THE SOMALI DECEPTION
EPISODE I
By
Daniel Arthur Smith
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Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
The Somali Deception
EPISODE I
Original Copyright © 2010 by Daniel Arthur Smith
Copyright © 2013 by Daniel Arthur Smith
All rights reserved Holt Smith ltd
Also for Kindle by Daniel Arthur Smith
The Cameron Kincaid Adventures
The Cathari Treasure
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The Somali Deception EPISODE I
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The Somali Deception EPISODE II
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The Somali Deception EPISODE III
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The Somali Deception EPISODE IV
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The Somali Deception THE COMPLETE EDITION
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The Literary Series
The Potter’s Daughter
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Opening Day: A Short Story
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* * * * *
For Susan, Tristan, & Oliver, as all things are.
&
To all of the others that choose to use crayons to color their rainbows.
* * * * *
Table of Contents
EPISODE I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Connect with Me Online
* * * * *
EPISODE I
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Seychelles Tuesday 02:35 hours SCT
Christine woke to yells from the decks above. She slid her hand to the still warm spot where Nikos had been sleeping and then began to raise herself. Wine and darkness pulled Christine back toward her pillow. She pressed her hand down hard on the mattress to steady the spinning bed and then pushed herself up further.
Softly Christine spoke to the darkness, “Nikos.”
No one answered.
Christine again said his name, this time louder, “Nikos.”
The yacht was still.
Christine shifted to the side of the bed, dizzy from the subtle movement. The shouts above were scattered, unclear, and the voices strange.
The yelling stopped. The darkness, stillness, and silence enveloped Christine. The cabin air became thick and the remnants of the wine again pulled at her forehead, down her neck, into her stomach. The blood rushing through her core gagged her.
The handle of the cabin hatch came to sudden life.
The stillness broken, Christine’s chest went tight. Breathing ceased. Her lungs held hostage by muscles squeezing deep into her neck, chin, jaw, the sensation of falling back and away, the urge to vomit, to escape, and then, a rapid eruption of adrenalin. Christine’s body was overcome in a wave of forced compensation as all of her muscles released. Her breathing returned, faster than measure. Clenching the edge of the blanket, she pulled the velour in tight to her lips to stifle the sound of her low feeble sobs. Hard forced clicks from the latch filled the stateroom. Though the cabin was a shroud of black, Christine set her eyes wide in the direction of the imminent intrusion. Futilely she began to back pedal against the slick silk sheets, sinking deep into the cushioned headboard.
Across the room metal slapped against metal, then repeated, two, three times, and then, abruptly stopped.
Though the hatch was locked the chemicals pounding through Christine offered no quarter, the flood had begun, the invasion merely delayed. Christine was alone on the master bed, in the darkness, stillness, immersed in near silence. Muffled whimpers continued to betray Christine despite her efforts to shield her mouth and the hot rapid breaths that coursed through her nose were thunderous. Through out her chest and throat, her mouth and nose, the sensation of more breath out than in.
A volley of gunshots followed by a barking shout interrupted the silence.
Christine broke down what was happening on the yacht into a series of actions spaced eternally apart. Each silent divide an escalating stretch of anxiety towering the last.
Nikos had assured Christine that to anchor on the far side of Curieuse was safe. The beach was in view from the deck, a far swim at most in the bath water warm azure sea, and they were so close to Mahé, a mere forty kilometers to Victoria.
From the edge of the room, Christine heard the smooth metallic rub of a key being slid into the hatch and then tumblers falling into place.
Christine wanted Nikos to be the one turning the key.
With a final click of the lock, the hatch smoothly fell ajar. A seam of light sliced through the cabin. Christine winced. Her eyes tightened, opened, then tightened again. The hatch opened smoothly.
Christine was initially blinded by the glare of the hall, then her eyes adjusted to the form before her.
The open hatch was cut with the backlit silhouette of a towering man, his arms contoured, his head a smooth sphere. Two other men of smaller stature stood behind the first. Christine’s green eyes tuned to the indirect lamps of the hall. The two men behind the silhouette were both dark Africans, one in a light soiled t-shirt, the other shirtless, each with a Kalashnikov strapped over a thin shoulder.
The tall bald man hunched down into the stateroom. Christine watched the outline of the fingers of one hand spread wide then slip away into the dark inside edge of the doorway. The man’s arm snaked up until he found the switch he was seeking. With a click, the wall sconces fastened above each side of the master bed illuminated the cabin with an amber glow. The man, an African darker than the others, surveyed the room. His eyes scanned the dressers snug under the side berth and cabin windows. He inspected the closet doors, and the opened entrance to the head. Not once did the bald giant’s eyes focus on the near naked woman, a model by trade, peering at him from the master bed.
With a wave of his hand, the tall man gestured the two gaunt Kalashnikov bearers into the stateroom. The men reached down between them and from the floor lifted a shirtless caucasian. Limp in their grasp, the two men effortlessly dragged the unconscious man toward Christine.
