The Exfiltrator

by Garner Simmons

  SEVEN

  H aving said good night to Gorka in the Plaza Mayor, Corbett moved with Dr. Asurias as they walked along the darkened side streets back toward his hotel. Turning onto the Calle del Consuelo, they could still hear the voices of the young men of La Tuna singing on into the night.

  “When I was a young man, I attended the university,” Asurias was saying, “where I first discovered the work of Miguel de Unamuno. You are familiar with his writings?”

  Corbett nodded. “Unamuno…? The humanist.”

  “Si… Poet, novelist, playwright, essayist, philosopher – he taught right here at the university – before my time, of course. He was a visionary who challenged the Fascists until Franco had him arrested. He died under house arrest. A tragic loss for Spain. But his work – especially the novel Abel Sanchez – fired my imagination. Did you know Unamuno was a Basque?

  “Like Gorka?”

  “Si, like Gorka,” the older man smiled. “There are times when I look at Gorka – despite his rough words – it is as if I can feel Unamuno’s presence. It lies in their Basque roots, I am certain. ”

  “And this cave we are going to be excavating, it’s in Basque country as well.”

  “Exactamente. Which is why Gorka will be like your indispensible left hand. He will see to the camp’s daily operations so that you can devote your time to exploring and cataloguing the site. A team effort, as you say in America. You agree?”

  “Given how little time I’ve had to prepare, I appreciate all the help I can get.”

  “It was the least I could do under the circumstances.”

  As the Calle del Consuelo meandered around to the left toward his hotel, there in the moonlight Corbett could see the Iglesia Convento de San Esteban looming before them, its intricately carved Plateresque façade floodlit in striking chiaroscuro against the darkened courtyard.

  “You know San Esteban…?” Asurias asked as they approached the church. “Salamanca’s Dominican monastery, where Christopher Columbus once waited for an audience with the king and queen in order to plead his case for sailing West to reach the Orient.”

  “The Dominicans. ‘Domini… cane’ -- the ‘Dogs of God,’” Corbett mused recalling the medieval word play on the Latin. “Ever think how different the world might be had the Queen’s Inquisitors decided Columbus was a heretic?”

  Asurias smiled. “You have a very curious mind, Doctor Corbett. Fortunately for history, the Inquisitors were more interested in purging old ideas than with prosecuting new ones.”

  “Obviously that was their first mistake.”

  “Perhaps. But in the words of Unamuno, ‘A faith that does not doubt is already dead.’”

  Corbett said nothing.

  “But here is where I must leave you,” Asurias said, extending his hand as they reached the drive leading to the hotel. “Until tomorrow then. Adios.”

  “Adios.”

  Shaking hands, Asurias turned and headed back toward the university, leaving Corbett alone. Moving to his left through the iron gates leading to the hotel, he made his way up the cobbled drive.

  *****

  Watching Asurias move off into the darkness, Jarral crouched in the shadows, half hidden behind the low stone wall that stood just to the left of the hotel drive, a disposable cell phone pressed against his ear with his left hand. He spoke quickly in Urdu, his clipped, hushed tones barely audible above the sound of the breeze rustling through the branches of the nearby olive grove.

  “Quickly – the computer. It must be there… He had it at the airport.”

  At the same time, in Corbett’s room on the third floor, his two suitcases lay open on the bed as Buttar clutched a cell phone to his ear, speaking as he rummaged through the contents. “I am looking… but there is nothing here.”

  “There must be. Look again. Find the computer and we find Tariq. Look harder…” Jarral nervously glanced back down the drive just as Corbett made his way around the corner of the building. Seeing him, Jarral froze then spoke rapidly into his phone. “Wait… he’s coming. Just plant the bug and get out.”

  Setting the cell phone on the nightstand, Buttar immediately began repacking the two cases. Closing and relocking each, he was returning them exactly the way he had found them when he spotted the room safe. Hesitating, he dropped to one knee and attempted to force the lock. Jarral’s voice crackled over the phone again.

