The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) Read online

  As the men moved closer, Christine’s feeble whimpers rose to convulsive sobs. Frozen against the cushioned headboard, her eyes began to flood.

  The bright green of her eyes glazed over with the well of tears, and her head and neck pressed back so tightly against the headboard, that with each thudding pulse, the thundering rush of blood pained the base of her skull.

  The two men carried the ragdoll of a man over to the bed and then with a dip and a lift they heaved the lifeless figure next to Christine. Her eyes shot to the bloody face. The beaten man was Nikos. Her heart swelled, throbbing against her lungs, preventing air from getting in.

  Nikos looked dead.

  Christine dropped her hand to Nikos’ forehead to move his blood-matted hair away from his face. She ran her thumb over his brow, first smearing, and then clearing blood away from the small cut near his eye.

  Nikos coughed weakly. He was alive. Christine was able to take in a deep breath.

  Christine caressed Nikos’ cheek, “It’s going to be ok, Nikos.” She was unsure if more than a soft wisp had escaped her dry throat.

  Nikos’ eyes were already swelling shut and he was having trouble opening them. His jaw opened and then closed, only a faint breath escaped.

  Christine exerted more effort into her voice, “Shhh, don’t try to talk.”

  The hatch slapped shut followed by the metal clack of the bolt. Christine raised her head, her eyes frantically darting to the hatch and then to the rest of the still lit room.

  Christine and Nikos were alone.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2

  Upper West Side, New York City

  Cameron reached deep into the loose right pocket of his slacks for the key to Le Dragon Vert. He usually threw jeans on after taping down in Chelsea. Tonight he did not bother. He walked alone along west Eighty-first Street. This time of night, the sidewalks of the Upper West Side were near empty. To his side the massive Hayden Sphere glowed soft indigo in the six-story glass cube Rose Center, a nightlight for the wealthy residents of Central Park West. Cameron sucked in the fragrance of the daffodils carpeting the small Roosevelt Park bordering the museum. Two taxis drove under the traffic light from the Central Park crosstown entrance. Cameron waited for the yellow cabs to pass and then jay walked across Eighty-first Street to his restaurant.

  Cameron slipped his key into the front door of Le Dragon Vert, closed for the evening an hour before. He stepped down the three-steps from the vestibule into the amber lit lounge, his attention immediately drawn to the bar. The dark oak bar jutted into the edge of the lounge then ran the length of the tunneled hallway that led to the dining room. On leather seats midway down the dimly lit tunnel two men, one thin, one stout, were conversing softly. The wide man, his back to Cameron, revealed only the shoulder of the second. Without seeing their faces, Cameron recognized them both. His mentor and partner in the restaurant, Claude Rambeaux, owned the thin shoulder, and the girth and thick black hair of the other belonged to his friend Pepe Laroque, visiting New York from Montreal.

  Cameron approached his two friends, both former members of the same super elite Legionnaire regiment that he himself belonged to years before. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I see you found the Ardbeg single malt,” he said.

  “Claude says you charge seventy dollars for a drink of this,” said Pepe.

  Cameron curled his lip, “It is thirty years old. Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you.”

  As Pepe had been in the French Foreign Legion with Cameron and Claude, he was a dear old friend and far more than that. Cameron knew Pepe as a man would know a brother. Pepe was never too far from a glass of wine or brandy, hard liquor however was not his drink of choice. On the bar was a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.

  Claude picked up the rock glass he had set aside for Cameron and then poured two fingers the single malt.

  “Have a seat,” said Claude. “I expected you back from the studio a few hours ago.”

  Cameron reached behind Claude for a stool and then pulled the seat to where he stood. “I took my competitor out for a drink. Life on the soundstage isn’t what he thought it would be.”

  Claude handed Cameron a glass of the scotch whiskey. Cameron held his glass up, the others followed.

  “Viva Legionne,” said Cameron.

  In unison Pepe and Claude responded, “The Legion is our strength.”

  “That is good,” said Cameron after sampling the single malt. “So I take it there’s no funeral. What are we celebrating?”

  “No celebration I’m afraid,” said Pepe. He placed his palm on his forehead and held his hand there, letting his eyes slowly close. After a pause he wiped his hand across his brow, let his eyes rest open, and then looked into his palm. “The whiskey heats you up,” he said and then feigned a smile.

  Pepe’s smile was that of a cherub, high into his puffed cheeks, still Cameron suspected bad news. “What is it Pepe?”

  “Tell him,” said Claude, “go ahead.”

  “Remember Langdon?” asked Pepe.

  “Sergeant Langdon, yeah I remember him.”

  “Well, he’s Adjutant-Chef Langdon now.”

  Adjutant-Chef was the equivalent of Lieutenant in the Legion and essentially a sub-officer. “Huh, the world keeps changing,” said Cameron. “What about him?”

  “He called me this morning. One of Langdon’s men is the IMB liaison.”

  “The International Marine Bureau,” said Claude. Cameron nodded.

  Pepe nodded his head and then said, “Langdon gets all the reports from the IMB piracy reporting center in Kuala Lumpur. Five days ago the Kalinihta, a forty-five meter yacht sailed from the Seychelles at 03:00 local time without notifying anyone. Kuala Lumpur is tracking the yacht. Her heading appears to be south of Mogadishu.”

