The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

In the days of playing pétanque, Cameron had not resided in upscale Place Dauphine. He and Pepe had shared leave in a small hotel outside of the city center, in the suburb of Asnières-sur-Seine. At the time, Asnières was still predominantly populated by Pieds Noirs, those French citizens that had lived in northern Africa before the wave of independence. The hotel proprietor, Absolon, had been a Legionnaire as a young man and had then stayed on in North Africa to build his fortune as a colonist. He was sympathetic to Legionnaires and they received a hotel rate fitting of young soldiers. The constant presence of the young Legionnaires in the hotel reminded the older man of the finer days abroad. Over dinner, the nostalgic hotelier would inevitably switch from wine to cognac and begin to share stories of the Algerian golden era, often crowning the evening singing the unofficial anthem of the Pied Noir, Le Chant des Africains, The Song of the Africans.

  In those early days, the young soldiers had caroused through Paris with Pepe’s sister Christine and her entourage of friends. Later, when Christine and Cameron became entwined, he shared her small romantic flat near the American University, steps from the Eiffel Tower.

  Cameron absently glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see the Eiffel Tower of his youth, only to see the restaurant front of Caveau du Palais.

  Pepe exited from the other side of the taxi and faced the square. Before joining Cameron on the curb, he set his duffel on the ground, slid his hands into his pant pockets, and stilled himself in the middle of the street so that he too could take in the Parisians. The moment was picturesque to Cameron; Pepe was standing with his back to him, his satchel squeezed tight under the arm of his sport coat, his duffel beside him, a man returned home. Cameron was unsure what Pepe was thinking for that long moment alone in the street. He imagined his friend was also reminiscent of time spent with Christine. Awake from his brief spell, Pepe slowly joined Cameron at the curb. Without looking back at the square, he said in a low monotone, “You know Place Dauphine has always been my favorite square in Paris. Come, let’s have a coffee.”

  “A pied-a-terre in Place Dauphine among Paris’ most beautiful townhouses,” said Cameron. “I had no idea you were doing that well.”

  “Like most here, we inherited a family flat. My aunt had no children of her own. It is Christine’s flat really.” Pepe clutched the top of a café chair of the nearest sidewalk table. “Let’s sit. You will like the espresso. The food and wine is also excellent. No need to come here if you can’t get a table outside, though.”

  Cameron inhaled deeply through his nose. That Christine would live here made sense to him. She was, after all, a top model with her own wealth. “I would rather go right up if you don’t mind.”

  Pepe released the chair and raised his brow. “Sure thing. Let’s get right to business.” He subtly nodded his head. “Give me just a moment, I will get the keys and have them send up some soup and croissant.”

  “Thank you,” said Cameron.

  Pepe went to the counter of the café, spoke quickly with the host, and then rejoined Cameron.

  Pepe bent his head back slightly, gesturing to a building to the right of the restaurant.

  “The flat is in the building over, above the gallery.”

  “Her roommate is expecting us?”

  “I spoke with her briefly,” said Pepe. “She is on a shoot in Jakarta.”

  “She is also a model?”

  “Oui,” said Pepe. He led Cameron to the forest green double doors. From his pocket he pulled a key ring. He stuck an odd shaped key into the lock, sending the door ajar. With the next key, Pepe unlocked the interior door, a frosted glass pane etched with an elaborate floral design and bordered in polished oak. The two proceeded into the small marble floored lobby. To their right was a set of eight mailboxes and in the rear, the door to the gallery, a spiral stairwell, and an open-air lift. They took the stairs to the flat three stories above. On each landing they passed were three matching doors, wooden and frail with age. At the top of the stairs, unique from the others below, was a single dark saffron metal door. Three shining brass deadbolts lined the edge. Pepe shook the key ring open into his palm so that the keys to the deadbolts would reveal themselves, and then he methodically unlocked each one.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 49

  Place Dauphine, Paris

  The door to Christine’s apartment opened to the bright glow of daylight, enhanced with the contrast of the darkened stairwell. The design of the apartment, far more than a mere pied-a-terre, spoke of Christine. The large flat had been redone in recent years, the smooth ivory walls showed no signs of age and the furniture was new and modern, with the exception of a few choice pieces such as the stuffed tan leather chair and an antique lamp with a Tiffany type art nouveau colored glass shade. The tall, sheer, cloud white panels that draped the windows brought a glow into the room, revealing far behind them the sparse tops of the chestnut trees in the open square below.

