“Si… not to mention our reception committee,” he added dryly.
“Recepción…?” Hector appeared momentarily confused, then smiled. “Ah si… el culeros.”
Picking his way through the crowded streets, Hector drove the van across the bridge over the Río Tormes and several streets later arrived at the Hotel Palacio de San Esteban. Built in the 16th century as a Dominican convent, the massive exterior stonewalls were all that remained of the original structure. Cloistered cells transformed into well-appointed rooms for the well-to-do.
As they pulled through the stone gates and rolled up the drive, Hector brought the van to a stop before the lobby entrance. Seeing them arrive, a uniformed bellman came out to greet them wheeling a plush brass and velvet luggage trolley. Climbing out from behind the wheel, Hector opened the trunk and nodded to the bellman, allowing him to retrieve Corbett’s suitcases.
“All set,” Hector said at last. “I will let Dr. Asurias know you have arrived. Hasta luego…”
“Luego,” Corbett replied. Then shouldering his computer case and travel bag, he followed as the bellman pushed the trolley up the short walk and entered the hotel. At the same time, an innocuous gray Jetta idled near the end of the drive, unnoticed. As Corbett stepped into the cool quiet of the lobby, the driver of the Jetta, a man named Buttar, executed a tight U-turn and drove off.
FOUR
T he lobby occupied the main floor of the hotel with its stone staircase and iron railing leading to the second floor. One wall was lined with bookshelves while comfortable chairs, arranged in pairs and separated by coffee tables, gave the impression of a private club. To one side stood the front desk. Crossing the dark marble floor, Corbett nodded to the uniformed clerk on duty.
“Buenos días… ¿Habla usted Inglés?”
“Si, señor… You are checking in?”
“Michael Corbett… I’m here with the university.”
“Of course. Professor Asurias’s office has taken care of everything. May I see your passport? And if you would please sign the register….” Handing his passport to the clerk, Corbett picked up the pen.
As Corbett signed his name, the clerk made a photocopy of his passport and removed the key card from its slot. He handed it to the bellman: “Luis, please show Señor Corbett to 303…” Then smiling, he nodded to Corbett: “It affords a view of San Esteban. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. And I almost forgot…” Taking a plain white envelope from the cubicle marked 303, he handed it to Corbett: “This just arrived for you this afternoon. If you will follow Luis, he will show you to your room.”
“Gracias.”
Glancing at the envelope, Corbett turned it over in his hands. It was blank except for his name written in block letters across the front. With a nod of thanks to the clerk, Corbett slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket and followed the bellman as they moved to the elevators.
Room 303 was a single with a large queen-sized bed and a view of the monastery. Corbett waited for Luis to adjust the air conditioning, point out the light switches, the minibar and the personal security safe. When all was done, Corbett tipped the man and waited until he shut the door behind him. Alone at last, he locked the door and took out the envelope.
As he tore it open, a single ticket fell out landing on the bed. Retrieving it, he stared at the image of a mounted figure confronting a bull. The text read: “Entrada – Corrida de Rejoneo.” Corbett shook his head. Coincidence, my ass. He checked his watch. A little before four o’clock. Recalling the famous lines from a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca, the Corrida de Toros would begin at five. Pocketing the ticket, he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the tap. Splashing cold water on his face, he stared into the mirror. So much for sleep.
Drying his face, he moved to the bed and opened the computer case, removing his laptop. Then stepping to the room safe, he placed the computer inside and set the combination. Locking it, he grabbed his jacket and key card and headed out the door.
*****
Taking a taxi to the Plaza del Toros, he arrived a few minutes before five. Known to the locals as “La Glorieta,” the bullring was 54 meters in diameter and dated from the 1890s. On a good day, La Glorieta could hold over ten thousand spectators. This day, however, the crowd was perhaps half that. Built in the classical style, three levels of red brick trimmed with white stone, the flags of Spain and Castilla y Leon rippled above the entrance as Corbett presented his ticket and stepped into the cool, cavernous space beneath the stands. A young boy pulled at his sleeve, holding up a program with an illustration of a bullfighter on horseback – a rejoneador – barely evading the charge of a bull.
