Shutting his eyes tightly, Corbett attempted to erase the memory without success. Returning his gaze out the window, he watched as the fractured limestone outcroppings besieged by lichen and scrub oak slowly gave way to the Euskal Herriko – the rugged mountains of the Basques that culminate in Txindoki Peak.
Beside him, the old man was singing. The unmarked road had narrowed to two lanes as they proceeded through a series of switchbacks.
“Lau andre, hirur mutxurdin… Bat alarguna, jarriak itzalean…
Harri xabal bat belaunen painean… Ari ziren, ari ziren trukean…”
Turning to Corbett the old man grinned. “You like this song. Very old, very Basque. About four old women gambling and drinking.”
Obviously feeling more at home as the elevation climbed, Gorka rolled a fresh cigarette with one hand and gripped it between his teeth as Corbett watched with a mixture of fascination and mild panic. Firing up a match, he touched it to the exposed end. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs once more, he held it for a long moment before finally exhaling as he continued to hum his ancient Euskara tune.
*****
Walling off the images of death, Corbett attempted to refocus. Recalling his discovery of the tracking device, he wondered who had planted it? Whoever it was was out there somewhere trying to track their every move. Corbett began sorting out his priorities. While excavating the cave for the university posed a challenge, it was manageable precisely because the problems were purely either logistical or physical. What concerned him were the unknown factors. Finding Tariq and exfiltrating him as quickly as possible. Anything that might get in the way of that was simply a distraction to be avoided.
He started to recalibrate the variables. Assuming Tariq could be found, what were the chances he would be willing to return to Iraq voluntarily? True his father needed him. But what if there were extenuating circumstances? What if he resisted? And what if his father were to die in the meantime? How would that change the calculus? What other potential complications had Reed intentionally failed to mention? And then there was the matter of Amaia.
Closing his eyes once more, Amaia’s face rose up to meet him. Her mysterious eyes like dark unfathomable pools. Her black hair pulled back. Lips full. The touch of her tongue as it probed his own. Her firm breasts, nipples aroused and erect. Their urgent lovemaking that first time on the floor of her flat. Running barefoot through the sculpture garden in Regent’s Park at dawn. At the time, it had all seemed so right. And yet…
Ironically, it had been Corbett, himself, who had introduced her to Tariq. It was a rainy afternoon over coffee in the Vaults. He needed to leave early to meet his tutor. Tariq said he would see her home. It seemed to be nothing more than a friendly gesture. It was spring and with examinations coming, Corbett had explained to her that he was going to need to sequester himself in order to prepare. Within weeks, he was offered the job to train as an “analyst” at Langley, which meant relocating to Virginia almost immediately after completing his degree. He had expected her to be upset. Instead, she said she had spoken to her brother and understood completely. Suggesting they make a clean break of things, not wait until the end, she had embraced him one last time. Their lips barely brushed as she kissed him goodbye, then turned and walked away. At the time, he had felt it was probably best for both of them.
As it turned out, Langley was more demanding than he had originally expected. Idyllically situated in Virginia horse country, it boasted more horse’s asses than horses anywhere with the possible exception in the District of Columbia. Somewhat predictably, like in the Army, he did not entirely fit in but quickly adapted. By focusing on the work, the year had passed quickly. It wasn’t until he returned to England from the States that Corbett discovered Amaia and Tariq had moved in together. Not surprising considering the surgical way she had ended things coupled with the fact that he had been gone for so long. Even so, he could still remember the sting of betrayal at seeing them together. Closing his eyes, he tried to put the memory behind him.
As the sun slowly descended toward the western horizon, the convoy continued to weave its way up the narrow road into the mountains.
ELEVEN
T he old stone farmhouse stood abandoned by the side of the road, its rotting roof beams sagging under their own weight. A small stand of birch helped to obscure it from the unpaved dirt path that climbed steeply from the two-lane blacktop of the main road below. As the convoy approached, Gorka downshifted. Turning the lead Land Rover off the main road he dropped it into four-wheel drive. One by one, the others did the same.
