The Exfiltrator

by Garner Simmons

  At the same time, Corbett watched as the intense young man slipped his hand inside his tunic. Producing a grenade, he pulled the pin and rushed forward just as the old man raised his hands to heaven to give praise to Allah. Shouting “Allahu Akbar…!” he embraced the cleric before his bodyguards could grab him. As a violent explosion rocked the camera, Corbett stared at the computer screen, watching as the image turned to chaos before being lost.

  Abruptly, a still photo of Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr’s face appeared on the screen as Reed’s voice filled the sound track once more: “Ahmed al-Bakr was severely wounded in the attack. Should he die, his death would once again destabilize the entire region and provide ISIS with an opportunity to reclaim the offensive.”

  On the computer screen, al-Bakr’s photo was replaced by that of another man – his son, Tariq, a young man in his early thirties. Tall and charismatic, he wore a blue blazer bearing the crest of Oxford’s Magdalen College but no tie. Reacting, Corbett stared at the image. “This is al-Bakr’s son, Tariq. Educated in England from the age of thirteen, he seems to have gone missing. Our files show that you and Tariq were friends at Oxford where he sometimes went by the name of ‘Terry Baker.’ He was last seen in the company of this woman…”

  Instantly Tariq’s face was displaced by that of a dark-haired, sensual young woman of perhaps thirty wearing surgical greens. “…Amaia Alesander, an American medical doctor of Spanish descent. You worked closely with her late brother, Jon, during the civil war in Kenya…”

  Jarred again by Reed’s words, Corbett suppressed his emotions as the memory of Jon Alesander’s death in the mud-choked Kibera street once more intruded with a vengeance. “Today she runs a free clinic in the small Basque village of Xeria. We have reason to believe she is still in contact with Tariq. Since Xeria is located just to the south of the archeological dig you’ll be running for the University of Salamanca, the Company felt you were our last best hope.”

  Abruptly, Tariq’s face once again filled the screen. “For obvious reasons we need to find Tariq. As his father’s son, his return to Iraq could be a game-changer. Sorry we can’t give you more time to think it over. But we need an answer now. If you agree, light a candle to the Blessed Virgin in the apse of the old cathedral. We’ll be in touch.” As abruptly as it had begun, the image vanished as the screen went black.

  For a long moment, Corbett continued to stare at the computer as his mind stumbled back upon another place, another time. Memories of violent lovemaking. Amaia’s face lost in ecstasy. The taste of her lips. Her mouth covering his. Fingernails digging into his shoulders… Without warning, the sound of a telephone brought him back to the present.

  Moving to the room phone, he lifted the receiver from its cradle and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “This is Corbett…”

  Listening to the sound of Hector’s rapid Spanish coming across the wire, he nodded at last.

  “Si… Si… Las Torres at nine. Please tell Professor Asurias I look forward to it. Gracias. Buenas tardes…”

  Returning the receiver, he checked his watch. Half-past seven. Lifting the receiver, he dialed the desk and left a call for eight. Then stepping once again to the wet bar, he selected a second single malt and cracked the seal, adding its contents to what was left of the first. Holding the glass in the palm of his hand, he swirled the Scotch several times then lifted it to his lips. Savoring the bite of the whiskey, he finally tossed it back neat. He could feel it burn all the way down to the pit of his stomach. Outside the window, the sun was finally beginning to set, washing the city in amber light. Placing the glass on the nightstand, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. In a moment, he was asleep.

  SIX

  A maia’s lithe body pressed against him once more. Her dress riding up exposing her naked thighs. Arousing him. Demanding. Somewhere the abrasive sound of waves crashing jostled him from his fitful sleep. Awakening, he stared into the darkness. Nothing made sense. The strangeness of the room. The emptiness of the bed. A sudden insistent ring as the telephone finally brought him fully awake. On the third ring, he managed to reach for the receiver. Listening as the desk clerk informed him that the time was now eight o’clock in the evening, Corbett managed “Gracias” and hung up.

  Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he placed them on the cool stone floor. Outside his window, the Church of San Esteban was all but lost in the gathering dusk. Checking his watch, he had just enough time to shower and shave before meeting Asurias. Rising, he switched on the bed lamp and started to unbutton his shirt. In the mirror above the dresser, he caught his reflection. His eyes were grey-green, intense and flecked with gold. Running his fingers through his dark hair, he quickly slipped out of his clothes then stepped closer to the mirror to examine the bruises from his encounter at the airport. At just over six feet, his lean muscular build was beginning to show a little wear. He’d need to be more careful in the future.

  Moving to the glass-enclosed shower, he turned on the hot water and stepped inside. The pulsing showerhead helped relieve some of the aches and pains. Soaping his body, he rinsed himself off then stood there for a full minute before turning the handle from hot to cold. The shock of the frigid water was bracing. Fully awake now, he climbed out and toweled off. Then turning to the sink, he began to shave.

  *****

  By the time Corbett had finally dressed, the moon had begun its ascent above the ancient city. The façade of San Esteban was now awash in artificial light. Securing his computer in the room safe once more, Corbett stepped into the corridor as the door automatically closed and locked behind him. Taking the elevator to the lobby, he stopped at the front desk where a uniformed desk clerk by the name of Rodrigo informed him that he had no messages. Crossing to the main entrance, he stepped out into the fragrant night air.

  Moving along the well-worn cobblestones, he crossed beneath the 15th century turrets of the Torre del Calavero and turned up the Calle de San Pablo. In the darkness ahead, he could already hear the music and muted sounds of laughter coming from the Plaza Mayor. He followed the sounds.

  Entering the plaza, Corbett moved along the colonnade. The various nightspots were just beginning to open for business as the tourists and townspeople filtered in. Open-air cafés, bodegas and tapas bars warmed to their clientele. Passing a crowded bar called Don Mauro, he encountered a group of boisterous young men – La Tuna. University students dressed as medieval minstrels, they accompanied themselves on guitar and mandolin as they sang for drinks. Corbett shouldered his way past. Echoes of his own college days. Some things never change, he thought.

  At a table on the edge of the plaza, Corbett spotted a pair of older men talking. Having met the better dressed of the two at a conference in Madrid two years before, he immediately recognized him as Gabriel Asurias. Stepping out from the colonnade, Corbett moved toward them. In his late fifties, elegantly dressed with a neatly trimmed goatee, Professor Asurias looked up at the same time and smiled. Rising from his chair, he waved him over. The second man stood up as well.

  “Ah, Doctor Corbett. So good to see you.”

  “Sorry I’m late…”

  “On an evening such as this, time is of no concern.” Asurias turned to his companion. “Allow me to introduce Gorka Saransola.”

  Muscular with a build like a wrestler, Saransola looked to be in his late forties. Unshaven with a three-day salt-and-pepper beard, his face had been weathered by the sun giving it a patina like antique leather. He extended his hand.

  “Urte askotarako…” he said with a smile, taking Corbett’s hand in his thick fist.

  “Basque…?” Corbett guessed. Gorka laughed, pleased that a stranger might actually recognize his mother tongue.

  “Euskal… bai, horrela da,” he said with a nod. “Basque through and through.”

  “Please sit.” Asurias motioned them toward the table as a waiter, in a white collarless shirt and black trousers, approached. He carried a white serving towel draped over his
left arm. Turning to the waiter, Asurias held up three fingers. “La Rioja y tres vasos… por favor,” he said.

  With a nod, the waiter moved off to retrieve the wine as the men took their seats.

  “Gorka will be taking you into the mountains. Manage the base camp, arrange for supplies…”

  “And cook,” Gorka added with a smile.

  “Si…” Asurias nodded. “And cook.”

  Corbett attempted to mask a dubious smile at the thought of what exactly such a term might mean. Sensing his concern, Gorka hastily slapped his chest adding: “You will like… trust Gorka. My cooking is muy bueno.”