“Por favor, señor…” the boy attempted his most sympathetic face. “¿Compre un programa…? Solo dos Euros…” Declining with a wave of his hand, Corbett started to move past only to be grabbed again. “Okay, okay…” the boy said, abruptly switching to English. “For you, I make special: un Euro…” the boy entreated. “Deal?” Grinning despite himself, Corbett shook his head and dug a one Euro coin from his pocket, handing it to the boy. “Deal,” he said. Without warning, the boy turned and took off with both the money and the program. Before Corbett could grab him, the boy was gone, lost in the crowd. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Another budding entrepreneur.”
Climbing the stone steps leading to the door marked “Entrada,” Corbett emerged from the darkness into the brilliant afternoon light. Moving to his right he found the shade of the “Sombra” section. Checking the ticket against the numbered rows, he located his seat – second from the aisle – and settled in just as the trumpets sounded. Instantly, the crowd rose to its feet with a spontaneous roar.
Across the ring to his left, a pair of gates opened, allowing the paseillo or parade of the participants to begin. First came two distinguished looking bearded elderly riders known as Alguacullos, the judges or magistrates, whose job it would be to preside over the bullfight and whose rule in the bullring was law. Riding matched horses and dressed in ornate 17th century costumes, they were followed by three Rejoneadors, bullfighters on horseback, majestically attired, their steeds prancing. Next came nine retainers each carrying a cape – not matadors, but assistants to the Rejoneadors – for in El Corrida de Rejoneo all of the fighting must be done on horseback.
Corbett watched with fascination. He had heard of such contests but until now never actually witnessed one. With the paseillo completed, the first Rejoneador, dressed in 18th century finery, rode out into the ring astride a snow-white Arab. Patiently waiting as across the ring, another set of wooden gates abruptly slammed open, releasing a muscular, thick-necked Vistahermosa fighting bull into the arena. 450 kilos – a thousand pounds – of anger on the hoof. Skidding to a stop, the bull defiantly tossed his head then belligerently surveyed the ring. Spotting the horse and rider, the bull lowered his head and began to paw the ground.
With astonishing élan, the Rejoneador began to maneuver his mount closer, taunting the bull to charge. Without warning, all of the animal’s pent up energy exploded, propelling him forward on a murderous tear. Unfazed, with an attitude bordering on disdain, horse and rider gracefully feinted to the left, prancing sideways as the bull barreled past. Pleased, the crowd cheered as the bull pulled up short and turned back. Hesitating, he charged again. Dancing to one side, the white stallion narrowly avoided the deadly horns then turned back. Time and again, the crowd shouted its approval urging the rider ever closer. With cool precision, the Rejoneador planted the first of the rejones de castigo – the colorful barbed spears – into the thick muscle atop the bull’s neck.
“It’s the horses that really get me…” The voice came from directly to his left. Corbett continued to stare at the spectacle before them as the newcomer added: “The way they move. Totally fearless in the face of death… El rejoneo. An acquired taste.”
Corbett nodded. “Bullfighting on horseback. And I thought we were crazy.”
“But you’ve got to love it,” the man marvele
d.
In the aisle seat, the bespectacled American in jeans and a travel vest spoke without taking his eyes off the bullring. Corbett did the same. The man’s name was Reed though Corbett had known him by several aliases in the past. He had a face like a baboon’s ass and a personality to match. The tone of their conversation was off-handed, almost familiar but with a decided edge.
“That why you left the ticket at my hotel?” Corbett asked.
“Chalk it up to cultural diversity,” Reed half smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, the tickets were comped.”
“If you say so… Not to seem ungrateful, but in my experience, free tickets are never free.”
In the ring, the white stallion bounded away, then came prancing back as he baited the bull once more. All eyes were riveted on the center of the ring as the bull prepared to charge again.