“Now you see. Road goes straight up mountain.” The old man said.
“Road…?” Corbett shook his head as he stared out at the barely discernible overgrown dirt and gravel path stretching before them.
“Bai…! Road gets rough now,” the Basque laughed.
Corbett could hear the gearbox begin to labor as they started the final ascent. Looking off to his left as they rolled past, he stared at the spectral farmhouse and wondered how long it had been since anyone had lived there. He marveled at the resourcefulness of a people to survive in this unforgiving land. No wonder the Basques had been able to maintain their independence over so many centuries. The old man was right. In Euskadi, the land and the people were one.
As they approached 4,000 feet above sea level, the Land Rover careened along over the uneven rocky terrain. Glancing over at the old Basque in the driver’s seat beside him, Corbett had the feeling he must intentionally be hitting every pothole and boulder in their path. With a grin, the old man pointed up the mountain.
“Ikusi ez…! Dela deabruarem bizarrezurra deitu dute,” he shouted above the whine of the engine. “This is what is called the Devil’s Backbone.”
Enjoying Gorka’s childlike glee, Corbett asked: “How much further to the camp?”
“Not so long now. We get there pretty quick.”
“And this is the only way up?”
“Si. But not to worry. Coming down is very fast.”
Corbett nodded. If possible, he’d have to find a way to avoid riding with the old man on the return trip.
As the lead Rover climbed at last over the crest of a ridge and lurched to a halt, Gorka smiled. “Here is base camp.” He spread his hands wide to encompass the entire campsite before them. “Delivered as promised.” Corbett stared at the large relatively flat clearing where a dozen tents of various sizes had been pitched a short way from a running stream.
Having listened to the whine of their engines coming up the mountain for some time, Sebastian Vega and the rest of the advance party had already gathered to greet them. Among them, three armed, gray, uniformed security personnel watched as Corbett stiffly climbed out of the Rover. Stretching his back and shoulders, Corbett noted the security men each carried a Glock 9mm sidearm secured in a leather holster attached to their Sam Browne belts. More of a token show of force than anything truly formidable. Corbett made a mental note not to count on them in a fight.
As the remainder of the convoy pulled into the camp the rest of the team climbed out and gathered around Corbett. Stepping forward, Vega extending his hand.
“Bienvenido… Welcome to neustro nido de montaña.”
“Gracias,” Corbett shook his hand. “You must be Sebastian.”
“And you are Dr. Corbett. It is my pleasure.”
“All right. Everybody, listen up,” Corbett raised his voice. “This is Sebastian Vega, my distinguished colleague from the Museo Archeologico Nacional in Madrid. He will be in charge whenever I am not around. If neither of us is available, see Hector. Whatever they say, goes. Any questions?”
Excited to finally be there, Ella hesitated, glancing around. At last, she turned to Corbett. “I’m just confused. This cave we are supposed to excavate… exactly where is it?”
“Up there…” Corbett replied pointing several hundred meters further up the slope. “At the base of the escarpment. See how the fault has been displaced, exposing the cave’s mouth.�
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Turning and shading their eyes against the last rays of the setting sun, they all stared up the mountain.
“Wait, there… I see it,” Roberto said, “Just below the ridgeline.” He pointed. A moment later, the others managed to spot it as well.
“But that’s straight uphill,” Karim groused. “Who’s bright idea was it pitch our base camp down here?” he asked, glancing at Sebastian, his voice a mixture of sarcasm and disapproval. “I mean, it seems quite obvious. We should be up there nearer the entrance to the cave.”
“Interesting point of view. Everyone agree…?” Corbett asked looking around. Uncertain, the others fell silent.
“Better to pitch camp near fresh water…?” Ella offered at last. “Saves you from having to carry it by the bucketful any further than necessary.”
“You mean as opposed to having to climb the bloody mountain every day…?” Karim replied.
Stung by the criticism, Sebastian was about to speak when Corbett rose to his defense.
