Six days had passed since the Kalinihta was hijacked. The last GPS coordinates had put the Kalinihta, still not reported missing, near the small port city of Kismayu, 500 kilometers down the African coast from Mogadishu. Pepe had shared with Cameron what he learned from Langdon. Onboard the yacht were Christine, Nikos Stratos, the Captain, Cook, three crewmen, and two other women, one a maid and the other a steward. The Captain, Warren Lewis, was an older British man, well seasoned with a commercial background. The Cook and two women were Greek, the steward the Cook’s girlfriend. Two of the crewmen were brothers from Genoa, Aberto and Donato Disota, and the third was a Seychellois, local to where the Kalinihta was anchored. Langdon had told Pepe that, for a crew that size, the pirates would most likely ask for a million US dollars expecting to get half.
Cameron had done some homework as well. Before leaving New York, he made some calls concerning Demetrius Stratos. As a civilian, a commando, and later during undercover ops, Cameron had come across men like Stratos, powerful men unabashed by their actions, men with egos that forbid them from receiving insult without swift response. Stratos would not turn his back on his son and he was not the kind of man that would easily pay a ransom. For men with the power Stratos possessed there was an alternative resolve. Cameron and Pepe were not the only former soldiers on their way to Somalia.
The top of the cabin reflected the pale blue glow of Pepe’s MacBook Pro. Cameron could visualize the drill. Pepe was checking the coordinates of Kismayu and key points in the vicinity against Google Earth or some other plat map. Christine was Pepe’s little sister. Pepe spoke of her as if she were tough, Cameron thought differently, they had something years ago. The tough exterior was an act, Christine was softer than Pepe wanted to admit. Sophisticated and well traveled, to call Christine fragile would be a mistake, yet a week as a hostage would be enough to break most anybody.
Cameron took a breath in through his nose as he again processed the thought of Christine being held hostage. He drew a mental picture of Christine on the yacht. The image of Christine was of her the last time they spoke. That would not be right though, almost ten years had passed since the last time Cameron saw her in person, and though she was still beautiful, she had matured, lost the girlish features. Cameron thought Christine would more closely resemble the woman she portrayed in the ads, a visage combined from cosmetics and Photoshop.
The beauty was real though.
What Cameron and Christine had together was real.
Cameron told himself that Christine was the one that slipped away. He let her slip away. They had met in Paris when Christine first began modeling. Pepe had introduced them over lunch and, in fear of insulting or hurting Pepe, the two began seeing each other in secrecy. When Pepe did finally confront them, he was not angry. Pepe gave them his blessing and told them that nothing would please him more than his brother-in-arms marry his sister.
That probably would have happened, had Cameron and Christine chosen different careers. They spent too much time apart, each with jobs that took them far around the world, Christine to the fashion meccas of the wealthiest countries and Cameron to the hot spots of the poorest. As Cameron’s work began to involve deep cover operations, the time they spent apart grew from weeks to months. The missions Cameron became involved in were dangerous and with each, the risk of fatality increased. Looking back Cameron could see that Christine would have understood, would have waited for him. At the time, Cameron thought best to let Christine go on without him.
Cameron had more than once imagined a different life where he and Christine had gone farther together. There were children that looked like them with their chestnut hair, his chin, her cheeks, and her green eyes below his brow. Cameron imagined that they would all be happy.
Thinking about a past that never occurred and a present that did not exist was futile so when nostalgic thoughts arose, melancholy or pleasant, they were expeditiously warded away. Chased away as other futile thoughts were by simple sage advice that Claude had given Cameron years before. “Men like us,” Claude had said, “should not tally regret.”
Regardless of a past shared and unshared, Christine was in trouble and her rescue was up to Pepe and Cameron. A rescue from captors that did not know the mistake they were making by boarding the Kalinihta.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
London Heathrow Airport
The flight attendant appeared no older than a teen. She leaned in toward Pepe, her shoulders tight, arms straight, and her hands pressed against her knees. As though to share a secret she spoke softly, her British accent both formal and kind, “Mister Laroque, when you and Mister Kincaid disembark, a London crewmember will be waiting outside the Jetway.”
