The Exfiltrator

by Garner Simmons

  As the countryside gradually became more rural, Ella noticed the faint odor of burning wood. In the distance, she spotted smoke curling from the stone chimney of a small farmhouse. Strangely, it reminded her of growing up as a teenager on the outskirts of Northfield, Minnesota. Having come from New York City, she had never felt entirely at home in the small rural town whose motto was “Cows, Colleges and Contentment.” Yet no matter how often she had attempted to explain this to her mother, her protests fell on deaf ears.

  Always the outsider, she had had few friends. By the time she reached high school, her mother had insisted that she would need to participate in extracurricular activities if she wanted to go to college. So she had grudgingly decided to go out for cross-country. Never a great runner, she grew to love the enforced isolation of distance running since it allowed her mind the time to delve more deeply into a wide variety subjects. Thus, it had become a habit, which was why she still tried to run at least three times a week. Excelling in English and history, she had also decided to join the high school debate team where her skills brought her to the attention of Ms. Oona Murphy, the team’s faculty advisor. Murphy had attended Northwestern where she had been a debater helping to lead the Wildcats to a national ranking. Though Ella had been unaware of it at the time, it was Murphy’s quiet but determined influence that had ultimately caused her to choose Northwestern over Carleton, much to her mother’s dismay.

  Throughout those years her father had been nothing more than a shadow figure, a distant voice, who would occasionally call from New York to see how she was doing and send money on her birthday or holidays to assuage his guilt. After the birth of her half-brother Stephen, the calls became even less frequent. She began to realize that she could barely remember his face. Over time, she had become reconciled to the idea that her father found her to be an imposition, an uncomfortable reminder of a mistake from his youth when he had been forced to marry her mother after they discovered that Ella was already on the way. The truth was that he had never really wanted her. Which was why the arrival of a mysterious box on the eve of her graduation from high school had come as such a surprise.

  Having already explained that he would be traveling out of the country on company business throughout the month of June, she had expected his usual $200 gift certificate redeemable on Amazon accompanied by a preprinted card signed “Love, Dad.” All she had to do to feel the warmth of his sincerity, she thought sarcastically, was place her hands on her computer. But as she opened the box and removed the packing materials, there within lay a brand-new Nikon D3300-DX Single Lens Reflex camera with a 55-200 mm zoom lens and a handsome black carrying case. Until that moment she had never given so much as a thought to photography. But the instant she picked up the camera and looked through the viewfinder, she was hooked.

  Throughout the summer before leaving for college, she had become obsessed with every detail of photography. From f-stops to focal length to depth of field and shutter speed, the camera became an extension of herself. By the time she left for school in the fall, she had developed her skills to the point where she actually flirted with the idea of possibly becoming a photojournalist. But having been accepted in English, she would have to wait at least a year before transferring to Medill, Northwestern’s School of Journalism. And of course, by then she had discovered anthropology, which, unlike English, saw her photographic prowess as a plus. How strange, she thought, that such seemingly random events could so alter the course of her life. And now here she was in Spain about to embark on what seemed like the adventure of a lifetime. Perhaps some things are just meant to be.

  In the distance, a flashing sign indicated that a gas station lay just ahead. As the lead Land Rover began to slow, Antonio followed suit. At least, Ella thought, this would give her a chance to get out and stretch her legs.

  *****

  Having spotted the sign for the independent petrol station ahead on the right, Corbett glanced at Gorka.

  “How we doing on gas?”

  “Just so. We stop there,” Gorka nodded toward the approaching station as he fished the university voucher from his shirt pocket. “University has account. We fill up.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The large neon sign read: La Mejor Compra – Gasolina / Diesel. Putting on his turn signal, Gorka pulled in rolling up the entrance drive and slowing to a stop at the first gas island. Following behind them, the rest of the convoy followed suit. As the three Land Rovers lined up and began to fill their tanks, the two supply trucks moved to the Diesel pump.

  Climbing out from behind the wheel, Gorka indicated the cashier’s office with a nod. “I take care of it. Plus, I buy tobacco… Anything you need?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  The old man shrugged. “I pass the word – last chance to pee before we reach camp,” he added with grin.

