The Somali Deception Episode I (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (3 page)

Cameron had more than once imagined
a different life where he and Christine had gone farther together.
 
There were children that looked like
them with their chestnut hair, his chin, her cheeks, and her green eyes below
his brow.
 
Cameron imagined that
they would all be happy.

Thinking about a past that never
occurred and a present that did not exist was futile so when nostalgic thoughts
arose, melancholy or pleasant, they were expeditiously warded away.
 
Chased away as other futile thoughts
were by simple sage advice that Claude had given Cameron years before.
 
“Men like us,” Claude had said, “should
not tally regret.”

Regardless of a past shared and
unshared, Christine was in trouble and her rescue was up to Pepe and
Cameron.
 
A rescue from captors that
did not know the mistake they were making by boarding the Kalinihta.

* * * * *

London Heathrow Airport

The flight attendant appeared no
older than a teen.
 
She leaned in
toward Pepe, her shoulders tight, arms straight, and her hands pressed against
her knees.
 
As though to share a
secret she spoke softly, her British accent both formal and kind, “Mister
Laroque, when you and Mister Kincaid disembark, a London crewmember will be
waiting outside the Jetway.”

“Thank you Rachelle.
 
I appreciate your extra effort contacting
Heathrow,” he said.

“Nonsense Mister Laroque, it is
one’s pleasure.
 
Can I get you
anything before we land?”

“No, I’m quite fine.”

Rachelle gave Pepe a departing
smile and then shifted her focus to Cameron.
 
“Could I get you anything Mister Kincaid?”

“I’m quite fine as well.
 
Thank you,” said Cameron.

“Very well gentlemen, please
prepare for landing.”

Cameron and Pepe gave Rachelle a
friendly nod and then locked eyes with each other.

“Cameron,” said Pepe.

“I know,” said Cameron.

Cameron peered out the window
beyond Pepe.
 
White billows
enveloped the large jet airliner as she fell through the clouds.

Rachelle opened a cabinet near
the ceiling and pressed the first of five buttons that crossed the face of a
black metal console.
 
In the next
cabin a voice as formal and kind as Rachelle’s relayed an automated message
asking passengers to please check that their tray tops were up, their seatbelts
were fastened, and that their seatbacks were in an upright position.

Outside the window, white wisps
of moisture revealed first hazily, then concisely, the details of soft green
terra firma fields, roofs of row houses, and then lastly, the myriad of utility
sheds and parcel depots skirting London Heathrow.

A muffled thump rose from the
deck as the Boeing triple seven kissed the Heathrow tarmac coupled with the
immediate roar of the engine’s reverse thrust.
 
The travelers lurched forward, eased
back, the engines lulled, and then applause filled the coach cabin of the near motionless
jet.
 
Rather than take part in the
transatlantic landing ritual, Cameron gathered his gear.
 
Time in London was to be short, hurried
by the departure of the Kenyan flight.
 
Pepe had gathered his gear together moments before and was now bent
slightly forward at the waist, his feet and knees together, eyes open, chin to
chest, elbows tight into his sides and his fingers spread wide from his
extended hands.
 
Cameron recognized
the posture.
 
Pepe held the posture
paratroopers assumed before leaving a plane.
 
Pepe was in jump position and prepared
to launch himself when the cabin door opened.

Pepe did not have long to wait.

As the jet taxied toward the
terminal, Rachelle walked passed Pepe and into the small service area
demarcating the sleeper section of the cabin from coach.
 
She pulled the privacy curtain from the
side of the fuselage to clear the exit and then waited in front of the
hatch.
 
The jet stopped, bumped
forward, and then began moving again under the power of a small tow vehicle
below.

Cameron could see from his seat
the glass Jet Bridge closing in on the side of the Boeing.

The two men stood and approached
Rachelle.
 
She was awkwardly hunched
forward peering up through the hatch window, coordinating with the Jet Bridge
operator by means of a black telephone receiver jacked into the side of the
cabin door.
 
Rachelle smiled widely
at Pepe and Cameron and flirtatiously raised her eyebrows as they
approached.
 
The men appreciated
they were to have remained seated.
 
She merely continued to respond to the operator with monosyllabic
statements, “Clear…
 
Clear…
 
Five and…
 
Clear…”

With a subtle jolt, the Jet
Bridge fastened to the side of the fuselage.
 
Rachelle seated the receiver and pulled
the latch to release the cabin door.

“Welcome to Heathrow gentlemen,”
said Rachelle, pulling the door clear for Pepe and Cameron to exit.

“Merci,” said Pepe.

A series of faint bells rang
through the cabin.
 
Passengers began
to lift themselves from their seats and gather their carry on luggage from the
overhead compartments.

“Ms. Conroy will be to the right
of the Jet Bridge,” said Rachelle.
 
Her voice raised an octave, “Thank you for flying.”

This time Cameron responded,
“Thank you.”
 
Then he shot out the
hatch to catch up with Pepe, already in the glass corridor.

* * * * *

Ms. Conroy, a petite woman with
her blonde hair fashioned no hassle pixie style, briskly walked toward Cameron
and Pepe from the entrance of the Jet Bridge.
 
She wore a Heathrow blazer and on her
arm, a clipboard filled with sheets of itinerary that had been shuffled and
flipped through already a number of times before her latest wards had
arrived.
 
In her other hand, she
held a two-way mobile.