  “He’s in the hotel.” Jarral’s words filled Buttar with a sudden urgency.

  Leaving the safe, Buttar stepped quickly to the freestanding mahogany armoire and opened the doors. Spotting Corbett’s carry-on bag, he grabbed it, placing it on the bed. The voice from the phone returned, edged with panic.

  “He’s entering the lift. He’s on his way up. Get out now…!”

  Taking a small, self-adhesive, button-like tracking device from his jacket pocket, Buttar secured it to the bottom of the carry-on. Returning it quickly to the armoire, he shut its doors and headed out.

  *****

  The lift rose silently past the second floor. Alone in the elevator, Corbett watched impatiently as the LED indicator changed from two to three. At last, the elevator came to a halt. A whisper as the doors glided open. Out of habit, Corbett hesitated, glancing in both directions before stepping out into the corridor.

  There just ahead along the corridor, a swarthy young man was standing, his hand on the door to room 303. From the look of his clothes he neither worked for the hotel nor was a guest. Nervously looking back toward where Corbett now emerged from the elevator, the young man averted his eyes and started toward him.

  “Looking for me…?” Corbett asked aloud. When the man failed to answer, he repeated it in Spanish, “¿Me buscas a mi…?”

  Ignoring Corbett’s question, Buttar scuttled quickly toward him hugging the wall, attempting to avoid his eyes.

  “Tres-cero-tres…?”

  Again no reply as Corbett moved to block his path. Without warning, Buttar drew a knife with a six-inch blade from his jacket and lashed out. Sidestepping the attack, Corbett pressed his back against the wall allowing the man just enough room to rush past him. Halfway to the elevators, Buttar reached a door marked “SALIDA” and bolted through. Going after him, Corbett did the same.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, the assailant tumbled down the stairwell, nearly losing his balance as he reached the second floor landing. A moment later, barreling down the steps behind him, Corbett moved with an economy of motion, closing the gap with every step.

  Reaching the door marked “EL VESTIBULO / LOBBY,” Buttar burst out, nearly colliding with a bellman while causing the tray of drinks he was carrying to fly from his hand. The sound of glass shattering on the unforgiving marble floor caused all eyes to turn at the sight of the pock-marked young man as he headed for the main entrance.

  Behind the front desk, Rodrigo, the Night Clerk, reacted, calling out as the young man charged toward him: “Perdóname… Señor….! Momento...!”

  At the same instant, Corbett slammed out through the lobby door. Seeing his assailant running toward the hotel entrance, he shouted to the night clerk in Spanish: “Ladrón…!”

  Hearing Corbett’s cry, Rodrigo stepped out from behind the counter and called out to the intruder again: “Señor…!” Holding up his arms, he attempted to stop the young man, catching him by his right arm. Pulling free, Buttar turned on him driving his blade with surgical precision deep into the night clerk’s side. His face wrapped in a look of disbelief, the clerk staggered sideways, arms flailing, unable to prevent himself from falling. Seeing him start to go down, Corbett reached out, catching the clerk just before his body could strike the floor.

  The color draining from his face, the clerk appeared to be going into shock as he whispered: “Socorro…!” Lowering the man to the floor, Corbett quickly looked up just as Buttar disappeared through the front doors and into the night.

  “Por Favor…” the clerk managed between his teeth, “!Ayúdame…¡”

  “
This man needs a doctor…!” Corbett shouted as he scrambled up and ran for the door.

  Immediately outside, Corbett ran a short way down the driveway, then stopped to listen. The sound of footsteps receded into the darkness. Then nothing. The assailant was gone.

  *****

  Later, standing in the hotel courtyard watching the medics load the gurney transporting the wounded clerk into an ambulance, Corbett attempted to answer the questions posed by an overly officious Spanish Policía. Recounting how he had come upon the man attempting to break into his room, he explained that he had never seen him before. No, nothing seemed to be missing. No, he had no idea why the man was there or what he had been looking for. Probably just a common thief.

