The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  “Thank you, I’m sure,” said Cameron.

  A light chuckle resonated in Cameron’s inner ear.

  “I remind you the maximum bet on the floor this evening is one thousand pounds. What game would please you, sir?”

  “Is the Gold Room open?” asked Cameron.

  “Excellent, I was about to suggest that. We do have some VIP guests such as yourself in the Gold Room and you are welcome to join them. The game this evening is blackjack.”

  “That would suit me fine,” said Cameron.

  “Very good, Mister Kincaid,” said the man at the door. A young beautiful brunette woman approached. She was attired in an indigo cocktail dress that appeared more sophisticated than usual for a member of the staff. “Please escort Mister Kincaid to the Gold Room.”

  “Certainly,” said the young woman. She then gave Cameron an endearing smile. “If you can follow me, Mister Kincaid.”

  Cameron followed the young woman toward the casino floor. His first step onto the spongy carpet caught him off guard. Cameron sometimes ran on a track at the New York East River Park. The surface of the running track had the same floating push and bounce. He oriented himself, peering around the room, his mindful habit. He glanced to the electronic slot machines lining the outer edges, counting them. There were never more than twenty slot machines in a London casino, a gambling law. They neared the round floor in the center of the room, home to one of the ten roulette tables.

  The croupier spun the ball and at the same moment called, “No more bets.”

  A few young players dressed in high priced jeans and pressed collar shirts continued placing bets even when the ball was rolling. The croupier appeared not to mind. Cameron passed the door to the Poker Room. In the Poker Room, the tables below the palm shaped crystal chandelier were busier than those on the central floor, even busier than the craps game. When they reached the door to the Gold Room, Cameron glanced back across the casino. Something had changed since his last visit.

  Cameron mentioned his observation to the young woman. “The baccarat tables that were on the central floor?”

  From in his ear Pepe asked, “Is that where you left your money?”

  The young woman leaned into Cameron. “Our apologies, Mister Kincaid, games rotate through the casino,” she said, and then extended her arm to open the door to the VIP room. She did so in a purposeful maneuver that slid her breasts above the top of her blue dress to his attention. “Can I start you with a beverage?” she asked.

  Cameron did not let his eyes fall from hers. “Seltzer would be nice, with a slice of lime, if you have it.”

  “Certainly, Mister Kincaid. Would you like me to introduce you to the other guests?”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Cameron. “Thank you.”

  Cameron entered the VIP lounge, a smaller room in the fashion of one of the May Fair signature suites and finished with the same light woods as the central casino. There were not many guests in the room. He recognized the two young men on the sofa and the young woman that sat between them; one was a British musician, and the other two were actors. They were drinking pints of lager and watching a football match on the muted plasma television, the same Bang & Olufsen model that Cameron had seen in the Amber suite. In a lounge chair in the corner of the room, a middle-aged man he did not recognize tapped away in a binder, a keyboard and tablet combination. Perhaps the man was a manager to one of the other VIP guests, or merely wealthy.

  At the table to the side of the room, a dealer was presenting cards for blackjack. Three of the four seats were filled. Cameron recognized all three of the players, a scruffy British musician from the nineties in mirrored sunglasses, from Manchester if he recalled correctly, an actor from a popular BBC science fiction show, and seated to the side by himself, another man. Ibrahim Dada in his impeccable Savile Row tailored suit gently touched the table to accept or pass cards as they were dealt. Cameron slid the empty chair back enough to sit. Neither Dada nor the musician acknowledged Cameron. The actor met Cameron with a toothy smile. “Hey there,” he said. “Yes, do have a seat.” The actor then turned back to the cards in front of him and raised his eyebrows. “No need for us to be miserable alone.”

  “Thank you,” said Cameron. “Looks like a good game.” A code to Pepe that Dada was at the table as they were told he would be.

  “A fourth,” said the musician without looking over. “Bloody marvelous, maybe you can change the luck of the table.”

  Dada said nothing.