“If you’re looking to reactivate my file,” Corbett added, “somebody probably should’ve told you – I canceled my subscription.”
Tiring, his hump muscle now festooned with three brightly colored barbs and darkening with blood, the bull stopped. Then lowering his head, he came at the horse and rider only to have them elude his charge again. Applause filled the Plaza.
Digesting Corbett’s words, Reed nodded then attempted a different tack. “Long time since Nairobi.”
“Not long enough.”
“What happened wasn’t your fault. Besides, Xi Lin has proven to be an exceptional asset. The director is very pleased.”
Corbett said nothing. Once again, the image of Jon Alesander’s face as a bullet took off the back of his head crowded his mind like spiders from the past.
“Let’s leave it there, okay?”
For an attenuated moment, neither spoke, focusing on the spectacle in the bullring.
“We understand you had some trouble at the airport,” Reed said at last.
“You don’t miss a trick.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Some locals tried to grab my laptop… no big deal. Basic bump-and-run. Looking for quick cash. They lost.”
“Arab…?” Reed asked.
“Could be. Maybe Gypsy…”
“Freelance?”
“Got me…,” Corbett answered without emotion. “So, you want to tell me what this is really about, or are you just here for the bullfights?”
“Actually, the Company needs an independent contractor with your particular skillset. I’ve been asked to make you an offer.”
“Not interested.”
“We’re looking for an exfiltrator – someone experienced.”
Corbett said nothing.
“It involves a friend of yours… Tariq Baker.”
Suppressing his emotions, Corbett held his tongue.
“Think about it before you decide.” Rising, Reed added, “Good seeing you again. Enjoy the rejoneo… and don’t forget your program.”
Without warning, the crowd gasped as the bull caught the white Arabian with its horns, knocking both horse and rider to the ground.
Reeling, the Rejoneador managed to pull himself free and began to shout as he waved his hands above his head attempting to drive the bull back. At the same time, rushing forward, his retainers began to twirl their capes in the futile hope of distracting the bull’s attention.
But consumed with rage, the bull would not be denied. The scent of blood fresh in his nostrils, he drove his horns deeper into the soft underbelly, disemboweling the horse as the cries of the crowd filled the air.
His eyes still locked on the dying animal Corbett found himself unable to look away. In the ring below, the retainers were finally able to ward off the bull. The white stallion staggered to its feet. Dazed, entrails hanging down like harbingers of death, he allowed himself to be led away. The Rejoneador stood watching in shattered disbelief then followed him out of the arena.
Turning at last, Corbett found himself standing alone. On the aisle seat beside him, a program now rested where Reed had been a moment before. Casually reaching down, he collected it. Then slipping it beneath his arm, he turned and started toward the exit as the crowd continued to stare at the spectacle in the ring. The rest was death and death alone, as the poet said… at five in the afternoon.
FIVE
R eturning to his hotel, Corbett took the stairs to the third floor. Inserting the key card, he opened the door to his room and stepped inside. Tossing the program on the bed, he moved to the well-stocked minibar and cracked a miniature single malt Scotch, pouring it into a brandy snifter. Then dropping into the leather armchair near the window, he took a long slow swallow, allowing the effect of the alcohol to course through his system. Staring out at San Esteban, he watched as the lengthening shadows began to play across the ornate façade, golden in the late afternoon sun. A moment later, uninvited, thoughts of his time in the military filled his mind.
It had all started back in the late summer of 2001. The recipient of a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford, he had been about to leave for England when the savage events of 9/11 radically changed his world. Withdrawing from school, he had acted out of pain and patriotic impulse, volunteering instead for the Army.
They sent him for Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. It was there that he received his first Article 15 for disobeying a direct order: failure to secure his footlocker prior to inspection. It was a lesson in stupidity that was not lost on Corbett. When they offered him an opportunity to go to OCS, he declined and was consigned to combat infantry. Assigned to the Third Infantry known as “Sledgehammer” whose motto was “Not Fancy, Just Tough” he was deployed to Iraq where he won the Bronze Star for valor in the fierce fighting around Nasiriyah’s Talil Airfield.
