The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (8 page)

Peter shifted his view to the
same direction.
 
“Yes, we have a
spectacular view of World and Palm Islands from here and of course Atlantis at
the end and over there…”

“The Burj al Arab, yes I see.”

Peter smiled and nodded.

Pepe and Alastair had been anticipating
Cameron’s statement, ‘Even from here the view is incredible,’ as that meant he
had sighted their target, Abbo Mohammed.
 
Now would Abbo see Cameron?
 
The plan was simple.
 
They
knew Abbo regularly dined in the At.mosphere Lounge and they knew that Abbo was
by nature a connoisseur of cuisine, celebrity, and of all things deemed great
and fine.
 
Cameron had dropped his
cover to secure a reservation at the At.mosphere anticipating an encounter with
Abbo.
 
Cameron’s plan was to have
the Maître d’ place him at the bar near Abbo and let natural events play
out.
 
The team had calculated that
Abbo, once noticing Cameron, and excited at an opportunity to meet the
celebrity Dragon Chef, would insist Cameron join him at his table.
 
Abbo of course would have no idea that
Cameron Kincaid, the famous New York celebrity chef was one of the numbers
involved in his son’s disappearance.

“Would you mind indulging me for
a closer look?” asked Cameron.

“Certainly,” said Peter.
 
He nodded to the bartender, “Edward can
you prepare a --,” he glanced at Cameron.

“A lemon seltzer would be fine,”
said Cameron.

Peter again nodded with a closed
smile and then led Cameron toward the seaward window, a path that ran directly
next to Abbo’s table.
 
Abbo sat at
the small table’s head between two elegantly dressed chestnut haired
women.
 
Cameron crossed directly in
front of Abbo.
 
He did not make eye
contact yet he revealed as much of his face as he could to be sure Abbo had a
good look, at one point pausing to glance across the room.
 
Abbo was
not an
unhandsome
man, dressed debonair, his dark Somali complexion regal in
the complimentary interior of the At.mosphere Lounge.
 
The contours of his strong cheeks and
jaw were reminiscent of his son Feizel.
 
The women beside Abbo almost caused Cameron to stall in his stride, each
a visage of Christine.

Resolute Cameron pressed forward
to the window, “Breathtaking Peter, absolutely breathtaking.
 
What can’t you see?”
 
Another code for Pepe and Alastair
meaning Christine was not with Abbo.

“We are very fortunate.”
 
Peter leaned into Cameron, “Though this
is not New York.”

“Beautiful all the same,” said
Cameron.

The two sauntered back toward
the bar.
 
Abbo was speaking rapidly
to the woman to his left and she in turn was relating what he said to her
mirror on his other side.
 
All three
were flashing glances in Cameron’s direction as he drew closer.
 
When Cameron and Peter were about to
reach the end of Abbo’s table Abbo spoke, his voice deep, booming, “Excuse me
Sayyed, a thousand pardons.
 
My lady
friend insists that you are the television chef Cameron Kincaid.”

Abbo had taken the bait.

Cameron stopped at the end of
the table and smiled a wide toothy unassuming smile, the smile he reserved for
television and fans.

“Yes sir, I am,” said Cameron.

Peter placed his hand on
Cameron’s shoulder, “Mister Cameron Kincaid may I introduce Mister Abbo
Mohammed.”

* * *
* *

At.mosphere Restaurant, Burj
Khalifa Level 122, Dubai

Many aspects of Abbo Mohammed
were fitting for such a man of his physical stature while others were magnified
by pure narcissism.
 
Every gesture
was flamboyant, surreal, and larger than life.
 
To hear Abbo speak was peculiar, though
he had not mastered the English language, his voice was deep, clear, and each
word was enunciated at the peril of being missed.
 
His posture was unnaturally erect.
 
His eyes cast a sidelong leer to Cameron
across the table, “Mister Kincaid, thank you so much for joining us.”
 
Cameron gaged Abbo was a man that sought
to peer deeply into the minds of others, to decipher them.
 
“How fortunate for us that you happened
by.
 
Can I offer you some
champagne?”
 
In a broad flowing
display, he extended his arm to present the bottle of Ruinart Rose chilling in
a tableside ice bucket.

“I’m afraid I am limited to
seltzer and lemon this evening,” said Cameron, his voice apologetic, that of
the fool, to match the toothy grin he still wore.
 
He placed his hand above his stomach,
“All of the travelling.”

Abbo widely smiled in return,
tilted his head slightly to the side, and then nodded.
 
“I understand quite well.
 
My last trip to New York threw me for
many days.
 
All of the long flying I
believe.”

Through Cameron’s hidden
microphone, Pepe and Alastair were able to hear Abbo’s deep voice stumbling
through English with defiant clarity.
 
As according to plan Abbo had recognized Cameron and invited him to his
table.
 
All Cameron’s team needed to
do was wait for the next phase.

“I am sorry, I have been rude,”
said Abbo.
 
“May I introduce Mary
and Antoinette?”
 
On each arm,
beautiful dark haired women, each wearing silk camisoles in lieu of blouses,
one patterned with red roses and trimmed with Habutai lace, the other, less
conservative in comparison, a sequined sheer black silk tank top.

“Hello,” said Cameron, he
shifted his eyes to each of the women, “Marie and Toinette.”

“Mary,” said red roses.
 
“And Antoinette,” said sequined sheer.

