The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) (26 page)

Cameron had done some homework
as well.
 
Before leaving New York,
he made some calls concerning Demetrius Stratos.
 
As a civilian, a commando, and later
during undercover ops, Cameron had come across men like Stratos, powerful men
unabashed by their actions, men with egos that forbid them from receiving
insult without swift response.
 
Stratos would not turn his back on his son and he was not the kind of
man that would easily pay a ransom.
 
For men with the power Stratos possessed there was an alternative
resolve.
 
Cameron and Pepe were not
the only former soldiers on their way to Somalia.

The top of the cabin reflected
the pale blue glow of Pepe’s MacBook Pro.
 
Cameron could visualize the drill.
 
Pepe was checking the coordinates of Kismayu and key points in the
vicinity against Google Earth or some other plat map.
 
Christine was Pepe’s little sister.
 
Pepe spoke of her as if she were tough,
Cameron thought differently, they had something years ago.
 
The tough exterior was an
act,
Christine was softer than Pepe wanted to admit.
 
Sophisticated and well traveled, to call
Christine fragile would be a mistake, yet a week as a hostage would be enough
to break most anybody.

Cameron took a breath in through
his nose as he again processed the thought of Christine being held
hostage.
 
He drew a mental picture
of Christine on the yacht.
 
The
image of Christine was of her the last time they spoke.
 
That would not be right though, almost
ten years had passed since the last time Cameron saw her in person, and though
she was still beautiful, she had matured, lost the girlish features.
 
Cameron thought Christine would more
closely resemble the woman she portrayed in the ads, a visage combined from
cosmetics and Photoshop.

The beauty was real though.

What Cameron and Christine had
together was real.

Cameron told himself that
Christine was the one that slipped away.
 
He let her slip away.
 
They
had met in Paris when Christine first began modeling.
 
Pepe had introduced them over lunch and,
in fear of insulting or hurting Pepe, the two began seeing each other in
secrecy.
 
When Pepe did finally
confront them, he was not angry.
 
Pepe gave them his blessing and told them that nothing would please him
more than his brother-in-arms marry his sister.

That probably would have
happened, had Cameron and Christine chosen different careers.
 
They spent too much time apart, each
with jobs that took them far around the world, Christine to the fashion meccas
of the wealthiest countries and Cameron to the hot spots of the poorest.
 
As Cameron’s work began to involve deep
cover operations, the time they spent apart grew from weeks to months.
 
The missions Cameron became involved in
were dangerous and with each, the risk of fatality increased.
 
Looking back Cameron could see that
Christine would have understood, would have waited for him.
 
At the time, Cameron thought best to let
Christine go on without him.

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.

* * * * *

Chapter 4

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.