The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  “Nonsense,” said Pepe. He tore off the heel of a small loaf of bread. “Un quignon de pain ne va pas me faire de mal.” He ripped away a piece of the heel with his teeth and then reached into the basket for one of the small bottles of wine to wash the bread down. With a full chewing mouth he said, “I will always be thin and strong.” He puffed out his chest and smiled widely, the chunks of bread in his mouth pushing out his cheeks.

  Christine laughed aloud.

  Pepe shuffled through the basket to find what other treats were hidden inside. He brought out a silver camera and pointed the lens at his sister. “Let me take your picture.” Cameron and Christine leaned into each other. Christine assumed a trained pose and Cameron grinned mildly at Pepe.

  There was a click and then Pepe lowered the camera. “That’s no good,” said Pepe. “Don’t be so shy, Cameron. You are with a professional.”

  Christine turned her head and nuzzled the side of Cameron’s face. They both began to laugh.

  “Perfect,” said Pepe. The camera clicked again. “Now one with the hound.”

  Christine smugly pushed her lips up and swatted her brother’s knee. “Moby is not a hound,” she said.

  “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît pardonnez,” said Pepe.

  “How about we get a picture together,” said Cameron. “Let’s ask that man by the tree.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 52

  Ile de la Cité, Paris

  Cameron squeezed his hands into his hips. His blood still pumped hard. He darted his eyes across place du Parvis-Notre-Dame, scanning for anyone that could have recognized him. The square’s name had changed to Place John Paul II, after the dead pontiff, yet regardless of title he finally felt he was someplace safe. The spot where he stood to the side of the square, between the great bronze equestrian statue of Charlemagne et ses leudes and the edge of the trees, was familiar to him, a constant in a world that was becoming increasingly tumultuous with amazing momentum.

  Cameron had exited Place Dauphine as expediently as possible without breaking into a suspicious run. To elude authorities, he had crossed the square to the northern bank of Ile de la Cité and nearly run into oncoming traffic of emergency vehicles. Cameron did not want to be seen. Without hesitation, he veered away from the flashing lights and squawking sirens coming from mid-island. He continued his stride north along the sidewalk and away from the trail of first responders that were filing onto the avenue behind him. He made his way onto the Pont Neuf, the city’s oldest bridge. He was about to cross the Seine when he heard the emergency squawks of additional vehicles rushing from the Paris Metro center. He doubled back to avoid being noticed. He followed the southern walk and at the first chance, slipped down the steps to continue along the Seine. Cameron kept moving toward the area of Ile de la Cité most infested with tourists.

  Surrounded by tourists, Cameron was able to blend in almost seamlessly.

  Cameron now stood safely in the shadow of the patina Olivier and Roland. The famed sword Durendal hovered above Cameron, eternally leading the Frank King Charlemagne and his warhorse Tencendor.

  Cameron was reassured, yet this too reminded him of Pepe. Pepe Laroque, his friend of many years, more than a friend, a brother, now incinerated beneath the bursting plume of black smoke that poured skyward a short distance away.

  Cameron had always been pleased by the mammoth sculpture, the representation of absolute power, of unification, of the good fight. Pepe referred to the magnificent work as a remnant of imperialism and, possibly worse, a recollection of a time when France and Germany were one. Pepe was, after all, a Frenchman.

  Trained to fully be aware of his gear and surroundings, Cameron was unusually out of sorts. He had not taken the opportunity to regroup. The blade Pepe had given him was easily detected, heavy in his pocket, as were the Ruger and SIG tucked in his waist. Cameron reached inside the pocket of his sport coat. Another relieving autonomic breath pumped through his nose and into his chest. He had his mobile phone. His other belongings, and his friend, were lost in the explosion at the other end of Ile de la Cité.