  “What,” said Cameron. “So you’re saying the yacht was taken?”

  “The reporting center is not sure, they cannot make contact.”

  “I do not understand,” said Claude.

  “The owner of the Kalinihta hasn’t reported her missing.”

  “If she’s not missing, why are they watching the yacht from Kuala Lumpur?” asked Claude.

  “Because of whoever owns the yacht,” said Cameron. “Somebody important owns the Kalinihta.”

  “Exactly,” said Pepe. “The Kalinihta is owned by Demetrius Stratos, the Greek shipping magnate. The GPS on the Kalinihta links directly to the IMB. They monitor its movements and the Captain checks in regularly. If the yacht moves a meter they know.”

  “Sounds like the Somali,” said Cameron. “Though I didn’t think the pirates went that far out.” He sipped from his rock glass. “I’m sure Stratos is keeping it quiet to deal with it himself.”

  Pepe nodded and made a soft grunting sound in the back of his throat.

  “Why did they notify Langdon?” asked Claude. “Is the Kalinihta flying a French flag? I know our boys have zero tolerance for French hostages.”

  “The flag is Panamanian. Demetrius has a son, Nikos. He was last seen on the yacht the day before with a model he has been dating. She is the French citizen.”

  “So the IMB called Langdon,” said Cameron. “I’m missing something. Why did Langdon call you?”

  Pepe’s eyes sunk back and from beneath his meaty brow he peered deeply at Cameron. The corners of his mouth went taut into his full cheeks.

  “What?” asked Cameron.

  “Cameron,” said Pepe. “The model is Christine.”

  “Pepe,” said Claude. “Your sister Christine?”

  “She was with Nikos on the yacht,” said Pepe.

  “Are you sure? ” asked Cameron. He leaned forward to set his whiskey on the bar. “I mean she takes off all the time. Are you sure she was on the yacht?”

  “I’m sure,” said Pepe. “I called her roommate in Paris. She told me Christine had flown to the Seychelles with Nikos and that she has not heard from her since.”

  Cameron pushed his hands into
his knees and tilted his head back to face the ceiling. His mind flooded with youthful images of a smiling, laughing Christine.

  “And Langdon,” said Claude. “What’s he going to do, take a team to board the yacht?”

  Pepe shook his head, “No, until the Kalinihta is reported hijacked there is nothing he can do.”

  “I see,” said Claude.

  “Hostages are held on the average of forty-five days before a ransom is paid,” said Pepe. “I don’t think it would take Stratos that long to come up with the money. If he sends in his own team, who knows.”

  Cameron brought his head back forward and straightened his neck. He lifted his hand from his knee and firmly gripped Pepe’s shoulder. “So when do we leave?”

  Pepe grinned. He reached across his chest, patted Cameron’s hand, and then from his jacket he brought out a pair of heavy rimmed black glasses and a folded sheet of paper. He slipped on the glasses, opened the sheet, and leaned his head forward, tilting the paper toward the dim light behind the bar.

  “We fly out of JFK at 7:50pm for Nairobi,” said Pepe. He lowered the paper and peered over the rim of his glasses toward Cameron. “We layover in London for a few hours. In all it should take about twenty.”

  “That will give us time to make some calls,” said Cameron. “I take it you already contacted Alastair?”

  “I have, his people will meet us in Nairobi and take us to meet him at the eco-lodge.”

  “Eco-lodge, I like that.” Cameron’s right hand was still on Pepe’s shoulder and the other was retrieving his whiskey from the bar. “Claude, I’ll need you to --,”

  “I know, do not worry,” said Claude. “Just get Christine home safely.”

  Cameron lifted his glass into the air. “So Somalia via Kenya we go.”

  Pepe lifted his glass to the toast and then the three drank.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3

  Atlantic Ocean

  Cameron pulled the light blanket over his chin. This flight contrasted the countless missions he flew as a young Legionnaire. In the Legion there were far more take offs than landings and never was a flight this comfortable. Pepe had arranged sleeper service for the two of them. They were served a full dinner pre-flight at the JFK VIP lounge and then as soon as the Boeing 777 left the runway the flight attendants started a turn down service. Next to each other in opposed directions, the back and front of their two sleeper seats reclined and lifted to create two-meter berths. A little tall for the mattress, Cameron was still able to relax, though sleep would not come easy. Cameron was too well aware that on the other side of the divider, Pepe was reviewing the latest details of the hijacked yacht.

  Six days had passed since the Kalinihta was hijacked. The last GPS coordinates had put the Kalinihta, still not reported missing, near the small port city of Kismayu, 500 kilometers down the African coast from Mogadishu. Pepe had shared with Cameron what he learned from Langdon. Onboard the yacht were Christine, Nikos Stratos, the Captain, Cook, three crewmen, and two other women, one a maid and the other a steward. The Captain, Warren Lewis, was an older British man, well seasoned with a commercial background. The Cook and two women were Greek, the steward the Cook’s girlfriend. Two of the crewmen were brothers from Genoa, Aberto and Donato Disota, and the third was a Seychellois, local to where the Kalinihta was anchored. Langdon had told Pepe that, for a crew that size, the pirates would most likely ask for a million US dollars expecting to get half.

  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,” sa
id 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.