The Exfiltrator

by Garner Simmons

  High above the arid plain, the Iberia Air Nostrum ATR 72-600 from Madrid cleared the mountains to the south and circled east as it prepared to descend into Salamanca. Corbett felt the momentary interruption in the monotonous thrum of the Pratt and Whitney twin turbo-props as the pilot throttled back in preparation for landing. Beside him, the old woman still dozed. Corbett turned to stare out the window at the golden landscape below.

  “¿Señor….? ¿Señor…? Perdoname…” Reaching across the sleeping Gypsy in the seat beside him, the flight attendant released his seat back returning it to upright. Self-consciously, Corbett nodded his thanks then turned back to watch the earth rise up to meet them. A moment later, he felt the wheels deploy and lock for landing. Welcome to Salamanca.

  *****

  Located roughly 15 kilometers from the center of the city itself, the air terminal at Salamanca had been constructed back in 2005 and currently serviced only two major carriers, Iberia and Air Europa. As a result, the crowds were sparse except for those times when the University of Salamanca returned to session and the students began to arrive for the new term. With the fall semester about to begin, groups of students could now be seen moving along the concourse.

  Standing beneath the terminal’s row of clerestory windows, two men of Middle Eastern descent waited for the flight information display board to announce the arrival of Iberia Flight 3417 from Madrid. Casually dressed, they appeared to be workmen and attracted little attention. The taller of the two, a man named Noor, was dark skinned and preoccupied himself with a gaggle of coeds. Dressed in tight jeans, several wore halter tops provocatively cut to expose their bare midriffs. He wondered how they could flaunt themselves like that? Had they no shame? One in a short skirt and an open-necked blouse played havoc with his imagination. As he watched, another young woman, an American by the look of her clothes and the decisive way she crossed the terminal, moved toward him. Her hair was auburn and cut short and she seemed totally self-aware. He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and attempted to catch her eye as she walked past, but she remained completely unresponsive to his leer. Whore, he thought dismissively then turned his attention to another group of students as they approached.

  The other man, however, the one called Jarral, remained impatiently focused on the flight information board. His deep-set eyes were the color of coal and burned with an inner purpose. So completely absorbed in his own thoughts, he paid little notice to the schoolgirls as they made their way to baggage claim. He had first come to Spain on a student visa himself, from his home in Lahore, Pakistan, a half dozen years before. Intrigued by the tales he had read of al-Andalus, the Islamic caliphate that had once ruled the Iberian Peninsula from the eighth century, he had decided to see it for himself. At Granada, the Alhambra had dazzled him with its reflecting pools, lush gardens and fragrant breezes. But he deeply resented the hordes of tourists who thoughtlessly trammeled the palace grounds. And so he had fled west to the city of Cordoba where he discovered the wonders and desecration of the Mezquita.

  Begun in 784 and expanded during the ninth and tenth centuries, it had been the largest and most revered mosque beyond Istanbul before the Reconquista. Jarral had arrived on a Sunday and entered through the Puerta del Perdon past the tourists and the ubiquitous Gypsies. To his right was what he presumed to be the minaret only to discover to his disgust that it had long been subsumed within the Torre del Alminar, the 300-foot tall Christian bell tower. Meandering through the Patio de los Naranjos, he was all but overwhelmed when he reached the interior, a thick forest of arches and pillars, more than 800 in all that seemed to stretch to infinity. Constructed of marble, granite and jasper in a pattern of alternating white stone and red brick, they took his breath away. In the sixteenth century, after the Christian armies had driven the Moors back across the straits of Gibraltar, the Catholic Church had demanded that this holy sanctuary be razed so that a cathedral might be built in its place. But, as the story goes, Carlos Quinta, the Holy Roman Emperor, was so taken with the Mezquita’s beauty that he refused the Vatican’s demands. As a compromise, it was agreed that only a portion of the mosque would be demolished to make room for La Catedral de Nuestra Señora de la Asuncion. It was said that when Charles the Fifth saw the cathedral embedded within the mosque, he had wept for what had been lost. But on this day, Jarral did not weep. Instead, he raged against such profound desecration.

