Smokescreen by Khaled Talib
We are delighted to welcome back thriller writer Khaled Talib to Omnimystery News.
Khaled was with us earlier this year, when we discussed his new suspense thriller Smokescreen (Signal 8 Press — January 2014 trade paperback; and ebook formats via Lightning Originals), and we are pleased today to introduce you to it with an excerpt from the prologue and first chapter.
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Prologue
SMOKE CLOUDED THE MAN'S FACE like Tuareg's desert veil as he exhaled a long, apple-scented plume from the sheesha's looping pipe. It bolstered the disguise he wore in the languid summer afternoon at El Fishawy Café in Cairo's Khan el-Khalili souk district: a fake moustache and a thick goatee that seemed to make his round chin smile more, a pair of dark metal-framed sunglasses, a longflowing brown galabeya, and a white turban.
He leaned in his wooden chair against the earthen-coloured wall of the alleyway. In his fifties, he was tall and average in weight; he had a contoured nose and could have been taken for a Sudanese or a Nubian but not an African-American. To blend in with the Middle Eastern crowd, he wore a pair of leather sandals instead of American sports shoes. No one would look twice.
Wrought-iron tables spilled out along both sides of the cramped narrow alley, which a tattered, brownish sailcloth tented to protect patrons from the day's heat. Several European tourists in summer clothing and hats sat on an old L-shaped divan settee behind a partition, having tea.
The 200-year-old café featured antique mirrors on the walls and was set amid a jumble of shops selling brassware, copper, and trinkets. Farther in, along the same row as the café, the assemblage of items for sale included Horus the Sun Goddess and Tutankhamen in clay and stone, papyrus papers, lapis lazuli, belly-dancing outfits, kilms, and miniature obelisks. Beggars and hawkers strode to and fro.
An Arabic pop song playing in a music shop somewhere in the labyrinth of the ancient bazaar bounced from wall to wall. Although he was staring straight ahead, he could see everything that took place inside the carved-out section of the café behind him. His CIA-spy sunglasses allowed him to see behind himself as well.
In the dim interior, cluttered with memorabilia, carved wooden furniture, antique mirrors, ancient lamps, and fading photographs, he stared at each customer. Nothing unusual. Waiters balanced trays of juices and hot beverages as they threaded their way among the tables. Shouted orders resonated off the walls, mixing with the murmur of patrons and the clang of glass. The gentle bubble of water pipes emitted different scents of flavoured tobacco.
As he watched the scene, he noticed a thin, fair-skinned old man dressed in a white thawb — a traditional full-length loose garment with long sleeves — and a Hajji cap approaching, dragging ship-ships, Arabic leather slippers, on his feet.
This man was in his seventies, with an age-whitened beard and moustache, and a urrowed brow that intersected at his crooked nose. Broken blood vessels ran around his keratoconic eyes but didn't obscure the alertness that guarded his senses.
He took his place on the wooden chair beside the black man. For the next several minutes, he meditated with the crystal prayer beads in his right hand.
His gold-plated watch glimmered. He took a moment before calling out to the waiter.
"Hatli sheesha farawla wa chai na'na wunaby," the old man yelled in colloquial Egyptian Arabic. The black man listened to his neighbour's humorous order: a strawberry-flavoured sheesha and two cups of mint tea, the second for the Prophet Muhammad. He knew that other Arabs in the region, especially anyone who frequented Cairo, would know the candid expression the Egyptians used, but the black man didn't expect the old man to say it, especially since he wasn't what he appeared to be.
"Hadr ya Basha," said an old Egyptian waiter who stood some distance away.
The old man looked at the black man and turned away. "Cairo … nothing changes." He paused. "I'm getting rashes from wearing this fake beard and moustache," he said in a soft voice as he gently worked the prayer beads with his right hand. "I hope that ben zonah will give me a good sheesha, or does he expect a bribe? Excuse my foul mouth, but I prefer the Hebrew word over the English one for son of a bitch. The emphasis is stronger. Everyone has to be bribed in this toilet — and they call themselves Muslims."
Without turning, the black man replied, "Blame Nasser. Blame socialism. And we've been over this before. Hello, X … how are you, aside from your social grievances?"