  The dealer raked in the cards. “Chips, sir?”

  Cameron held up his hand spread wide.

  “Very good, sir, I can handle that for you,” said the dealer. He dropped his arm beneath the table and retrieved a tray of chips with blue and yellow markings along the edges. He rapidly brushed his index finger across them away from his thumb, a bit of motor memory, and then lifted exactly ten chips from the tray.

  Cameron placed the stack on the green felt in front of him. “I take it the bet is five hundred?” he asked.

  “That is correct, sir,” said the dealer.

  Each of the others tossed in a chip and the dealer began to place the players’ cards face up.

  Pepe spoke into Cameron’s earpiece, “I have not heard him.”

  Cameron made a mere grunting noise. The other players paid no notice as the reaction was appropriate, the cards dealt to each totaled to two eighteens, a nineteen, and a twenty. The dealer showed a ten. All four stayed and added another chip, money not being a consequence. In a blink, the table held four thousand pounds of the players’ money and still the game was not that interesting. The dealer flipped his hidden card to reveal a three. He drew another card, a king to bust.

  “You did bring some luck,” said the musician. “This guy has been raking us all night.” He gave a nod toward Dada, “Except him.”

  The actor, jubilant with a win, let the four chips drop onto the felt in front of him in a trickle and then, with his new found luck, immediately tossed two to his betting square.

  Cameron tired of Dada’s indifference. Less than an hour before, he and Pepe had made mayhem out of Dada’s suite upstairs and though the Metropolitan Police sirens had not yet begun to echo through the quaint upscale district of Mayfair, Cameron was certain they would soon. He leaned to Dada and spoke under his breath, “And you, Dada. Do you feel you have luck on your side? The hotel is about to become very hot.”

  “I do like to gamble,” said Dada. “However, I am a diplomat.” He flashed a leer to Cameron, “Remember? And this hotel expresses,” Dada raised his eyes to the dealer, “the utmost discretion.” The dealer peered back knowingly, and then shifted his attention to the deck. “My rooms, I am sure, will be in full repair on my return.”

  Pepe was noticeably angered, “Listen to him gloat.”

  “We don’t care about your other business or what your,” Cameron sucked in a breath through his nose, “cartel is doing in London. We want the girl, Dada.”

  The cards shuffled, the dealer prepared to send out a new round. Dada raised his hand to the dealer. He waved his finger in a circle toward the tall stack of chips. The dealer nodded and then Dada rose from his seat.

  “You’re leaving so soon?” asked Cameron.

  Then from the voice in Cameron’s ear, “Let him go. I have his calendar on the computer.”

  This needed to end now. Ignoring Pepe, Cameron raised himself from his chair, “You really should stay.”

  “No, Cameron,” said Pepe. “He was waiting for reinforcements. Two more sedans have arrived, four men in each. I believe Dada and Abbo recruited every tall man in Somalia.”

  Dada slowly turned away from the table to Cameron. The warlord’s skin was so dark as to be a perfect mask yet his bright eyes, so revealing, made clear his revel of Cameron and the circumstance. “Another dull game,” said Dada. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 47

  Channel Tunnel, Folkestone, Kent

 
; A blanket of blackness abruptly cloaked the Eurostar cabin car. The English morning was no more. Pepe took no notice, nor did he waver from his task. With the window beside him now gone dark, the train car interior was illuminated by a methodical patchwork of soft hued lights. Pepe appeared frozen against the tall tan leather headrest that spanned the top of his chair. On the small table in front of him, two MacBook Pros traded images, the actions reflecting on the lens of his glasses. One computer was his and the other was from Dada’s suite.

  Cameron sat across from Pepe in the aisle seat. Their four-club table was the first in the cabin. He leaned to the aisle side of his own cushioned chair so as to split his view between Pepe and the other first class occupants. He stared at the cover of the paperback on the corner of the table. The book he had found at his seat was titled Agroland. The synopsis intrigued him, horror in the Jordanian desert, yet he was too anxious to read. He rested his hand on the cover of the book and then ran his fingertips lightly across the surface in a rapid succession, two then three times, and then recoiled his hand to his lap. He shifted his view to the monitor’s reflection in his friend’s glasses, admiring Pepe’s diligence.