  But the thing that most moved him happened quite unexpectedly. Making his way past the cathedral, he approached the south wall where he found the Mihrab, the sacred prayer niche that had once held a gilded copy of Qur’an. And there, kneeling over the flagstones, he traced his fingers along the deep depression in the stone worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims who had circled the Mihrab seven times on their knees. An act of faith so extraordinary it would be etched into his memory forever.

  Even today, the very thought of this blasphemy still made Jarral physically ill. Turning it over in his mind once more, he remembered the lament of the Moorish poet Al-Rundi whose resounding indictment filled him with contempt for all non-believers: “Mosques have become churches in which only bells and crosses are found… O who will redress this humiliation of a people who were once so powerful? Yesterday they were kings in their own homes. But today they are slaves in the land of the Infidel.” Who indeed, he thought.? And then he realized that when Allah had guided his footsteps to this place all those years ago, He had already chosen him. Indeed, his lot had been foretold: Jarral himself would become the avenger.

  Allahu Akbar …!

  Above him, the board abruptly changed, once more updating the flight information. At last, Iberia Flight 3417 from Madrid had landed.

  TWO

  A s the flight attendant opened the cabin door of the ATR-72, Corbett helped the old woman retrieve her suitcase. But by the time he had collected his travel bag and laptop then turned back, she was gone. Reflexively checking his jacket pocket, he was surprised to find his wallet still intact. He shook his head and smiled. Perhaps Spain really was making him paranoid. If he ever saw her again, he owed the old lady an apology.

  Deplaning, he headed for the air-conditioned terminal. Behind him, the ground crew began removing the checked baggage.

  Entering the terminal, Corbett heard the warning buzzer sound as the single baggage carousel lurched to life. Stiff from his journey, he moved to a spot near the conveyor belt and set his carry-on bag on the ground between his legs. Attempting to stretch his lower back and torso, he watched as the first pieces of luggage began to circle. The flight had been only half full, a testament to Spain’s uncertain economy and the general decline in air travel to Castilla y Leon in recent years. Three-dozen passengers, mostly tourists and students, now waited to retrieve their checked bags before securing ground transportation for the ride into Salamanca proper. As his suitcases tumbled onto the belt and glided his way, Corbett snagged first one then the other, hefting each with some effort and setting them down beside his carry-on.

  “Doctor Corbett…?”

  Hearing his name, Corbett turned to find a muscular, compact Spaniard in his forties walking toward him pushing an airport luggage cart. Meeting his gaze, Corbett nodded.

  “Hector Diaz…” the man said, extending his hand. “With El Departmento el Prehistoria y Arqueologia de Salamanca.” They shook hands.

  “Dr. Asurias sent me to meet your plane. How was your flight?”

  “A religious experience,” Corbett said with an ironic smile.

  “I have a van from the university in the parking structure across the street.”

  “Excellent,” Corbett replied. “But call me Michael.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss…” Hector indicated the two suitcases. “These two…?”

  “Si… Traveling light.”

  Hefting the suitcases one at a time, Diaz set them on the cart. “We go like this.” Propelling the cart forward, Hector moved swiftly, threading his way through the crowd toward the automatic sliding doors mark
ed “Salida / Exit.” Shouldering his carry-on and gripping his computer case, Corbett swung into step beside him.

  The air outside was thick. Heat rose from the shimmering asphalt in waves causing Corbett to feel a slight sense of queasiness. Ignoring it, he said nothing.

  If Hector was affected by the oppressive heat radiating upwards, he refused to show it, speaking in short bursts between his teeth. “Dr. Asurias… sends his regards. He asks… that you… join him this evening… after the sun is down… for a drink.”

  “Sounds good…” Corbett answered, maintaining a smile.

  They continued in silence finally entering the protective shade of the parking structure. Noxious odors of Diesel fuel and gasoline laced with burnt rubber abruptly filled his nostrils conjuring up memories of Nairobi’s Kibera Slum and his friend Jon Alesander lying dead in the street. Specters from the past.

  “How are the preparations going?” Corbett asked, forcing himself to refocus.

