The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial)

by Smith, Daniel Arthur

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  Chapter 22

  Paris, Years Ago

  Christine entered the small galley kitchen and agilely slipped her naked body behind Cameron as he buttered golden chunks of the egg-fried bread he had prepared from the remnants of last evening’s loaf. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, rested her cheek on his upper back, and made a warm purring sound. Cameron felt her nakedness through his thin cotton shirt. Her warmth prompted his chest to flex as she squeezed.

  “Bonjour, l’amour,” said Cameron, his voice soft and sing song.

  “I can not believe you were up so early,” said Christine, her eyes still closed heavy with sleep. “What time is it?” she nuzzled further into Cameron’s shoulder muscles.

  “I did not want to wake you until breakfast was ready,” said Cameron.

  “It must be so early. Did you make coffee?”

  “Yes, and it’s not that early.”

  “No? I do not believe you.” Christine softly nudged her head deeper into Cameron’s shoulder. “We should go back to bed.”

  Cameron smiled contently and began to place the bread onto a plate, “What happened to going out today? Remember, a walk by the river, a gallery, maybe a trip to the country.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Christine. “I want to do those things today.” She lifted her head and tugged Cameron’s shirt, turning him toward her. “That would be so nice. To have you for myself today.” She lifted her arms up over his shoulders and pulled herself close to him. He met her with a kiss. First a long one and then two fast smooches. Her lids sprung open, her green eyes lively and jubilant, awaken by his touch.

  “Whoa,” said Cameron. “Where did that come from?”

  “You reminded me that I have you all to myself today my love.” Christine grabbed a piece of the bread from the plate and the jar of jam from the counter, “First you must feed me. I am so hungry.” Her eyes and mouth both went wide as she tore off a chunk of the bread. Mouth full, cheeks puffed, she smiled at Cameron, and then slipped past him toward the table.

  Cameron set the plate of egg battered bread on the table along with some goat cheese, honey, and the coffee. When he sat, Christine was already voraciously underway with breakfast. Cameron laughed and Christine returned a full smile. Cameron bit into a piece of bread, and then chuckled. He placed his hand over his mouth.

  “What?” asked Christine.

  Cameron pointed at the corner of his mouth as if he were Christine’s mirror. She put a finger near her lip, “Oh,” she said and wiped away a splotch of honey. Cameron’s smile did not fade. Christine lifted her brows in question. “And um,” Cameron tapped his chest. She looked down, “Oh,” she said. She gave him a toothy bread filled then grin. Then with her pinky she dabbed at the drops of honey that had drizzled upon her breasts, rubbing them into her flesh.

  “I guess you were hungry,” said Cameron.

  “I cannot help myself, this food is so good. I did not know I had spices on my shelves.”

  “Only cinnamon and sugar.”

  Her eyes went wide again, her head wobbled side to side, “Only cinnamon and sugar? I would not know the first thing to do. You my love are in the wrong line of work.”

  Cameron took in a slow breath. The flat was shielded from the morning light by shadow and curtains of lace, yet Christine’s green eyes lit bright. To him she embodied beauty. Her physical beauty was undeniable, her long chestnut hair wildly flowing over her bare shoulders. No man could resist the charms of perfectly formed pert breasts slathered in shining droplets of honey. Certainly, they shared lust. To Cameron though Christine held the beauty of innocence, happily rocking side to side as she ate, now humming a song, most likely one of her own creation. Most of all Cameron believed, wanted to believe, that Christine did not know the work he did when he was away from her. When Cameron was by her side, that man was someone else.

  “Cameron,” said Christine.

  “Oui, l’amour,” said Cameron.

  “I am so happy that today I have you all to me.” Christine tilted her head to the side and gazed into Cameron’s eyes. He could become lost in those eyes and never go back to Corsica, to the regiment. Maybe one day.

  “Today,” said Christine. “I want to look at puppies.”

  “You want to look at puppies?”