“No, she’s right,” Corbett said. “In setting up a base camp, fresh water is always your first consideration.” Then pointing to the stream, he added, “More importantly, the source of the stream is subterranean. It’s been the force of that water cutting down through the rock over the last fifty, maybe sixty thousand years that created the cave in the first place.”
Sebastian smiled, pleased by Corbett’s support. “Indeed. But not to worry,” he said catching Karim’s eye. “We will make sure you have more than enough to carry without water.” Then he added with a sardonic smile, “Besides, if the cave were within easy reach, the Spanish Board of Tourism would have already set up a ticket booth and a gift shop.”
Everyone with the exception of Karim shared a laugh. Sensing
they were losing focus, Corbett took charge once more. “Okay, time to get these trucks unloaded before it gets too dark.”
“What about supper…?” Karim began.
“You eat when you’re done,” Hector announced nodding to Gorka. With a grin, the old man turned and lumbered of toward the cook tent. “Everybody pitches in. We do it quick-quick… Vamanos…!”
Suddenly, with the promise of food, the camp was alive with activity. As Corbett collected his luggage, Sebastian fell into step beside him.
“Students today,” he shook his head again. “No respect. They think they know all the answers when they do not yet even have a grasp of the questions.”
*****
It was almost sunset by the time the red Peugeot pulled into the gas station, its neon sign flickering in the dying light. The driver, a Pakistani national named Raza, stopped beside the nearest pump and shut off the engine. Beside him sat Jarral, his undivided attention fixated on the screen of the mobile tracking devise in his lap. Annoyed at how long it had taken them to get here and the fact that there was still no sign of the infidels, Raza found himself beginning to question Jarral’s ability to lead. And in this he was not alone. There had been talk among the others as well. The term in Arabic was “kalam fadi” – empty words. After all, what proof did they have? Had Jarral been entrusted with Allah’s plan? Or was he merely improvising as he went?
Ordering Raza to go pay for the gas, Jarral watched as the driver climbed out and crossed to the cashier’s office. In short order, three more vehicles – a rusted gray VW Jetta, a battered Ford pickup that had seen better days, and an ancient olive drab canvas-covered stake bed truck – drove into the station as well. A half dozen sullen men dressed as nondescript day laborers, clambered out from the back of the truck while four more climbed out of the pickup and began to stretch their legs. Collectively, Jarral had called them “al-Battar” after the Sword of the prophet Mohammed. He had preached to them that under his leadership they were an extension of the al-Nasra Front. Mujahideen. Foot soldiers in God’s army and as such they must be wholly committed to and prepared to die for Allah.
As Raza returned from the cashier and began to fill the Peugeot’s gas tank, Buttar and the man called Noor did the same for the Jetta and the pickup while the others took turns using the toilet. The last to refuel was the stake bed truck. Nearly out of gas, it took forever to fill. Milling around as they waited, the men began grousing among themselves about how long they’d been sitting with nothing to show for it, the abysmal road conditions and the need for food. Sensing their mounting impatience, Jarral had become acutely aware of the need for a distraction, something dramatic. Absent such an action, his claim that Allah had revealed the part they must play in God’s plan to him alone might be seriously challenged. Without question he would have to do something. The question was what?
At the same time, recognizing their discontent as well, Buttar exchanged an accusatory look with Jarral. It was as if he were saying, “If Allah indeed speaks to you, tell us His plan.” Turning away, Buttar moved to the Jetta where he retrieved a small prayer mat. As the driver of the stake bed finally finished pumping gas and screwed the gas cap back in place, Buttar moved to the edge of the tarmac and faced toward Mecca. Taking his own mat from the Peugeot, Jarral joined him. Seeing this, the others began to do the same. Standing in two parallel lines facing east, the men raised their hands above their shoulders and uttered “Allahu Akbar” in unison as they began to pray.
