The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  The white Bentley and indigo Renault continued forward across Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Rue Marbeuf becoming Rue du Colisée. Cameron held the motorbike at the corner. The Arch de Triumph towered over Place Charles de Gaulle to his left and an even distance to his right was the Obélisque of Place de la Concorde. When the light began to change for the oncoming traffic, he popped the clutch to gun the enduro. The engine whined loudly, jetting the bike through the intersection no differently than a scurrying rat. After he crossed the busy avenue, he eased off the throttle and tapped back a gear. The bike disappeared again into the shadows. The motorcade was already to the busy Rue de Courcelles. This time Cameron did not make the light. Confident he would not lose Dada, he watched the motorcade gaining distance and waited. When the light did change, the taillights of the Renault disappeared to the right.

  Cameron flicked his thumb to illuminate the bike’s headlamp. To remain dark on these streets could attract unnecessary attention. He motored steady to the corner and then rolled onto Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

  Dada had not travelled far. The Bentley and the Renault were at the valet station of the Hôtel Le Bristol. Cameron’s stakeout had been a success. He had discovered Dada’s Paris lair. Cameron was familiar with the hotel. He attended a birthday celebration there every year for an aging friend, a Francophile fragrance mogul from the States, and had stayed there on many other occasions in his new persona. How predictable that Ibrahim Dada would make his Paris home in yet another a five star hotel.

  There was an issue. The staff of the Hôtel Le Bristol was familiar with Cameron as well. There would be no way he could walk in incognito as he and Pepe had through the service entrance of the May Fair. He would have to use another skillset to get to Dada.

  The enduro leaned a hard left short of the hotel. Cameron rode around the block, stopping safely in the shadow of the first intersection past the hotel. The north side of the intersection was a good place to hide. If the Renault or Bentley were to leave the Hotel, they would be forced to turn south, a lower risk they would see him.

  Cameron rested his helmet on the handlebars. He pulled his mobile phone from inside the leather jacket and dialed.

  “Hello,” said Abe.

  “It’s Cameron.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Did you find him?”

  “Your friend was right,” said Cameron. “Not only was he at the restaurant, I was able to follow him to the Hôtel Le Bristol.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Abe.

  “Not exactly,” said Cameron. “The last time I was in the Hôtel Le Bristol I was in the bar all night with U2.”

  “The band?”

  “Yeah, the band.”

  “So they know you, got it, I have someone I can call,” said Abe. “Give me a few minutes.”

  “No problem,” said Cameron. “I’ll be waiting right here. This time I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 55

  Hôtel Le Bristol, Paris

  The information from Abe’s friend came by late afternoon. The suite that Ibrahim Dada had made his own was on the top floor of the Hôtel Le Bristol, the eighth floor, facing the garden. Near Cameron, two French paparazzi, each with a 500mm camera lens dangling from their belt, were discussing another guest of the hotel, a young pop star. Cameron circled the block again. Paparazzi stalking the young pop star were staked out at every exit. Cameron had to wait for the photo parasites to leave before he could approach the hotel.

  Cameron’s opportunity came where he most desired it, the service entrance to the adjacent Epicure restaurant. The new restaurant and terrace separated the hotel from the 1,200 square meter French garden and was perfect cover to get him close. The street clear, he ducked into the serviceway that ran between the gate and restaurant toward the hotel.

  Hidden in the shadow of the columned pergola, Cameron peered across the terrace to the back wall of the hotel. The white Botticino marbled terrace was empty except for two white jacketed workers removing and folding the last of the cotton-linen tablecloths from the cast iron tables. He waited for them to finish before making his way to the back wall. As they folded the last tablecloth, he sized up the best point of access. The bubbling ‘Fontaine aux Amours’ fountain at the center of the terrace appeared to be his best opportunity.