A young, curly-haired waiter carried a bottle of sheesha towards them enthusiastically. He laid the glass base down beside the Arab-speaking man and tended to the embers on the clay bulb. He then handed the tasselled pipe to the black man's neighbour with a smile. When no tip seemed forthcoming, the waiter muttered a curse and walked away.
"See what I mean?" X growled. "They expect a bribe for everything … they haven't changed a bit. What Islam is this?" He took a deep drag on the tasselled pipe, burning a block of syrupy resin inside the clay bulb. "Hmm … this is real good. I feel much calmer now. Yes, Michael Dexter … long time indeed. How's the world treating you?"
Dexter smiled. "As the United States ambassador to Singapore, it couldn't be better."
Another waiter appeared and placed a glass of mint tea on the small table in front of the man in the thawb. When the waiter walked away, a fly landed on the edge of one glass. The old man stared at the glass with suspicion.
"Have you really achieved spy drones this small?" the old man asked, a sarcastic smile on his face.
"Why don't you swat it and find out?"
"Think he spat into my tea?"
"The fly?"
"The waiter," the old man groaned. "Egyptians don't like Saudis, and if they knew who I was … should've come as a Pakistani or an Afghan." X stuck out his tongue and licked his chapped lips.
The fly zinged off as Dexter moved forward to reach the glass of tea on the wrought-iron table. Leaning back after a sip, he replied, "Well, you chose the place. Anyway, I don't think anyone here remembers you or the Lavon Affair. Relax … your disguise has merit. I swear you could play the role of an old shepherd if not Moses himself." Dexter glanced sideways at him. "So why did you drag me all the way from Singapore?"
"I have a mission for the CIA," X said.
"Ignoring Mossad?" Dexter drank some more tea.
A momentary silence. The old man laughed in the back of his throat, his mouth still tightly closed. "My Prime Minister. He's about to undergo the same thing Jesus went through," X said before drawing in the smoke. "When you talk about peace in Israel, it's doesn't mean loving thy neighbour."
Dexter frowned. "Details."
X sneered before picking up the prayer beads on the table. "We've been talking to the Arabs secretly." He inhaled the sheesha deeply and blew out the smoke from his nose. "The Prime Minister has held several secret talks with the PLO and Hamas. Concessions in exchange for peace."
Dexter held his thought back: What kind of concessions? And we weren't consulted? Jesus Christ, you're going to upset my president.
"The return of all occupied lands as well as — " X drew more smoke before continuing: "East Jerusalem and the Temple Mount." He paused to stroke the beads.
Dexter leaned nearer to X and whispered in his ear. "Did God sanctify this?"
X blew another plume. "Not a time for jokes, Dexter. The Arab world is changing. The climate of Islam is hovering above us. The United States can't protect us forever. We know that. So, we have to make the right decision for the survival of our people."
"I've heard that saying before."
"Unfortunately, those secret meetings are no longer secret. Some quarters of the Israeli government found out and want the Prime Minister expired."
"How'd they find out?" Dexter asked.
"Deal was brokered by the Singapore government. That little island has ambition."
"Aha, this is getting exciting. This is why I'm here."
"You know, Canada used to be the diplomatic heavyweight. Then the Norwegians came. Now, Brazil and Singapore have taken over. But someone in Singapore decided that piece of information was too valuable not to be shared.
Hence, you and I are having this meeting."
"Who's the Singaporean?"
"Chan Boon Seng. He's the Singapore foreign ministry's chief protocol officer. He's got a scapegoat, a young Eurasian man named Jethro West, a magazine reporter in Singapore. I'll give you more details about this Eurasian when I meet Chan."
Dexter nodded. "Who exactly in Israel wants your Prime Minister dead?
When and where?"
"Leave internal to us. External is Singapore when our leader makes a stopover via New York after attending the World Jewish Congress." X turned to look at Dexter. "Save him. That's what I'm asking you. Save the Eurasian too."
"Why bother?"
"A moral issue," X said, and smirked.
"When did we become pious?"
