The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid)

by Smith, Daniel Arthur

  “Thank you,” said Cameron, accepting the toast.

  “Pain frais, how nice,” said Nicole.

  “How were you able to bake bread so fast?” asked Marie.

  “It’s a trick I learned in the Legion. It is soda bread,” Cameron wagged his finger from side to side, “no yeast.”

  “And you had everything you needed?”

  “Yeah sure. It is essentially just vinegar, water, flour, and baking soda of course.”

  “Baking soude?”

  “Bicarbonate de soude.”

  “Marvelous,” said Marie.

  “Don’t be so sure, though I guarantee it’s better then pain de guerre, if you have ever had it. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  “Ce qui est du pain de guerre, Mister Kincaid?” asked Nicole.

  “Pain de guerre, war bread, was something I ate a few times a day for the first few years of my hitch in the Legion. It’s very nutritious,” Cameron looked above the table, his face crumpled, “but hard as a rock and tastes,” he moved his jaw around pretending to chew, “like paper Mache might taste.” He stuck his tongue out and curled his lips up. Cameron then smiled and broke off a piece of the soda bread. “Claude taught me how to make this. It’s simple, but better.”

  “Hard as rock, how could you eat it?” Nicole shook her head.

  “Well, the Legion is French. We got rations of wine and brandy when they were available. That helped.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 17

  Lake Ontario

  After dinner, Nicole helped Marie clear the table then went up to the bedroom. Cameron put more wood in the hearth and then joined Marie in the kitchen.

  “I have this Mister Kincaid. You already prepared such a fine meal.”

  “It’s part of the process,” said Cameron. He scraped what small amount of stew remained out of the tagine and into a smaller bowl. As the two cleaned the kitchen, they said nothing to each other. The music had stopped after they had sat down for dinner, not until now did the cabin seem quiet. Cameron flipped the cassette tape and pressed play. “He has such a beautiful voice,” said Marie.

  “It’s not electric guitar, that’s for sure.”

  Marie nodded her head in agreement, “It certainly is not.”

  When the counters were clean and all of the dishes were in the soapy water of the sink, the two stood side by side, Cameron washing and Marie drying. Both stood relaxed, their hands busy, the music, softer now, accompanying their task. Marie held a plate with part of a towel and dried the edge with the rest, rotating the dish in her hand with each stroke. She turned away from the plate and gazed at Cameron standing next to her. Humming along with Pavarotti, Cameron was so at peace in the kitchen.

  “Mister Kincaid.”

  “Cameron, Marie.” He turned his head to her and arched an eye, “You can call me Cameron.”

  “Mister Kincaid,” said Marie again. He sighed and looked back down at a plate next to the sink. He put the dish into the hot water. “Yes,” said Cameron.

  “I only wanted to tell you…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you look so natural in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “I mean, you are -- were -- a soldier. Now you are a chef. How does that happen?”

  “You mean, how did I learn to cook?”

  “No,” said Marie, “though your food is wonderful, I imagine that you are a different man now than you were as a Legionnaire.”

  “That is probably true.”

  “So how does that happen?”

  Cameron handed Marie the last plate to dry and pulled the stopper from the sink to let the water drain. Cameron then picked up a towel he had left sitting on the counter and began to dry his hands. “How does that happen,” said Cameron, “I have Claude to thank I guess.”

  “He taught you to cook?” asked Marie. She set down the last plate, now dry, and hung the towel she had been using.

  “Yes, but more than that.” Cameron opened the door to Pepe’s wine cave and grabbed the neck of a bottle near the door. “He did teach me to cook, but he also taught me balance.” He held the bottle up to the light and then reached for the corkscrew.

  “Balance is important. To be sure,” said Marie.