  The phone awoke with a full charge and reception. Cameron was thankful that he had powered the phone on the express train. That would mean–he patted the other breast of his coat and then searched inside that pocket–the charger was still with him, a small good thing. With his thumb, he zipped through the contacts to his restaurant Le Dragon Vert. Claude would assist him. Cameron tapped the screen and then held the phone to his ear. There was a series of clicks. Cameron imagined the signal being bounced against some satellite, and then the familiar ring. On the second ring, the other line picked up. Cameron spoke immediately, “Hello this is Cameron, I need to speak to—” the recorded voice of the restaurants hostess interrupted him. “Hello, thank you for calling Le Dragon Vert. Our hours are 10am to 11pm—” Cameron lowered the phone. The time difference from Paris to New York was six hours and the sun was high above the cathedral de Notre Dame. Stateside, Claude would be at the Union Square Greenmarket to greet the farmers and vendors as they set up.

  Cameron slid his thumb down the screen to sort through the contacts again. He slipped too far into the letter R section. He went up the list to the first name, Claude Rambeaux and then double tapped the screen to make the connection.

  “C’mon, Claude, pick up,” said Cameron. He began to pace in a small circle.

  On the third ring, Claude answered the phone, “Hello, this is Claude.”

  “Claude, this is Cameron.”

  Claude’s voice elevated, “Cameron, I thought this was you. You are still away. The number was a bridge.”

  “I’m in Paris.”

  “Ah, Paris. I am at the Greenmarket, so beautiful. This morning I found some small aubergine to stuff.”

  Cameron lifted his chin. The words were a bit amiss. The events leading to this call were all too personal. “Listen,” said Cameron. “Things are red right now.”

  Claude’s tone became serious. The elation of a mere second before was lost. “What’s wrong Cameron? How can I help you?”

  “I am in danger,” said Cameron. “I need to find somewhere safe.”

  “Where is Pepe?” asked Claude.

  A punch of nausea landed in Cameron’s inner gut as he mentally formed the words, yet to say them triggered a latent switch deep within him. “Pepe has fallen,” said Cameron. He said the words in such a way that he was reporting matter of fact.

  There was a pause.

  “I see,” said Claude. “You need the number for Absolon, correct?”

  “The hotel in Asnières is the safest place I know right now,” said Cameron.

  “Do not worry,” said Claude. “Make your way to the hotel, and I will make the call.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 53

  Asnières, Paris

  So many years had passed for both Cameron and Asnières since his last visit, that he momentarily lost his bearing when he exited the metro station. Some of the buildings were the same. As with most old European cities, the eyesore flare-ups of modernization increase in relation to the distance from the city’s metro center. Asnières was a suburb touched by such modernism. Convenience mart petrol stands, the bland architecture of new hotels, and anachronistic glass walled shopping centers peppered streets that held the generational homes he found familiar. He adjusted his mind to filter the transition of time, and then overlaid the Asnières before him, over the suburb of his younger days. The metro station, the pharmacy, and a few landmark buildings, now repurposed, led Cameron down a side street. He anticipated the old townhouse.

  Cameron did not recognize the guesthouse until he was close, the facade disguised with newly coated stucco and partly hidden behind a lush floral garden. He may have continued past it, had the unique multi gabled frame not caught his eye.

  The metal gate was the same, though there was no longer rust nor squeak. The fruit trees and slates of stone that composed the walkway were definitely a fresh part of the la
ndscaped yard, as were the grape vines wrapped up and around the arbor trellis. The wooden door, no longer weatherworn, was a deep brilliant red, and partly open. Cameron gently pushed the door a bit further and then entered the foyer.

  Cameron called out, “Bonjour, est quelqu’un à la maison? Is anyone home?”

  “Un moment,” came a younger man’s voice from the back of the house.

  The foyer also appeared foreign to Cameron, as did the adjoining library when he peeked further inside. The interior rooms had been renovated. Bright colors covered the once patina walls and some aged knick-knacks, none that Cameron recognized, peppered the few surfaces.

  A thin mop haired man entered through the French doors from the opposite end of the library. The young man appeared boyish, though Cameron judged him to be near thirty. The man wore a Brown University sweatshirt and was wiping his hands with a cloth. He held out a hand, a slight hint of French in his English, “You must be Cameron.”

