The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) (25 page)

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.