  “Yeah, well, it started simply enough.” Cameron plunged the corkscrew into the bottle, “The rations we had in the Legion left a bit to be desired. They’ve gotten better over the last few years, but early in my hitch, they were far more lacking.” Cameron uncorked the bottle and poured the dark wine into two clean glasses. “Claude is an elder Legionnaire, les Anciens as we say.” He offered a glass to Marie, “I guess now I am too. Regardless, Claude served in the French Far East expeditionary corps, way back.” Cameron leaned back on the counter, “Then, the ration kits were composed of German and American stocks, as well as local food. Claude and the other les Anciens all told me how good us young fellas had it.” Marie too leaned against the counter. Cameron held up his arm gestured toward the main room and the large sofa. “Claude told me that the Legionnaires occupied their time fighting the Viet Minh purely so that they wouldn’t focus on their own cooks.” Marie smiled at Cameron’s jest and sat on the sofa. He sat next to her. The fire crackled in the hearth and cast amber light into the room. The moon had moved across the sky and now shown through a different set of windows.

  Cameron continued, “I guess it was at that time that Claude learned to cook for himself. He had some training before the Legion and a natural skill. He became very popular to those around him for having the ability to turn the rations into something great.”

  “And he taught you this?”

  “Not right away. He did not want much to do with me at first.”

  “What changed that?”

  “I saved his life.”

  Marie curled her leg under her. She unfastened the tightly wrapped towel from her head and let her auburn hair fall in front of her. Cameron continued his story with his eyes locked on her. The way she naturally ran her fingers through her hair was so innocent, wholesome, and pure. When Marie lifted her head back to him her face glowed faintly in the firelight. Her eyes twinkled. “So you got his attention,” said Marie.

  “Yes, you could say that. He opened up and we became close.” Cameron paused and then said, “His mentorship saved my life many times in return.” He took a sip of wine. “Ultimately, it was he that convinced me to leave the Legion with him, to learn to cook professionally, and to partner in Le Dragon Vert, our restaurant in New York.”

  “You don’t think you would have done that without him, became a chef I mean.”

  “I don’t know. Claude said I had a je ne sais quoi, that led to a charmed life.”

  “I could see that,” said Marie.

  “Really?”

  “You are a very interesting man, Mister Kincaid.”

  Marie’s eyes were inviting and her lips full. Cameron leaned toward her, “I told you, call me Cameron.” He placed his lips against hers and kissed her. Marie responded by reaching around his shoulders and pulling him closer. The kiss was long and the two embraced tightly. Then Marie pulled her head away, “Mister Kincaid.”

  Cameron looked into her eyes, “Cameron,” said Cameron again.

  “Mister Kincaid,” said Marie, slowly shaking her head to either side, “I can not.”

  “I understand,” said Cameron. He let his arms fall from her sides.

  A clanging of metal came from outside of the cabin where the Chevy was parked. Cameron and Marie sat upright. The P226 had been left upstairs. Cameron took the stairs two at a time and secured the handgun from the bureau drawer in the bedroom he had chosen for his own. He released the safety, pulled the slide back to cock the handgun, and then went back downstairs. Marie was on the edge of the couch with her hands on the inside of her knees. Marie saw the handgun and started to speak, Cameron threw his finger up to his lips. There was another clang. Cameron took his finger from in front of his lips and point
ed toward the huge windowed wall and the glass door within that opened on to the deck over looking the lake. He then walked his middle and index fingers in a semi circle. Marie nodded. Cameron pointed at Marie, spread his hand flat, and slowly pressed his palm down through the air.

  Cameron lifted the P226 to a line of fire and turned the latch of the glass door. The glass door opened silently. A light breeze, cool from the lake, whisked passed the side of his face. He placed a bare foot on the deck, testing the wood for sound. The boards did not creak.

  The deck was cold on his bare feet.

  Slowly Cameron made his way to the edge of the deck. He knew that when he turned the corner, whoever was at the other end of the cabin would have the advantage of seeing him in silhouette against the lake. He decided his only advantage would be surprise. Cameron counted to three and on three lunged around the corner, P226 ready to fire. He saw no one. Stars filled the sky above the trees that hid all below them in shadow. In the moonlit yard between the trees and the cabin no form or shadow moved. At the back of the cabin, around the side that Cameron could not yet see, the disturbance to the stillness continued. His body cant and both arms fully bent, Cameron made quick measured steps to the next corner. Cameron counted to three again and then on three hurled himself around the corner into a ready firing position.