  “You mean the dig, Boss…?” Hector asked in reply as he force-marched the luggage cart along the row of parked cars to where a Volkswagen minibus bearing University of Salamanca logos on its doors waited. Stopping the cart beside the tailgate, Hector opened the rear door.

  “Has all the equipment arrived?”

  “Si... El equipo de excavación all sent ahead.” Hector made room in back for Corbett’s suitcases. “Looking pretty good.” He began to load Corbett’s luggage into the rear of the van.

  At the same time, a pair of men dressed in worn jeans and ill-fitting cotton T-shirts approached from the next aisle of parked cars. Loose-limbed and sinewy, they looked like day laborers. The taller of the two, the man called Noor, nodded to Hector as he spoke.

  “Un momento…,” he said.

  Corbett recognized the thick North African accent.

  Hector tried to ignore them.

  “Un momento…” the man repeated, raising his voice.

  “¿Que desea usted?” Hector replied without looking up.

  Seeing their attention momentarily divided, the second man, Jarral, suddenly reached out without warning and snatched Corbett’s computer case, ripping it from his grip.

  “What the f…” Totally unexpected, it happened in a blink. Caught completely off-guard, Corbett cursed his own stupidity. But as he started to go after the thief, he felt Noor’s fingers grab his arm. Now already twenty meters ahead, clutching the computer case, the shorter man raced through the parked cars. As Hector managed to grab Noor from behind, Corbett finally broke free,

  “Rapido, señor…! Vaya!”

  Racing after the man, Corbett dodged between, around and over the parked cars. Stride by stride, he cut into the thief’s lead. Legs pounding, fists pumping, he felt the adrenaline course through his veins. The sense of lethargy he had experienced coming off the plane was now completely gone, wiped away in a surge of kinetic energy. Twenty meters became ten. Ten became five. He could almost reach out and grab him when Jarral darted through a line of parked cars right into the path of an oncoming black Mercedes sedan. Hitting the brakes, the driver cursed as he barely avoided striking Jarral while simultaneously blocking Corbett. Placing a hand on the Mercedes’ hood, Corbett vaulted the sedan and picked up the chase once more.

  Dodging his way through another row of parked cars, Jarral could feel Corbett now close behind him. Just ahead, a Fiat Spider was about to pull out. With a deceptive move, Jarral abruptly changed direction, barely missing the Fiat while bringing Corbett directly into its path. Struck by the rear bumper, Corbett hit the pavement just as the driver of the Fiat slammed on his brakes. Immediately back up and running, Corbett redoubled his speed.

  Ahead, a beat-up red Peugeot stood parked alone in the last aisle. Reaching it, Jarral threw open the driver’s side door and was about to toss the computer case inside when Corbett grabbed it by the shoulder strap and spun the smaller man around. Swinging his elbow, he caught the thief hard in the mouth then drove a knee into his groin. Refusing to let go of the case, Jarral reached for a knife tucked in his belt. Seeing the glint of metal, Corbett grabbed his wrist, slamming it into the fender of the Peugeot. The blade skittered across the pavement. Wrenching the computer case free at last, Corbett staggered backwards. At the same time, Hector came racing through the parked cars. Clearly outnumbered, Jarral jumped behind the wheel and cranked the engine. Jamming it in reverse, he nearly ran Hector down. Then dropping it into gear, he accelerated and headed for the street.

  Winded, Corbett stood, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. Straightening, he turned his attention to check the computer. As Hector watched, Corbett moved to a nearby parked car and set the case on the hood. Unzipping it, he took out the laptop.

  “Boss,” Hector said at last, “you okay…?”

  Corbett managed a nod as he booted up the computer.

  “Other one… got away. Caray…! Should have warned you. Los culeros! Arabs… Nothing but trouble.”

  With an electronic chime, the computer screen blinked then came to life.

  Pleased, Hector forced a grin. “Is working, si…? And you…?”

  Corbett nodded again, examining the bruise on the heel of his left hand where he had grabbed the computer strap. “Nothing a little Scotch won’t cure.”

  “Muy bien. Vamonos…!”