  Thinking back to the incident at the airport, Corbett momentarily regretted not filing a report with airport security. At the time, it seemed like nothing more than an opportunistic act of petty theft. But now… perhaps there was something else – something more sinister. But having avoided the red tape earlier, he knew it would only compound the situation if he were to bring it up now. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

  Finishing his questioning, the policeman thoughtfully tapped his notebook with his pen and frowned. “You must be careful. In my experience, Señor, all things happen for a reason. You were very fortunate. This man could just as easily have stabbed you as well.” He put away his notebook and pen, then added: “As a foreign visitor, such an incident as this would reflect very poorly on our city. Salamanca prides itself on our hospitality. You understand what I am saying…?”

  Corbett met the policeman’s gaze then nodded. “You’d prefer I not file a formal complaint.”

  “It is up to you, of course. But in something as random as this, what good can come? The paperwork alone…” He shrugged and shook his head. Then as an afterthought, he added: “On the other hand, were you to see this man again, of course, that would be a different matter.” Taking a card from the breast pocket of his shirt, he handed it to Corbett. “Feel free to call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Will you be staying in Salamanca long?”

  “Until the day after tomorrow. But you can reach me through the university… Professor Asurias.”

  “Ah, Professor Asurias… si. A fine man. Very well. If anything develops, we will be in touch. Buenas noches.”

  “Buenas noches.” Corbett watched the policeman return to his squad car and drive off into the night then returned to the hotel.

  Back in his room, he carefully unpacked and repacked his suitcases, looking for some indication of what the intruder had been looking for but found nothing. He poured himself a Scotch and thought again about his encounter with Reed at the bullring that afternoon. What had the policeman said? All things happen for a reason. The Company wanted to make him an offer. They needed an exfiltrator. “It involves a friend of yours – Tariq Baker.”

  Finishing the Scotch, he set down the glass on the nightstand and stretched out on the bed. Too many uncomfortable coincidences. Exhausted, he would have to sort it out in the morning. Closing his eyes, he laid back and before he knew it, Corbett was asleep.

  EIGHT

  H e awoke in the darkness before sunrise. Lying there listening in the predawn quiet, he gradually became aware of the room’s oppressive sameness. Virtually interchangeable with so many other half-forgotten rooms in other towns. And yet, there was something strangely familiar, an aura surrounding Salamanca itself that seemed to elicit a kind of déjà vu. Like some vaguely suppressed, atavistic memory buried deep within the lavender folds of his temporal lobe. Insistent, slowly pressing its way into his conscious mind, making him aware of a shared connection with another town. Memories of Oxford and with it, Tariq Baker.

  They had first met at the Bodleian Library on the Old Schools Quadrangle more than a dozen years ago. Corbett had been a graduate student working on his doctorate (known at Oxford as a “DPhil”) in Archeology at Magdalen College. When he mentioned that he had served in the Army during the first year of the Second Iraq War, Tariq, who had not seen his homeland since he was a boy, pressed him to describe it in great detail. The son of a controversial Iraqi Sunni cleric, Tariq had come to England at the age of thirteen when his father had been forced to take his family and flee their native land. Enrolled in Eton, he began his education in the ways of the West. After matriculating to Oxford, he continued his studies at Magdalen as Iraq and the world he had once known dissolved into bloody civil war.

  He had liked Tariq from the first. Tall with dark good looks and an affable smile, he possessed the natural charm and grace of someone born to lead. He spoke flawless English with a British accent and had a quick mind with the ready ability to argue either side of a debate. They had become fast friends. At least in the beginning. Before Amaia.

  Outside his window, the penumbra of dawn began to creep across the façade of San Esteban as he attempted to suppress the memory of Amaia’s breath against his cheek in the throes of passion as she whispered in his ear. It seemed strange now looking back, how he had met her by chance one Sunday afternoon when he had broken his collarbone playing rugby, five-on-a-side, in Harmsworth Park and had to be taken to St. Thomas’ Hospital. As the resident on call, Amaia had smiled at his American accent and explained that she, herself, had been born in Brooklyn to a Spanish father and Irish mother. As she examined his fractured clavicle, she told him he reminded her of her brother – impulsive with a love of contact sports.