  Cameron immediately saw the culprit creating the noise by the cabin. The masked bandit paid no attention to the man with the gun standing barefoot at the corner. Marie had taken the trash out of the kitchen, placed the refuse in the large plastic bin by the door, and had not fastened the lid of the bin with the snap-on handles. The smell of the food scraps from the unsealed bin lured a plump raccoon from the tree line.

  Cameron straightened his legs and let the P226 rest by his side.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 18

  Lake Ontario

  The aroma of fresh brewed coffee and the soft sounds of Mozart flowed to Cameron’s bedside from the great room below. Cameron was quick to his feet, relaxed and refreshed. He had been barely a moment between the soft mattress and duvet before falling deep into sleep. If he dreamt, the dreams were fleeting. His only sense had been that his breath was heavy.

  Cameron slipped on his pants and shirt, stepped out the balcony in front of his bedroom, rested both hands on the rail, and looked out onto the lake. Lake Ontario’s dark waters from the night before were now cool blue and the far off horizon cut a fine line below a peach ribbon of morning light. Below Cameron saw Nicole poking at the fire. Orange embers burst and snapped around the small logs in the hearth with each jab of the iron rod. Holding a cup of coffee Marie walked to the large windowed wall from the kitchen beneath the balcony to admire the morning light on the lake.

  Marie sipped from her coffee and walked to Nicole. Above Nicole, Marie noticed Cameron on the balcony.

  “Good morning,” said Marie.

  Nicole, still crouched before the fire, lifted her head up, “Good Morning Mister Kincaid.”

  “Good Morning,” said Cameron. He reached up and ran his fingers through his mussed hair, loosely scratching his scalp. He was glad to see the women in good spirits. Toronto, and what the visit to the city would mean for them, moved to the front of his mind.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 19

  Toronto

  Back on the main highway, there was silence between them. Cameron tilted his head back and then side-to-side. The fingertips of one hand tap, tap, tapped the vinyl on the door and the fingertips of the other rested on the steering wheel. His eyes shifted from the road to the rearview mirror. Nicole was moving across the bench seat from the center to the passenger side window.

  “It’s strange,” said Nicole.

  “What is?” asked Marie.

  “That sign.”

  Marie did not lift her head. The contents of her bag were spread on her lap and she was arranging and rearranging the items.

  The sign that the Chevy was about to pass was a Memorial Highway Marker. Two Edwardian crown capped marker shields, similar to others that had appeared singularly every few minutes as they traveled down the Lake Ontario coast, bordered the highway’s name on a field of blue. One shield was numbered 401, marking the road as a Canadian highway, and the other displayed a poppy in place of a number. Between the two shields were the words ‘Highway of Heroes’.

  “I read about this memorial,” said Cameron. “This strip of road is dedicated to Canada’s fallen soldiers. The soldiers come into the country back at the Trenton military base and then the bodies are convoyed with family members to the coroner’s office in Toronto.”

  “Always this way?”

  “It started as a phenomena I guess. Crowds of patriotic Canadians were lining the overpasses to pay tribute to the soldiers and then it became kind of official.”

  “I understand,” said Nicole. “That sounds very nice.” The sign behind them she found something else of interest. She moved back to the center of the seat to get a clearer look out the windshield, leaned forward, and rested her head between Cameron and Marie.

  “What is that tower?”

  “That is the CN tower,” said Cameron, “a national landmark.”

  “CN?”

  “Canadian National Tower.”

  The spire on the horizon dwarfed the Toronto skyline. The revolving restaurant brilliantly reflected the late afternoon sun and intermittently flared as they drew closer to the city.

  “Is that where we are going?” asked Nicole.