  The two began to chat and then one lit a cigarette. Cameron was prepared to wait out the pair. From inside the restaurant came a loud pop, the opening of a champagne bottle, followed by a beckoning shout. The smoker stomped out his cigarette and, with smiles on their faces, the two headed into the glass walled dining room. Bending at his waist, Cameron skirted the hedge to the fountain. The fountain was a bit farther from the first ledge than he had calculated, so he deduced he would need to climb to the top and launch himself onto the wall. From behind the fountain, he peeked back toward the glass walls of the Epicure restaurant. The two white jacketed men had gathered with three of the kitchen staff and were raising glasses. None of the indoor crew faced the fountain or the back of the hotel. Cameron counted to three then stair stepped up the base of the fountain, placed his hands on either side of the top basin and, in a hop, lifted his feet up near his hands.

  In the odd pose of an arched cat, Cameron froze.

  Across the terrace, hidden to him from beneath the pergola, was the hotel’s grand garden, a magnificent array of tulips, daffodils, azaleas, rhododendrons, and facing Cameron, the gardener. The gardener was spraying water from a hose onto a bed of tulips, meters from the terrace. Focused on his ground level task, the gardener had not yet noticed Cameron, directly to his front.

  Cameron remained a statue, a new fixture to the fountain. He had not expected to see a gardener watering so late in the evening. Then from within the restaurant came another shout. Cameron’s eyes darted to the indoor crew. One of the white jacketed men was walking to a garden door. “Bastian,” the man called out toward the gardener. The gardener’s head jolted toward the restaurant. Cameron could see now the man was wearing headphones and, caught off guard, had jerked his head to the side without looking forward, to where Cameron crouched, breathless. The gardener smiled, began to roll his hose, and headed toward the door and the others.

  Cameron waited until the crew again were raising glasses and then flung himself up and back to the ledge.

  Cameron propelled himself to exactly where he needed to be to clutch the ledge above his head. He briefly hung to assess those celebrating meters away within the glass walls and then, confident he was clear, he swung his right hand over to lead his body around to face the wall. As soon as his hand made contact, he hoisted himself up and then onto the ledge.

  Cameron’s deltoids burned.

  With stealth and speed, he wasted no time getting to the third floor, scaling his way to the suite’s terrace. The scent of magnolias shot up from the French garden below. Cautiously, he maneuvered himself between windows to avoid detection. He carefully placed fingers and toes onto the ends of the ledges, gradually lifting himself above the surrounding skyline. Though he had not scaled a building in years, the effort was second nature. Countless missions in the eastern bloc had required subtle infiltration. There had been a mission in Prague where he found himself scaling up and down the same building several nights in a row, primarily for visits to the wife of a former Russian General he was converting to an asset.

  Each grip from Cameron’s hand, each push of his toe maneuvered him farther up the wall until he found himself below the terrace of Dada’s suite. The room above was quiet. He spun his weight so that his back was again flat on the wall. Climbing as much mentally as physically, he already had his next move planned. His plan was to swing himself up onto the edge of the terrace. His deltoids still burned, yet he had blocked out the sensation. From his perch, he could see the sterile light and contrasting shadows of the hotel garden below and in the distance, the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, the church of Saint-Augustin, and the rooftops of Paris.

  C
ameron filled his lungs with air and then, with a pounce of a cat practiced a thousand times before, flung himself up, around, and onto the ledge of the darkened terrace. He peered under the railing. The French doors were open, framed by sheer curtain panels that glowed back at him. There was no motion, no shadows against the interior lamp lit wall. He held firm on the ledge.

  Cameron made ready the Ruger and then eased himself up and over the railing. With the greatness of stealth, he slowly moved toward the open door. His adrenalin intoxicating him, overriding the exhaustion of the day. He was a good adrenalin drunk.

  Through the sheer curtain, Cameron inspected the room. The only light in the room emanated from a tall standing lamp in the far corner. At rest in a cushioned chair beside the lamp was Dada, silent; he appeared to be sleeping. Also from the room came a familiar smell that Cameron identified immediately, the reek of a bowel movement, the particular stench of a man that has recently passed.

  Cameron moved into the room to have a better look.