  At the same time, an attractive young woman arrived carrying a tray of tapas. Smiling, she set it in the center of the table.

  Removing a small leather pouch of Turkish tobacco from the pocket of his vest, Gorka liberated a loose cigarette paper and began to roll his own. Corbett watched, impressed at the remarkable dexterity with which the man’s thick fingers produced a smoke.

  “Must be a relief knowing there’s finally a brokered peace between ETA and the Spanish government,” Corbett ventured, attempting to feel him out. ETA had been the clandestine paramilitary arm of the Basque nationalist movement. Depending on your point of view, it was comprised of either patriotic freedom fighters or violent extremists.

  Gorka studied him for a long moment without answering. “Peace is nothing without justizia,” he replied at last as he placed the freshly rolled cigarette between his lips and searched for a match.

  “Then you don’t believe in the disarmament?”

  “Too many rot in Spanish jails beyond our mountains…” Gorka said quietly. “’Kale Borroka’ means street fighting – what you would call in America, civil disobedience, no? The Spanish court calls this terrorism and imprisons all they convict without possibility of parole.”

  “So ETA still lives?”

  “ETA never dies. It fills the heart of every Basque – Euskal nazioaren.”

  Corbett managed a nod as the conversation awkwardly stalled. Nationalism, like terrorism, he thought, would always be dependent on whose ox was being gored.

  “Thank you for joining our project on such short notice,” Asurias attempted to bridge the impasse and shift the conversation to something less combustible. “When Dr. Guzman withdrew, we thought we might have to postpone operations at the site until next summer. A great disappointment, especially to our students.”

  Gorka struck a wooden match with the thumbnail of his left hand then touched the sulfurous flame to the end of his cigarette as the waiter returned with a bottle of Rioja and three glasses. Placing a glass before each of them, he began uncorking the bottle.

  “Glad it worked out,” Corbett replied. “I was actually supposed to be in Gibraltar on a dig for the University of Pennsylvania, but at the last minute their funding fell through. Sometimes fate takes a hand.”

  Pouring the first swallow of wine into Asurias’s glass, the waiter hesitated, waiting for the older man’s approval. Swirling the dark liquid, he held it up to the light. Then placing it beneath his nose, he inhaled before taking a small sip, savoring its rich flavor before nodding to the waiter to continue.

  “Si… Life is like a river,” he agreed. “We are all caught in its currents, are we not?”

  Corbett nodded then lifted his glass. “To the river then,” he said as the others joined him in a toast. “May it bring us success.”

  “Did you have a chance to read through the material I sent you?” Asurias set down his glass and selected a tapa.

  “On the flight up from Madrid. From the look of the photographs the site appears to be pristine. An extraordinary find.”

  “Indeed. From the fossil record and Mousterian tools recovered near the mouth of the cave, we believe the inhabitants to have been Neanderthal. But, of course, until we can actually excavate, we have no way of knowing for certain. But now you are here, the funds are in place. Time is of the essence.” He bit into the tapa savoring its pungent flavor.

  “When do we depart?”

  “Regretfully, we do not have the luxury of delay. The advance party has been sent ahead. You depart in two days with the rest of your team. Tomorrow you will come to the university. Meet your principal interns. Go over the details.” Noticing the bruises on Corbett’s hand, Asurias frowned.

  “Your hand… Hector told me about the incident at the airport. You are all right?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, flexing his fingers as if to prove the point. “Sign of the times. Should’ve been more careful.”

  “A sign of the times indeed,” Asurias nodded. “From the eighth century when the Muslim caliphate overran Iberia until 1492 when Ferdinand and Isabella finally completed the Reconquista, Spain was at the mercy of Islam. Today Islam would seem to be making a return.”

  “Arabs,” Gorka said, turning his head and spitting on the ground. “Pozoi – they are a poison.”

  “Even worse,” the professor’s voice darkened. “They come here as workers, but have no wish to become Spaniards. They think this land is theirs, and they would take it without asking. So violence begets violence. Which is why I have insisted that the university provide a security detail. A necessary extravagance. There was a time I never would have considered such a thing. But today…” He shrugged with a shake of his head.

