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

“Excuse me?” asked Annalisa.

“Which sailboat?
 
They are heading out to one of those
boats,” said Pepe.
 
“I am guessing
one of those three larger yachts.”

“The smaller one on the side,”
said Annalisa.

“I would have guessed one of the
larger ones,” said Pepe.

“If you think thirty-eight meters
is small.
 
Anyway, the size is not
what makes the yacht special.
 
The
Azulejo is over one hundred years old.
 
Mister Stratos took great pride in restoring and racing the luxury
yacht.
 
His son shares the,”
Annalisa hesitated, “affection.”

Cameron smirked, “Another one of
a kind.”

“Hmm,” said Annalisa.

“Well,” said Pepe.
 
“Demetrius and his family did not get to
where they are without flaunting a little.”

“I told you,” said
Annalisa.
 
“The Stratos men have the
means to obtain what they want, by purchase, or other, well, they have the
means.”

“To take what they want,” said
Cameron

“I am sure they do,” said
Pepe.
 
“Rather Machiavellian.”

“To take what you want?” asked
Annalisa.

“Not that,” said Pepe.
 
“I am referring to the power a one of a
kind item brings to those like Stratos that wish to attain and maintain power.”

“How so?”

“There is more to the
acquisition of particular items.
 
A
key to creating and maintaining power is to create compelling spectacles, full
of symbols that heighten presence.
 
Machiavelli said people are always impressed by the superficial
appearance of things.”

“I may disagree that a century
old luxury yacht is superficial.”

“Does owning the boat make a
difference in the man?”

“Fascinating Mister Laroque,”
said Annalisa.

“Yes fascinating,” said
Pepe.
 
“There is another fascinating
key to maintaining position and power that you appear to know so well.”

“What is that?”

“Pose as a friend, work as spy.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cameron smiled, “I do believe
Stratos is genius for sending you in.
 
You are top notch, short of weapons training.
 
Where did you study?”

“Cambridge then Harvard Law.”

“Huh,” Cameron glanced over at
Annalisa, her naked flesh beneath the sheer blouse illuminating bright in the
dim interior of the car.
 
“Brains,
and beauty,” he said.
 
“A slam-dunk
really.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” said
Annalisa.

“Sure you do,” said Cameron.

Annalisa hung her head down for
a moment and then, in a soft tone said, “Foreknowledge cannot be elicited from
ghosts and spirits, it cannot be inferred from comparison of previous events,
or from the calculations of the heavens, but must be obtained from people who
have knowledge of the enemy’s situation.”

“Sun-tzu,” said Cameron.
 
“He was right, tough to shoot ducks
blindfolded.”

Pepe held his hand out between
them.
 
“The earpiece please.”

* * *
* *

Talamanca Bay, Ibiza

Even without the motor, the
dinghy swiftly glided across the smooth surface of Talamanca Bay.
 
From the dock, the bay had appeared
mostly brilliant with the reflection from the lights of the beach hotels and
mired with shadow where the light was absent.
 
Out in the midst of the harbor, the
above light of hillside Ibiza Town, and the myriad of stars that peppered the
sky, made the interior of the small craft as well lit as the shore.

The Azulejo, like the other
yachts near her, was lit by the strings of lamps along her moorings and up her
masts.
 
Cameron and Pepe saw two
other dinghies tied to her stern.
 
One of the dinghies had been brought out to the luxury sailing yacht by
Demetrius and Nikos ahead of Cameron and Pepe, the other they surmised may
belong to Azulejo.
 
Perhaps Nikos
had assigned someone with the task of caring for his captive.
 
The task of feeding and securing
Christine, ensuring she not leave the yacht, taking measures she remained
below.

Men bickering, peaked with a few
hollers, carried across the surface of the water.

Cameron’s mind wandered to what
he and Pepe would find inside the cabin.
 
His stomach tightened.

The end of the dinghies towline
was looped and ready.
 
Pepe snagged
a cleat at the stern.
 
Cameron
palmed some resistance to the warm hull as Pepe softly pulled the small craft
tight to the yacht.
 
No one was on
deck.
 
Light escaped from the open
cabin.

The occupants of the yacht no
longer quarreled loudly.
 
The
discussion ensued, muffled below within the hull.

Weapons drawn, Pepe and Cameron
eased themselves onto the deck of the Azulejo.
 
Corsican trained, Corsican elite,
whether the target was a destroyer, freighter, fishing frigate, or a luxury
sailing yacht, infiltrating a vessel afloat was a specialty of the two former
commandos, as simple as falling from a plane.

Hunched over, and incredibly
nimble for the added girth of his age, Pepe scurried toward the foredeck hatch,
the most likely place to find his sister.
 
Cameron remained aft and waited until his partner was in position.
 
From around the mast he could see Pepe
lift the forward hatch.

His head focused below deck,
Pepe threw Cameron a hand signal to signify he thought the forward cabin was
clear.
 
That was good and bad.
 
The signal also meant Pepe did not see
Christine.
 
Then as agile as the
young man he had been years before, Pepe slipped into the yacht.

Huddling next to the main cabin
door, Cameron began a slow count to five to allow Pepe to work his way
aft.
 
Though the forward cabin may
be empty, Cameron was certain that at least Demetrius and Nikos were beyond the
open hatch in front of him.
 
There
was also someone else with them.
 