  “Got it,” Corbett took out his cell phone. “Sounds good. Meantime, I’ll try reaching Sebastian again.”

  The old man nodded, then called to Hector to inform the others about the restrooms.

  Entering the station office, Gorka nodded to the cashier, an older man with a thick white moustache and a silver crucifix suspended from a chain around his neck. According to the stitching above his breast pocket, his name was Diego, and he sat perched like a bird on a high stool behind the counter. “Buenos dias.” He greeted the Basque with a toothy grin.

  “¿Como estas…?” Gorka replied, handing him the voucher. Behind the counter were candy, soft drinks and assorted magazines proclaiming the latest sporting news from Madrid. Looking over the packages of cigarettes, Gorka spotted several pouches of loose tobacco.

  “Tobaco y papeles… por favor.”

  “¿Uno…?”

  “No, tres” Gorka said with a nod as Diego placed three pouches of tobacco along with cigarette papers and several books of matches on the counter.

  Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Gorka produced a manila envelope with Universidad de Salamanca letterhead. Explaining that it contained a university purchase order along with a map to the base camp’s location, he said they would need him to deliver Diesel for the generator and propane for the stove once a week beginning next Friday. Accepting the envelope, Diego thanked him for the business as he tacked the order to the corkboard behind the cash register. Collecting his tobacco and papers, Gorka headed back out, returning to the lead Land Rover.

  Having failed again to reach Sebastian, Corbett had finished filling the Rover with gas and was replacing the nozzle when he noticed Ella standing alone, staring out over the rock-strewn foothills. Clearly there was something about her. He was still staring at her when she turned to look directly at him. Managing an awkward nod, he attempted to avert his eyes as a tentative, flirtatious smile flitted across her lips.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her begin to walk in his direction. Pretending not to notice, he redirected his attention to inspecting the luggage rack atop the Rover. It was then that he noticed it: A small transmitter about the size of an American dime had been attached to the bottom of his carry-on bag. Frowning, he climbed onto the Rover’s running board to take a closer look.

  “Hi…” her voice reached him from below as he stretched to peel the small tracking device from the bag. Turning it over in his palm, he recognized its Chinese design. When he failed to respond, she continued, “Any idea how much longer before we reach the base camp?”

  Glancing down, Corbett found himself staring into Ella’s eyes, a striking mixture of green and amber flecked with gold. It occurred to him that unlike the day before, she wasn’t wearing glasses. She smiled. Unable to help himself, he noticed her blouse was open to the third button. Forcing himself not to stare, he stepped off the running board and dropped to the ground beside her. So close he could smell the scent of her body wash. Self-consciously, he started to turn away.

  “According to Gorka, we’ve still got a couple of hours,” he answered. “I’m guessing we should make it before sunset.”
>
  “What’s that?” she asked indicating the dime-sized device in the palm of his hand.

  “Nothing,” he lied. “Looks like an old customs sticker. Must have picked it up in Africa.”

  “You were in Africa…? Where?”

  “Last time was Nairobi. Working for USAID.”

  “Kenya… really? Isn’t Nairobi in the south?” He nodded, impressed that she would know. To most people, Africa was nothing more than an amorphous collection of names on a map. “Did you ever get over to the Rift Valley? Olduvai Gorge…?”

  “No. Not this trip. Olduvai is in Tanzania just across the border. This was strictly business. But I’ve been there before… on a research grant. Unforgettable.”

  “Where everything began,” she smiled. “I’d give anything to go there.” When Corbett didn’t reply, she added: “Is it dangerous…?”

  “Yes… and no,” he answered at last. “Compared to New York City say, or London? Definitely less chance of being mugged. But then, there are other considerations.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing you can’t handle. You just have to keep your eyes open,” he teased. “Try not to step on the crocodiles or the vipers or the scorpions…”

  Intrigued, she laughed. “Now you’re trying to scare me.”

  He liked the sound of her laughter. Was she flirting with him or was she really just interested in learning about the Rift? He tried to keep his ego in check.