  Cameron was pleased Claude had eased his arrival. He smiled and took the man’s hand. “Yes, that’s right. I am looking for Absolon. Is he here?”

  “That’s me,” said the young man.

  “There is a mistake, I was looking—”

  The young man finished Cameron’s sentence, “For my grandfather, yes I know. I’m Abe—well, I am an Absolon too—I have always gone by Abe.”

  “Little Abe, yes of course, you have changed.” Cameron hovered his hand waist level. “You have grown.”

  Abe lifted his brow, “Yes, that’s true.”

  Cameron placed his hands on his hips. “Where is your grandfather?” he asked.

  “He is no longer with us.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cameron.

  “Oh, that sounded wrong. Don’t be sorry, he moved back to Algiers,” said Abe. “He is very happy there.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I run the hotel now,” said Abe. He gestured past Cameron. “Excuse me, may I?” Abe slipped past Cameron to the still open door. He leaned his head outside, and darted his eyes through the neighborhood. “Monsieur Claude said you might be followed.”

  “I don’t believe I was,” said Cameron. “Though I am not so sure it’s safe to walk the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.”

  Comfortable that nothing past his garden was out of the ordinary, Abe closed the door and then headed back through the library. “Follow me to the garden, we can talk out there.”

  The French doors of the garden opened to a stone patio, shaded by a vine-covered pergola. Soft jazz and the pungent sweet scent of lilies permeated into the house. Bordering the patio were a variety of lilies, roses, and surrounding a corner arbor, similar to the one in the front of the house, a few groomed outcroppings of wildflowers. The simple courtyard and algae stained birdbath of Cameron’s younger years had transformed to the lushness of a miniature estate.

  On a low metal café table, a blue tin-serving tray emblazoned with a vibrant Orangina logo held a sweating bottle of sparkling lemonade and three tall glasses a lighter hue of blue than the tray. On a matching bench behind the small table sat an attractive young Asian woman, her blouse fully open, nursing a baby, easily no more than three months old. She did not appear modest or to mind the stranger entering the patio. She continued to serenely caress the suckling child, her tired eyes pleasant. Abe’s mop of dark hair and disheveled attire mirrored the young mother. Cameron understood neither had been getting much rest.

  Abe inhaled deeply and then in a soft voice introduced the young woman, “Cameron, this is my wife Kim.”

  Kim subtly lifted her head, her smile still pleasant, her caresses a natural repetition as the baby fed. Cameron was surprised by her American accent when she spoke. “It’s really you, Cameron Kincaid, the Dragon Chef.”

  Cameron’s eyes went wide. The events of the last few days had taken him far from the world he had created in New York.

  “That’s me,” said Cameron. “Pleased to meet you. What is the little one’s name?”

  “This little hungry fella is Jonah,” said Kim, “after my father. I love your shows. We only get one here. In Boston I used to watch you all of the time. Abe has told me many times you were a friend of the family. I didn’t believe him.”

  “It’s true, I knew Abe’s grandfather quite well, and the family. You’re American?”

  Abe answered Cameron, “Kim and I met at Brown my sophomore year.”

  “My mother is Vietnamese and my father is from Massachusetts,” said Kim. She gazed back down at the closed eyes of the babe in her arms. “And now little Jonah is French like his Daddy.”

  Cameron smiled a bit uncomfortably. “I’m intruding.”

  Kim raised her head again. “Not at all, sit. Abe, honey, pour Cameron a drink and tell him what you know.”

  “Thank you,” said Cameron. He sat in one of the two metal patio chairs. Abe began to pour lemon seltzer into the three glasses. “So as I mentioned, Monsieur Claude explained to me why you are here.” Cameron shifted his eyes to Kim, once again soothing her son. “Don’t worry,” said Abe. He offered Cameron the beverage and then took a seat in the second patio chair. “She knows what I know.”

  Cameron compressed his lips and then nodded.

  Abe lifted his brow in a matter of fact fashion, then continued, “Well, anyway, I still know all of Absolon’s friends.”

  “And Abe has few of his own,” added Kim in a soft voice, now rocking back and forth.

