The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (7 page)

“It always comes to that,” said
Cameron.
 
“That’s why I got the hell
out of the game.”

A waiter approached Cameron and
bowed his head, “Coffee Sayyed?”

“Yes, coffee please, with lemon
and sweet.
 
Do you have artificial?”

“Certainly,” said the waiter.

“That will be all then, thank
you.”

The waiter bowed his head again
and backed away from the table before changing direction for the bar.

Alastair picked up where they
were a moment before.
 
“You got out of
the game for the same reason as the rest of us.
 
You were getting too old and too poor to
be doing what we were doing.”

“I was tired of killing
innocents.”

“Collateral happens and you know
that.
 
Besides, I would hardly
consider Taufiq Sawar an innocent.
 
The man may have lost his money gambling but he made it as a human
trafficker, a slave trader.
 
He will
not be missed.”

“Hmm,” grunted Cameron.
 
“Viva Legionne.”

“Need I remind you that in
combat you act without passion or hatred,” said Alastair.

“You are not the only one that
can quote the code of honor,” said Cameron.
 
“Respect vanquished enemies, I remember
that part too.”

“I do as well,” said Alastair,
“collateral, we’ll have a drink for the bastard later.
 
Does that suit you?”

Cameron flashed a glance and a
twisted half smile smirk across the table to Alastair for bringing him back to
reality.

“So everything was as we
thought?” asked Alastair.

Cameron lifted his hands above
the table, “Once again our friend in London had the information right to the tee.
 
The secret Armani residence on the 105th
floor of the Burj Khalifa, the golden keycard security, the elevator retinal
scanner, and he was even right, unfortunately, that Taufiq would try to double
cross us.”

“And Christine?”

Cameron sucked in a deep breath,
“Right Christine, he said he saw her, or rather a new girl with chestnut hair
and green eyes that had recently been brought into the harem.”

“Harem?”

“Yeah.”

The waiter returned to the table
and set Cameron’s coffee before him.
 
To the side he set a plate of assorted sugar cubes and sachets of
artificial sweeteners.
 
“Shukran,”
said Cameron.

The waiter bowed his head said,
“Afwan,” in response and then again backed away from the table.

Alastair watched the waiter from
the corner of his eye until he felt he was clear, “Please tell me this harem is
on the same floor.”

“Close, a floor below,” said
Cameron.
 
He picked up three yellow
sachets from the plate, tore the ends at once together, and spilled the
contents into his coffee.
 
He shifted
his eyes up toward the tower across the lake, “You come up with any new ideas
as to how to get in and out of there while we were gone, or did you spend the
whole of the morning with the blonde you disappeared with last night?”

“No and yes, no new ideas and
yes I spent a good part of the morning with the blonde.
 
She could not get enough of me.”

“I cannot believe you are still
using that same line, ‘I’m from Kenya’.”

“Well I am, and the ladies love
it.”

Cameron twisted and tossed the
sliver of lemon rind from the side of his saucer into his cup and then gave a
quick stir with the demitasse spoon.

Alastair watched Cameron’s
ritual and when finished he asked, “Why the artificial sweet?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well yeah.
 
That raw sugar is good sugar, besides
you’re a chef.”

“I’m a chef.
 
I eat too much sugar.
 
I am trying to watch my intake.”

“Hmm,” said Alastair.

“What?
 
I’m getting older.
 
You should watch your diet as well.”

“My bloody diet is fine thank
you.”
 
Alastair gazed out across the
lake.
 
At that moment the Dubai
Fountain, the massive choreographed water system that spread across the manmade
Burj Khalifa Lake, erupted and projected water into the air at different
heights along the intricate path of the piping.

“Would you look at that,” said
Cameron.

“Beautiful,” said Alastair.
 
The high-pressure water jets and
shooters of the fountain pushed streams of water
to and fro
across each other while the water robots made other streams spin and twirl in
such a way that they appeared to dance.
 
“You know that fountain can spray 83,000 liters of water in the air at
any moment.”

“You don’t say,” said Cameron,
and then sipped from his coffee.
 
He
was well aware of where this was about to go.

“I read they installed more than
6,600 lights and 25 color projectors.”

“Uh, huh.”

“They even had fire shooting out
one year.”

“Did they?”

“Can you imagine if that was
your job, to be the fountain man?”

“Here we go.”

“I mean what a responsibility to
be the man that runs the fountain.
 
What a specialized job.
 
All
of that pristine knowledge for only a handful of fountains.”

“I’ve told you before,” said
Cameron.
 
“These fountains are run
by firms, teams, computers.”

“But there is one man Kincaid,
one man for each fountain that knows that fountain, that keeps the whole thing
running like clockwork.
 
A handful
of master fountain men around the world, sure the Dubai Fountain is the
largest, but think, there is another guy that runs the Bellagio Fountains --.”

“Yeah, that reminds me, I read
an article in the Times that the same people that built the Bellagio Fountains
built the Dubai Fountain, they build all of these fountains.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said
Alastair, “the Fountain of Wealth in Singapore, the Magic Fountain of Montjuic,
Kincaid the Big Wild Goose Pagoda Fountains were built in 652.”

“652 I know, you’ve told us a
hundred times, your fountain fetish is well known and noted, and what I meant
was that a firm built these things to be run by firms.
 
