons were fired.

  The walls were marred with blood and indented by strikes from the room’s lamps and side chairs, the remnants of which were shattered across the floor. There was a man seated at a desk as Cameron had deduced, Pepe. Colonel Tijon was standing next to the desk, facing the wall. Not standing, Cameron realized, as much as being held upright by his head, which was lodged into the wall. The chair was bent unnaturally back, threatening to collapse under Pepe’s weight. Pepe reclined further, twisting the chair to face Tijon. Pepe’s sport coat was on his lap, ripped and tattered. He did not appear to have any cuts yet his knuckles, forearms, and face were scarlet, coated with blood, blood that was not his.

  Cameron spoke softly, “We need to get out of here. We have to put a trace on Dada’s car.”

  Pepe did not shift his body or veer from his gaze. He too spoke quietly, “I found a computer.” On the desktop next to Pepe was a silver metal laptop, the source of the slam on the desk.

  “You need to see the look on his face,” said Pepe, “the man that took my sister.”

  “I think we better just go. I’m surprised no one is here yet.”

  “We w
ill, first go into the bathroom and take a look at him.”

  Cameron raised his voice to a strong plea, enunciating his friend’s name, “C’mon, Pepe, let’s go.”

  Pepe spun his head toward Cameron. “Kincaid,” he screamed, “look at him.”

  Stunned, Cameron decided that he best do what his friend of many years had requested. He nodded and then stepped into the small bathroom. He was prepared to see Colonel Tijon mounted on the wall, his head the protruding bust of a trophy animal. What he did not expect to see was a bludgeoned, beaten, and swollen mass. After Pepe had thrown Tijon through the wall, he had continued to beat him past the point of death. Cameron surmised Tijon might not even have been conscious to receive the final deadly blows.

  Cameron left the bathroom. Pepe had risen from the chair. In one hand he held his black nylon bag, the end torn from the MP5. His jacket was tucked under his other arm, above the computer.

  Pepe spoke softly again, “You’re right, we should go. I am a mess.”

  Cameron faced Pepe, a man becoming twisted in pursuit of his sister.

  “What did you do to that man?”

  “I gave him,” Pepe paused, “I gave him some of what he deserved.”

  “In the Legion,” said Cameron, “we were trained with the highest code. ‘In combat, you act without passion and without hate, you respect defeated enemies’. What did you do, brother?”

  Pepe tilted his head slightly to the side. His face was blank. Cameron saw no recognition in his friend’s eyes, for him or the words. Then Pepe spoke, “Cameron, of all people, I think you understand. They took Christine.” Pepe nodded toward Tijon’s lifeless body. “That man took my sister.”

  “I know,” said Cameron. “But we took an oath. We are better than them.”

  “Kincaid,” said Pepe. He paused, shifted his gaze to the floor, and then back into Cameron’s eyes. “We are not in the Legion anymore.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 45

  The May Fair Hotel, London, Mayfair

  Cameron guarded the door of the lobby restroom to ensure no innocent passerby would enter to witness the deluge of blood-mingled water. Pepe was methodically expedient and efficient in scrubbing the sticky sap from his forearms, hands, and face. The brisk water also appeared to calm and rejuvenate him.

  “Careful not to get any blood on that counter,” said Cameron. “That white marble doesn’t look very sealed.”

  “You really think you need to tell me how to wash away blood?” asked Pepe.

  Cameron did not respond. He wanted to forget what Pepe had said upstairs about disregarding the Legion. They would always be associated with the Legion. They may not be active, yet the Legionnaire’s Code of Honor forever bound them. They had made a commitment to live life a certain way. To follow a code that adapted to the world in or outside of the Legion. Honor and fidelity was the way of the Legion, and faithfulness to honor, a portion of that doctrine. Cameron could no more believe that Pepe had resigned his loyalty to honor as he would believe that Pepe could desert him, regardless of a few harsh words.

  They had been stalwart members of the Green Dragons and the loyalty Cameron dedicated to his friend, his brother, was mutual and absolute, and could not be abandoned. He had to allow for time and conditions, their vow to fight without passion and hate had come years before the men in the suite had taken Christine. He would have to forgive his friend for a moment of frenzy.

  Then Cameron was struck with a moment of clarity. He awakened to a revelation that the absolutes placed on faithfulness and honor were not the true cause of this trepidation. The true cause was not so black and white. In the darkness loomed the greater picture, the extraordinary violence, and an unnecessarily high body count. He realized he had been ruminating the last few days. That he could not quiet his mind irritated him. Legionnaires learn that some people could die, and that some indeed should. They learn not to hesitate, for some people warrant action, the bad people. The events of the past few days, the past hour, though extreme and unorthodox, should not have bothered him. Cameron was in an unexplored space, and Pepe, he feared, was cracking, or had already cracked. They were confronting cartel leaders and killing them off like bugs; repercussions were inevitable.

  Pepe had finished scrubbing. As Pepe dried his hands, he peered questionably into Cameron’s eyes.

