“Is there always this much traffic on this little island?” asked Cameron.
Annalisa lifted her head in an attempt to see up and around the cars in queue ahead of them. “After sunset people are finding their way to dinner I guess.”
Cameron rested his forearm on the steering wheel. They would have to wait for traffic to begin to move. With the tips of his fingers, he began to tap the top edge of the dashboard, a nervous habit that went with his mind wandering to where he may find Nikos, to where he may find Christine.
Cameron tilted his head to the side and absently peered ahead to the roundabout. “There they are,” he said.
“Where?” asked Annalisa. “Where do you see them? How do you know it’s them?”
“Up there in the roundabout. The LED in the taillight is out. They didn’t get far ahead of us.”
Annalisa craned her head closer to Cameron for a clear view of the roundabout. “I don’t see them.”
Cameron shifted his fingers on the dashboard to the left. “They took that turnoff. They’re not going to the house or airport.”
Pepe put his hands on either side of Annalisa’s seat and pulled himself forward. “Where are they going Miss Droukos?”
Annalisa’s eyes, fresh a mere moment ago, sunk in. Cameron winked at Annalisa triggering a frail smile in return. “I’d love to drive around all night but we do need to help a friend.”
This time Annalisa was quick to respond, “That turnoff leads to the port. They are going to Mister Stratos’ sailing yacht.”
“Of course,” said Pepe, “that’s why there were no signs of Christine. Nikos is hiding her on the yacht.”
Cameron gripped the steering wheel and switched his head side to side. Driving forward to maneuver around the queue of cars was not an option. To the right was an iron fence and a boundary of boulders, and to the left was a meter high concrete median. Cameron and Pepe needed to uncomfortably bide their time until they made their way to the roundabout. After an eternal five minutes, they were clear of the median barrier on the left. Cameron gunned the accelerator and the Aston bounced up onto the curb. Dirt, dust, and stones flew up behind the car as Cameron tore through the loose dry sandy soil and shrubbery of the median and into the opposing lane. Circumventing the frozen traffic that had held them, he aimed the Aston toward the roundabout, ignoring any vehicles in his way. A small VW station wagon turned off the roundabout and into the lane, head on with the accelerating Aston. The horn of the oncoming Volkswagen blared as the vehicle swerved to miss the Aston Martin then stopped abruptly as the car slammed up against an olive tree. Having barely missed crashing into the VW, the Aston entered the roundabout against traffic. The surprise chance of near collision sent the oncoming barrage of brilliant lights veering into rapidly deviating directions.
The Aston Martin had been still, a whirlwind, corrected, and then was again travelling smoothly. Cameron tweaked the rearview mirror to see if traffic in the roundabout was correcting as well. “You can relax now,” he said.
“I’m not sure I can,” said Annalisa. Her clawed hands were each clutching a part of the interior dearly, one hand the dash, the other the door.
“Which way now?”
“Um, turn right at the next roundabout then go all the way to the end. Mister Stratos keeps the yacht moored in Talamanca Bay.”
The cadmium yellow lights that illuminated the white stucco buildings blanketing the hillside Ibiza Town, appeared an anachronism to the flowing headlights that weaved in and out of view. The harbor’s forests of masts towering the mammoth powerboats produced the same sense of mixed century.
Cameron slowed as he approached the next roundabout that led down toward the port. The other Aston Martin was far ahead of them, yet in view, skirting the rows of the docked sailboats and cruisers populating the port. Cameron watched Stratos enter the far roundabout and then exit the spoke that led to the second harbor, Talamanca Bay. When Stratos had cleared his view, Cameron killed the lights of the Aston so he could shorten the distance to his quarry in stealth. The plan was good because, when Cameron entered the far roundabout, he saw Demetrius and Nikos exiting their sports car at the shoreline parking area, mere meters away. Barely above an idle, the Aston loomed from the spoke onto the side street. The Aston came to rest curbside under the shadow of a tree. Hidden in the darkness, Cameron killed the engine, and then decided to slip the key fob into his pocket.