  Dada was sitting in the chair. Dada was not sleeping. His face was beaten and cut, his left ear was separated from his head, the shirt of his fine suit oozed with punch colored blood, his throat was slit across the entire base of his neck. Cameron recognized the cut as well as any signature.

  “Pepe,” said Cameron.

  A dark shadow filled the doorframe to the adjoining room, and then a figure came into the light.

  On the chair before Cameron was a corpse that had been alive moments ago. Standing beside that corpse was a man, now alive, that had been dead.

  “I knew you would come,” said Pepe. “I could not wait.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 56

  Hôtel Le Bristol, Paris

  Pepe rested himself into a cushioned chair opposite the doorway from the freshly dead Ibrahim Dada. Already pumped with adrenalin, a confused wave of emotion coursed into Cameron. His old friend, a fellow Green Dragon, the man he had counted on through countless missions, was alive. Cameron was elated to see his brother-in-arms, yet the carved up warlord across the room, the work of his friend, was jarring. He peered at the dead man, mentally recreating the slow death. Cameron had seen men killed in this fashion many times before, and certainly he had no remorse for the evil tyrant. But Pepe had been extreme. He had tortured Dada, beat him, and then slit his throat. He had not cut from behind by surprise, rather coldly from the front.

  “You were looking him in the eyes,” said Cameron, fixed on the glazed sightless orbs staring out to nothing.

  Pepe had reclaimed a bit of the jolliness that had fallen from him the past few days. “I wanted him to see me as I took his future from him.”

  “I reject the glamour of evil,” said Cameron.

  “Do not quote verse to me, brother,” said Pepe. “I have finally found Christine.”

  Cameron shifted his full attention to Pepe. “You have?” Cameron peered into the adjoining room. “She is here?”

  “No.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “I know much more than that. Sit. Sit.”

  Cameron dropped himself onto a wooden chair on the far side of the French doors, resting his hands, still holding the Ruger, on his lap. The exhaustion was beginning to take a toll on him. “The others, the bodyguards?”

  “They are in the other room. I did not need them,” said Pepe.

  “So what happened? How are you—”

  “Alive?” said Pepe. “I was going to the window to call down to you to ask the restaurant for some, um, what is the word for miel?”

  “Honey.”

  “Oui, to get some honey. I saw Rudy from the restaurant offering you the box and wine. I looked to the table and thought very quickly. I ran to the door and was at the second floor when, boom.”

  “The explosion,” said Cameron.

  “Yes, the explosion came,” said Pepe. “When I reached the gallery, I entered the cellar and then left through the sewer. I did not know if anyone was waiting in Place Dauphine so I thought better if I appeared to have died.”

  “Well, that worked,” said Cameron. “How did you end up here?”

  “Probably the same as you. On a hunch, I called my contact back in Montreal. He told me of a bar where Somali frequent. I went to the bar and waited. The barman told me the men that work with Dada came in every night when they are in town. I gave the man some euros and began to drink. I guess I drank a bit more than I planned. By late afternoon, some men came in and the barman gave me a signal. I watched the men until they left and then followed them. I peeled one away and hauled him below to the catacombs.”

  Cameron was unsure where Pepe’s story was going. Pepe continued.

  “I had a discussion with the man and could not convince him to tell me where Dada was staying. Then I realized the man’s comrades had followed me into the catacombs and he was simply stalling me for time, so in the dark I killed them one by one until I got to the last man,” said Pepe.

  “And he told you Dada was here,” said Cameron.

  “He was easy to convince. Pepe reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a fistful of something. He tossed what he held onto the floor for Cameron to see in the light. Cameron’s eyes widened, his mind reeled. Pepe, without changing his tone, continued his story.

  “I presented the last man with the ears of his colleagues. He was quick to tell me where to find his general.”

  “Hmm, I see,” said Cameron, not wanting to believe what Pepe was saying.

  “Then I came here and waited. Dada told me what I wanted to know and more.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Listen for yourself,” said Pepe. Pepe reached into an inside pocket and then tossed Cameron what he had found there. Cameron caught the small piece of electronics. He examined the digital recorder and then hit play.