  “Just being honest. Fieldwork in Africa is not for the faint of heart. But as long as you pay attention and don’t do anything stupid, it all usually works out.” He nodded toward the last Land Rover. “Looks like time to go. Better mount up.”

  “Right. But I’d love to hear more about the Rift. Maybe once we’re settled in.”

  “Let’s see how the work goes,” he said trying not to commit to anything he might regret. “Once we have things under control, I’m sure there will be time to talk.”

  “See you up there.” She smiled and turned away. Watching her move off toward the other interns, he returned his attention to the bug in the palm of his hand.

  “Set to go,” Gorka smiled holding up the pouches of tobacco and papers.

  Moving around the Rover, Corbett took the tiny tracking device and pressed it hard against the side of the gas pump. Affixed by its adhesive backing, the transmitter stuck to the metal housing.

  “Let’s get moving. I want to be there before dark,” Corbett said, climbing back into the Land Rover. Gorka slipped behind the wheel.

  “Pretty girl,” the old man observed with a sly grin as he started the engine. Instantly, the Rover roared to life.

  “Girl…?” Corbett attempted to sound disinterested.

  Gorka tugged at the gray in his hair and shrugged. He looked at Corbett with a broad smile. “Maybe I have snow on roof, but still fire in the furnace, yes?” He laughed as he dropped the Rover into gear and stepped on the accelerator.

  *****

  The convoy rolled out once more and headed for the higher elevations. Corbett stared at the passing landscape. Out of nowhere, the uninvited memory of Jon Alesander’s body lying dead in the mud flashed once more through his mind triggering a sense of guilt and self-deprecation. With effort, he attempted to drive these thoughts from his mind without success.

  Jon’s death in Nairobi’s Kibera slum had occurred three years before during an attempted exfiltration of a Chinese defector named Xi Lin. As a cover for the operation, Langley had secured Corbett a position as consultant on a dig being run by the National Geographic Society just across the Tanzanian border in Olduvai Gorge. Alesander had gone in undercover as a freelance photographer for the magazine Nature. The assignment had been pretty straightforward. Make contact with the subject. Establish the route for removal. Triple-check everything. Leave nothing to chance. And then, when all was in readiness, move with speed and precision. What could go wrong?

  And then the rioting broke out.

  Random details cluttered Corbett’s mind. Moments of havoc, confusion and pain. He could still remember the motorcycle propped against the red adobe wall just to the right of the broken screen door of the safe house. The echo of gunfire coming from somewhere in the next block, the dull crack of pistol shots punctuating the shouts and screams of the mob. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, a Heckler & Koch MP-5 strapped across his back, he had come barreling through the broken screen door, half tearing it off of its hinges. Close behind him the Chinese defector, Xi Lin, followed in full panic.

  Grabbing the bike by the handlebars, he swung into the seat, simultaneously attempting to kick-start the ancient Honda in a single motion. It coughed… nothing. Cursing, he shouted to the defector to climb on behind him as he tried again. On the third try, the engine finally sputtered to life. With Xi Lin’s arms wrapped tightly around his ribcage, Corbett gave the motorbike gas then stabbed it in gear. Pointing it along the rutted alley that stretched between the makeshift hovels of scrap wood, wire and corrugated steel that passed for dwellings, he raced for the outskirts of the slum where the USAID four-wheel drive ambulance would be waiting. The motorcycle leaped ahead, fishtailing through the mud and garbage as it fought for traction. An instant later they were in the street, Corbett urging the bike beneath his breath, “Come on, come on, come on….”

  Narrowly avoiding a body in the road, he steered the motorbike past the chaos and the carnage. An agonizing half-mile later, he finally spotted the camouflaged four-by-four, a large Red Cross insignia painted on its doors, parked at the side of the road. Going full throttle, he headed for it. Hearing the sound of the motorbike, a dark-skinned woman in her thirties wearing fatigues and a U.N. armband rushed out to assist getting Xi Lin off of the bike and into the back of the vehicle. By the time she turned back, Corbett was already headed back the way he’d come.

