THE CATHARI TREASURE
By
Daniel Arthur Smith
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
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 Cathari Treasure
Copyright © 2010 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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Coming Soon
The Horror Series
Agroland
* * * * *
For Susan, Tristan, & Oliver, as all things are.
* * * * *
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Connect with Me Online
Excerpt
* * * * *
Chapter 1
New York Thursday 1905 hours
The man’s eyes were wide and locked with Gerard’s.
“Eh, there’s a guy in trouble in here,” said the man. “I think he’s having a heart attack or somethin’.”
Gerard was on his way to the front bar when the man, flush in the face, had stuck his head out of the bathroom door. Gerard was a waiter, not a paramedic. Every table in the restaurant was full and Gerard focused on getting to the vermouth for his private party.
“I’ll get the Maître d’,” said Gerard.
“I dunno,” said the man. The man glanced back into the bathroom behind him. Slowly he shook his head, “This guy’s not looking so good.”
Gerard took a step toward the door and then stopped. He scanned the dining room for the Maître d’. If Gerard could signal the Maître d’ to handle this then he would not have to deal with the man. He spotted the Maître d’ across the room. The Maître d’ was facing the other direction.
Gerard pursed his lips.
“C’mon,” said the man. “I need some help here.”
Gerard reached up and pushed the door open wide enough for him to step through.
Already annoyed, Gerard’s private party would have to wait.
“Where is he?” asked Gerard.
“In the last stall.”
Gerard put his tray on the long counter next to the folded cloth hand towels. He walked to the stall at the far end of the room and then pressed his hand against the closed door. When the door opened all Gerard saw was a large black duffel bag in front of the toilet.
“There’s nobody in trouble in here,” said Gerard.
“Sure there is,” said the man. The man slapped Gerard on the back of the neck.
Gerard reached up and pulled at the large rectangular cloth the man had stuck on his neck.
“What the hell!”
For an instant there had been a lot of stinging pain. The pain had quickly subsided to a dull numbing sensation. Gerard’s fingers could not lift the edge of the sticky rectangle and the skin of his neck moved with the fabric as he tugged. Gerard started to turn and then sank into the man’s arms. He tried to speak as the man walked him into the stall and could not.
“That microneedle patch is quick acting,” said the man as he eased Gerard onto the toilet. “A lot better then the transdermal patch.”
Gerard was frozen yet awake. He watched the man remove his blue blazer and then hang the jacket on the door hook.
“The transdermal patches work like a nicotine patch, slow release.”
Trapped behind his eyes, the side of his face flat against the cool tile wall, Gerard watched the man crouch in front of him and unzip the duffel. The man pulled out a clip-on bow tie and, still crouching, wrapped the tie cord around and under the collar of his white shirt.
“A real headache. The skin is a good barrier. You have to estimate when it will take effect.” His shirt buttoned and tie clipped, the man opened his hands, palms up, to measure his statement. “You take into account how much a guy weighs, how much he ate, monitor what he ate. I mean c’mon, if a guy just had lunch, you could forget it.”
The man dropped his hands to his thighs and patted them twice. He smiled at Gerard, stood up, and took Gerard by the shoulders.
“You know, once I had to follow a guy for three hours before he got queasy, the whole time tryin’ not to get noticed. On the subway, down fifth and over to sixth, every floor of Macy’s.” Gerard felt the man lift him and pull the white waiters coat from his shoulders. The man shook his head, “I swear, I thought that guy was never gonna go down. Now these microneedles are almost instant,” the man adjusted Gerard so that Gerard was sitting upright facing him, “but you know that.” The man gave Gerard a pat on the cheek.
The man slipped Gerard’s arms out of his sleeves and then gently set him back against the cool tile.
“That’s because these microneedles have a micro chip. A microchip and a hundred and fifty little needles.” The man’s eyes lit up when he said this.
The man had moved Gerard around so easily and there was nothing Gerard could do to stop him. The man slipped on Gerard’s coat. The waiter’s coat fit the man perfectly. Gerard wondered how the man knew his coat was the right size. Then something occurred to Gerard, with the coat on the man looked like him. The white shirt, bow tie, and black slacks, they all matched Gerard’s. The waiter’s coat with the unique embossed dragon logo to the left of the lapel was all that the man needed.
“These microneedles are a game changer. All together I’ll be in and out of here in the time it would of taken for the transder
mal to even kick in, amazing technology.”
