The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial)

by Smith, Daniel Arthur

  “I thought we were out here to check out the tower. I should have known.”

  “Well I said I have no ne ideas, I do have an old one. Watch this,” said Alastair. On cue, five super shooters projected streams far above the rest of the water dance. “Whoa, now that is pretty high, at least seventy-five meters.”

  Cameron followed the jets of water up above the lake. As the water crested a series of loud booms echoed through Old Town.

  “What was that?” asked Cameron.

  “The water shooters have to use a lot of pressure to push the water that high. They are very loud. They have extreme shooters they never use that push the water up over a hundred fifty meters. Bloody shame.” Alastair winked at Cameron. “They would make your ears rattle.”

  Cameron slapped his hand down on the table. “Alastair you are brilliant.”

  “True,” said Alastair. “I have been waiting for chance to be the Fountain Man, at least for a night.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 30

  At.mosphere Restaurant, Burj Khalifa Level 122, Dubai

  The doors of the express elevator opened on the level 123 sky lobby, 450 meters above the promenade of the Dubai mall, where Cameron and Alastair shared coffee earlier in the day.

  “Now this is class,” said Cameron, the movement of his lips imperceptible as he spoke. No longer dressed in the incognito local garb of the thobe and ghutra, he nonchalantly adjusted the cuffs of his collar shirt and Armani dinner jacket he purchased from the boutique, “Can you fellas hear me all right?”

  From a small device hidden on the inside of Cameron’s ear, Pepe responded, “You are coming in clear.”

  “Crystal,” said Alastair. “Can you hear us?”

  “Perfectly,” said Cameron. From the express elevator Cameron entered onto the top of a two-story art installation of dynamic light and ambient music. “You wouldn’t believe this place.”

  “I am sure,” said Pepe, “though I do not think just anyone can have a same day reservation for the At.mosphere restaurant, Monsieur Dragon Chef.”

  “Very true, that’s not what I meant though,” said Cameron

  “I thought that girl at reception was going to faint,” said Alastair.

  “Very funny, you two should put on a show. Listen, out of the elevator there is an amazing mahogany cantilevered staircase that is lit up as elaborately as that fountain show down in the lake. Which, by the way, I can see clearly out of the floor to ceiling window 123 floors below, along with everything else in Dubai.”

  “Cantilevered staircase, you mean suspended in mid-air?” asked Alastair.

  “Exactly, I’m telling you this is surreal. Remember those computer flight simulations we used to sit through. Well oddly, they were more realistic than this. I swear there is a toy city to my left.”

  “You’re high enough up for a low flight plan,” said Alastair. “What is to your right?”

  “And to my right, below me, is the entrance to the restaurant, mahogany walls, the floors are café au lait limestone and hand tufted carpets, and I am pretty sure the furnishings are Adam Tihany.”

  “Adam who?” asked Alastair.

  “Adam Tihany,” said Pepe. “He designs all of the restaurants and hotels. Kincaid goes on about him sometimes.”

  “Adam Tihany is widely regarded as the preeminent hospitality designer in the world today,” said Cameron.

  “See,” said Pepe.

  “Gotcha,” said Alastair. “I don’t suppose you see the target.”

  “No, not yet. Give me a moment, here comes Peter the Maître d’. I usually try not to be too obvious.” Cameron lifted his arms and raised his voice, “Peter, good to see you.”

  Peter, a tall thin Brit glided toward the landing of the stairs, his hands clasped and raised to Cameron, still a few steps up. “Cameron Kincaid, welcome, welcome, so great to see you. I could not have been more pleased when you called.” Peter placed both of his hands around Cameron’s and Cameron in turn lifted his arm to Peter’s shoulder. The two walked together side by side.

  “What brings you to Dubai?” asked Peter. “Opening a little competition perhaps?”

  “Not on this trip. Though I could hardly compete with what you have here. You said if I were ever in the neighborhood to stop by, so.”

  “Certainly we are so glad to have you, and thank you so much for the compliment, I so enjoyed Le Dragon Vert. Your restaurant is a true jewel in New York. We have worked hard with what we have. You have to see what the chef has done with the Josper oven.”

