The Somali Deception Episode I (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (5 page)

“Please step out of the lift
gentlemen,” said the man in the brown suit, gesturing toward an older model
white Bentley parked behind him.

Cameron and Pepe shared a glance
and a slight nod.

“I have been to this hotel
several times and was unaware there was underground parking.
 
I believe I will have to speak to the
concierge,” said Cameron.

“Apparently this level is invite
only,” said Pepe.

The brown suited man’s pupils
lifted, “If you please.”

“Why would we want to do that?”
asked Cameron.

The man in the brown suit smiled
widely then took a step back from the doorway.
 
The man in the blue suit stepped back as
well then lifted the corner of his jacket to reveal a revolver.

“Please,” said the man in the
brown suit.
 
“Our employer only asks
for a moment of your time.”

Cameron lifted his hands to the
height of his chest and Pepe did the same.
 
“Okay,” said Cameron, “Since you said please.”

“Invite only,” said Pepe.

Cameron and Pepe eased from the
lift toward the white Bentley, keeping their hands raised high.
 
Leary of any sudden action the two men
in suits shadowed them from a wary distance on either side, careful not to step
too close.

Now out in the open Cameron
could see down the row of parked cars in the garage.
 
At the far end of the aisle, easing
slowly into position was the newer Bentley they had arrived in.
 
Between Pepe’s thumb and index finger,
Cameron could see the key fob their driver had given them.
 
Pepe was subtly holding the button down
and though they were in a lower level, a level previously unknown to Cameron,
the signal was strong enough to reach the driver, a man obviously of privileged
information.

Cameron and Pepe stopped short
of the vintage white Bentley.

“You know we are not getting
into that car,” said Cameron.

The men in the suits said
nothing, and stopped as well, one to the rear of the Bentley, one to the
front.
 
The front door then opened
and out stepped the Bentley’s driver.
 
The driver was also an African man and rather than acknowledge the two
men standing with their hands raised, he disregarded them altogether, instead
reaching for the handle of the rear door.

The white suit that exited the
rear of the Bentley was neither cheap nor small.
 
Though
an odd
choice of color, the suit was another tailored on Savile Row, and as impeccable
as Cameron and Pepe had seen upstairs moments ago.
 
There was no doubt the suit was
tailored.
 
The bald giant towered
high over Cameron and Pepe.
 
Nowhere
a white suit so large could be bought off the rack.

“Relax gentleman,” said the bald
giant.

Cameron and Pepe eased their
arms down.
 
“I suppose you don’t
want to call attention to the cameras,” said Cameron.

The tall man lifted his hand and
twirled his finger in a circle, “The camera’s went away when the elevator
missed the lobby.”

“I see,” said Cameron.
 
“So what do you want?”

“Me,” said the tall man, his
face not gathering expression, “I want nothing.”

“Then why the detour?”

“The man I work for, now he
wants something.”

“Okay, now we are getting
somewhere.
 
What is it?”

“The two of you came here to
visit a man, to ask questions.
 
Is
that so?”

“So what if it is?” asked Pepe.

The tall man fixed his eyes on
Pepe, “My employer wishes for you to stop.
 
What is the expression?
 
You are sticking your nose where it does
not belong.
 
Into the business of
others.”

“And if we do not stop?” asked
Pepe.

“First we will harm your sister
Mister Laroque, then we will come for you.”

Pepe spoke cool and slow, “It’s
a shame those cameras are not on.”

“And why is that?” said the tall
man, for the first time showing a sense of inquisitive interest.
 
He tilted his head and focused a
threatening leer toward Pepe.

In a fluid motion, rotund Pepe
propelled himself up and threw his forehead toward the tall man while
simultaneously Cameron pulled the chrome Magnum from inside the white belt of
the tall man’s suit.
 
As Pepe fell
back toward the ground Cameron put a bullet through the forehead of the brown
suit then spun and put two scarlet holes into the head of the blue suited
man.
 
The blue suited man had drawn
his revolver free from his waist yet had not raised his weapon in time.
 
Upon hearing the shots fire, the new
Bentley squealed down the aisle toward them.
 
When Cameron spun back around Pepe
already had the tall bald man pinned on the ground with his knee pressed
against his chest.
 
The tall man’s
African driver was standing beside the Bentley shaking, easing his hand toward
his waist.

“Don’t do it,” said Cameron.

The driver then made a darting
motion toward the grip of his gun only to find himself sliding back against the
Bentley on a slick of his own blood.
 
His fingers had not even made a firm grasp.

Pepe leaned in close to the tall
man, “It’s a shame those cameras are not on,” said Pepe once again.
 
“Because I have to let you live to
deliver this message to your boss.
 
Tell him, I am coming.”

* * *
* *

Jomo Kenyatta International
Airport, Nairobi

The fierce Nairobi heat blanketed
the tarmac, penetrating the fuselage and enveloping Cameron and Pepe
inside.
 
The pilot had cut the air
conditioner early, stifling the cabin.
 
Cameron and Pepe took their duffels from the overhead and waited for the
steward to open the hatch.
 
The
pungent evening air flooded the fuselage when the hatch swung open.

The jet had traversed from
Heathrow, midway to the polar cap, down to this equatorial heat and was now
parked away from the terminal.
 
Cameron and Pepe followed the queue out of the hatch and onto the mobile
Airstair that was raised to the door from the back of a small truck.