  Turning, they made their way back across the parking structure. Reaching the van, they climbed inside. But as Hector backed the van out of its space and headed for Salamanca, yet another set of eyes were watching from the shadows.

  THREE

  The university van rolled along the center lane of the three-lane blacktop connector road that ran between the airport and Salamanca. Three lanes, Corbett thought – only in Spain. Each outside lane was dedicated to a single direction. The center lane, however, was designated “el carril de paso” – the passing lane – available to anyone with cojones big enough to chance it. And given the way Hector drove, Corbett guessed, he must have had balls the size of boulders. He simply commandeered the center lane all the way into the city, forcing the oncoming traffic to back down or pull over.

  Ignoring the horns and curses, they sped toward town as Corbett decided to leave his fate to the madman behind the wheel. At the same time, unnoticed at a discreet distance, a gray Volkswagen Jetta now followed, never losing sight of the van.

  Attempting to distract himself, Corbett turned his attention to the passing landscape. If he was going to die at the hands of this lunatic, at least he could enjoy the scenery. He forced his mind to focus on the archeological dig somewhere in the Basque mountains to the north – a recently discovered cave that, according to the information sent by Asurias, dated from approximately 32,000 B.C.E.

  “B.C.E….?” What bullshit. Who came up with such abbreviations anyway? Attempting to be inoffensive, it offended everyone. “B.C.E.” stood for what exactly? “Before the Common Era?” “Before the Current Era?” Perhaps “Before the Christian Era” like its predecessor, the politically incorrect “A.D.”? Anno Domini. “In the Year of our Lord…” As if God gave a shit.

  In retrospect, Corbett decided that it all went back to Einstein. Egregious, wire-haired, meddling old bastard. It had taken the universe billions of years to evolve and in no time at all, one hair-brained genius had managed to truly fuck things up. It had all been so simple. Time was time. The past was history. The future opaque. All you really needed was a grip on the present, that never-ending ribbon of incontinent nanoseconds leaking out across the universe, unstoppable, unfailing… unquestioned. Centuries flowing like a dark river, pooling into millennia. Recorded memories of lost time.

  Corbett continued to stare out at the distant mountains, dusky purple against the arid ochre landscape. Was there a common thread, he wondered? Some master plan connecting all humankind? From Australopithecus to Homo habilis to Homo erectus to Neanderthal to Homo sapiens. Like links in a chain. Or was it all simply random happenstance? A demented creator’s dirty little joke. In time’s infinite progres
sion, given the limitless possibilities, combinations and permutations, could a rational case be made for some greater purpose? Or did it always demand a leap of faith?

  Corbett frowned. If a human life could be expressed as a mathematical equation reduced to the lowest common denominator, then every man began the same. The scientific standardization of human existence. Written as a fraction, your first day of life on earth could be divided by the number of days you’d been alive: 1/1.

  Uno…aon…eins…un…eme…un…one... Which makes your first day the longest you will ever live. 86,400 seconds. Endless. Unyielding. Nothing again will ever equal it. And then, without warning comes…

  Day Two.

  And suddenly the equation changes. A new day divided by two days of existence. Half as long as the lingering memory of that first day that already must seem so long ago. And for every day thereafter the relentless drumbeat of lost time marches forward, while your perception of each day retreats until, at age forty-one, you watch your life careen past like a drunken Goliard sloshed on altar wine. Another day – a mere fifteen-thousandth of the original. Blink and it’s gone. Blink again and…

  “Salamanca, Boss…” Hector abruptly broke in upon his thoughts as el carril de paso disappeared, collapsing into a two-lane city street with all the attendant traffic snarls as things slowed to a crawl. Hector shouted above the blare of car horns. “Goddamn city drivers… but not to worry. I get you there pretty quick.”

  “Am I staying near the university?”

  “Si, Senor. The Hotel Palacio de San Esteban. Very famous. Dr. Asurias has seen to everything.”

  “You said we were meeting him this evening?”

  “The Plaza Mayor around nine. He has asked me to make the reservations. I will confirm and call you at your hotel to let you know. Give you a little time to rest after such a long trip, no?”