  He had flirted with her as she examined his shoulder then sent him for X-rays. It had turned out to be a hairline fracture. When he returned from radiology, she had fitted him for a sling and recommended physical therapy. Handing him her card, she suggested he call her if there were any complications. Which, of course, there were. They began dating within the month.

  Eventually, she would introduce him to her brother, Jon, who had come to London on business. She claimed he worked for the U.S. Department of State, which soon turned out to be a lie. But in truth, Amaia had been a pretty good judge of character. He and Jon were, indeed, a lot alike. Five months later, shortly before completing his degree at Oxford, Corbett received an unexpected call from Langley, Virginia. A mutual friend, Jon Alesander, had recommended him to the Company for possible work as an “analyst.” It was the beginning of the end.

  The six o’clock tolling of the bells in the tower of Salamanca’s New Cathedral announced the day. Swinging his legs out of bed, Corbett crossed to the bathroom. Lifting the toilet seat, he relieved himself. Then, turning on the cold faucet he cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. Drying himself with a hand towel, he stepped back into the room and began to exercise. A model of intense efficiency, no wasted motion, he worked each muscle group. Then returning to the bathroom, he shaved and showered.

  Dressed in a loose-fitting chambray shirt and linen slacks, he turned at last to his computer. Re-inserting the SD chip, he began to scroll through the images frame by frame, analyzing the suicide attack on Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr. Watching the young zealot defiantly pull the pin on the grenade and rush to embrace the cleric, it seemed clear to Corbett that he had acted alone, no doubt believing that his martyrdom in the Islamic holy war would be rewarded in paradise. That was of course, he mused wit a grim smile, assuming Allah could come up with 72 virgins. Shutting down his computer, he slipped it into its case and slung it over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

  *****

  The Universidad de Salamanca was only a short walk from the hotel. Passing the twin cathedrals – Catedral Vieja and Catedral Nueva – Corbett could see the plateresque façade of university just ahead, dominated by the carved depiction of Ferdinand and Isabella, rulers of Spain at the close of the Reconquista, whose Inquisitors had so brutally expelled the Muslims and Jews from Iberia in the 15th century. The so-called Spanish Golden Age. And there, standing defiantly before the twin portraits of the monarchs, the statue of Fray Luis de Leon, the scholar and poet once impris
oned by the inquisition for translating the Hebrew Bible into Spanish. The fact that his visage should still confront his accusers 500 years after the fact was surely an irony that de Leon himself would have appreciated.

  Stepping through the massive doors of the university’s main entrance, Corbett joined the mix of young men and women making their way to class. Looking more like a student than a teacher, he walked along the vaulted corridors and up the stone steps. Passing the rapidly filling classrooms, he finally reached the door bearing Professor Asurias’s name and knocked.

  After a long moment, the door opened to reveal Asurias standing there, a cordless phone pressed to his ear. Seeing Corbett, he motioned him inside while concluding the conversation and returning the phone to its cradle. To one side, two young male grad students stood looking self-consciously ill at ease.

  “Michael, please come in. I’ve been speaking with the police since the moment I arrived. Are you all right? First, the airport and now this…” Leaving the thought unfinished, his eyes searched Corbett’s face for answers. But Corbett merely smiled and attempted to shrug off his concern.

  “It’s all right. Just bad timing. I’ve checked my room. Nothing’s missing. I must have caught him trying to break in.”

  “At least you were not hurt.”

  The taller of the two grad students nervously cleared his throat. Corbett smiled. “These must be our interns.”

  Asurias nodded and moved to introduce them. “Ah, yes. Please allow me to present Roberto Peña,” he said, indicating the taller one. “He is joining us from the University of Madrid. And señor Karim Akhtar,” Asurias nodded to the second young man, a pencil-necked geek with an uncertain smile. “Karim is from Oxford. They have been doing advanced postgraduate research in Photogrammetry and Laser scanning. They will be in charge of Laser Mapping the cave.”