The well-lit parking area, where Demetrius and Nikos had left their Aston, was intended for those with boats moored out in the bay. From the shadows, Cameron watched the two men walk the length of a long concrete dock past a series of tethered dinghies. Nikos climbed into one of the dinghies near the end of the long dock followed by his father. Demetrius untied the line and then pushed the boat away from the dock. Cameron watched Nikos tug a few times on the four stroke motor cable. With a purr, the dinghy veered out of the pool of light cast from the dock and into the bay.
A short way out, a number of masts sprouted from the surface of Talamanca Bay. Mooring lines, strung with lamps, appeared to rest on the reflecting amber sheets that shot across the still water from the shoreline hotels.
“Which one?” asked Pepe. His elbow supported him on the center console as he watched the two Greek men motor away.
“Excuse me?” asked Annalisa.
“Which sailboat? They are heading out to one of those boats,” said Pepe. “I am guessing one of those three larger yachts.”
“The smaller one on the side,” said Annalisa.
“I would have guessed one of the larger ones,” said Pepe.
“If you think thirty-eight meters is small. Anyway, the size is not what makes the yacht special. The Azulejo is over one hundred years old. Mister Stratos took great pride in restoring and racing the luxury yacht. His son shares the,” Annalisa hesitated, “affection.”
Cameron smirked, “Another one of a kind.”
“Hmm,” said Annalisa.
“Well,” said Pepe. “Demetrius and his family did not get to where they are without flaunting a little.”
“I told you,” said Annalisa. “The Stratos men have the means to obtain what they want, by purchase, or other, well, they have the means.”
“To take what they want,” said Cameron
“I am sure they do,” said Pepe. “Rather Machiavellian.”
“To take what you want?” asked Annalisa.
“Not that,” said Pepe. “I am referring to the power a one of a kind item brings to those like Stratos that wish to attain and maintain power.”
“How so?”
“There is more to the acquisition of particular items. A key to creating and maintaining power is to create compelling spectacles, full of symbols that heighten presence. Machiavelli said people are always impressed by the superficial appearance of things.”
“I may disagree that a century old luxury yacht is superficial.”
“Does owning the boat make a difference in the man?”
“Fascinating Mister Laroque,” said Annalisa.
“Yes fascinating,” said Pepe. “There is another fascinating key to maintaining position and power that you appear to know so well.”
“What is that?”
“Pose as a friend, work as spy.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cameron smiled, “I do believe Stratos is genius for sending you in. You are top notch, short of weapons training. Where did you study?”
“Cambridge then Harvard Law.”
“Huh,” Cameron glanced over at Annalisa, her naked flesh beneath the sheer blouse illuminating bright in the dim interior of the car. “Brains, and beauty,” he said. “A slam-dunk really.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” said Annalisa.
“Sure you do,” said Cameron.
Annalisa hung her head down for a moment and then, in a soft tone said, “Foreknowledge cannot be elicited from ghosts and spirits, it cannot be inferred from comparison of previous events, or from the calculations of
the heavens, but must be obtained from people who have knowledge of the enemy’s situation.”
“Sun-tzu,” said Cameron. “He was right, tough to shoot ducks blindfolded.”
Pepe held his hand out between them. “The earpiece please.”
* * * * *
Chapter 69
Talamanca Bay, Ibiza
Even without the motor, the dinghy swiftly glided across the smooth surface of Talamanca Bay. From the dock, the bay had appeared mostly brilliant with the reflection from the lights of the beach hotels and mired with shadow where the light was absent. Out in the midst of the harbor, the above light of hillside Ibiza Town, and the myriad of stars that peppered the sky, made the interior of the small craft as well lit as the shore.
The Azulejo, like the other yachts near her, was lit by the strings of lamps along her moorings and up her masts. Cameron and Pepe saw two other dinghies tied to her stern. One of the dinghies had been brought out to the luxury sailing yacht by Demetrius and Nikos ahead of Cameron and Pepe, the other they surmised may belong to Azulejo. Perhaps Nikos had assigned someone with the task of caring for his captive. The task of feeding and securing Christine, ensuring she not leave the yacht, taking measures she remained below.