“Aah.”

“Hello.
 
Welcome to Dubai,” said Mary, her voice
that of a trade show hostess.

Cameron’s eyes widened.

“You are surprised by my
American accent Mister Kincaid?”

“Should I be?”

Mary coyly lowered her green
eyes away from Cameron to a solitary sugar cube plated before her.
 
She playfully twirled the cube around
the saucer with the end of her red enameled fingernail, “Some men are.”

“I am not some
men
.”

Mary flirtatiously tilted her
head, and eased a glance up at Cameron, “I am sure you are not.”

“Ha, ha, yes,” said Abbo.
 
“Mary is from middle of America.”

“I am from Belgium,” said
Antoinette, her green eyes puppy wide, her long enameled nail pressing the edge
of her lower lip.

“So then it is true,” said
Cameron.

“What is Mister Kincaid?” asked
Antoinette.

“Dubai is the land of many
delights.”

Abbo laughed deeply.

“That amuses you?” asked
Cameron.

Abbo composed himself, “You are
a man that appreciates fine things.
 
Please be my guest and educate me in the designs of this menu,” he
paused and shifted his pupils side to side to each of the women, “and dessert
is on me.
 
What do you say?”

Cameron maintained an aloof
tone, “I say let’s order the first course.”

* * *
* *

Paris Countryside, Years Ago

Christine peered over the
crinkled road atlas into the brown withered field.
 
“The farm is supposed to be right up
here,” she said.
 
“That is an orchard.”

“Where there is an orchard there
is usually a farm house,” said Cameron.
 
“I’m sure the farmhouse is right over this rise.”
 
He wrapped his fingers tightly around
the knob of the gear stick and lunged his shoulder forward.
 
The gearbox of the old Citroen 2CV
ratcheted loudly, resisting his effort.
 
He nudged the shifter again.
 
The car jolted forward then the motor began purring smoothly up the
hill.

“There you see,” said Cameron.

Through the tops of the bare
scraggily orchard trees, the crest of the hill revealed the weathered tin and
shingle roof of a barn.
 
Christine
held the atlas tightly to her chest, straightened her back, and then extended
her neck.
 
The corners of her cheeks
rose and she spoke with an elevated pitch, inhaling her words, “Oui, oui, that
is the farm Cameron.”

As the Citroen topped the hill,
the rest of the farm was revealed.
 
The house was attached to the barn.
 
The aged stonework façade was intermingled across the two buildings.
 
Christine began to tap her feet.
 
By the time the car reached the small
bridge at the bottom of the hill, she had started to slap Cameron’s thigh to
punctuate her remarks, “Look, look!
 
See those little chocolate pooches in the yard.
 
How cute!”

Cameron wheeled the Citroen into
the pebbled drive of the farm and began the fight with the gear stick to shift
the car into neutral.
 
Christine did
not wait for him to turn off the ignition.
 
As soon as the vehicle slowed, she opened the thin door and made her way
to the band of puppies frolicking in the yard.
 
The gearbox quarreled loudly yet above
that were Christine’s giggles and laughs.

Having successfully parked the
car, Cameron opened his door and spun his feet out onto the stony
driveway.
 
He stayed seated for a
moment, captured by the splendor of Christine rolling on the lawn with four
puppies on top of her.
 
Little
chocolate labs near the same color as her long, now
wild
and sprawling, chestnut hair.
 
Whimsically she snickered and smirked.
 
She communed with the small animals with
quirky squeals and squeaks.
 
Christine allowed the little paws of one to push her to one side and the
muzzle of another to toss her onto her back, and she let them bathe her face
with the thousands of little tongue kisses.

Cameron was mesmerized by the
amount of joy these
labrador
pups brought this innocent beauty.
 
The image became interspersed with lightning flashes of chestnut haired
children, rolling across the lawn with their mother.
 
Cameron saw himself there in the yard as
well.
 
In that instant, Cameron saw
a possible future of a family in love and at play.

* * *
* *

Abbo’s Harem Suite, Burj Khalifa
Level 104, Dubai

Cameron stood at the corner of
the glass walled suite, high above the city of Dubai.
 
He peered into the vast blanket of
twinkling lights that speckled far out toward the Middle Eastern horizon.
 
Relieved of his Armani dinner jacket, he
still wore his collar shirt and slacks.
 
His tie was loose yet knotted.
 
Mary had disrobed for him.
 
He had smiled and then faced the window.
 
She perhaps thought him coy, playing a
game, while ironically he was at odds facing her beauty, a beauty so
reminiscent of Christine.
 
Mary
stepped up behind Cameron, seductive in her stride, slowly draped her arms
around his shoulders, and then rested her cheek against his back.

“You made a wise choice,” said
Mary.
 
She pressed her naked body
against Cameron.

“Did I?”

Mary held Cameron as Christine
often had, her arms wrapped around his broad chest, her head resting on his
shoulders, her pert breasts pushed into his back.
 
Christine was most likely captive in the
next room waiting liberation from Abbo.
 
In facing the window, Christine’s memory had been invoked rather than
defused.
 
Cameron had a mission that
Mary was part of yet an act so natural as being with a woman, a woman devoted
to indulging sensual pleasures, was at the moment the cause of mental duress.

“You know Abbo is rarely so
generous,” said Mary, her nimble fingers worked the knot of Cameron’s necktie,
effortlessly loosening the silken material.