  The two set their bags near the stairwell that led to the top floor bedrooms. Then Pepe removed the satchel that held the laptops from his shoulder and placed the bag on a small black lacquered table at the end of the sofa. Cameron paced slowly into the vast room. On the sidebar near the door, a piece of china, the pink landscape pattern ancient and dulled, held some euros, a keychain, and a few small folded sheets of paper, pocket worn and discarded, fragments of Christine’s day-to-day life. Across the room was a gas fireplace framed with a lacquered cabinet and mantel in fashion with the side tables. A picture atop the mantel caught Cameron’s eye. He moved closer; it was a photograph of Pepe and him when they were very young, and each with their arms around a younger stellar beauty, Christine. The three were smiling.

  “I remember that day,” said Pepe behind him. He was in an open closet reaching for something up top. “That was the day you took her to get the hound. What was that dog’s name?”

  “Moby,” said Cameron.

  “Oui, Moby. A silly name for a dog, the name of a whale.”

  “Immense amour.”

  “Qua?”

  “Christine said the puppy had immense amour, a Moby heart.” Cameron lifted the photo from the mantel then glanced up toward Pepe. “She said the dog had an immense love like me.”

  Pepe nodded solemnly, then raised a hard plastic case he had retrieved from the closet. “Come with me to the table.”

  Cameron returned the photograph home to the mantel, peered into the picture one last time, and then joined Pepe in the next room. Pepe had placed the case on the table and was working a combination to unlock the lid. Cameron knew what the contents of the case would be and was not surprised when Pepe removed two pistols.

  Pepe held one of the handguns out to Cameron. “If I remember, you like a Ruger,” he said.

  “What’s not to like,” said Cameron. He pulled the slide back to inspect the P95 and to ensure the chamber was clear. “Center fire, balanced to be ambidextrous,” he tossed the Ruger from one palm to the other. “A fine weapon overall.” He then picked up the two Ruger magazines bound together by a rubber band and inserted one into the grip. “Besides, I don’t think I have much choice. I can’t imagine you would give up your M9.”

  Pepe was inspecting the Beretta he held with the same expedient efficiency as Cameron had with the Ruger. “I also have a SIG 9 in the bedroom closet if you prefer.”

  Cameron squinted, “You know, I keep only one of these around. In my safe, no less, you seem to have access to a private armory in every western country.”

  Pepe pulled the slide of the Beretta. “Of the many things a man can do to excess, he can never be too well armed.” He handed Cameron a knife from inside the case and then headed up the stairwell. “I will get the SIG.”

  The intercom near the door buzzed.

  “Can you get that?” Pepe’s raised voice carried through the flat from the upstairs bedroom. “I am sure that is the food. They were to send up mushroom soup and lamb. You will enjoy the soup.”

  “And the lamb?” asked Cameron
as he went to answer the intercom.

  “You will especially enjoy the lamb.”

  On the black and white screen of the intercom, Cameron watched the slightly doubled image of a young man lift the bags of food up to the camera. Cameron tapped the button to grant the deliveryman access, opened the steel door, and waited for the food to make the journey up the stairs. The echo of the young man’s rapid steps shot up the spiral stairwell. He reached the floor in seconds. The deliveryman nimbly stepped across the landing to the door, his thin frame almost swaying from his expedient momentum. Cameron exchanged the euro bill he held out between his fingers for the delivery.

  “Merci,” said the young man, before spinning around to depart as rapidly as he had arrived. The deliveryman was already a lean shadow descending the first few steps of the spiral stairwell before Cameron was back into the flat.