Men bickering, peaked with a few hollers, carried across the surface of the water.
Cameron’s mind wandered to what he and Pepe would find inside the cabin. His stomach tightened.
The end of the dinghies towline was looped and ready. Pepe snagged a cleat at the stern. Cameron palmed some resistance to the warm hull as Pepe softly pulled the small craft tight to the yacht. No one was on deck. Light escaped from the open cabin.
The occupants of the yacht no longer quarreled loudly. The discussion ensued, muffled below within the hull.
Weapons drawn, Pepe and Cameron eased themselves onto the deck of the Azulejo. Corsican trained, Corsican elite, whether the target was a destroyer, freighter, fishing frigate, or a luxury sailing yacht, infiltrating a vessel afloat was a specialty of the two former commandos, as simple as falling from a plane.
Hunched over, and incredibly nimble for the added girth of his age, Pepe scurried toward the foredeck hatch, the most likely place to find his sister. Cameron remained aft and waited until his partner was in position. From around the mast he could see Pepe lift the forward hatch.
His head focused below deck, Pepe threw Cameron a hand signal to signify he thought the forward cabin was clear. That was good and bad. The signal also meant Pepe did not see Christine. Then as agile as the young man he had been years before, Pepe slipped into the yacht.
Huddling next to the main cabin door, Cameron began a slow count to five to allow Pepe to work his way aft. Though the forward cabin may be empty, Cameron was certain that at least Demetrius and Nikos were beyond the open hatch in front of him. There was also someone else with them. Cameron was close enough to make out the discussion. Someone was speaking with a British accent.
An accent Cameron immediately recognized. He knew the owner of the third dinghy well.
On the count of five, Ruger in hand, Cameron swung around and into the main cabin. Pepe pushed open the opposite door. Between Cameron and Pepe, Demetrius and Nikos. Demetrius took their entry in stride, the earpiece, while Nikos, having seen the two men kill firsthand, twitched his head uncomfortably side to side. On the side berth, in front of the Greeks, half awake, drugged, Pepe’s sister Christine. Sitting on the berth next to Christine, one leg casually crossed over the other, his arm protectively wrapped around her, and his Walther PPK pointed at the father and son, was the yellow haired Alastair Main.
* * * * *
Chapter 70
Talamanca Bay, Ibiza
That Pepe had not shot every breathing being upon entering the cabin, besides Cameron and Christine, was a marvel. Cameron had his Ruger drawn in the general direction of father and son. Pepe had his Beretta raised to Nikos head. Key to the two of them was that Alastair had his PPK pointed at the mogul and his scion, though neither Cameron or Pepe wanted to decipher Alastair’s reason or intent. Not merely any other man, Alastair Main was brother-in-arms to Cameron and Pepe, more than that, a real brother, as tight as blood. The man was a Green Dragon of the highest honor. The unfathomable number of missions Alastair, unquestionable a shot with camera or rifle, was the unseen back up, hidden in a van or high on a perch. The countless missions Alastair had saved Cameron’s life.
Neither Demetrius nor Nikos immediately spoke. Neither appeared dumbfounded, though Cameron calculated a safe bet would be that the two were not accustomed to having guns pointed at them, let alone three.
Cameron opted to size up what he and Pepe had walked into. They were leaving with Christine in a matter of minutes regardless, and if Pepe lost patience and began to drop wealthy Greeks, well, that would have to happen. Cameron smirked in the most devious fashion. “Good evening gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry we were late. Did we miss anything?”
Pepe pressed his Beretta to Nikos temple. “We must be missing something.”
“I planned on having this wrapped up before you arrived,” said Alastair. “Then again I expected you a bit sooner, so I suppose, the delay is mine.”
A proper response from Alastair, a good sign.
Pepe grunted, “Cameron has spent too much time with Americans, always late.”
Cameron whimsically raised a brow. “We were detained.”
Apparently made confident by the banter, Demetrius spoke up, “And where is my lovely assistant?”