“Thank you Rachelle. I appreciate your extra effort contacting Heathrow,” he said.
“Nonsense Mister Laroque, it is one’s pleasure. Can I get you anything before we land?”
“No, I’m quite fine.”
Rachelle gave Pepe a departing smile and then shifted her focus to Cameron. “Could I get you anything Mister Kincaid?”
“I’m quite fine as well. Thank you,” said Cameron.
“Very well gentlemen, please prepare for landing.”
Cameron and Pepe gave Rachelle a friendly nod and then locked eyes with each other.
“Cameron,” said Pepe.
“I know,” said Cameron.
Cameron peered out the window beyond Pepe. White billows enveloped the large jet airliner as she fell through the clouds.
Rachelle opened a cabinet near the ceiling and pressed the first of five buttons that crossed the face of a black metal console. In the next cabin a voice as formal and kind as Rachelle’s relayed an automated message asking passengers to please check that their tray tops were up, their seatbelts were fastened, and that their seatbacks were in an upright position.
Outside the window, white wisps of moisture revealed first hazily, then concisely, the details of soft green terra firma fields, roofs of row houses, and then lastly, the myriad of utility sheds and parcel depots skirting London Heathrow.
A muffled thump rose from the deck as the Boeing triple seven kissed the Heathrow tarmac coupled with the immediate roar of the engine’s reverse thrust. The travelers lurched forward, eased back, the engines lulled, and then applause filled the coach cabin of the near motionless jet. Rather than take part in the transatlantic landing ritual, Cameron gathered his gear. Time in London was to be short, hurried by the departure of the Kenyan flight. Pepe had gathered his gear together moments before and was now bent slightly forward at the waist, his feet and knees together, eyes open, chin to chest, elbows tight into his sides and his fingers spread wide from his extended hands. Cameron recognized the posture. Pepe held the posture paratroopers assumed before leaving a plane. Pepe was in jump position and prepared to launch himself when the cabin door opened.
Pepe did not have long to wait.
As the jet taxied toward the terminal, Rachelle walked passed Pepe and into the small service area demarcating the sleeper section of the cabin from coach. She pulled the privacy curtain from the side of the fuselage to clear the exit and then waited in front of the hatch. The jet stopped, bumped forward, and then began moving again under the power of a small tow vehicle below.
Cameron could see from his seat the glass Jet Bridge closing in on the side of the Boeing.
The two men stood and approached Rachelle. She was awkwardly hunched forward peering up through the hatch window, coordinating with the Jet Bridge operator by means of a black telephone receiver jacked into the side of the cabin door. Rachelle smiled widely at Pepe and Cameron and flirtatiously raised her eyebrows as they approached. The men appreciated they were to have remained seated. She merely continued to respond to the operator with monosyllabic statements, “Clear… Clear… Five and… Clear…”
With a subtle jolt, the Jet Bridge fastened to the side of the fuselage. Rachelle seated the receiver and pulled the latch to release the cabin door.
<
br /> “Welcome to Heathrow gentlemen,” said Rachelle, pulling the door clear for Pepe and Cameron to exit.
“Merci,” said Pepe.
A series of faint bells rang through the cabin. Passengers began to lift themselves from their seats and gather their carry on luggage from the overhead compartments.
“Ms. Conroy will be to the right of the Jet Bridge,” said Rachelle. Her voice raised an octave, “Thank you for flying.”
This time Cameron responded, “Thank you.” Then he shot out the hatch to catch up with Pepe, already in the glass corridor.
* * * * *
Ms. Conroy, a petite woman with her blonde hair fashioned no hassle pixie style, briskly walked toward Cameron and Pepe from the entrance of the Jet Bridge. She wore a Heathrow blazer and on her arm, a clipboard filled with sheets of itinerary that had been shuffled and flipped through already a number of times before her latest wards had arrived. In her other hand, she held a two-way mobile.