  Cameron walked the box and two large bags over to the table. “What all did you order? This is heavy.”

  “Must be the wine,” said Pepe returning to the table. “They are also very generous.”

  Pepe opened one of the bags and removed two small paper cups. “Here, have an espresso.”

  “Thanks,” said Cameron. He popped the plastic cover from the lid and then went to the window to again gaze at the square. He sipped the coffee and allowed his eyes to wander from the trees of the square to the street below. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I told you the espresso was good.”

  “No, yes, but no,” said Cameron. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What is it?”

  “There is a white Bentley parked outside.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 50

  Place Dauphine, Paris

  Pepe continued to remove items from the bags. “That has to be a coincidence, we couldn’t be so lucky,” said Pepe.

  “You’re right,” said Cameron. “How could Dada find us? He could not have followed us all the way from London. Unless.” Cameron swung his head in the direction of the satchel. “Could that laptop be bugged?”

  “Not really,” said Pepe. Then he stopped sorting through the bags and fixed his eyes on Cameron. “Unless it is, location software is standard on Macs.”

  “Location software?”

  “Yes, it is called ‘find my computer or phone’ or something. That is why I had the old phone you joke about.” Pepe shook his head and went back to the bags. “The computer would have to be open though. That is not Dada.”

  “Unless he followed us,” said Cameron.

  “You said yourself he could not have followed us from London. Ridiculous.” Pepe opened a piece of foil revealing four warm loaves and held them close to his face to take in the sweet scent of the warm bread.

  “He could have followed us from the Gare du Nord when we left the Eurostar,” said Cameron. “You had the computer open on the train.”

  Pepe lowered the foil-covered loaves and peered up at Cameron. “They could have done this, yes. Tracked us the entire journey with the software and then waited for us at the train station.” He shook his head. “It is not them though. We have only arrived.”

  “They’re driving away,” said Cameron. The side of his upper lip went up in disgust of his own paranoia. He tilted the paper cup up to pour the rest of the espresso down his throat.

  “I told you. Not as many Bentleys in Paris as London, yet still a few.” Pepe held his hands above his shoulders. “I asked them to send up some wine. There is no wine here.”

  Cameron set the paper cup on the table. “I want to stretch my legs anyway. I’ll run down.”

  “Fine,” said Pepe. “I will get the plates from the kitchen and you can go downstairs to get the wine. Vin rouge s’il vous plait.”

  “Of course,” said Cameron.

  Cameron picked up the SIG Pepe had set on the table and tucked the pistol into his waist opposite the Ruger. “I will be right back,” said Cameron. He flashed his brow at Pepe and his old friend returned the gesture.

  “Go then, be quick,” said Pepe. “Once I open the box the lamb shanks will be cold.”

  Cameron slipped down the spiral stairwell with the same speed as the young man and was almost to a run exiting the lobby. He caught and composed himself before putting foot on the sidewalk. The white Bentley that had been parked near the restaurant was now nowhere in sight. As he walked the few short meters to the restaurant, Cameron focused his memory on the Bentley. In his mind, he created a still photograph. Cameron studied the picture. The occupants had been out of view from the window above. He ran his eyes along the side of the vehicle and let them rest on the license plate. The country of origin was the UK. Still, he was not sure if the id on the plate had been Dada’s. Cameron had been quite far away. He sucked in a deep breath to release the thought, a confused fixation, and made his way through the tables toward the host.

  The host recognized Cameron immediately. “Votre ami a oublié le reste de la nourriture,” said the host.

  “What do you mean my friend forgot the rest of the food?”

  The host held up his hand, “Un moment.” He stepped over to the counter and returned with two bottles of wine in one hand and a small box in the other. “The young man did not take the lamb.” The man smiled as he held the bottles out for Cameron. “I tried to catch him but he was back in the auto and vroom.”

  Cameron’s adrenalin pumped up. “What auto?”