As the men moved closer, Christine’s feeble whimpers rose to convulsive sobs. Frozen against the cushioned headboard, her eyes began to flood.
The bright green of her eyes glazed over with the well of tears, and her head and neck pressed back so tightly against the headboard, that with each thudding pulse, the thundering rush of blood pained the base of her skull.
The two men carried the ragdoll of a man over to the bed and then with a dip and a lift they heaved the lifeless figure next to Christine. Her eyes shot to the bloody face. The beaten man was Nikos. Her heart swelled, throbbing against her lungs, preventing air from getting in.
Nikos looked dea
d.
Christine dropped her hand to Nikos’ forehead to move his blood-matted hair away from his face. She ran her thumb over his brow, first smearing, and then clearing blood away from the small cut near his eye.
Nikos coughed weakly. He was alive. Christine was able to take in a deep breath.
Christine caressed Nikos’ cheek, “It’s going to be ok, Nikos.” She was unsure if more than a soft wisp had escaped her dry throat.
Nikos’ eyes were already swelling shut and he was having trouble opening them. His jaw opened and then closed, only a faint breath escaped.
Christine exerted more effort into her voice, “Shhh, don’t try to talk.”
The hatch slapped shut followed by the metal clack of the bolt. Christine raised her head, her eyes frantically darting to the hatch and then to the rest of the still lit room.
Christine and Nikos were alone.
* * * * *
Chapter 2
Upper West Side, New York
Cameron reached deep into the loose right pocket of his slacks for the key to Le Dragon Vert. He usually threw jeans on after taping down in Chelsea. Tonight he did not bother. He walked alone along west Eighty-first Street. This time of night, the sidewalks of the Upper West Side were near empty. To his side the massive Hayden Sphere glowed soft indigo in the six-story glass cube Rose Center, a nightlight for the wealthy residents of Central Park West. Cameron sucked in the fragrance of the daffodils carpeting the small Roosevelt Park bordering the museum. Two taxis drove under the traffic light from the Central Park crosstown entrance. Cameron waited for the yellow cabs to pass and then jay walked across Eighty-first Street to his restaurant.
Cameron slipped his key into the front door of Le Dragon Vert, closed for the evening an hour before. He stepped down the three-steps from the vestibule into the amber lit lounge, his attention immediately drawn to the bar. The dark oak bar jutted into the edge of the lounge then ran the length of the tunneled hallway that led to the dining room. On leather seats midway down the dimly lit tunnel two men, one thin, one stout, were conversing softly. The wide man, his back to Cameron, revealed only the shoulder of the second. Without seeing their faces, Cameron recognized them both. His mentor and partner in the restaurant, Claude Rambeaux, owned the thin shoulder, and the girth and thick black hair of the other belonged to his friend Pepe Laroque, visiting New York from Montreal.
Cameron approached his two friends, both former members of the same super elite Legionnaire regiment that he himself belonged to years before. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I see you found the Ardbeg single malt,” he said.
“Claude says you charge seventy dollars for a drink of this,” said Pepe.
Cameron curled his lip, “It is thirty years old. Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you.”
As Pepe had been in the French Foreign Legion with Cameron and Claude, he was a dear old friend and far more than that. Cameron knew Pepe as a man would know a brother. Pepe was never too far from a glass of wine or brandy, hard liquor however was not his drink of choice. On the bar was a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.
Claude picked up the rock glass he had set aside for Cameron and then poured two fingers the single malt.
“Have a seat,” said Claude. “I expected you back from the studio a few hours ago.”
Cameron reached behind Claude for a stool and then pulled the seat to where he stood. “I took my competitor out for a drink. Life on the soundstage isn’t what he thought it would be.”
Claude handed Cameron a glass of the scotch whiskey. Cameron held his glass up, the others followed.
“Viva Legionne,” said Cameron.
In unison Pepe and Claude responded, “The Legion is our strength.”
“That is good,” said Cameron after sampling the single malt. “So I take it there’s no funeral. What are we celebrating?”
“No celebration I’m afraid,” said Pepe. He placed his palm on his forehead and held his hand there, letting his eyes slowly close. After a pause he wiped his hand across his brow, let his eyes rest open, and then looked into his palm. “The whiskey heats you up,” he said and then feigned a smile.
Pepe’s smile was that of a cherub, high into his puffed cheeks, still Cameron suspected bad news. “What is it Pepe?”
“Tell him,” said Claude, “go ahead.”
“Remember Langdon?” asked Pepe.
“Sergeant Langdon, yeah I remember him.”
“Well, he’s Adjutant-Chef Langdon now.”
Adjutant-Chef was the equivalent of Lieutenant in the Legion and essentially a sub-officer. “Huh, the world keeps changing,” said Cameron. “What about him?”