Seated on his stool behind the counter inside the cashier’s office, Diego watched through the window in silent disapproval as the men began to perform Maghrib, the sunset prayer. “Los culeros,” he muttered, cursing under his breath while debating whether or not to confront them. But they finished and began to return to their vehicles before he could settle on a course of action. Sliding open the cash drawer, his fingers found the .9mm Beretta hidden there. Feeling the cool metal of the pistol grip as he pressed it against his palm, he carefully kept it out of sight as he removed it from the drawer. Lowering it to his lap, he nervously thumbed back the hammer and extracted the clip, checking to be certain it was fully loaded. Then restoring the magazine, he slipped the pistol into his belt, covering it with the loose tail of his shirt. Looking back out the window, he stared at the men still milling around near the pumps.
Returning his prayer mat to the Peugeot, Jarral reached in through the open passenger window and retrieved his mobile tracking device from the seat where he had left it. Rebooting it, he entered a half-dozen quick keystrokes, reacting to the results with a frown. Seeing his expression, Buttar approached.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It makes no sense. They should be right here.” Jarral answered. Acutely aware that the others were watching, they spoke quickly in hushed tones, conversing in Urdu.
“Here…?”
“Look for yourself,” Jarral indicated the map on the screen of his tracking device where a red cursor was flashing. “This is the signal from the device you planted. And this is where we are.” He pointed to the green arrow on the screen virtually concurrent with the cursor. “According to this, they should be right in front of us.”
The two men exchanged a look then glanced around as if half expecting the university convoy to be sitting unnoticed in the station parking lot. It was then that Jarral spotted it: the dime-sized transmitter affixed to the housing of the gas pump. Stepping up, he pried the bug free from where Corbett had attached it. Then turning in anger, he hurled it into the roadway.
“The attendant,” he commanded. “Bring him.” Without hesitation, Buttar motioned to the man they called Raza and together they quickly crossed to the cashier’s office where Diego watched and waited.
Entering, the two men rushed to confront the old man, grabbing him as he reached for the .9mm hidden in his belt. Fearing for his life, Diego fumbled for the pistol, accidentally causing the gun to discharge. The bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall behind the cash register. Overpowering him, Buttar ripped the pistol from his hand and struck the old man hard across the face. Shaken and bleeding, Diego offered no resistance as Raza dragged him forcibly out into the open while Buttar quickly scanned the corkboard
behind the register. Spotting the instructions to the camp on a piece of paper bearing university letterhead, he tore it from where the old man had tacked to the board. Outside, Raza shoved the old Spaniard toward Jarral.
Livid with rage, Jarral grabbed the man by his blood-spattered shirt. “¿Donde estan…?” he shouted.
“¿Quien?” Diego managed, obviously confused by the violence and Jarral’s sudden outburst.
“Los de la Universidad.”
“No se.”
“He’s lying,” Buttar said. “This was on the wall inside.” In his hand was Gorka’s map and instructions for reaching the base camp. Snatching it from him, Jarral quickly scanned the contents then turned back to the terrified attendant. Spotting the crucifix around his neck, Jarral ripped it away and held it up. The sun’s dying light reflected off the silver cross, turning it crimson.
“Infidel…!” he shouted. Instantly, the others picked up the cry. Then in a moment of inspired madness, Jarral seized the pump nozzle from its cradle and held it high above the attendant’s head.
“Mi dios…no!” Diego realized what was about to happen and began to sob.
Ignoring his plea, Jarral pulled the lever, covering the old Spaniard in gasoline as the others stepped back. Were it only one man acting alone, he might have hesitated, but buoyed by a sea of general discontent, Jarral felt a bond, a sense of purpose. Each feeding off the other, irrational and deadly, they embraced the inevitable, galvanized into a frenzied state by the prospect of what was to come.
“Por favor in el nombre de dios…” Diego stammered.
“Muerte al infiel…! Death to the Infidel…!” Buttar shouted as the others picked up the chant. Jarral stared at the men, his eyes suddenly incandescent. Clearly there could be no turning back.
The Exfiltrator Page 9