“Good morning Mister Laroque, Mister Kincaid. My name is Ms. Conroy. Welcome to London Heathrow. If you could follow me please.”
Before Pepe or Cameron could respond to Ms. Conroy’s greeting she had spun around back toward the Jet Bridge entrance and in two steps was leaning on a side door that led down to the tarmac. In the same motion she lifted the two-way and spoke into the device, “I have them with me. Side alpha-2 word of the hour,” Ms. Conroy paused and tilted her wrist to see her watch, “Giraffe.” The magnetic lock buzzed and Ms. Conroy pushed the large metal and glass door open giving her small frame the appearance of great might. The moist air surged in thick from the rainy grey world outside of the enclosed terminal. Pepe and Cameron had to pick up their step to keep in stride with Ms. Conroy as she shot down the steps and onto the wet tarmac toward a waiting van directly below the Jet Bridge. She jerked the side door of the van open with the hand holding the two-way and then stepped back.
“Please step aboard gentlemen,” said Ms. Conroy, an expedient machine a moment before now paused and courteous. Cameron and Pepe climbed into the van, each nodding to the smiling young woman. She threw the door closed once they were clear and then hurled herself into the front passenger seat. Cameron raised a brow to Pepe and both were rocked back into their seats as the van accelerated away from the Jet Bridge out onto the tarmac across a road designated only by two white painted lines. The van shifted to either side, negotiating the course, the large single wiper slicing the gathering water from the windscreen, the onboard radio chirping porter information across the complex. Ms. Conroy was on her two-way as well, a different channel, flipping through her clipboard and marking the lists of flights with notations of names, checkmarks, or times with circles, a lot of circles.
Cameron and Pepe had spent years of their lives on tarmacs and found the ride familiar. While thousands of patrons roamed the terminals, the hidden underbelly of the great animal that was London Heathrow functioned as a giant organism. The van a corpuscle surging through a momentum under the wings of jets, around trains of baggage carts, petrol trucks, and dozens of other vehicles that were all part of the Heathrow eco, all moving to a breakneck choreography to accommodate the two hundred thousand people being served each day.
“Mister Laroque,” said Ms. Conroy. “As London is not your final destination arrangements have been made for Mister Kincaid and yourself. This will only take a moment. Please have your passports ready.”
The van cleared the back of a petrol truck and then spun a 180-degree turn, pulling up next to a small white concrete block building. Ms. Conroy threw open her door and in a single borderline acrobatic maneuver, swung out and slid the side panel of the van open as well.
Every time Ms. Conroy spout an order her voice would raise a polite pitch. “This way please,” she said, again marching away before Cameron or Pepe could respond.
The white building was as Spartan on the inside as out, consisting of four walls and a glassed-in customs officer on one end. To the side a small room divider leading away from the customs desk masked a table. Cameron and Pepe followed Ms. Conroy through the door and waited for her cue. “Wait here please,” said Ms. Conroy. She approached the customs officer then said something the two men could not hear that prompted the customs officer to nod his head.
“Ok, very good then,” said Ms. Conroy. “Mister Laroque you first please, and then Mister Kincaid.”
Pepe walked the four steps to the glassed in customs agent. The agent held up his open hand and said nothing. Pepe offered his French passport. The agent placed the passport on his desk. He did not scan the passport or even bother to look at the picture. He opened the passport to the middle and then, finding the pages full, flipped until he found a blank. With a thud, he stamped the ID then handed the passport back. Cameron stepped forward and the process was repeated. Before Cameron had his passport back into his hands, Ms. Conroy was at the door.
Ms. Conroy led Pepe and Cameron to the rear of a black Bentley that had driven up to the door of the discrete customs building. Seeing his passengers exit, the driver stepped out of the black limo and opened the rear door. Ms. Conroy handed Pepe a packet. “The tickets for your next leg are here. Instructions with the flight time and where to enter the airport are included.” Ms. Conroy sneered, “Please be prompt. The driver your friend has arranged also has these instructions so you should be fine. You will not need to go through customs again as you have never left the airport. Your friend felt the formality of the stamp beneficial in the event your stay is prolonged. One never knows.”