“He called me this morning. One of Langdon’s men is the IMB liaison.”
“The International Marine Bureau,” said Claude. Cameron nodded.
Pepe nodded his head and then said, “Langdon gets all the reports from the IMB piracy reporting center in Kuala Lumpur. Five days ago the Kalinihta, a forty-five meter yacht sailed from the Seychelles at 03:00 local time without notifying anyone. Kuala Lumpur is tracking the yacht. Her heading appears to be south of Mogadishu.”
“What,” said Cameron. “So you’re saying the yacht was taken?”
“The reporting center is not sure, they cannot make contact.”
“I do not understand,” said Claude.
“The owner of the Kalinihta hasn’t reported her missing.”
“If she’s not missing, why are they watching the yacht from Kuala Lumpur?” asked Claude.
“Because of whoever owns the yacht,” said Cameron. “Somebody important owns the Kalinihta.”
“Exactly,” said Pepe. “The Kalinihta is owned by Demetrius Stratos, the Greek shipping magnate. The GPS on the Kalinihta links directly to the IMB. They monitor its movements and the Captain checks in regularly. If the yacht moves a meter they know.”
“Sounds like the Somali,” said Cameron. “Though I didn’t think the pirates went that far out.” He sipped from his rock glass. “I’m sure Stratos is keeping it quiet to deal with it himself.”
Pepe nodded and made a soft grunting sound in the back of his throat.
“Why did they notify Langdon?” asked Claude. “Is the Kalinihta flying a French flag? I know our boys have zero tolerance for French hostages.”
“The flag is Panamanian. Demetrius has a son, Nikos. He was last seen on the yacht the day before with a model he has been dating. She is the French citizen.”
“So the IMB called Langdon,” said Cameron. “I’m missing something. Why did Langdon call you?”
Pepe’s eyes sunk back and from beneath his meaty brow he peered deeply at Cameron. The corners of his mouth went taut into his full cheeks.
“What?” asked Cameron.
“Cameron,” said Pepe. “The model is Christine.”
“Pepe,” said Claude. “Your sister Christine?”
“She was with Nikos on the yacht,” said Pepe.
“Are you sure? ” asked Cameron. He leaned forward to set his whiskey on the bar. “I mean she takes off all the time. Are you sure she was on the yacht?”
“I’m sure,” said Pepe. “I called her roommate in Paris. She told me Christine had flown to the Seychelles with Nikos and that she has not heard from her since.”
Cameron pushed his hands into his knees and tilted his head back to face the ceiling. His mind flooded with youthful images of a smiling, laughing Christine.
“And Langdon,” said Claude. “What’s he going to do, take a team to board the yacht?”
Pepe shook his head, “No, until the Kalinihta is reported hijacked there is nothing he can do.”
“I see,” said Claude.
“Hostages are held on the average of forty-five days before a ransom is paid,” said Pepe. “I don’t think it would take Stratos that long to come up with the money. If he sends in his own team, who knows.”
Cameron brought his head back forward and straightened his neck. He lifted his hand fr
om his knee and firmly gripped Pepe’s shoulder. “So when do we leave?”
Pepe grinned. He reached across his chest, patted Cameron’s hand, and then from his jacket he brought out a pair of heavy rimmed black glasses and a folded sheet of paper. He slipped on the glasses, opened the sheet, and leaned his head forward, tilting the paper toward the dim light behind the bar.
“We fly out of JFK at 7:50pm for Nairobi,” said Pepe. He lowered the paper and peered over the rim of his glasses toward Cameron. “We layover in London for a few hours. In all it should take about twenty.”
“That will give us time to make some calls,” said Cameron. “I take it you already contacted Alastair?”
“I have, his people will meet us in Nairobi and take us to meet him at the eco-lodge.”
“Eco-lodge, I like that.” Cameron’s right hand was still on Pepe’s shoulder and the other was retrieving his whiskey from the bar. “Claude, I’ll need you to --,”
“I know, do not worry,” said Claude. “Just get Christine home safely.”
Cameron lifted his glass into the air. “So Somalia via Kenya we go.”
Pepe lifted his glass to the toast and then the three drank.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
Atlantic Ocean
Cameron pulled the light blanket over his chin. This flight contrasted the countless missions he flew as a young Legionnaire. In the Legion there were far more take offs than landings and never was a flight this comfortable. Pepe had arranged sleeper service for the two of them. They were served a full dinner pre-flight at the JFK VIP lounge and then as soon as the Boeing 777 left the runway the flight attendants started a turn down service. Next to each other in opposed directions, the back and front of their two sleeper seats reclined and lifted to create two-meter berths. A little tall for the mattress, Cameron was still able to relax, though sleep would not come easy. Cameron was too well aware that on the other side of the divider, Pepe was reviewing the latest details of the hijacked yacht.
The Somali Deception Episode I (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) Page 1