  “I intend to,” said Cameron, “literally cooking without gas.”

  The two entered the lounge area. The dramatic ambience of the suspended stairwell was furthered in heavy hues of amethyst and a complex blending of ornate velvets. Cameron realized now that the esoteric music he had heard since coming off the express elevator originated from the harpist playing near the end of the bar. Peter led Cameron toward a small table. Cameron veered to the high bar, the sheer white backlit glass reminiscent of the milk bars of the last century.

  “I’m fine at the bar Peter,” said Cameron. He rattled his fingertips across the edge of the bar and spun back toward Peter. “Even from here the view is incredible.”

  Peter shifted his view to the same direction. “Yes, we have a spectacular view of World and Palm Islands from here and of course Atlantis at the end and over there…”

  “The Burj al Arab, yes I see.”

  Peter smiled and nodded.

  Pepe and Alastair had been anticipating Cameron’s statement, ‘Even from here the view is incredible,’ as that meant he had sighted their target, Abbo Mohammed. Now would Abbo see Cameron? The plan was simple. They knew Abbo regularly dined in the At.mosphere Lounge and they knew that Abbo was by nature a connoisseur of cuisine, celebrity, and of all things deemed great and fine. Cameron had dropped his cover to secure a reservation at the At.mosphere anticipating an encounter with Abbo. Cameron’s plan was to have the Maître d’ place him at the bar near Abbo and let natural events play out. The team had calculated that Abbo, once noticing Cameron, and excited at an opportunity to meet the celebrity Dragon Chef, would insist Cameron join him at his table. Abbo of course would have no idea that Cameron Kincaid, the famous New York celebrity chef was one of the numbers involved in his son’s disappearance.

  “Would you mind indulging me for a closer look?” asked Cameron.

  “Certainly,” said Peter. He nodded to the bartender, “Edward can you prepare a --,” he glanced at Cameron.

  “A lemon seltzer would be fine,” said Cameron.

  Peter again nodded with a closed smile and then led Cameron toward the seaward window, a path that ran directly next to Abbo’s table. Abbo sat at the small table’s head between two elegantly dressed chestnut haired women. Cameron crossed directly in front of Abbo. He did not make eye contact yet he revealed as much of his face as he could to be sure Abbo had a good look, at one point pausing to glance across the room. Abbo was not an unhandsome man, dressed debonair, his dark Somali complexion regal in the complimentary interior of the At.mosphere Lounge. The contours of his strong cheeks and jaw were reminiscent of his son Feizel. The women beside Abbo almost caused Cameron to stall in his stride, each a visage of Christine.

  Resolute Cameron pressed forward to the window, “Breathtaking Peter, absolutely breathtaking. What can’t you see?” Another code for Pepe and Alastair meaning Christine was not with Abbo.

  “We are very fortunate.” Peter leaned into Cameron, “Though this is not New York.”

  “Beautiful all the same,” said Cameron.

  The two sauntered back toward the bar. Abbo was speaking rapidly to the woman to his left and she in turn was relating what he said to her mirror on his other side. All three were flashing glances in Cameron’s direction as he drew closer. When Cameron and Peter were about to reach the end of Abbo’s table Abbo spoke, his voice deep, booming, “Excuse me Sayyed, a thousand pardons. My lady friend insists that you are
the television chef Cameron Kincaid.”

  Abbo had taken the bait.

  Cameron stopped at the end of the table and smiled a wide toothy unassuming smile, the smile he reserved for television and fans.

  “Yes sir, I am,” said Cameron.

  Peter placed his hand on Cameron’s shoulder, “Mister Cameron Kincaid may I introduce Mister Abbo Mohammed.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 31

  At.mosphere Restaurant, Burj Khalifa Level 122, Dubai

  Many aspects of Abbo Mohammed were fitting for such a man of his physical stature while others were magnified by pure narcissism. Every gesture was flamboyant, surreal, and larger than life. To hear Abbo speak was peculiar, though he had not mastered the English language, his voice was deep, clear, and each word was enunciated at the peril of being missed. His posture was unnaturally erect. His eyes cast a sidelong leer to Cameron across the table, “Mister Kincaid, thank you so much for joining us.” Cameron gaged Abbo was a man that sought to peer deeply into the minds of others, to decipher them. “How fortunate for us that you happened by. Can I offer you some champagne?” In a broad flowing display, he extended his arm to present the bottle of Ruinart Rose chilling in a tableside ice bucket.