  “Did you go somewhere?” asked Pepe.

  Pepe’s jovial tone and expression had returned. The presence of a familiar Pepe snapped Cameron back from distraction. “Huh, yeah. I guess I wandered off.”

  Pepe smiled and then patted Cameron on the shoulder. “Well, stay close my friend, I need you near me.”

  From within the black nylon duffel Pepe retrieved a dark grey long sleeved shirt similar to the bloodied maroon one he had folded into his sport coat.

  “You brought a change of clothes?” asked Cameron.

  Pepe laughed. “No, of course not. This shirt was in a package in one of the bureaus.” He pulled the shirt over his head and then pulled the waist in place. He patted his stomach and curled the side of his lip. “Must have been purchased for one of his men,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Cameron. “You look fine. Now let’s get out of here. I want to check with your friend to see where the Bentley has gone off to.”

  “Of course,” said Pepe. He gathered his jacket with the bloodied shirt tucked neatly inside, the computer, and his black nylon duffel. The two exited the restroom and slid out the first side door as incognito as possible.

  “Taxi, gentlemen?” asked the curbside doorman.

  “No, thank you, we are walking this evening,” said Cameron. The two began to make their way down Stratton toward Berkeley Street.

  Pepe held the nylon duffel out to Cameron. “S’il vous plait.”

  Cameron took the duffel from Pepe, who began digging through his front pocket for his mobile phone. He fished out the device, perused the screen with his thumb, tapped a name, and then put the phone to his ear.

  Cameron tilted his head toward Pepe. “I have been meaning to mention. I noticed you finally gave in on a new phone.”

  Pepe smirked. “They forced me by discontinuing service on my old one.” He nodded his chin toward the device. “This girl, Kincaid, she will know where the Bentley is, guaranteed, and if Dada has left the car, she will know too. She is tuned in to the closed circuit with her computer. Magic is what she does.” He raised his arm holding the laptop and made a waving gesture as they crossed Berkeley Street. “Probably watching us now.”

  Cameron raised a brow. “One of your ladies maybe?”

  Pepe raised his brow in return. “My cousin.” The tone of Pepe’s voice abruptly changed, “Victoria, bonsoir.” Cameron and Pepe turned to walk down Berkeley Street. Pepe continued, “Bien, bien.” A pause. “Oui, blanc Bentley.” Another pause, “Aha, oui.” The two men stopped to the side of their waiting car, the black Bentley Pepe had arranged for them on their last visit. Cameron opened the rear door and bowed his head to move inside, and then Pepe stopped him. Cameron straightened and then turned back to Pepe to see why his friend was holding him by the arm. Pepe had the mobile phone between his shoulder and chin. “Oui,” said Pepe again softly. He released Cameron’s arm to point across the street. Cameron followed the gesture to Pepe’s target and there, parked halfway down the block in front of the May Fair Hotel’s Palm Beach Casino, was the white Bentley.

  “Oui. Merci. Ciao,” said Pepe and then he pulled the phone from his ear.

  “That is our white Bentley parked outside of Palm Casino?” asked Cameron.

  “Yes. She said the car drove around the block to the front of the casino.”

  “And Dada?”

  “She has access to the cameras inside as well,” said Pepe. “Dada is in the VIP room in the Palm Beach Casino.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 46

  The Palm Beach Casino Club, London, Mayfair

  With the light of day past, the tourists of the Mayfair distri
ct had departed. A sparse number of denizens quietly darted up the walk, en route to supper or cocktails. A sconce lit canopy near the back of the May Fair Hotel denoted ‘The Palm Beach Casino Club.’ Cameron stopped short of the art deco glass doors to glance across Berkeley Street, back toward the Nobu restaurant. In front of the restaurant, parked between a Ferrari and a Maserati, was the Bentley Pepe’s friend had arranged a few days prior.

  Unable to see into the car, Cameron nodded. “I heard you,” he said. “My earpiece is working fine. You can hear me all right, then?”

  From the backseat of the Bentley, hidden from Cameron by shadow, Pepe responded, “Loud and clear.”

  “Okay, here we go,” said Cameron. “Let’s see if I am remembered.”

  “The way you part with money, I doubt they would have forgotten the Dragon Chef.”

  “You don’t tire of saying that do you?”

  “The phrase pleases me,” said Pepe.

  Cameron reached for the door. Before he could grip the long handle, the tall glass door began to open. Inside the vestibule, a doorman spread his free arm up to gesture Cameron inside.

  “Welcome back to the Palm Beach Casino, Mister Kincaid.”

  “Thank you,” said Cameron as he walked into what once was the grand art deco ballroom of the May Fair Hotel and had since become the most exclusive casino in London.

  Comfortably spread out across the room were at least ten roulette tables, a small casino as gambling houses go. Light hued wood, indirect artificial candlelight, a few other games, and some festive gamblers created an effervescent atmosphere.

  A second man greeted Cameron as he entered the room. “Welcome, Mister Kincaid,” he said. “We are so pleased to have you back.”