  A member of the Chinese trade delegation to Kenya, Xi Lin had passed the word through channels that he possessed significant intel which he was willing to trade for cash plus transport and asylum in the West. The assignment to exfiltrate him had fallen to Corbett and a second agent, Jon Alesander. This was not the first time the two men had worked together. Only this time things had gone sideways. Delayed by the rioting, Alesander had failed to make it to the rendezvous.

  Having been friends since they had met at Oxford, Corbett refused to abandon his American compatriot. Racing back to find him before the paramilitary police did, he was keenly aware that as “muzungus” – Swahili for white men – both were now among the hunted.

  Speeding past the war-ravaged slums. Shacks on fire. The pungent odor of putrefying garbage, cadavers and human waste choked the air. An acrid smell of burning tires cauterized his nostrils. The sheer squalor was overpowering. Kibera was burning. Reacting to the sound of an Uzi off to his right, Corbett cornered hard sending the motorbike down a narrow passageway.

  At the same time, three blocks away, Jon Alesander, staggered through the rubble of a burned-out storefront. Blue paint peeling. Panes of broken glass beneath a corrugated roof. Clutching his Leica in his left hand, his right held a bloody handkerchief pressed hard against the cut above his ear. Just ahead, he spotted a green door and threw his shoulder against it. The doorjamb splintered, leaving barely enough room for him to slip through, tearing his shirt as he forced his way into the smoke-filled street. Caught in the limbo between panic and pain, Alesander glanced quickly to his right. Fifty yards up the road, three mounted Kenyan paramilitary policemen in camouflage fatigues and crimson berets were riding his way, firing their machine pistols at anything that moved. Quickly backpedaling, he spun and ran in the opposite direction. Turning down the first passageway on his right, he stumbled. Quickly regaining his feet, he forced himself ahead as bullets ricocheted off the corrugated roof above his head.

  Gunning the motorcycle through the burning streets, Corbett rounded the next corner and skidded to a stop. There not twenty feet away a half dozen crimson berets had set up a checkpoint. Glancing up, one of the po
licemen caught his eye and motioned him forward. Ignoring the command, Corbett jerked the bike in the opposite direction and took off. Drawing his weapon, the policeman opened fire. As bullets pounded into the wall behind him, Corbett guided the motorcycle into a narrow gangway and raced back between the rundown shacks. Reaching the next street, he hesitated, peering first to his left, then right. A moment later, he spotted Alesander, clothes torn, face covered in blood and grime, careening across the fetid road.

  “Jon…!” he shouted as he unslung the MP-5, “Over here!”

  Hearing his name, Alesander’s head turned in Corbett’s direction. Seeing him straddling the Honda and beginning to lay down covering fire, Alesander half-grinned. “About fucking time…” he whispered beneath his breath as he ran toward the motorbike. Raising his voice, he deadpanned: “Want to stop for a beer…?”

  “Fuck the beer… let’s go…!”

  Re-slinging the automatic across his back, Corbett pivoted the bike while motioning to Alesander to jump on behind. At the same time, two mounted policemen came charging pell-mell into the street, opening fire as they came.

  “Come on, goddamnit… we’ve gotta move!”

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’…”

  Running hard, legs pumping, teeth clenched, Leica still gripped in his left hand, Alesander raced for the bike. Powerless to do more, Corbett stared, unable to move or turn away.

  The first bullet struck Alesander in the back between his shoulder blades. Staggering, arms flailing, he kept coming. Arms akimbo. Legs like rubber.

  His face filled with anguish, Corbett struggled to turn the bike around, to get closer, but the engine stalled. Cursing, he kick-started it again as a second round cut into Alesander’s left leg above the knee causing him to stumble forward. The third blew the back of his head off sending him sprawling face-down in the mud. As the bullets continued to pound into Jon Alesander’s lifeless body, Corbett was suddenly gripped by a familiar fear that settled in the pit of his stomach, a sense of nausea coupled with helplessness. The memory of 9/11. His sister’s scream…! The explosion of jet fuel. The sense that if he had somehow moved sooner, acted faster. A sickening sense of vertigo began to sweep over him…