  “Yes, puppies. One of the girls has this beautiful new Labrador. She says he is a Chocolate Lab. He is very cute and keeps her company when…”

  Christine shifted her eyes down to the table and bit off a small piece of bread. She chewed the piece more slowly than needed. Cameron waited for her to finish her sentence and when she did not he prompted her, “When…”

  Christine sighed and then sat upright in her chair, still peering at the table. “I do not want to think bad thoughts today. I need you to go with me to find a puppy to keep me company for when you are not here.” She slid her eyes up from the table to meet Cameron’s again, at the same time grasping his fingers into hers. Playfully pleading she said, “Would you do that Cameron. Would you go with me to find a Chocolate Lab puppy?”

  Cameron leaned forward and responded in the guise of a playful lover, “Oui, of course I will go with you to find a Chocolate Lab puppy.”

  Christine lurched forward and planted a kiss on Cameron, wrapping her hand around his head so that he could not escape. When she sat back into her chair, the toothy smile returned to her face. “Fabulous,” she placed her hands flatly together, “I know just the place in the country and then we can have a picnic.”

  Seeing Christine so satisfied and joyful, Cameron could not help feeling the same. To simply make her happy made him happy. Cameron again imagined a world where he could easily stay here in Paris.

  Again Christine’s face became serious, “Cameron.”

  “Oui, l’amour.”

  “Thank you for being here with me.”

  “Where else would I be?” Cameron placed his arm across the table and Christine rested her hand in his.

  Christine smiled. Then a brief moment later, “Cameron.”

  “Oui, l’amour.”

  “Thank you for making this lovely breakfast.” Christine offered her cup to Cameron, and then sheepishly asked, “May I have more coffee?”

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  Chapter 23

  Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, Dubai

  From his seat in the grandstand the stringy twelve year old flung his naked arm down toward the starting gate pit. From the sea of owners, trainers, and entourages packed tightly behind the twenty-three painted camels, the boy singled out one man. “That’s him in the full body thobe and ghutra.”

  “Very funny little one,” said Pepe. “They all are wearing thobes and ghutras.”

  “We’re wearing thobes and ghutras,” said Cameron. “Can you be more specific?”

  In his tattered desert tanned Tee shirt and matching light denim pants, the boy, Rehan, was the only person on the grandstand not wearing a thobe or ghutra. The boy shrugged the shoulder of protruding arm, “You said you wanted the younger man from the Kingdom.”

  “Yes,” said Pepe.

  “He is there in the white thobe and red checkered ghutras.” The boy pressed his arm out farther, wagging his hand toward the man. “There behind the red painted camel with the green robot. The one with the number nine on the side, talking to the tall bald man.”

  “Yeah,” said Pepe. “I see.” He fixed his eyes on the man the boy had described. The man, the only one of the small Arab horde to wear a red-checkered ghutra, was close to his trainer passionately gesturing toward the length of the track. “Yes, that’s him.” Pepe tilted his head close to Cameron, “And look who is with him, our friend from the London garage.”

  “That’s the man from London alright,” said Cameron. “Looks like he is stepping away. Good.”

  Cameron slipped his hand into his thobe, and then retrieved a bright pink folded note revealing a picture of a hawk and the number one hundred. He held the paper toward the boy.
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  Rehan’s eyes widened. He snapped for the money.

  “Hold on,” said Cameron, lifting the bill above the boy’s reach. “This dirham is yours as well as the others we promised.” He handed Rehan the bill.

  “And the rest?” asked Rehan.

  “First I need you to go down there and tell the Saudi the two Frenchmen are here to see him.”

  “But you speak English.”

  “And so do you,” said Pepe, “so what?”

  Rehan nodded and scurried down the grandstand toward the camel pit, his dusted shirt and trousers blending into the tan sand and shadow below the grandstand. He wove his way through the crowded staging area, disappeared, reappeared, and then popped up in front of the Saudi. The Saudi, elegant in his pristine white thobe, froze mid-gesture of explanation to his trainer of how he saw the race that was to be run, and then tilted his head down to the urchin pauper boy before him. Rehan held his clasped hands up to the man and then swung back around toward the grandstands and pointed with the same overextended arm and waggling hand he had used a moment before. The Saudi fixed his gaze near Cameron and Pepe, his eyes searching.