“Good morning Mister Laroque,
Mister Kincaid.
 
My name is Ms.
Conroy.
 
Welcome to London
Heathrow.
 
If you could follow me please.”

Before Pepe or Cameron could
respond to Ms. Conroy’s greeting she had spun around back toward the Jet Bridge
entrance and in two steps was leaning on a side door that led down to the
tarmac.
 
In the same motion she
lifted the two-way and spoke into the device, “I have them with me.
 
Side alpha-2 word of the hour,” Ms.
Conroy paused and tilted her wrist to see her watch, “Giraffe.”
 
The magnetic lock buzzed and Ms. Conroy
pushed the large metal and glass door open giving her small frame the
appearance of great might.
 
The
moist air surged in thick from the rainy grey world outside of the enclosed
terminal.
 
Pepe and Cameron had to
pick up their step to keep in stride with Ms. Conroy as she shot down the steps
and onto the wet tarmac toward a waiting van directly below the Jet
Bridge.
 
She jerked the side door of
the van open with the hand holding the two-way and then stepped back.

“Please step aboard gentlemen,”
said Ms. Conroy, an expedient machine a moment before now paused and
courteous.
 
Cameron and Pepe climbed
into the van, each nodding to the smiling young woman.
 
She threw the door closed once they were
clear and then hurled herself into the front passenger seat.
 
Cameron raised a brow to Pepe and both
were rocked back into their seats as the van accelerated away from the Jet
Bridge out onto the tarmac across a road designated only by two white painted
lines.
 
The van shifted to either
side, negotiating the course, the large single wiper slicing the gathering
water from the windscreen, the onboard radio chirping porter information across
the complex.
 
Ms. Conroy was on her
two-way as well, a different channel, flipping through her clipboard and
marking the lists of flights with notations of names, checkmarks, or times with
circles, a lot of circles.

Cameron and Pepe had spent years
of their lives on tarmacs and found the ride familiar.
 
While thousands of patrons roamed the
terminals, the hidden underbelly of the great animal that was London Heathrow
functioned as a giant organism.
 
The
van a corpuscle surging through a momentum under the wings of jets, around
trains of baggage carts, petrol trucks, and dozens of other vehicles that were
all part of the Heathrow eco, all moving to a breakneck choreography to
accommodate the two hundred thousand people being served each day.

“Mister Laroque,” said Ms.
Conroy.
 
“As London is not your
final destination arrangements have been made for Mister Kincaid and
yourself.
 
This will only take a
moment.
 
Please have your passports
ready.”

The van cleared the back of a
petrol truck and then spun a 180-degree turn, pulling up next to a small white
concrete block building.
 
Ms. Conroy
threw open her door and in a single borderline acrobatic maneuver, swung out
and slid the side panel of the van open as well.

Every time Ms. Conroy spout an
order her voice would raise a polite pitch.
 
“This way please,” she said, again
marching away before Cameron or Pepe could respond.

The white building was as
Spartan on the inside as out, consisting of four walls and a glassed-in customs
officer on one end.
 
To the side a
small room divider leading away from the customs desk masked a table.
 
Cameron and Pepe followed Ms. Conroy
through the door and waited for her cue.
 
“Wait here please,” said Ms. Conroy.
 
She approached the customs officer then
said something the two men could not hear that prompted the customs officer to
nod his head.

“Ok, very good then,” said Ms.
Conroy.
 
“Mister Laroque you first
please, and then Mister Kincaid.”

Pepe walked the four steps to
the glassed in customs agent.
 
The
agent held up his open hand and said nothing.
 
Pepe offered his French passport.
 
The agent placed the passport on his
desk.
 
He did not scan the passport
or even bother to look at the picture.
 
He opened the passport to the middle and then, finding the pages full,
flipped until he found a blank.
 
With a thud, he stamped the ID then handed the passport back.
 
Cameron stepped forward and the process
was repeated.
 
Before Cameron had
his passport back into his hands, Ms. Conroy was at the door.

Ms. Conroy led Pepe and Cameron
to the rear of a black Bentley that had driven up to the door of the discrete
customs building.
 
Seeing his
passengers exit, the driver stepped out of the black limo and opened the rear
door.
 
Ms. Conroy handed Pepe a
packet.
 
“The tickets for your next
leg are here.
 
Instructions with the
flight time and where to enter the airport are included.”
 
Ms. Conroy sneered, “Please be prompt.
 
The driver your friend has arranged also
has these instructions so you should be fine.
 
You will not need to go through customs
again as you have never left the airport.
 
Your friend felt the formality of the stamp beneficial in the event your
stay is prolonged.
 
One never knows.”

“One never knows Ms.
Conroy.
 
Merci,” said Pepe.

“Good day then,” said Ms.
Conroy.

Ms. Conroy flashed a broad
smile, and then in her manner briskly marched back to the van, chatting into
her two-way, and flipping through reshuffled itineraries.

* * *
* *

London, Mayfair

Cameron rubbed his temples.
 
He peered up and out the window of the
Bentley to the London sky, and then over to Pepe.

“The man we are going to meet
here in London is a Somali expat,” said Pepe.
 
“I was made aware of him by a contact
back in Montreal.”

“Did your contact mention how he
knows this man?” asked Cameron.

“The man in Montreal said that
he and the London man used to be fishermen.
 
I was told we would find him at The May
Fair Hotel.”