  “And I have a few of my own,” nodded Abe. “So tracking down this Dada character was not that hard.”

  “You’ve found him already?”

  “Not exactly. I am still waiting for friends to get back to me,” said Abe.

  “Hmm,” said Cameron. He sipped the sparkling lemonade.

  Abe grinned, “I did find out where he is going to be.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 54

  8th arrondissement of Paris

  The leather jacket Cameron had borrowed from young Abe hugged his shoulders and upper arms tightly. The sheen of the blackened lambskin reflected the amber streetlamps with the same glow of the scooters and autos parked beside him. He flipped the enduro’s kill switch and straightened himself, his legs spread wide to balance the motorbike in between. Without movement, the matching black helmet was becoming warm. He plucked his head from the snug heater rather than flip up the mask. He adjusted each driving glove, pulling down hard on the short cuffs and spreading his fingers wide to dig in deeply, and then, satisfied by the fit, flexed each hand. Uniform silhouettes of horse chestnut trees lined the roadways, already damp from the subtle evening mist, and muted beds of perennials filled the medians. The moist air, dense with the sweet pungent perfume of night blooming blossoms, enveloped him.

  Cameron began to wait, gazing stone-faced at the restaurant across the street.

  A short way ahead of him, the driver of the white Bentley was also in waiting. Behind the white car, two silhouettes sat sentry in a small indigo Renault. Abe’s friend had been correct. Dada was dining tonight at the Egyptian Room. Cameron pondered whether the warlord was undeterred by the earlier events of the day, confident the explosion that had killed Cameron’s old friend would not trace back to him, or did Dada simply not care, disregarding the matter entirely. Cameron decided on the latter.

  A faint drizzle had come, gone, and returned, still Cameron stayed in wait on the side of Rue Marbeuf. The hours of heavy traffic flooded across Avenue des Champs-Élysées at the end of the block. Taxis and town cars slipped past Cameron down the one-way street to let finely dressed guests arrive and depart from the trendy velvet roped restaurant, which, by this late hour, had transformed into a nightclub. Some of the guests he recognized from New York, some from his own restaurant. To go into the ultra art deco lounge of Egyptian Room would jeopardize his search for Dada. The risk of being recognized himself, even to have his name mentioned in a greeting, was far too great. Better to remain incognito in the partial shadow of the street, his back to approac
hing vehicles, no one looking back at the man on the motorbike, a common sight in Paris.

  A few times, he was wary of Dada’s men, twitching and fidgety in their seats. Once, Cameron thought he would need to move on when one of the large bodyguards stepped out of the Renault to stretch his legs. The man had stared a moment too long in Cameron’s direction, an animal suspicious of his surroundings, instinctually drawn toward the predator. Distracted by the scolding of his colleague, the bodyguard stopped searching the night, and returned to his assigned post inside of the car. The man was not mistaken in that Cameron was a predator. No matter that he’d redefined himself as a debonair restaurateur, a worldly television personality. No matter how he lived his modern life day to day, Cameron Kincaid was and always would be a specialized commando, a man still utilizing an alias, no less than in the last years he’d served as a deep cover agent. The part of his psyche overwritten by intense training and conditioning would forever leave him an alpha of alphas, an apex predator.

  Half past midnight, the bodyguard again removed himself from the Renault. This time the driver of the white Bentley also exited his vehicle. Both of the standing men pressed a finger to their ears. The driver of the Bentley opened a passenger door slightly. Dada was leaving the restaurant. Cameron slipped on his helmet in preparation. He reached down and switched the fuel line back on. When Dada, accompanied by two more suited bodyguards, made his way from Egyptian Room to the Bentley, Cameron lifted the motorbike upright by the handlebars. With the tip of his foot, he flipped the folded kick-start away from the bike. Once Dada and his men were in the vehicles and had begun to pull away, Cameron pounced on the kick-start to ignite the bike’s engine. He did not want to draw the attention of the men in the Renault. He left the headlamp off, and only when the small motorcade was near the corner of Avenue des Champs-Élysées, did Cameron pull away from the curb.