  “You did not see?” The host looked confused. “Your young friend has a nice white Bentley, antique I would guess, I tried to get his attention, then vroom.” He raised his brow apologetically then again offered the wine and box of lamb. “Your food.”

  “Merci,” said Cameron. Cameron spun around, intent on notifying Pepe back in the flat. Behind him, the further confused host raised his voice, “Your food.”

  Cameron yelled without glancing back, “Un moment.” The Bentley did belong to Ibrahim Dada, there was no doubt, and whatever was in the box under the bags was imminent danger.

  The bomb that had been delivered to the fourth floor ignited before Cameron reached the building.

  A firestorm bellowed out of the windows of Christine’s apartment.

  Objects and flame shot out onto the street and into Place Dauphine. The glass of the windows above and below the fourth floor shattered, as did the huge street level pane of the gallery.

  The blast was strong enough to disorient Cameron four floors below and threw him into a spin. He landed backward onto the curb to brief silence.

  Cameron was in disbelief. People ran out of the Caveau du Palais to the commotion. The street side café was in disarray and the patrons that had been sitting on the walk crawled or hid among the tables and tossed chairs, confused and in shock. A woman was screaming, yet her hysterics were muffled and far away.

  The air flooded with rancid smell of the burning building.

  Pepe was not running out. Pepe would not be running out.

  Years of training kicked in. Stunned and unaware of his own actions, he clutched the Ruger that had fallen to his side, unaware if anyone had noticed. He was unsure how long the 9mm was on the curb, seconds or minutes. Cognizance began to return swiftly with the full caliber of the sounds and smells around him. Cameron scooted himself to his feet. The sirens were very close. Cameron remembered, the police, the hospital, were all only a street or two up the island. He realized he could not be seen there, someone would recognize him in too short of time. He slid the pistol into his jacket and began to casually walk across the square.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 51

  Paris, Fifteen Years Before

  Pepe was elated to see the wee chocolate lab rolling on the blanket next to Christine. He did not bother to acknowledge Cameron or his sister and instead immediately knelt down between them and planted his face close to the frolicking puppy. Moby responded to Pepe as well, leaping toward Pepe’s shaking nose with little tiny paws and a nipping jaw.

  “He thinks your face is a toy,” sa
id Christine.

  Pepe behaved no different than Christine had with the small animal, speaking in a childlike way as if Moby were a human baby and not a puppy, “You’re a cute little one. Oui, vous êtes.”

  “How did you find us?” asked Cameron.

  Pepe answered Cameron with the same cooing voice, aiming the words at Moby would. “I went by the flat on Rue de l’Exposition and you two were not there. I knew you would be over here at the Champ de Mars, off the field in your spot.”

  “So I guess there is no hiding from you, mon ami,” said Cameron. He rolled back, propping himself up from behind with his elbows. He peered up at a nearby treetop capped with the peak of the Eiffel Tower. The Tower, halfway down the field from where they picnicked, did not appear as large as when viewed from other parts of the city.

  Christine gently placed her hand upon the lab’s neck. She caressed his delicate shoulders, prompting the puppy to curl into a tight ball. His eyes closed and he appeared to drift to sleep.

  Pepe pushed his hands into his knees and straightened his back. “You seem to have a special touch. I think maybe my neck is tight as well.” He twirled his head to adjust his neck. The muscles in his upper arms slightly rippled, swelled, and fell with his motion. “Could I be next?”

  Christine giggled softly. “You are a big pup yourself, maybe?”

  “Really,” said Pepe, now exaggerating stretches from his shoulders, “I could use a massage.” His tight grey t-shirt accentuated his muscular upper body.

  “Then I suggest you go get one,” said Cameron.

  Pepe stopped his stretching. “I think I will stay. Would I be correct you have some vin rouge in that basket? Maybe some bread?”

  “Sure,” said Cameron. He lifted the basket over to the side of the blanket where Pepe knelt.

  “You are always eating,” said Christine. “You should be careful you do not become a huge plum.”