The man slipped out of the stall and returned with Gerard’s silver serving tray. He knelt down and took a thermos and four tall shot glasses from the duffel. The man patted down the front of the coat and the pockets of his slacks. He bit his upper lip and looked around the floor of the stall. Then the man tilted his head to the side and peered at Gerard.
“One more thing,” said the man. The man knelt down again. From the duffel bag he removed a long silver knife and a white handkerchief. With one hand the man wadded the handkerchief into a ball. He firmly pressed the white cloth against the side of Gerard’s neck. The man lifted his other arm and slowly brought the dagger close.
Gerard wanted to scream and was unable.
“Shhh,” said the man.
Gerard felt a pinch beneath where the man held the cloth, and then his neck was warm, wet, and sticky.
* * * * *
Chapter 2
New York
Claude furrowed his brow.
“Is there an issue?” asked Cameron.
Claude drew his words out with a determined enunciation that exaggerated his already thick French accent, “I am glad to see you are back.”
“I would have been here earlier. We had so many extra takes. Being a guest judge is a head ache.”
Claude rolled his eyes up from his cutting board, “The Food Network, they can not get enough of the Dragon Chef, eh?”
“You call a place Le Dragon Vert your gonna get some flack.”
“You love the attention. Beside don’t worry. Everything is fine here.”
Cameron knew better, sure Claude was glad to see him yet at some point during the evening rush the chef was always distraught. Claude’s fickle dinner hour temperament was something Cameron took in stride. Routinely each evening started with Claude focused on some true or imagined issue. This evening Cameron had arrived at the restaurant late.
By the time Cameron stepped into the kitchen Claude had already begun to work himself into a fluster. Cameron picked up a towel from the counter to wipe the lens of his sunglasses and waited for his close friend’s complaint of the evening.
“Well, I do not want to complain,” said Claude.
Cameron nodded and smiled, Claude always started this way.
“How is the house tonight?” asked Cameron.
“The house is fine.”
“Hmm.”
Cameron held the lens of his sunglasses up to the light.
“It’s the private party in the library,” said Claude. He lifted the knife from the cucumber he was slicing then pointed the blade in the direction of the library. “That woman has been hassling Gerard every time he goes near the table.”
“Right, the vegans.” Cameron gave Claude a knowing glance then grabbed a piece of the cut cucumber and popped into his mouth. “What’s their problem?”
“No real problem. I have prepared a fabulous dinner for them, but,” Claude waved the knife in a circular motion, and then continued to slice the cucumber.
“But what? Don’t leave me hangin’.”
Claude raised the blade again, this time wagging the knife as he spoke, “She insists on coming back to the kitchen, and you know--”
“--Don’t disturb the staff,” said Cameron, quickly adding, “especially during service.”
“You understand perfectly. Can you please take care of it? And send Gerard back while you are at it, he is late. I have created this beautiful amuse-bouche. It is really lovely, split pea and still vegan.”
Centered on the silver tray in front of Claude a moss green liquid filled four ready to be served shot glasses.
“Certainly, where is Gerard?” asked Cameron.
“I have not seen him, he must be stuck in the library with that woman.”
“Ok, let me talk to them, I want that party happy.” Cameron placed a hand on the chef’s back and leaned into his ear, “Ms. Lacroux is a favored guest, she is from the UN, she is French, and you know she only chooses to come here because of you.”
Claude grunted and went back to the cucumbers again.
Cameron went to the small corner office pleased he was still able to appease Claude’s ego. Appeasing his old friend was all that was needed each evening to keep the kitchen running smooth and Cameron gladly took on the role.
From behind the office door Cameron took down the darkest of the three blazers he kept there on wooden hangers. He donned the jacket, adjusted his collar, and then preened himself in the small mirror tacked up on the post-it note covered corkboard. The haircut, the blazer, and the shirt were each part of the uniform that comprised his image, the image of a New York restaurateur. Adjusting to the image of restaurateur had taken sometime while the mindset of a uniform, a cover, was something Cameron was quite experienced in from his formative years. Cameron often told himself he was pretending to be a restaurateur and gourmet celebrity. He often asked himself what the difference was really.
Cameron stepped out of the office, eyes fixed and pensive, and his mind ready to start the evening, ready for the guests in the dining room. Distant by nature Cameron expended a lot of energy to be ‘on’, particularly after an already long day.