"The Arabs don't want their conscience pricked. The price of Jerusalem shouldn't be paid by the blood of an innocent. This is a very holy thing. Saladin fought for it the right way, and they want to do it right. That's the condition."
"If it's such a big deal, I'll save the young man. He's your lagniappe."
"My what?"
"Back in New Orleans, if we want to sweeten a deal, we'll throw in something extra. A lagniappe."
"I needn't tell you how quiet we want this to be."
"As they say in Egypt, my eyes are your eyes."
X squinted. "Ain efes. The mission mustn't fail. Thank you."
"No," Dexter smiled. "Don't thank me. This gives us the opportunity to free our nation from bondage. The United States of America will now truly become the land of the free."
They sat for another hour, in silence, as billows of smoke from their gurgling pipes wafted into the walls.
PART ONE
Chapter One
The military helicopter stuttered across the evening desert at an altitude of six hundred feet. Destination: Sayeret Mat'kal base, headquarters of the main Special Forces unit of the Israeli Defence Force.
The four passengers on board included three men in desert-coloured uniforms bearing the insignia of the Israeli military, each one handpicked based on personal acquaintances and family relations. The soldiers sat through the journey without a word, rifles between their legs. The fourth man, in a white short-sleeve shirt and dark green utility pants, was Chan Boon Seng, the chief protocol officer of the Singapore Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Chan stared down at the desert terrain, the vast emptiness, the stage of so many wars and battles for thousands of years. It made no sense to him.
He opened the briefcase on his lap and removed a brown file, which he opened to study its contents. He removed an A4 photograph of a young man, mid-thirties, with a face that carried a certain emotional flexibility inside an ethnically ambiguous oblong frame. He had a light skin tone, small hazel eyes, a proportionately sharp nose, and a shaggy hairstyle that drooped over his right temple.
The folder, marked Classified, also contained a fact sheet accompanied by other support documents: school report cards, medical reports — his entire life story.
Chan slipped the photograph back into the side folder, closed the file, and slid it back into the briefcase. He closed the case, clutching it tightly.
The pilot spoke over the intercom to tell all passengers to buckle up. As the helicopter neared its destination, flares made shadows of camouflage tents dotting the ground. Soldiers carried Uzis, Tavor TAR 21 assault rifles, Galils, and CornerShots. Some moved in groups while others walked alone. Dozens of Magach tanks and personnel carriers lined up in rows. In one area, a group of men and women were practicing Krav Maga, an Israeli martial art that combined street-fighting methods and standard dojo moves.
The helicopter decelerated, hovering. In a matter of minutes, Chan would meet his long-time Israeli friend, Captain Eli Aviram.
A big, brusque man, Chan didn't give a damn whether people liked or disliked him …
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Photo provided courtesy of
Khaled Talib
Khaled Talib is a former journalist with local and international exposure. He has worked full time for magazines including Singapore Tatler and Egypt Today. His articles have been published and syndicated to newspapers worldwide, and his short stories have appeared in literary journals and magazines. Smokescreen was listed "Thriller of the Month" on e-thriller.com in its September 2014 issue. Khaled is a member of the UK Crime Writers Association. He resides in Singapore.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at KhaledTalibThriller.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
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Smokescreen
Khaled Talib
A Suspense Thriller
At an ancient café in Cairo, two veteran spies plot a covert mission to resolve — once and for all — the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The pledge: Israel will make a major concession as part of the peace treaty.
In Singapore, Jethro Westrope, a magazine journalist, stumbles onto the scene of a murder: the beautiful Niki Kishwani directs him, in her last breath, to a digital recorder, evidence that puts Jethro's life in serious danger. And, much worse, he is framed for Niki's murder.
Jethro sets out to find Niki's killer and is drawn into a web of deception and intrigue involving officials from the Singaporean, Israeli, and American governments, each with a complex, competing, and potentially deadly agenda.
Against this pulse-pounding backdrop, Jethro races to find answers and save himself — yet nothing is as it seems. He finds himself at the centre of a political plot so diabolical and sweeping in its world implications that he is stunned to discover tomorrow's news headlines today. He is being set up not only as a murderer but as an assassin, and something much larger than his own fate is in his hands.