  “Smile and wave,” said Cameron as he subtly raised his hand. Pepe did the same.

  Having seen their signal the Saudi smiled, slightly bowed his head, and waved back. He held up his hand with the palm upwards and all of the fingers together and made a small movement with his wrist to signify he was almost finished and then he turned back to his trainer.

  “Watch this,” said Cameron.

  “He will not leave until he has a reward,” said Pepe referring to the boy, still standing in the Saudi’s shadow. The Saudi appeared surprised to realize the boy was still there. He said something to Rehan, and then attempted to return to the trainer.

  “Not that easy,” said Cameron, and he was correct, as the Saudi next gave Rehan something out of the leather pouch. Only then did the boy disappear again into the crowd.

  “I don’t know about this guy,” said Cameron.

  “Considering he is friends with Abbo, that should tell you enough. Then again, he is willing to betray him to us, so.”

  “Even that makes me queasy. I mean we’re here for the morning races. Only sheikhs race in the morning and this fella owns a camel.”

  “A lipstick wearing camel.”

  “I think they are all wearing lipstick. Anyway, if this guy is a Royal Saud why is he willing to talk to us? What’s the deal between him and Abbo anyway?” asked Cameron.

  “He owes Abbo money,” said Pepe. “A lot of it.”

  “This fella appears to be loaded.”

  “All appearances. My contact tells me this man is way down on the Saudi food chain, barely on the radar. He is in hock over his head. That is why he will talk to us. We erase Abbo and --,”

  “His debt is erased,” said Cameron.

  “Voila.”

  “Must be quite a debt.”

  The boy shot up from the bottom the grandstands. “He is coming. He says he has to be fast as the race is to begin.”

  “I’m sure he has a lot riding on that little robot,” said Cameron.

  “Excuse me sir?” asked Rehan.

  “Wagered, I am sure he has a lot wagered.”

  “Oh no. I am sure he does not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Gambling is strictly forbidden.”

  “Then why is he so pumped up?”

  “Oh the prizes are great. A luxury SUV, a luxury car, and yesterday someone won twelve luxury cars. And in the morning race, if you win, or place in the top three, another sheikh will surely purchase your camel for great riches.”

  “Bingo,” sad Pepe. “He wants the prize money. A passive way to stay liquid.”

  “Okay, here he comes,” said Cameron.

  “Run along for now little one,” said Pepe. A fifty-dirham bill already extended. The boy grabbed the bill then rolled his eyes at Pepe. Pepe began to stand, “Go on, and come back when the race begins.”

  Rehan scurried back down the grandstand steps the way he had come, circumventing the Saudi along the way. The Saudi raised his arms scowling as the boy passed around him.

  Cameron and Pepe began to rise as the Saudi reached their seats. He waved his hand to gesture they remain seated. The Saudi faced the track, smoothed the length of his thobe, and then without shifting his focus away from his camel, took a seat next to Pepe.

  Pepe greeted the Saudi, “Ahlan wasahlan,” being sure to mirror the man’s mannerism of keeping his attention toward the track and not obligating him to make eye contact.

  “Ahlan feek,” said the Saudi.

  Now that the man was up close Cameron and Pepe were able to see that the Saudi, as described, was a younger man, perhaps late twenties, with the handsome look of an aristocrat. His face was smooth and his eyes jeweled. Having met this type before they were able to discern this man was arrogant and spoiled, most likely the flaws that were key to his undoing.

  “A fine morning for a camel race,” said Pepe in his most congenial manner.

  The Saudi’s voice betrayed his disdain and disgust for the two men beside him. His eyes remained fixed on his camel down below, “So you are the Frenchmen from Montreal?”

  “Oui,” said Pepe.