  “I’m afraid I am limited to seltzer and lemon this evening,” said Cameron, his voice apologetic, that of the fool, to match the toothy grin he still wore. He placed his hand above his stomach, “All of the travelling.”

  Abbo widely smiled in return, tilted his head slightly to the side, and then nodded. “I understand quite well. My last trip to New York threw me for many days. All of the long flying I believe.”

  Through Cameron’s hidden microphone, Pepe and Alastair were able to hear Abbo’s deep voice stumbling through English with defiant clarity. As according to plan Abbo had recognized Cameron and invited him to his table. All Cameron’s team needed to do was wait for the next phase.

  “I am sorry, I have been rude,” said Abbo. “May I introduce Mary and Antoinette?” On each arm, beautiful dark haired women, each wearing silk camisoles in lieu of blouses, one patterned with red roses and trimmed with Habutai lace, the other, less conservative in comparison, a sequined sheer black silk tank top.

  “Hello,” said Cameron, he shifted his eyes to each of the women, “Marie and Toinette.”

  “Mary,” said red roses. “And Antoinette,” said sequined sheer.

  “Aah.”

  “Hello. Welcome to Dubai,” said Mary, her voice that of a trade show hostess.

  Cameron’s eyes widened.

  “You are surprised by my American accent Mister Kincaid?”

  “Should I be?”

  Mary coyly lowered her green eyes away from Cameron to a solitary sugar cube plated before her. She playfully twirled the cube around the saucer with the end of her red enameled fingernail, “Some men are.”

  “I am not some men.”

  Mary flirtatiously tilted her head, and eased a glance up at Cameron, “I am sure you are not.”

  “Ha, ha, yes,” said Abbo. “Mary is from middle of America.”

  “I am from Belgium,” said Antoinette, her green eyes puppy wide, her long enameled nail pressing the edge of her lower lip.

  “So then it is true,” said Cameron.

  “What is Mister Kincaid?” asked Antoinette.

  “Dubai is the land of many delights.”

  Abbo laughed deeply.

  “That amuses you?” asked Cameron.

  Abbo composed himself, “You are a man that appreciates fine things. Please be my guest and educate me in the designs of this menu,” he paused and shifted his pupils side to side to each of the women, “and dessert is on me. What do you say?”

  Cameron maintained an aloof tone, “I say let’s order the first course.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 32

  Paris Countryside, Years Ago

  Christine peered over the crinkled road atlas into the brown withered field. “The farm is supposed to be right up here,” she said. “That is an orchard.”

  “Where there is an orchard there is usually a farm house,” said Cameron. “I’m sure the farmhouse is right over this rise.” He wrapped his fingers tightly around the knob of the gear stick and lunged his shoulder forward. The gearbox of the old Citroen 2CV ratcheted loudly, resisting his effort. He nudged the shifter again. The car jolted forward then the motor began purring smoothly up the hill.

  “There you see,” said Cameron.

  Through the tops of the bare scraggily orchard trees, the crest of the hill revealed the weathered tin and shingle roof of a barn. Christine held the atlas tightly to her chest, straightened her back, and then extended her neck. The corners of her cheeks rose and she spoke with an elevated pitch, inhaling her words, “Oui, oui, that is the farm Cameron.”

  As the Citroen topped the hill, the rest of the farm was revealed. The house was attached to the barn. The aged stonework façade was intermingled across the two buildings. Christine began to tap her feet. By the time the car reached the small bridge at the bottom of the hill, she had started to slap Cameron’s thigh to punctuate her remarks, “Look, look! See those little chocolate pooches in the yard. How cute!”

  Cameron wheeled the Citroen into the pebbled drive of the farm and began the fight with the gear stick to shift the car into neutral. Christine did not wait for him to turn off the ignition. As soon as the vehicle slowed, she opened the thin door and made her way to the band of puppies frolicking in the yard. The gearbox quarreled loudly yet above that were Christine’s giggles and laughs.