  “How many times have you gone through the files on that thing?” asked Cameron.

  “A few, we have twenty minutes more in the tunnel and then less than two hours to Paris,” said Pepe. “I will keep looking until I can find a clue as to where he is staying, or at least where he is holding her.”

  “Hmm,” said Cameron. He tilted his head toward the aisle and ran his eyes the length of the cabin car. “Any chance he is on the train?”

  Pepe dropped his head slightly to peer above the rim of his glasses.

  “Only asking,” said Cameron, still scanning the occupants of the cabin not hidden from him by the large luxury seats. “He is obviously not here in business premier.” He allowed a sneer to push his lips to one side. “I cannot imagine a man like Dada riding coach.”

  Pepe had returned his attention to the computers, his hands drifting from one to the other as he recorded any findings from Dada’s into his own. “He has two entries for today, Eurostar, and dinner in Paris, and for the day after tomorrow lunch at La Closerie de Lilas.”

  “Times would have been helpful.”

  “He did not use the calendar program,” said Pepe. “The document is an itinerary really, with this week’s dates, and those few entries.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Besides, he could be on any train,” said Pepe, his eyes unwavering from his task, his tone flat. “Or he could have taken the shuttle with his Bentley.”

  “That’s a thought,” said Cameron. “Would be a bit easier to find him in Paris.” Turning toward Pepe, Cameron straightened a bit. “Speaking of which, do you have any cousins in Paris that have access to the closed circuit camera system?”

  “Like in London? No, I do not. Paris is somewhat dark to us in that way. We will have to rely on the street. I have many cousins there.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Cameron, settling back to his former position. “I’m sure that’ll be fine.”

  Cameron continued to peer down the length of the aisle at everything and nothing in particular, pensively nibbling his lower lip. The glass door at the opposite end of the car slid silently open, allowing a young blonde woman in a tight fitting Eurostar service uniform to enter pushing a small food and beverage cart. The steward prepared a tea service and then began to offer passengers refreshments. Each time the young woman leaned into a club table or side chair, Cameron lurched a bit to see if the occupant of the seat had changed since he had walked through the car moments before. Of course, the occupants were as they had been, the older couple by the door, the German family at the four-club, and the array of middle and senior managers with their laptops open. Each kind service the same, a recognizable face, the tea and biscuits, and then on to the next, accompanied by a jolt from somewhere within.

  Pepe did not need to move his eyes away from the tabletop to sense Cameron’s uneasiness. “What’s bothering you, mon ami?”

  Cameron was quick to respond, “About last night.”

  “What about last night?” asked Pepe. “She was not there. She will be with him.” Pepe’s fingers began to rapidly tap the keyboard of his MacBook Pro.

  “A bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, the Colonel,” Pepe cleared his throat, “Oui.” He kept his gaze fixed forward and continued his quest through the computer folders.

  “Yes, the Colonel,” said Cameron, “the hotel, the hotel in Dubai, we aren’t soldiers anymore.”

  “I think we did fine,” said Pepe. “Maybe you are getting slow.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I did my stint. I live a different life now.”

  “Maybe you are getting soft.”

  “Maybe,” said Cameron.

  “What do you want?” asked Pepe. “Do you want to go back to New York, to your Green Dragon restaurant?” Even with this, Pepe did not make eye contact with Cameron. “Fine, fly out of De Gaulle.”

  “That’s not what I am saying either.” Cameron leaned into the table and in a softer voice said, “Pepe, we are not mere killers, we are men of honor.”