  “Have you ever been to a camel race before?”

  “No. I cannot say that I have.”

  “Well, let me tell you. There has not been a good morning for camel racing in years, not since they started wrapping these electronic devices in Arabian cloth, and weaving them into the saddlebags. Age old tradition tossed aside for public relations.”

  “I see. The human jockeys were better?”

  “Much better,” said the Saudi, and for the first time, he allowed himself to inspect Pepe and Cameron. Then he returned his focus to the red painted camel, “Anyway I understand you are looking for a mutual friend.”

  Pepe and Cameron of course were not unnerved at this joke of a man and continued to feign interest in the pit below, even in the brief moment the Saudi had turned to them. “Yes,” said Pepe, “I was told you would be able tell us where to find this, friend, in Dubai and more importantly assist us in getting us close to him.”

  “You understand correctly.”

  “So will you do this?” asked Pepe.

  “Yes. I will help you though there are some conditions.”

  “Conditions, what do you mean?”

  “It was made clear to me that your intentions are to kill our friend.”

  “That may happen,” said Pepe.

  Cameron slipped his hand into his thobe, wanting to be near his weapon if needed.

  “I am good with this. And though your business is not my own, I did have to ask myself why you would want to do something like that.”

  “I assure you our action will serve us both,” said Pepe.

  The Saudi turned his head and faced Pepe, “Well I did some digging, and it is like this Mister Laroque.” Cameron and Pepe both metered their breaths. The Saudi continued, “I believe insurance is in my best interest. Were you not to succeed how do I benefit?”

  Pepe, his face calm and voice kind, matched eyes with the Saudi, “We are here to do business. What do you want?”

  The Saudi patted Pepe on the leg, “I am glad you understand. I need a small fee. Insurance if you will.”

  Pepe’s voice drew cold, “How much?”

  The Saudi again put his attention on the camel pit, obviously annoyed, “What is he doing now?” The Saudi fruitlessly raised his hand toward his trainer.

  Pepe repeated his question again, his voice deeper, “How much?”

  The Saudi faced Pepe and this time placed his hand on his shoulder, “The fee will be one million US dollars Mister Laroque.” He then smiled and began to stand.

  “That is no small amount,” said Pepe.

  “No,” said the Saudi, “that is the amount however that Abbo is offering for information concerning his son. Listen I have to get down to the track. When I h
ave finished I will return for your answer.” The Saudi began to start toward the camel pit then stopped himself. “Oh, there is one more thing.”

  “Yes,” said Pepe.

  “Something to help you decide.”

  “On with it.”

  “A new woman has been brought into Abbo’s harem,” said the Saudi. “A woman with chestnut hair and green eyes.”

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  Chapter 24

  Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, Dubai

  Scattered shouts rose to howls and then a collective roar as people began to rise in the grandstands. On every tiered level those nearest the front massed forward, tightly pressing against each other, folding those at the edge over the railings.

  “Would you look at that,” said Cameron.

  Still a kilometer away an elongated cloud of dust rapidly rounded the outside turn of the Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack, a rolling haze that covered all except the front-runners of the consolidated pack of painted camels and the pace keeping armada of white four-by-four Land Cruisers. Sporadic bursts of sunlight gleamed off the windscreens of the Land Cruisers that briefly slipped the grasp of the looming dust to shuffle for position. Striding forward at remarkable speed, the camels appeared to hover above the hot desert track, a Fata Morgana, a mirage, the trailing racers obscurely fading in and out of view.

  “They are making good time,” said Rehan.

  “They seem to be running themselves,” said Cameron. From the grandstands, the tiny electronic robot jockeys appeared mere colored cloth atop the lean camels’ backs.

  “They are not,” said Rehan.

  Cameron flashed a glance to size up the boy, unsure of the response. He decided to go along, “The remotes are in the four-by-fours?”

  “Yes, and some of the cameras are on the bonnets.”

  “The bonnets?”

  Rehan gestured, “On the top.”