  Having successfully parked the car, Cameron opened his door and spun his feet out onto the stony driveway. He stayed seated for a moment, captured by the splendor of Christine rolling on the lawn with four puppies on top of her. Little chocolate labs near the same color as her long, now wild and sprawling, chestnut hair. Whimsically she snickered and smirked. She communed with the small animals with quirky squeals and squeaks. Christine allowed the little paws of one to push her to one side and the muzzle of another to toss her onto her back, and she let them bathe her face with the thousands of little tongue kisses.

  Cameron was mesmerized by the amount of joy these labrador pups brought this innocent beauty. The image became interspersed with lightning flashes of chestnut haired children, rolling across the lawn with their mother. Cameron saw himself there in the yard as well. In that instant, Cameron saw a possible future of a family in love and at play.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 33

  Abbo’s Harem Suite, Burj Khalifa Level 104, Dubai

  Cameron stood at the corner of the glass walled suite, high above the city of Dubai. He peered into the vast blanket of twinkling lights that speckled far out toward the Middle Eastern horizon. Relieved of his Armani dinner jacket, he still wore his collar shirt and slacks. His tie was loose yet knotted. Mary had disrobed for him. He had smiled and then faced the window. She perhaps thought him coy, playing a game, while ironically he was at odds facing her beauty, a beauty so reminiscent of Christine. Mary stepped up behind Cameron, seductive in her stride, slowly draped her arms around his shoulders, and then rested her cheek against his back.

  “You made a wise choice,” said Mary. She pressed her naked body against Cameron.

  “Did I?”

  Mary held Cameron as Christine often had, her arms wrapped around his broad chest, her head resting on his shoulders, her pert breasts pushed into his back. Christine was most likely captive in the next room waiting liberation from Abbo. In facing the window, Christine’s memory had been invoked rather than defused. Cameron had a mission that Mary was part of yet an act so natural as being with a woman, a woman devoted to indulging sensual pleasures, was at the moment the cause of mental duress.

  “You know Abbo is rarely so generous,” said Mary, her nimble fingers worked the knot of Cameron’s necktie, effortlessly loosening the silken material.

  “Is that so.” He raised the end of the now loose tie and slowly
pulled the thin piece of silk from around his neck.

  “Well he only shares me with very special men.” Mary unfastened the second and third buttons of Cameron’s shirt and then slid her hand beneath the tight fabric to slowly caress his flesh.

  “He considers me special?” asked Cameron. He felt her sigh deeply behind him, quivering as her widespread fingers tightly strummed along his muscular chest. Cameron rested the lids of his eyes closed and allowed himself to release his restriction. In his lowered hands, he folded the long tie mid-length then slid his hands to either end.

  Cameron remained still, he flexed his chest with deep breathes that further excited Mary and prompted her to eagerly unfasten the other buttons of his shirt, until his naked front was a field of flesh for her wide spread hands to soak in all at once.

  Since Abbo had invited Cameron to ‘try’ Mary, Pepe and Alastair had maintained silence, all the while listening, through his hidden mike. When Alastair spoke into his ear, he was not surprised. “You are special Kincaid,” said Alastair, mirroring Mary’s sensuous tone. The levity was reminiscent to past undercover missions when Alastair would observe from a distance rooftop or darkened window. “Any sign of Christine.”

  Cameron was not in a position to respond. With the silk tie firmly in his grasps, he slid his fingers over Mary’s and entangled her hands into his.

  “Of all those green eyed girls you stood out,” said Cameron.

  Mary cooed then said, “The sheikh like girls with chestnut hair and green eyes.”

  There was no visual component to the surveillance kit, only the earpiece and the microphone. Alastair and Pepe had not shared what Cameron had seen. They did not see Mary and Antoinette at the table eighteen floors above, nor did they see the other women lounging half naked in the communal area of the harem suite. Abbo Mohammed had a deep fetish for women of a certain type and had built up a collection. Cameron painted a picture with the clues he dropped in conversing with Mary, so that they could understand.