The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (2 page)

“Right, I read about them in the
New York Times.”

“Is that how you heard about this
place?
 
I have to say I was
surprised when Claude called me.”

“Yes I did read about the Peponi
in the New York Times but no that is not why I am here.
 
Actually a friend made the arrangements
for us.”

“Us?”
 
The corner of Maggie’s mouth curled up
mischievously.

“Us as in a group of friends,”
said Cameron.
 
“Men.
 
We were in Laikipia and
..
.”

“Oh and wanted to get to the
coast.
 
I get it.
 
I can’t be land locked too long
either.
 
There's nothing like a
seafront stroll through Shela.
 
Did
you know this is a world heritage site?
 
UNESCO.”
 
Maggie arched her
eyebrows and then removed her glasses, holding them away from her in the air
for a moment to inspect, and then finding no flaw, she set them on the table.

“I was not aware of that,” said
Cameron.

“That’s why there are no
cars.
 
Have you been on the seafront
when the fishermen bring in the afternoon catch?”

“No why?”

“Quite a spectacle, cats by the
herds show up.”

“You don’t say.”

Maggie sat back in her chair and
straightened her back.
 
“Spit it
out.
 
What’s up?”

Cameron sighed then furrowed his
brow.
 
“Remember that article you
wrote a while back on the kidnappings near here.”

“Hmm, the Manda island
abductions across the channel.
 
How
could I forget?
 
After I wrote that
article I had to watch my back, as did every other journalist.
 
Various mzungu and wazungu around Lamu
--,”

“Mzungu and wazungu?”

“Foreigners and whites, Swahili
dear,” Maggie arched her brows again and nonchalantly looked to either side of
the table for eavesdroppers.
 
“I was
threatened more than once by foreigners and whites with business interests in
the tourist sector, and in one case I was physically assaulted because I wrote
that magazine article.”

“You were physically assaulted?”

“Well I wasn’t beat up.
 
I was doused with a bucket of ice
water.
 
Kind of refreshing in a hot
place like this actually, the intent was there though.
 
Hey, I just wrote the article and the
Associated Press picked it up.
 
No
fault of mine if there is no security over on Manda.
 
Tourist cancellations started coming in
way before I wrote a story about the pirate-slash-tourist kidnappings in
Kenya.
 
I mean they have three
police patrol boats that never leave the dock because the money that’s
earmarked for hotelier security ends up in some politicians pocket.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, this place is paradise
but there is a reason they call the government serekali.”

“Swahili again, and why is
that?” asked Cameron.

“As I understand the Swahili
words siri and kali mean secret and fierce.”

Cameron nodded his head.
 
“And the pirates?”

“Probably no different than the
rest of them, taking payoffs.
 
Those
abductions were just some strays, off the reservation if you will.
 
As were the other abductions, you have
heard about.
 
The female journalist
that was held and raped a few years ago, and the aid workers, thugs took those
poor people, the equivalent of teenage street gangs.
 
Those gangs are not the real power up
there.
 
There is a lot more going on.”

“Like Abbo Mohammed?”

Maggie’s eyes lit up, “Wow, now
we cut to the quick.
 
You picked a
hell of a name to drop.”

Cameron let his smile go subtly
coy, “So is he a local player or what?”

Maggie sat silent for a moment
smiling at Cameron.

“You’re sizing me up,” said
Cameron.

“You’re a chef,” said Maggie.

“Among other things,” said
Cameron.
 
“So off the record, what
can you tell me about Abbo.”

“Off the record?”

“All off the record.
 
I like to keep private.”

“Okay, I’ll play.
 
So
, Abbo
Mohammed is ‘the’ local player.
 
If
you did not know, he runs a little group not far north from here called the
Volunteer National Coast Guard, and that little group, like some other groups
up the coast has a nasty reputation as a band of pirates.
 
But they’re not.”

“They’re not?” asked Cameron.

“No they are not.
 
Well they are and they aren’t,
semantics.”

“What are you saying?”

“Their designation as pirates is
a bit of a misnomer.
 
A better word
might be...”

Maggie pursed her lips pondering
a word choice.

“Warlord, militia,” said
Cameron.

“Cartel,” said Maggie.
 
“Their reputation as pirates has
actually helped them in the past, creates this picture of a rag tag group of
unwashed men in rags tearing around in little wooden skiffs.
 
Detracts from what they actually are.”

“And what is that?”

“The strong arm of the northern
horn of Africa.
 
They control
shipping in the Indian and western Pacific oceans, parts of Indonesia and South
America now too, and they run grift across all of these waters.”

“Grift?”

“That’s their big money.
 
All of those yachts, ships, and
freighters that are picked up bearing precarious flags, a good portion of them
are prearranged insurance
scams
, or illegal cargo
transfers under the guise of a siege.
 
There’s protection money for the giant fisheries, and lord knows what
they’re dumping in the waters out there.”

“That sounds like a lot,” said
Cameron.

“It is.
 
As pirates they’re documented around 120
million US dollars a year.
 
I hear
the real numbers are more like 3 billion.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah,” said Maggie, “probably
still a lowball.
 
It’s never where
you see it.”

“I guess not.
 
No wonder they have such a strong
foothold.”

“They’re allowed a foothold
because they’re suppressing Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.
 
The cartels are clan driven and even
though Al Shabaab is predominantly intertwined, the cartels are the decision
makers.
 
As long as they’re funded,
they are in charge,” said Maggie.

“Al Shabaab means the youth,”
said Cameron.

“And the clans are run by the
elders.”

 
“And Abbo is an elder.”

“Technically a sheikh maybe, I
don’t know.
 
He is the Cartel
elder.”

“Where can I find him?” asked Cameron.

“You want to find Abbo
Mohammed?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Sure I know.
 
He’s not that hard to find.
 
He holds up where all the shady billion
dollar deals take place.
 
You’ll
find Abbo Mohammed in Dubai.
 
What
do you plan to do, march in and cook him something?”

“You’d be surprised,” said
Cameron.
 
“Actually, we have a
friend to help us make contact, Ibrahim --,”

“Ibrahim Dada!”

“You know the name?”

“Don’t be fresh.
 
You should be real careful of the
friends you are making lately.”

“I can use the help so right now
I am going with the old saying ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’,” said
Cameron.

Maggie leaned back and peered
into Cameron’s eyes, “I hope you know what you’re doing.
 
The old saying you should be concerned
with is ‘with friends like that who needs enemies’?”

* * *
* *

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.