I don’t think there is just one fountain
guy.”

“Sure there is.”

“I thought we were out here to
check out the tower.
 
I should have
known.”

“Well I said I have no ne ideas,
I do have an old one.
 
Watch this,”
said Alastair.
 
On cue, five super
shooters projected streams far above the rest of the water dance.
 
“Whoa, now that is pretty high, at least
seventy-five meters.”

Cameron followed the jets of
water up above the lake.
 
As the
water crested a series of loud booms echoed through Old Town.

“What was that?” asked Cameron.

“The water shooters have to use
a lot of pressure to push the water that high.
 
They are very loud.
 
They have extreme shooters they never
use that push the water up over a hundred fifty meters.
 
Bloody shame.”
 
Alastair winked at Cameron.
 
“They would make your ears rattle.”

Cameron slapped his hand down on
the table.
 
“Alastair you are
brilliant.”

“True,” said Alastair.
 
“I have been waiting for chance to be
the Fountain Man, at least for a night.”

* * *
* *

At.mosphere Restaurant, Burj
Khalifa Level 122, Dubai

The doors of the express
elevator opened on the level
123 sky
lobby, 450 meters
above the promenade of the Dubai mall, where Cameron and Alastair shared coffee
earlier in the day.

“Now this is class,” said
Cameron, the movement of his lips imperceptible as he spoke.
 
No
longer
dressed in the incognito local garb of the thobe and ghutra, he nonchalantly
adjusted the cuffs of his collar shirt and Armani dinner jacket he purchased
from the boutique, “Can you fellas hear me all right?”

From a small device hidden on
the inside of Cameron’s ear, Pepe responded, “You are coming in clear.”

“Crystal,” said Alastair.
 
“Can you hear us?”

“Perfectly,” said Cameron.
 
From the express elevator Cameron
entered onto the top of a two-story art installation of dynamic light and
ambient music.
 
“You wouldn’t
believe this place.”

“I am sure,” said Pepe, “though
I do not think just anyone can have a same day reservation for the At.mosphere
restaurant, Monsieur Dragon Chef.”

“Very true, that’s not what I
meant though,” said Cameron

“I thought that girl at
reception was going to faint,” said Alastair.

“Very funny, you two should put
on a show.
 
Listen, out of the
elevator there is an amazing mahogany cantilevered staircase that is lit up as
elaborately as that fountain show down in the lake.
 
Which, by the way, I can see clearly out
of the floor to ceiling window 123 floors below, along with everything else in
Dubai.”

“Cantilevered staircase, you
mean suspended in mid-air?” asked Alastair.

“Exactly, I’m telling you this
is surreal.
 
Remember those computer
flight simulations we used to sit through.
 
Well oddly, they were more realistic than this.
 
I swear there is a toy city to my left.”

“You’re high enough up for a low
flight plan,” said Alastair.
 
“What
is to your right?”

“And to my right, below me, is
the entrance to the restaurant, mahogany walls, the floors are café au lait
limestone and hand tufted carpets, and I am pretty sure the furnishings are
Adam Tihany.”

“Adam who?” asked Alastair.

“Adam Tihany,” said Pepe.
 
“He designs all of the restaurants and
hotels.
 
Kincaid goes on about him
sometimes.”

“Adam Tihany is widely regarded
as the preeminent hospitality designer in the world today,” said Cameron.

“See,” said Pepe.

“Gotcha,” said Alastair.
 
“I don’t suppose you see the target.”

“No, not yet.
 
Give me a moment, here comes Peter the
Maître d’.
 
I usually try not to be
too obvious.”
 
Cameron lifted his arms
and raised his voice, “Peter, good to see you.”

Peter, a tall thin Brit glided
toward the landing of the stairs, his hands clasped and raised to Cameron,
still a few steps up.
 
“Cameron
Kincaid, welcome, welcome, so great to see you.
 
I could not have been more pleased when
you called.”
 
Peter placed both of
his hands around Cameron’s and Cameron in turn lifted his arm to Peter’s
shoulder.
 
The two walked together
side by side.

“What brings you to Dubai?”
asked Peter.
 
“Opening a little
competition perhaps?”

“Not on this trip.
 
Though
I could
hardly compete with what you have here.
 
You said if I were ever in the neighborhood to stop by, so.”

“Certainly we are so glad to
have you, and thank you so much for the compliment, I so enjoyed Le Dragon
Vert.
 
Your restaurant is a true
jewel in New York.
 
We have worked
hard with what we have.
 
You have to
see what the chef has done with the Josper oven.”

“I intend to,” said Cameron,
“literally cooking without gas.”

The two entered the lounge
area.
 
The dramatic ambience of the
suspended stairwell was furthered in heavy hues of amethyst and a complex
blending of ornate velvets.
 
Cameron
realized now that the esoteric music he had heard since coming off the express
elevator originated from the harpist playing near the end of the bar.
 
Peter led Cameron toward a small
table.
 
Cameron veered to the high
bar, the sheer white backlit glass reminiscent of the milk bars of the last
century.

“I’m fine at the bar Peter,”
said Cameron.
 
He rattled his
fingertips across the edge of the bar and spun back toward Peter.
 
“Even from here the view is incredible.”