Cameron was close enough to make out the discussion.
 
Someone was speaking with a British
accent.

An accent Cameron immediately
recognized.
 
He knew the owner of
the third dinghy well.

On the count of five, Ruger in
hand, Cameron swung around and into the main cabin.
 
Pepe pushed open the opposite door.
 
Between Cameron and Pepe, Demetrius and
Nikos.
 
Demetrius took their entry
in stride, the earpiece, while Nikos, having seen the two men kill firsthand,
twitched his head uncomfortably side to side.
 
On the side berth, in front of the
Greeks, half awake, drugged, Pepe’s sister Christine.
 
Sitting on the berth next to Christine,
one leg casually crossed over the other, his arm protectively wrapped around
her, and his Walther PPK pointed at the father and son, was the yellow haired
Alastair Main.

* * *
* *

Talamanca Bay, Ibiza

That Pepe had not shot every
breathing being upon entering the cabin, besides Cameron and Christine, was a
marvel.
 
Cameron had his Ruger drawn
in the general direction of father and son.
 
Pepe had his Beretta raised to Nikos
head.
 
Key to the two of them was
that Alastair had his PPK pointed at the mogul and his scion, though neither
Cameron or Pepe wanted to decipher Alastair’s reason or intent.
 
Not merely any other man, Alastair Main
was brother-in-arms to Cameron and Pepe, more than that, a real brother, as
tight as blood.
 
The man was a Green
Dragon of the highest honor.
 
The
unfathomable number of missions Alastair, unquestionable a shot with camera or
rifle, was the unseen back up, hidden in a van or high on a perch.
 
The countless missions Alastair had
saved Cameron’s life.

Neither Demetrius nor Nikos
immediately spoke.
 
Neither appeared
dumbfounded, though Cameron calculated a safe bet would be that the two were
not accustomed to having guns pointed at them, let alone three.

Cameron opted to size up what he
and Pepe had walked into.
 
They were
leaving with Christine in a matter of minutes regardless, and if Pepe lost
patience and began to drop wealthy Greeks, well, that would have to happen.
 
Cameron smirked in the most devious
fashion.
 
“Good evening gentlemen,”
he said.
 
“Sorry we were late.
 
Did we miss anything?”

Pepe pressed his Beretta to
Nikos temple.
 
“We must be missing
something.”

“I planned on having this
wrapped up before you arrived,” said Alastair.
 
“Then again I expected you a bit sooner,
so I suppose, the delay is mine.”

A proper response from Alastair,
a good sign.

Pepe grunted, “Cameron has spent
too much time with Americans, always late.”

Cameron whimsically raised a brow.
 
“We were detained.”

Apparently made confident by the
banter, Demetrius spoke up, “And where is my lovely assistant?”

Pepe chuckled, “Miss Droukos is
in the trunk of the Aston Martin.”

“She’s safe,” said Cameron.
 
“Pillow, blanket, we didn’t want any
interruptions you understand.”

Demetrius nodded his head, and
then said, “I understand.”

“I heard part of a,” Cameron
paused flashing his eyes between Nikos and Alastair, “discussion when we
arrived.
 
Do continue.”

Alastair raised his chin.
 
“Mister Stratos was just asking Nikos to
explain himself.”

“Yes gentleman,” said
Demetrius.
 
He pressed his hands
down into the air to express his case.
 
“I assure you that I do not condone whatever has led to Miss Laroque
residing on this yacht in --,” he hesitated, “whatever condition she is
in.”
 
He shifted his attention to
Nikos.
 
“Can you please explain to
everyone what is going on.”

Pepe pulled the Berretta a small
bit away from Nikos’ temple and then jabbed the barrel back against him with
enough force to cause the playboy to shuffle.
 
“Yes please Nikos,” said Pepe.
 
“Explain to everyone what is going on.”

Demetrius’ eyes flared
contemptuously at Pepe.

A spoiled man-child always told
yes, and never maliciously assaulted, Nikos cheeks flushed at Pepe’s blunt
strike to his temple.
 
His contempt
though, appeared to be reserved for his father.
 
Nikos acknowledged Pepe, his mouth tight
across his face, leered at his father, and then he began to lash out.
 
Tossing away the feint persona of the
playful jetsetter, his tone became defiant and full of disgust, “You never
believed I could set up my own deals.
 
I wanted to show you I could.”

Demetrius shook his head.
 
“What are you talking about?” ha
asked.
 
“That thug Dada had several
contracts with me.
 
He has done work
for me and everyone else.
 
You
merely tried to broker a contract that was already set with Abbo.”

“I wanted something more than
that.”
 
Nikos’ lip curled to a
snarl.
 
“Everything is you, you,
you.
 
I wanted to set up a future
for myself.
 
My empire.”

“That is ridiculous.”
 
Demetrius held up a finger.
 
“One day.
 
Everything that is mine will become
yours.”

Nikos raised his voice,
“No.
 
I wanted something that was
mine.
 
I found out from Feizel the
deal you had with the National Volunteer Coast Guard.
 
He bragged about the deal.
 
For five euros a ton, his father allowed
you to dump millions of tons of hazardous waste into Somali water.
 
The fool thought his father was a
genius.
 
I know better.
 
You charge one thousand euros a ton
across Europe, pay the fool a fraction, and then pocket the difference.
 
I made a better deal with Ibrahim Dada.”