The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (4 page)

Pepe, his face calm and voice
kind, matched eyes with the Saudi, “We are here to do business.
 
What do you want?”

The Saudi patted Pepe on the
leg, “I am glad you understand.
 
I
need a small fee.
 
Insurance if you
will.”

Pepe’s voice drew cold, “How
much?”

The Saudi again put his
attention on the camel pit, obviously annoyed, “What is he doing now?”
 
The Saudi fruitlessly raised his hand
toward his trainer.

Pepe repeated his question
again, his voice deeper, “How much?”

The Saudi faced Pepe and this time
placed his hand on his shoulder, “The fee will be one million US dollars Mister
Laroque.”
 
He then smiled and began
to stand.

“That is no small amount,” said
Pepe.

“No,” said the Saudi, “that is
the amount however that Abbo is offering for information concerning his
son.
 
Listen I have to get down to
the track.
 
When I have finished I
will return for your answer.”
 
The
Saudi began to start toward the camel pit then stopped himself.
 
“Oh, there is one more thing.”

“Yes,” said Pepe.

“Something to help you decide.”

“On with it.”

“A new woman has been brought
into Abbo’s harem,” said the Saudi.
 
“A woman with chestnut hair and green eyes.”

* * *
* *

Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack,
Dubai

Scattered shouts rose to howls
and then a collective roar as people began to rise in the grandstands.
 
On every tiered
level
those nearest the front massed forward, tightly pressing against each other,
folding those at the edge over the railings.

“Would you look at that,” said
Cameron.

Still a kilometer away an
elongated cloud of dust rapidly rounded the outside turn of the Al Marmoom
Camel Racetrack, a rolling haze that covered all except the front-runners of
the consolidated pack of painted camels and the pace keeping armada of white
four-by-four Land Cruisers.
 
Sporadic bursts of sunlight gleamed off the windscreens of the Land
Cruisers that briefly slipped the grasp of the looming dust to shuffle for
position.
 
Striding forward at
remarkable speed, the camels appeared to hover above the hot desert track, a
Fata Morgana, a mirage, the trailing racers obscurely fading in and out of
view.

“They are making good time,”
said Rehan.

“They seem to be running
themselves,” said Cameron.
 
From the
grandstands, the tiny electronic robot jockeys appeared mere colored cloth atop
the lean camels’ backs.

“They are not,” said Rehan.

Cameron flashed a glance to size
up the boy, unsure of the response.
 
He decided to go along, “The remotes are in the four-by-fours?”

“Yes, and some of the cameras
are on the bonnets.”

“The bonnets?”

Rehan gestured, “On the top.”

“Right, the people riding rigs
on the tops of the Land Cruisers.
 
There are so many.”

“I once saw a race with forty
SUVs, they will not allow more.”

“Too many camels?”

Rehan laughed at Cameron’s comment,
“No of course not.
 
The Bedouin will
race a hundred camels.
 
The sheikhs
race with the SUV.
 
More than forty
is too many Land Cruisers.”

“Ah,” said Cameron.

Pepe leaned into Cameron’s ear,
“Are you ready?”

Cameron nodded.

“We need to go now little one,”
said Pepe.
 
“Take us to where the
man’s car is parked.”

“Can we see the end of the
race?” asked Rehan.

Cameron patted the boy’s
shoulder, “We will watch from the monitors.
 
Let’s go while we can.”

“This way then,” said Rehan,
already in motion.

Rehan had a sense of the
crowd.
 
He moved through the
openings behind and around the large gathered groups instinctively avoiding the
bottlenecks at the stairwell landings and the congested entrance to the
interior concession area, where those that had been lining the corridor in wait
for the bathrooms were now pushing out toward the track.
 
Cameron and Pepe stayed close behind,
choosing to mimic the boy’s snakelike maneuvers rather than lose pace and have
to awkwardly chase after him.
 
Still
Cameron and Pepe were grown men and though agile, young boys they were
not.
 
Fortunately, the Al Marmoom
guests were focused on the last minutes of the race, intoxicated by the elixir
of the finish line.

The concession area in the belly
of the grandstand was predominantly empty with the exception of a few men
scurrying from the kitchens.
 
Each
carried a brass pot of cardamom-infused coffee, fresh brewed for the regal
passengers of the four-by-fours about to finish the race.
 
The monitors covering the walls featured
the high definition live action of the camels up close, their tongues loosely
draping their ears, and pasty saliva spewing from their mouths.
 
The small bulk of the robot jockeys on
the camels’ backs were clearly visible and the attached whips, engaged for the
final stretch, could be seen rhythmically striking the rear quarters of the
lumbering beasts.

Above the three, the excitement
of the crowd began to build.

“It is almost finished,” said
Rehan.

 
The roar and movement from above
amplified to thunder in the concrete cavern of the concession space.

Cameron raised his voice, “And
then what?”

“As soon as each race finishes,
the Sheikhs and Royals step out of their cars to greet spectators, and the
people rush to them, eager to congratulate the winners.”

“Everyone rushes down?”

“They may all win a prize,” said
Rehan.
 
“Sometimes the Sheikhs are
very generous.
 
Like the great
Oprah.”