Pepe chuckled, “Miss Droukos is in the trunk of the Aston Martin.”
“She’s safe,” said Cameron. “Pillow, blanket, we didn’t want any interruptions you understand.”
Demetrius nodded his head, and then said, “I understand.”
“I heard part of a,” Cameron paused flashing his eyes between Nikos and Alastair, “discussion when we arrived. Do continue.”
Alastair raised his chin. “Mister Stratos was just asking Nikos to explain himself.”
“Yes gentleman,” said Demetrius. He pressed his hands down into the air to express his case. “I assure you that I do not condone whatever has led to Miss Laroque residing on this yacht in --,” he hesitated, “whatever condition she is in.” He shifted his attention to Nikos. “Can you please explain to everyone what is going on.”
Pepe pulled the Berretta a small bit away from Nikos’ temple and then jabbed the barrel back against him with enough force to cause the playboy to shuffle. “Yes please Nikos,” said Pepe. “Explain to everyone what is going on.”
Demetrius’ eyes flared contemptuously at Pepe.
A spoiled man-child always told yes, and never maliciously assaulted, Nikos cheeks flushed at Pepe’s blunt strike to his temple. His contempt though, appeared to be reserved for his father. Nikos acknowledged Pepe, his mouth tight across his face, leered at his father, and then he began to lash out. Tossing away the feint persona of the playful jetsetter, his tone became defiant and full of disgust, “You never believed I could set up my own deals. I wanted to show you I could.”
Demetrius shook his head. “What are you talking about?” ha asked. “That thug Dada had several contracts with me. He has done work for me and everyone else. You merely tried to broker a contract that was already set with Abbo.”
“I wanted something more than that.” Nikos’ lip curled to a snarl. “Everything is you, you, you. I wanted to set up a future for myself. My empire.”
“That is ridiculous.” Demetrius held up a finger. “One day. Everything that is mine will become yours.”
Nikos raised his voice, “No. I wanted something that was mine. I found out from Feizel the deal you had with the National Volunteer Coast Guard. He bragged about the deal. For five euros a ton, his father allowed you to dump millions of tons of hazardous waste into Somali water. The fool thought his father was a genius. I know better. You charge one thousand euros a ton across Europe, pay the fool a fraction, and then pocket the difference. I made a bette
r deal with Ibrahim Dada.”
Demetrius frowned, “You found another fool.”
Nikos scowled, “I figured if I could take Abbo out of the mix and get Dada the deal, he would cut me in, and I was right. We agreed he would charge ten euros a ton and give me three. He was happy to make the deal. He already had almost all of the arranged hijacking contracts. He was already going after control of Abbo’s gun trade in Dubai, and with control of the waste and fisheries, he would have everything.”
“You’re heir to a billionaire,” said Cameron. “Why bother for a few million euros?”
Alastair frowned, “All of this trouble because of daddy issues.”
Pepe shook his head, “He wanted to prove he could undermine the old man.”
Demetrius gazed at Nikos in disbelief. “You are my son,” he said. “Why would you do this?”
“To show you I could,” said Nikos. “Hijacking the Kalinihta was easy to pin on Abbo. Feizel was onboard from the start. I convinced him we were the new generation, the next regime. He ate that up.”
“You are the next generation,” said Demetrius.
“Yes, but like me, Feizel did not want to wait for his father to die to take his turn. He wanted to show his father that he was capable of doing more in their clan. Dada provided the men to take the Kalinihta, and the Somali Marines had taken the compound north of Kismayu from the Merca Group, close enough to call the place Abbo’s. Feizel loved the plan. My old buddy Feizel was partying with me all the way from the Seychelles to the compound. Dada even supplied the additional explosives to level the place when we left. Bit overkill I admit. I thought the over the top explosions would be the give away.”
Cameron was puzzled. “Feizel had a gun pointed at you.”
“Yes, he thought that was part of the plan, and well, it was. I put an unloaded gun in his hands and told him we would be safe if he pointed it at me,” said Nikos. “He was so high he would have done whatever I told him.”
The Somali Deception Episode IV (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) Page 5