Described by his superior as “an exceptional and resourceful soldier, who at times has difficulty following orders and tends to question authority,” Corporal Michael Corbett promptly put in for discharge the moment President Bush declared “Mission Accomplished.” His two-year commitment complete and the war “officially” over, he reapplied to Oxford. Reinstating his Rhodes, he attempted to restart his life.
Three years later as Corbett was completing his dissertation and casting about for a job, he was contacted by a CIA recruiter named Richard Reed. They met over a pint at The Bear Inn where Reed produced a copy of Corbett’s discharge papers pointing out that despite serving two years, Corbett’s actual term of enlistment called for eight. A minor detail that could easily be overlooked assuming Corbett would volunteer for service with the Agency instead. Given that the alternative was a tour of Afghanistan, it hadn’t been a hard sell. In fact, there was something about Reed’s proposition that secretly excited him. The truth was, after years of toiling in academia, he was ready for a change.
That seductive rush of flattery, danger and intrigue that had once ignited the imagination of T.E. Lawrence, now fired his, altering forever the course of his life. What he had once thought would be his career had become a cover for something more sinister and subversive. An unfortunate necessity. In the words of George Orwell: “We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.” Without question, the old bastard had a way with words. And so Corbett had become such a man. And no matter how much he might wish to now escape that part of his life it was simply not an option. As Reed had once sardonically noted at the end of a particularly drunken evening in Malta several years before, in their line of work, retirement wasn’t on the menu.
Finishing the Scotch, he rose from the chair and moved to the bed at last. Picking up the program from the Rejoneo, he flipped through the pages and found a Micro SD Chip taped inside the back cover. Moving directly to the room safe, he punched in the security code and retrieved his laptop.
Crossing to the desk, he set the slim computer down on the dark leather blotter and peeled the SD Chip from the program. As soon as the laptop had booted up, he inserted the secure, encrypted memory chip into the card reader. A moment later, the computer beeped onc
e, followed by a whirring sound as the chip engaged and an icon labeled “Untitled” appeared on the desktop computer screen. Clicking his cursor on the icon, Corbett watched as the screen blinked then resolved itself into an image of mayhem: An open Middle Eastern courtyard filled with a throng of young Iraqi men working themselves into a frenzied state. Wearing white, ankle length thawbs, their heads bared beneath the blinding late afternoon sun, they cut themselves with long knives and scourged their heads and shoulders with steel chains while crying out to Allah to allow them to atone for their sins with their own blood.
Unable to turn away from the violent display, Corbett stared at the screen as the sound of Reed’s voice insinuated itself onto the sound track: “As I am sure you are aware, ISIS has suffered a series of defeats on the battlefield driving them underground. The result has been more extreme measures. This video was taken two weeks ago by one of our people in the Iraqi city of Najaf during Ashura, the Shi’a Muslim holy day of atonement. Self-mutilation is part of the ritual as they mourn the seventh century assassination of Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet.”
Clearly taken using a cellphone camera, the picture was unstable as the unseen photographer was jostled by the crowd. To the left of the screen, an extremely agitated wild-eyed young man stood watching intensely as an older man dressed entirely in black from turban to toe and accompanied by his entourage of bodyguards, emerged from a nearby mosque and began to make his way toward the camera.
Reed continued his voice-over: “The one in the center, dressed in black, is Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr, venerated spiritual leader of the Iraqi Sunnis. One of the few stable voices in the region currently preaching Iraqi sovereignty and a key figure in the fight against radical Islam. His participation in the formation of any future government would be critical.” Watching the old man, it was clear that he wielded an almost mystical power over the crowd as he raised his arms above his head and began to chastise the blood-splattered penitents for their public display of remorse.
The Exfiltrator Page 3