A new image dominated all of the
monitors, across which flashed first a purple, than an orange, and then a
blue-blanketed camel, none of the three belonging to the Saudi.
 
The hollers and applause that had been
gradually building now peaked in a raucous crescendo, a final outburst of
excitement that expired to a murmur and the uniformed sounds of an exodus from
the seating area above.

“This way,” said Rehan, leading
Cameron and Pepe to the back of the concession space.
 
Once free from the cavernous echo of the
interior the midday drew new calm.
 
Eyes widened and jaws slacked, Cameron and Pepe attempted to refresh
their hearing.
 
The space not enclosed
by the concession area was used for private parking, which extended to the
further portion of the grandstands and wrapped around to access the
racetrack.
 
The palatial back of the
grandstands opened out into an oasis of precious green lawn and palm trees, the
centerpiece of which was a large round pool fountain, an aesthetic bridge to
the outside parking area beyond.

“I don’t think I have ever seen
so many Maybachs and Mercedes at once,” said Cameron.
 
“This place looks like a dealership.”

“Billboard included,” said Pepe,
referring to the oversized digital monitor mounted above the parked cars.

 
Rehan was not fazed, “The camel minders
wait for their camel to cross the finish line so they can escort him off the
track.
 
The trainer will be with the
four-by-four leaving your man to come through here.
 
Everyone else will be trackside with the
winners for some time.”

“You’re sure of that?” asked
Cameron.

“His highness Sheikh Mohammed
bin Rashid Al Maktoum was a winner today, so he will be greeting admirers.
 
Everyone will be lining up to
congratulate him.
 
His highness is
very generous.”

Pepe smirked, “The number one
guy himself.
 
You know I truly and
honestly respect and admire him.
 
From what I hear, on many accounts across sources, he really is a nice person,
cares for his people, and for the reputation of his country.”

Cameron rolled his eyes, “I’ll
take note of that.”

Rehan reached into his pocket
and retrieved a black key fob, “I parked your Mercedes there.
 
That Maybach over there belongs to the
man from the Kingdom.”

“The white Maybach there?” asked
Pepe.

“No,” said Rehan.
 
“The black one.”

“Okay,” said Pepe.
 
He held his hand out for the key fob and
the boy pulled his arm away.

“Don’t worry,” said
Cameron.
 
He held two hundred dirham
bills up and the boy slapped the key fob into his hand in exchange.
 
Cameron grinned at Pepe.
 
Pepe scowled and then peered up at the
monitor.

“What are they smearing all over
those camels?” asked Pepe.

“The heads and necks of the
three top placers from the race are smeared with saffron paste before being
paraded in front of the spectators,” said Rehan.

“Saffron,” Pepe glanced back at
Cameron, “saffron is expensive, oui?”

“I believe the winning camels
are ceremoniously doused in turmeric,” said Cameron, “essentially low quality
saffron.”

Pepe grunted then shifted his
eyes past Cameron’s shoulder.
 
The
Saudi and his driver, a giant of a man, were walking along the far edge of the
parking structure toward the black Maybach.
 
The Saudi was speaking on his mobile
phone and had not yet noticed Cameron and Pepe near the concessions
entrance.
 
“There he is,” said Pepe,
“right on time.
 
Good job little
one.
 
Get along now.”

“Call my mobile if you need
anything else,” said Rehan, then he slipped past the two men back through the
entranceway.

“Call his mobile,” said Cameron.

“Don’t worry, I have his
number.
 
Things are different here
you know.”

Cameron pursed his lip, “I
guess, you ready?”

Pepe nodded, “Yeah, let’s go.”

* * *
* *

Al Marmoom Camel Racetrack,
Dubai

Cameron and Pepe sauntered
across the aisle of the parking area to the black Maybach that Rehan had told
them belonged to the Saudi.
 
As
there were at least three other black Maybachs in this small section of the
structure alone, there was a chance that the boy may have been mistaken.

The Saudi and his driver were
steps away before they realized that Cameron and Pepe were waiting beside the
Maybach to greet them.
 
The Saudi
said something into his mobile that they could not hear and then slipped the
phone into his bag.
 
He then gazed
at Pepe with a closed smile, a smile of contentment and satisfaction.

“Ahlan wasahlan,” said the
Saudi.

“Ahlan feek,” said Pepe.

“I honestly did not think I
would see the two of you so quickly.”

“You mentioned you needed an
answer after the race,” said Pepe.

The Saudi clasped his hands
together in front of his chest, “So I did.”

Cameron took one half step
forward, “How was the race by the way.”

The corners of the Saudi’s mouth
dropped.
 
He slowly faced Cameron.

Cameron continued, “I mean, you
didn’t even place did you?”

The Saudi let both of his eyes
briefly rest shut and then reopen, “No I did not.
 
My robot did not respond accordingly.”

“Yeah, funny things
electronics,” said Cameron.
 
He
reached into his thobe and removed a small object, which he then tossed to the
Saudi.

The Saudi opened his clasped
hands enough to catch the object, “What is this?”

“Just a piece of electronics.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You see I know why you are
running out of here so quick.
 
I
mean ahead of everyone else.”
 
Cameron raised his hand and extended his finger, an insult alone, and
then he began to wave his finger, a further insult.
 
“You made a wager didn’t you, and you
lost that wager.”