  Dada’s pain immediately spouted from the tinny recording. Cameron sighed and continued to listen.

  Dada screaming: “What are you doing? You are crazy.”

  Next came the sharp crack of a slap, followed by another, Dada screaming with each blow.

  Dada beginning to whimper: “What do you want. I did nothing.”

  Pepe: “You know what you did. Now tell me!”

  Another cracking sound cut through the recording, followed by another tinny and muted howl from Dada.

  Pepe again, determined: “You hijacked the Kalinihta, now where is the girl?” another crack, “Where is my sister?”

  Dada: “I did not do this. I let them stay at the compound and sent along some men.”

  Pepe: “That was your compound? Answer me,” slap, slap. Cameron peered up at the bloody corpse in the chair, the bruising that had begun on the sides of the face, and the bruising that had ceased after death.

  Dada: “Why should I tell you? You are a dead man.”

  Pepe: “Because I will cut this from your body.”

  Dada: “You will do no such, Aaaaaa! You are dead! You are dead!”

  Pepe: “I may be dead, but I am a dead man with a knife.”

  Dada: “Yes, that was my compound. The plan was for him to hide until you came. Then his father would be happy to deal.”

  Pepe: “What are you saying? That Nikos was in on this?”

  Dada: “Yes, Nikos, this was his plan to push his father Demetrius into a deal for a cut of the profit. This was his plan.”

  Pepe: “His plan?”

  Dada: “Nikos said that if Christine were captured that you would ride in like the cavalry to rescue her. The kidnapping was a setup. All planned by Nikos.”

  Pepe: “And you took Christine in return?”

  Dada: “No! I know nothing about her!”

  Pepe screamed: “You lie! You lie!” along with repetitive slaps, screams, and moans.

  Dada: “No, no. This was his plan from the beginning. Go to Gstaad and ask him yourself. Nikos Stratos. No! No! Stop this! You are a dead man!!”

  Cameron stopped the recording and peered into Pepe’s satiated
eyes.

  * * * * *

  EPISODE IV

  * * * * *

  Chapter 57

  Gstaad, Switzerland

  The Volvo was travelling much faster than the posted limit, and as they traversed the incline of the winding road, Pepe continued to accelerate. The engine loaded RPMs onto each gear in succession, amplifying the illusion of speed and momentum. Cameron felt the sensation of being thrust up, out, and around the curves. He would have preferred to drive, yet had to defer to Pepe. Before leaving Paris, Pepe had secured the car, so there was never a question or an option for Cameron to do more than ease back and take in the Alps.

  Of things to see in the world, the scenery of the Alps was among the most beautiful. A Mozart sonata filled the car. Cameron tapped his knee to the exhilarating tempo. The thinner air of the higher elevation gave the shimmering surface of Lake Geneva a fairy tale glisten. The iconic Alps, the pastoral valleys, and glacier groomed slopes were all postcard perfect. From the French Alps through the Swiss, the villages became evermore ornate. Even the jumbled architecture of Montreux, spanning from medieval snapshots of eras past to modern symbols of culture and the utmost wealth, had an enticing appeal.

  Cameron and Pepe would soon arrive at their destination in the Bernese Oberland, a fairy tale in the Alps, brought to life by the architectural wonders of the Gstaad super rich. Each chalet was a paradise, an oasis, a manifestation of the vanity of artisans, architects, and interior designers with no budget limitation. The breathtaking uniform chalets, ornately carved from local wood, each hid a literal underground fortress with which Cameron was familiar. The picture perfect facades, a modest three meters above the surface, hid high-tech fortresses five times as large in the depths of Oberbort, Gstaad’s most fashionable area. Reinforced by nuclear bomb proof concrete, these mansions under the earth held in their bellies swimming pools, fitness centers, spas, movie theaters, vintage car stocked garages, and wine cellars large enough to store a small vineyard. Cameron had been here several times before as a chef, and to play, and years ago as an agent. Quieter than St. Moritz and far more exclusive, the unscrupulous found comfort amongst celebrity and wealth.