“One never knows Ms. Conroy. Merci,” said Pepe.
“Good day then,” said Ms. Conroy.
Ms. Conroy flashed a broad smile, and then in her manner briskly marched back to the van, chatting into her two-way, and flipping through reshuffled itineraries.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
London, Mayfair
Cameron rubbed his temples. He peered up and out the window of the Bentley to the London sky, and then over to Pepe.
“The man we are going to meet here in London is a Somali expat,” said Pepe. “I was made aware of him by a contact back in Montreal.”
“Did your contact mention how he knows this man?” asked Cameron.
“The man in Montreal said that he and the London man used to be fishermen. I was told we would find him at The May Fair Hotel.”
“You sure? A lot of workers move in and out of that place.”
“I am sure. I was told he does not work there,” Pepe threw an eye to Cameron. “He lives there.”
Cameron arched a brow, “He lives at The May Fair?”
Pepe nodded, “He used to be a fisherman. We are not all what we were.”
The driver glanced into the rearview mirror, “Excuse me gentleman. We will be at The May Fair Hotel shortly.”
Pepe gazed far out into the grey day. “This area of the city is nice. What is that large building in the center of the park over there? It is very familiar. Is that a museum?”
“In a manner of speaking sir,” said the driver. “That would be Buckingham Palace, home to her majesty the Queen. The May Fair Hotel is around the next corner.”
Pepe tilted his head forward for a better view, “Very nice, eh Cameron?”
“The May Fair Hotel is a five star hotel, one of the finest in the world,” said Cameron. “It appears our friend is living rather upscale.”
“My contact did mention that the man we are meeting with is a bit of an entrepreneur,” said Pepe.
* * * * *
A porter opened the rear door of the Bentley and Cameron began to exit from the car.
“Sir,” said the driver. He was looking in the rearview mirror again, this time directly at Pepe. Cameron elbowed Pepe’s upper arm.
“Oh, Escuse’ moi,” said Pepe. He then put his hand into his jacket.
“Oh, no sir,” said the driver. “That is not necessary.” Pepe stopped reaching for a tip and waited. From over the top of the seat, the driver presented Pep
e with what appeared to be a small black key fob.
“Please take this,” said the driver. He tapped the flat panel screen on his console. “I will know when you are approaching the lobby and are ready to be taken back to the airport. You can always tap and hold the button as well.”
“Tap and hold?”
“Yes sir,” said the driver. “Tap and hold.”
“Alright then,” said Pepe. “We will only be a short while.”
The driver nodded. Pepe was nodded back, uncertain what to say next.
“Let’s go,” said Cameron. He shifted out of the Bentley toward the waiting doorman.
“Right,” said Pepe, and then he scooted out behind his friend.
The few short steps from the Bentley to the lobby were a contrast of worlds. Cameron and Pepe entered the lobby below a ruby-laden Baccarat chandelier and surrounding them were eclectic Russian, Thai, and Vietnamese objects d’art. The finest London had to offer. Cameron immediately approached the Clef d’Or concierge, the two crossed golden keys on the man’s lapel shimmering in the lobby light.
The concierge clasped his hands together when he saw Cameron. “We are graced by the Dragon Chef. Mister Kincaid we did not know you were arriving today,” said the concierge.
“My visit was not announced,” said Cameron.
“We have missed you since your visit with our last Chef. I will call the restaurant at once and let them know you are here. Our new Chef is out yet I believe she will be back from the market shortly.”
Cameron lifted his hands, “I would rather you did not. Though I would love to hold court with the Queen of Eastern European Cuisine, I am actually here on different business.”
The concierge let his face go blank. “Discretion is my business.”
The Somali Deception Episode I (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) Page 2