  “Ah, you are still upset about our conversation in Dada’s suite,” said Pepe, and then he enunciated each of the next words he spoke with a deliberate pause between each, “You are getting soft.” Pepe tapped out a few more keystrokes and then in a droll tone added, “Yes, we took an oath. Yes, we are better than them, and you and I, and the others, will always be Dragons together.” He slipped off his glasses and gazed kindly at Cameron. “Are you pleased now?” he asked. “You should not have tried to make such a silly point right after I mounted that monster to the wall.”

  Cameron rubbed the side of his jaw and then squeezed his fist around his chin. “I sound like an old man?”

  “You do,” said Pepe. He fit his glasses back to his face and returned to the keyboard.

  “What are you typing up?”

  “I have found spreadsheets with ships and manifests.”

  “And currency amounts?”

  “Neatly beside each ship,” confirmed Pepe. “Some in pounds, some in dollars based in percentage by tonnage.”

  “So it seems that Abbo was not lying about the toxic disposal in Somali waters,” said Cameron.

  “So it seems, and these numbers add up to large sums.” Pepe spun the computer to Cameron. “Here is another spreadsheet. Does the list look familiar?”

  “Yeah, I recognize most of the names, those are the hijacked ships we read about on the way over from New York. This is robust, names, flags, crew complements, cash sums, everything you would need to know to—”

  “To hijack a ship,” said Pepe.

  “Yeah, to hijack a ship. I wonder, do the coordinates in the second column and the dates in the third and fourth column matchup with the hijackings.”

  “Look at the SS Oceana.”

  “SS Oceana, here she is, dated—”

  Pepe spun his laptop around beside Dada’s so that Cameron could see what he had brought up. On the screen was a news article. “Dated yesterday,” said Pepe, “The SS Oceana was hijacked yesterday in the Gulf of Aden at the coordinates listed on the spreadsheet.”

  Cameron pulled Dada’s computer closer. “This is list is ongoing. The next ship is dated a few days from now and the next two the week after that.”

  “The date on the file precedes the date beside the first ship,” said Pepe.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This spreadsheet was made before any of these ships were taken,” said Pepe.

  “That means—” Cameron rolled his eyes up to Pepe.

  “That means all of those ships were scheduled to be boarded,” said Pepe. “The dates in the fourth column the planned release date, and the sums in the fifth the prearranged ransom.”

  “All held for different times and different amounts.”

  “Insurance limitations, I suppose.” Pepe tapped tw
o fingers to the top of the monitor. “I found another spreadsheet that list manifests, arms, chemicals, drugs, all there.”

  “Dada has come a long way from hoarding international aid. I am surprised he left the May Fair without this.”

  “I’m not,” said Pepe. “The files were in folders that sync with a mobile device. He probably does not realize these were left on this machine.”

  “So Dada is running the naval operation with a mobile,” said Cameron.

  “Apparently,” said Pepe. He hooked his monitor with his finger and drew the computer back to him. “In the luxury of London. I’m sure Abbo was doing the same.”

  Cameron tossed his head back onto the leather pillow of the chair. He gazed up at the ceiling. “Dada wasn’t even muddled in the casino. He sounded so sure that the rooms would be in order on his return.”

  “Well, he is a diplomat. I heard him remind you.”

  “Still, the fact remains that the hotel, or whoever, is in compliance.” Cameron slowly shook his head side to side.

  Pepe peered over the rim of his glasses again. “And we have never been followed by a clean team?”

  “I know, I know, but that was different, those jobs were sanctioned.” Even as the words left Cameron’s mouth, he realized the hypocrisy. Pepe subtly nodded.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 48

  Place Dauphine, Paris

  The Renault taxi stopped short of the famed restaurant, Caveau du Palais, one of Cameron’s favorites in Paris. Cameron stepped to the curb and let Pepe pay the driver. From the inside of the café, the tinny voice of a radio announcer carried out to the street. Over the top of the cab, Cameron could see locals playing pétanque on the sand gravel square among the chestnut trees. In turn, they tossed metal balls toward a wooden one, half the size. Cameron remembered the name of the little ball was the cochonnet, or the piglet. He had played himself in his early days in Paris, and in Corsica where some of the men called the game bouchon.