  Cameron looked over at Marie. He did not have an exact destination in mind, simply Toronto. Though Marie had begun to trust Cameron and was no longer overtly secretive, in the midst of their chaotic travel some things were still unfolding as need to know. This did not bother Cameron and he was not put off when Marie returned his glance with a nod and answered Nicole with a, “Yes.”

  “Will we be going up into the tower?”

  “Yes we will,” said Marie.

  “Hmm,” said Nicole. She sat back in her seat, crossed her arms, and turned her head toward the lake.

  * * * * *

  The way to the tower was well marked. Without much effort, the three soon found themselves in a designated parking lot in the shadow of the tower. Cameron switched off the engine. After listening to the Chevy engine’s numbing roar and vibration of the tires on the highway, the silence was eerie in their absence. He stretched his arms far in front of him interlocking his fingers. “So,” said Cameron, adjusting the rearview mirror to see his own reflection. His hand ran over his forehead and his fingers through his hair. “What’s next? I suppose we go in.”

  “Yes, Mister Kincaid,” said Marie. “We will meet someone here.”

  “The Perfect? Here?”

  “No, that would be too easy. There is someone here who will direct us though.”

  “Ah, a contact.”

  “Yes, a contact. They are waiting for us.”

  Cameron shrugged and opened the car door. He took the idea of meeting a contact in stride. There had already been two rendezvous and two attempts on their lives. Cameron pulled back the release of the P226, inspected the handgun, and then stepped out of the car.

  The three stretched when free from the Chevy. The rest at the cabin had not been enough to fully recover from the travelling of the last few days and the morning ride added to the toll.

  They made their way to the base of the tower to wait for the elevator that would take them to the restaurant. A ticket booth stood at the end of a vacant velvet roped lane. A small red sign next to the booth read ‘30 minutes from here’.

  “What is 30 minutes from here?” asked Nicole.

  “Since there is nobody else waiting it doesn’t mean anything. If there was a line, it would take that long to get inside,” said Cameron.

  “No line, do you think they are open?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  Cameron thought the booth was empty. He stepped up to the window and found a stocky Indian woman wi
th thick glasses and a tight ponytail sitting on a stool beneath the short counter. The woman’s back was flat against the wall and she was staring intently into a paperback held a short distance from her face. The novel was titled ‘The Potter’s Daughter’ and there was a picture of a woman standing beneath a willow tree on the cover. The story must have been good because the woman did not notice Cameron until he tapped the window and even then, she did not look away from the book. The Indian woman simply said, “How many?” in a tone that was somewhere other than the small white shed where she sat.

  “Three for the restaurant,” said Cameron.

  Without looking up, she lifted her hand above her head to a terminal on the counter, and tapped the keyboard three times. “Sixty-nine dollars please.”

  “Just to get to the restaurant?”

  She sighed, tilted her head to the terminal screen, and then slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Three for the sky pod is twenty-five fifty. The tickets can be used toward the price of your meal.”

  Cameron gave her the money in exchange for three passes. The woman went back to her book and gave no further acknowledgement when he wished her a good day. Cameron rolled his eyes and turned back to Marie and Nicole. He extended his arm down the velvet-roped path toward the elevators. “Right this way,” said Cameron.

  They entered a glass-fronted atrium housing six elevator bays. One set of elevator doors was already opened. A squat older man sat near the door on a short-pillowed stool. He took the passes Cameron handed him, scanned them with an optical reader, and then handed them back. “Step to the back please,” said the man. The three did as the older man requested and stepped to the back wall of the elevator. Next to the man was a metal panel with a key in the lock. The man placed his fingers on the key and gave his hand a quick turn, opened the panel, and then flipped a switch that caused the elevator doors to shut behind them. “Hold on,” said the man and then he turned a knob above the door switch. A light in the panel flashed green and the floor rose below them, pushing at their feet with a soft sudden thrust. The horizon filled the glass wall and below them two large glass panels in the floor of the elevator looked down on the shaft that, at the speed they were lifting, fell away beneath them.