The balmy darkness hung snug
over the tarmac.
 
Porters in brown
canvas vests pulled handcarts stacked with luggage and parcels to smaller
single and double engine prop planes on either side of the passenger jet
Cameron and Pepe were now exiting.

Between two tattered red velvet
ropes leading out of the Jomo Kenyatta international terminal stood a small
crowd, above them a large number two marked the entry to the customs desk.
 
As passengers disembarked, the crowd
began to thin.
 
Drivers quickly came
forward to take whatever luggage their employer or assigned businessmen held in
their hands.
 
Family members
embraced those returning home and those visiting from as far away as Cambodia
and Australia.
 
Halfway down the
Airstair, Cameron saw Alastair Main standing at the back of the group with a
well-groomed dark haired man.

Alastair may as well have walked
off the cover of National Geographic.
 
Alastair’s hands were at his hips, his elbows wide akimbo, his chin
high, and his yellow mane glowed bright against the backlit tarmac.
 
Alastair threw a nod to Cameron and Pepe
and then raised his hands out high into the air as he began to saunter toward
them.

Alastair was a Brit, more so a
colonial, though he despised the term, as he was born and raised in Kenya.
 
He had served with Cameron and Pepe in
the Legion and to them he was a brother.

When Alastair reached Pepe, he
threw his arms around him and pulled him tight.
 
Pepe kissed each of Alastair’s cheeks.

Alastair threw a firm grip onto
each of Pepe’s shoulders.
 
Gruffly
he said, “Will get this beat old man, don’t you worry.”

Then Alastair released Pepe and
threw his arms around Cameron.
 
“The
great Dragon Chef of New York.”

Cameron met the Brit solid eye
to eye, “Al, good to see you, I didn’t expect you to meet us in Nairobi.”
 
Cameron flashed a glance at Pepe then
back to Alastair, “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Me too,” said Alastair.
 
“That’s why I came myself.
 
I don’t want you to have to waste
time.”
 
He grabbed the shoulder of
the dark haired man to his side.
 
“This gentleman is Ari.
 
The
best bush pilot I know, and Ari this is Kincaid and Pepe.
 
My brothers.”

Pepe and Cameron in turn each
shook Ari’s hand.

“Ari will be taking us out to
Lanta.
 
First we will need to get
you checked in,” said Alastair.
 
He
spun around to search back toward the terminal, scanning the tarmac until he
found what they needed.
 
Near the
hatch of a small plane, two Kenyans in customs uniforms were reviewing a
clipboard.
 
Alastair raised his hand
to signal.
 
One of the uniformed men
responded with a nod.

“Do you have any other bags?”
asked Alastair.

“This is it,” said Cameron,
referring to the duffels he and Pepe each held on their shoulders.

“Good,” said Alastair.
 
“That way we don’t need to go inside.”

The uniformed man approached the
four men.

“Get your papers ready,” said
Alastair.
 
“I assume you’re
travelling French.”

“Whenever I can help it,” said
Pepe.

“Ha, that’s funny.
 
I’ll take them please.”

Alastair lifted his arm in the
direction of Cameron and Pepe as the customs agent approached.
 
“These are the two men I told you
about.”
 
With his other arm,
Alastair presented their passports to the uniformed man.
 
The man’s face held little
expression.
 
The agent slowed as he
neared, a self-righteous scowl crawled across his face, and then he stepped
closely in front of Alastair to receive the passports.
 
Alastair may have paid this man yet the
sudden drop of his brow and quick pierce of his eyes removed any ambiguity, he
was charged a fee for service, not for employ.
 
The agent flashed a quick glance at the
other three men beside Alastair to ensure all eyes were on him, for what good
is power without witness.
 
Without
opening either passport, the agent unsnapped a leather pouch on his belt, dug
his fingers around inside, and then took out an automatic rubber stamp.
 
He flipped open the first passport to
the last page with no interest in seeing the photo.
 
The uniformed man placed the automated
stamp on the page and then peered up at the four men under the rim of his hat,
his eyes scanning in a threat of authority.

“No other bags?”

Alastair answered quickly, “No.”

The customs agent pushed down on
the stamp, flipped the other passport open, and brought the stamp down again in
one smooth action.
 
He handed the
passports back then slipped the stamp back into his pouch.

The customs man slightly pulled
at the front of his hat, “Good evening gentlemen.”
 
The men nodded in return as the
uniformed man headed back toward his colleague.

“That was efficient,” said
Cameron.

Alastair sighed, “Cheap as
well.
 
Pretentious lot these airport
trolls.”

“My helicopter is over here,”
said Ari.

“Let’s get to it before somebody
we don’t know starts asking questions,” said Alastair.

They walked toward the small
planes near the domestic end of the terminal.
 
That end of the terminal was darkened,
there were not that many flights that came through Nairobi at night.
 
The area of tarmac past the planes was
also without light.
 
With the
terminal and runway lights to their backs, they could only see a short way in
front of them, after that only darkness.

The night enveloped them and
then the stars revealed themselves.

Cameron could not resist looking
into the early evening equatorial sky.
 
Few, if any, stars could be seen from Manhattan.
 
Above and around him was the Milky Way,
close enough to touch.
 
He sought
out the distant horizon and then let his eyes circle above, around, and back to
the terminal, an oasis behind them, a luminous dome that had shielded the stars
from them moments before, now silhouetted with a million points of light.