  With a nod, Corbett concurred while silently wondering what the university considered “security.”

  As if reading his thoughts, Asurias added: “Three armed men have been assigned to protect you, your team and the equipment. They were sent ahead with the advance party.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” Corbett replied. “With any luck, we’ll never need them.”

  “One would hope. But today we find our world steeped in war.”

  “Perhaps. But in the end, all wars are local.”

  “An interesting observation,” Asurias nodded.

  Gorka listened quietly, watching as the blue-gray tobacco smoke from his cigarette dispersed into the cool night air. Looking across the table at Corbett, he asked: “How do you mean ‘local’…?”

  “Wars are not fought by armies. They’re fought by men. Two soldiers alone in a field. Strangers who, had they met in some bar somewhere, might have passed the time telling stories and laughing over a couple of cervesas. And yet here, on this battlefield, each will do his best to kill the other for some cause neither fully understands. Because in war, death is the only winner.”

  “So, you are a cynic then…” Asurias said.

  “No, not really. More of a disillusioned idealist still searching for something to believe in,” he replied with a sardonic smile, lifting his glass to his lips.

  “Idealism…yes!” Gorka grinned. Raising the now empty bottle of Rioja above his head, Asurias held up his hand to signal their waiter to bring another.

  *****

  A short way off along the colonnade, two men stood watching from the shadows. The first was Jarral, his face still showing the bruises from the fight at the airport. Beside him, the second man, Buttar, was also of Pakistani descent. Dark haired with a pock marked complexion, he, too, wore the nondescript clothes of a day laborer.

  Across the Plaza, the American continued to talk with his two companions. Silently motioning to Buttar, Jarral indicated it was time. With a nod, Buttar turned and slipped quietly into the night.

  Moving swiftly through the darkened streets, Buttar allowed his mind to wander. It had been nearly two weeks since the cell had received word from ISIS Central Command that in the city of Najaf a powerful Iraqi cleric had barely survived an assassination attempt and was now near death. Reportedly, his son was now hiding somewhere in the mountains to the north. The thought of finding the son and publicly executing him before he could return to his father’s side filled Buttar’s imagination. An act that would justify the path he had chosen.

  Once a promising medical student at Civil Hospital of Karachi, intent on becoming a doctor of eme
rgency medicine, Buttar had been radicalized by the so-called Arab Spring. With the outbreak of the Syrian Civil War, he had left his studies much against his mother’s wishes and traveled to Aleppo where he had been recruited by the al-Nusra Front. The fighting had been more intense than anything he had ever expected, as Syria’s president Bashar al-Assad ruthlessly and systematically attempted to crush all resistance, indiscriminately killing his own people, including children. Though he had at first seen his role purely as a medic, the horrors of war soon hardened him into taking up arms. Attempting to make some sense of the violent brutality inflicted upon the innocent, it had become clear to Buttar that the true blame belonged to the West, the Europeans and their American allies who talked of peace but sent drones instead. Until they could be made to feel the pain of war, he decided, nothing would change. And so, he had migrated west.

  In Spain, he had been put in contact with a radical Islamic sleeper cell led by an intense young Jihadist named Jarral, who was operating in the city of Salamanca. Discovering that they shared much in common, Buttar had quickly risen to become Jarral’s chief lieutenant largely because he was more intelligent than the rest. This show of favoritism, however, had resulted in a certain internal friction and distrust. To the rest of the cell, his actions were suspect. Determined to find some way of proving himself, Buttar saw this new mission as his chance to demonstrate the depth of his commitment. A chance to set the world on fire in the name of Allah.

  Reaching the Hotel Palacio de San Esteban, he entered by the service entrance, unseen. Having hacked the hotel’s computer earlier that afternoon, he climbed quickly up the stairwell to the third floor where he located room 303. Picking the lock, he silently stepped inside.