“Behind you,” said Cameron as he swiftly slipped passed one of the line cooks toward the kitchen door.
Cameron’s pace slowed to a relaxed gait upon entering the dining room.
Francois was polishing rock glasses behind the bar, his back to the dining room. Through the marbled mirror tiles above the liquor shelf he monitored the front of the house. Francois was the first to notice the boss step out of the kitchen. He nodded as Cameron approached the bar. Cameron returned the nod and then leaned back on the edge of bar stool.
“Bonsoir, Francois,” said Cameron. He slapped his hand on the bar.
“Bonsoir Monsieur,” Francois melodically sang out. Francois spun the rock glass he was polishing upright in his hand then pivoted on his heel to Cameron.
“The usual?” asked Francois.
Cameron tapped the tips of his fingers twice on the bar.
“The usual.”
The young bartender pulled the fountain gun from the holster under the bar, sprayed a shot of seltzer into the rock glass, tossed in a lemon slice, then set the glass in front of his boss.
“Seltzer, no ice.”
“Merci,” said Cameron. Taking a slow sip of the seltzer, Cameron swiveled his stool to inspect the house. The restaurant was loud and full. Servers glided between tables and each other, trays held to their sides or above their heads, while patrons drinking aged scotch and vintage wines conversed between nibbles of quail egg and escargot.
Cameron did not see Gerard.
Cameron walked to the end of the short bar to get a different vantage of the room. He quaffed the rest of his seltzer and then with two fingers fished out the slice of lemon and bit away some of the sour juice. He tossed the rind back into the empty rock glass and then set the glass out of the way behind the bar.
Cameron crossed the room toward the library.
Twice Cameron had to stop while traversing the room. Once to greet a guest’s relative visiting for the weekend and once to compliment another regular, an aging actress, recently returned from a spa vacation in Switzerland. Cameron’s guests loved that he remembered their names.
Cameron opened the library door. A tall black suit took up almost the entire doorframe. The young bodyguard’s firm jaw stayed closed as he took a step back to let Cameron into the room. Though a bodyguard rarely stood sentry at the door, Cameron was not fazed. Guests in the library most often preferred their bodyguards to sit at the bar and pretend to read while waiting for their celebrity clients to finish dinner. Cameron initially thought the young man standing expressionless by the door either did not read or was too green to know the appropriate time to give his clients some space. Once in the library Cameron thought differently. In the far corner of the library stood another tall man in a black suit. Older than the gatekeeper, the second
bodyguard was positioned to see out the windowed sidewall.
Cameron noticed that the bodyguards not only wore matching black suits, their tiepins also matched. Each tiepin the men wore was emerald green and embossed with the same small design. Cameron deduced that tonight the bodyguards were not token. These black suited men were professionals.
At the table sat the woman from the UN, Ms. Lacroux, with her guests. The small group consisted of Ms. Lacroux, and three others Cameron did not know, a man, and two other women. The younger of the two women looked to be around eighteen, pretty yet plain, noticeably plain, on-purpose plain.
Gerard had his back to him and was serving.
Cameron had found Gerard yet something was not right.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
New York
Cameron was puzzled. How could Gerard have brought the amuse-bouche from the kitchen to the library without Cameron seeing him? Cameron approached the table. Gerard was serving the wrong amuse-bouche. The shot glasses Gerard was placing in front of the guests held an orange liquid that should have been green.
Then the waiter spoke, “May I present a gift from the chef?”
The waiter’s voice, his accent, was not Gerard’s.
Cameron knew his staff well, and though this man has done his best to pass as Gerard, Cameron knew this waiter was an imposter.
Cameron’s eyes darted between the two bodyguards for a sign of suspicion. The two men were pillars. Cameron knew what to do.
“Good evening everyone,” said Cameron. “Ms. Lacroux, if you could excuse us for a moment.”
“Certainly Monsieur Kincaid,” said Ms. Lacroux. To her guests she said, “This is the fine young man I was talking about, the Dragon Chef. He has graced us tonight.”
Cameron flashed his brow, “You are too kind.” Cameron casually sidled the imposter. The man wearing the white coat of a house waiter was no one Cameron had seen before.
Cameron gently and firmly grabbed hold of the waiter’s upper arm and whispered into his ear, “You should come with me. Let’s step out of the library.”
The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) Page 1
