Nearly out of breath, he reached the birch grove at last and circled around behind. Approaching the farmhouse from the rear, he quietly knocked on the weathered wooden door. Glancing nervously over his shoulder to be sure he was alone, he waited.
*****
Eleven Jihadis now sat together in the barren room at the back of the abandoned farmhouse, cleaning their weapons and preparing for what Jarral had promised would be the penultimate battle – death to Tariq and the American Infidel and all who were with them. The prelude to Armageddon.
Hearing a soft knock on the rear door, the men exchanged an uneasy look then turned to Jarral who sat cross-legged on the floor sharpening the blade of an ivory handled peshkabz with a whetstone. Rising, he moved to the door and cracked it open just enough to see the intruder’s face. Standing there, his expression dark and troubled, Karim spoke quickly.
“As-salamu ‘alaykum.”
“Wa’alsykum as-salam.”
Opening the door, Jarral motioned to Karim to step inside. Declining, the young Pakistani with the British accent shook his head. “There is no time,” he said. “Tariq is here.”
“You are sure?” Jarral asked, his mind already alive with possibilities.
“Positive. I saw him myself. The American brought him. He is one of the day laborers from the village. They have set him to work near the entrance to the cave.”
Jarral frowned as he considered how this would alter his plan of attack. When he finally spoke, his words came in a rush.
“Then they will attempt to move him as soon as the sun is down. The question is how?”
He held up the peshkabz. Eighteen inches from tang to tip, the knife was hollow-ground and capable of cutting through bone in a single stroke. Staring at it, Karim felt a dryness in his mouth. While it was true he had trained for such a moment as this two years before when he had returned home to Karachi on the pretext of seeing his parents, the truth was the instruction he had received in one of the Jihadi camps in the Borderlands had been cursory at best. Until this moment, none of the training he had experienced had seemed remotely real. Staring at the blade, he felt a sudden chill run the length of his spine.
“Return to the site but say nothing,” Jarral was saying. “Stay close to Tariq. Find out their plan. How will they move him? We need details. Now go. We must make ready. Praise Allah, the most merciful, who shall welcome us into Paradise.”
With a nod, Karim stepped away from the door sensing the afternoon light upon his neck. Then turning, he hurried back the way he had come.
Jarral watched him go, then turned to the others. “It is time,” he said.
*****
Carefully repositioning her camera, Ella found herself listening to Aaron Copeland’s “Appalachian Spring” as she prepared to photograph the next series of paintings from the granite wall. Something in the music reminded her of being a teenager back in Minnesota when the snows finally melted and the air was crisp and fresh with promise. As Copeland’s idyllic opening bars suddenly gave way, replaced by a burst of arpeggios, she felt a familiar thrill course through her body. Allowing the music to wash over her, she glanced up to discover a light coming toward her out of the opaque recesses of the upper chamber. Hesitating, she felt a knot of anticipation at the base of her stomach as Corbett emerged from the darkness. Pausing the music, she smiled at him as she removed her earbuds.
“What a nice surprise,” she said suppressing an unexpected desire to be held as the fleeting memory of their night together slipped across her mind. “I thought you said you had business in the village.”
“I did. But I’m back,” he said evenly. There was something vaguely seductive about the way she wore the loose-fitting powder blue oxford. Half unbuttoned, it still managed to reveal the curve of her breasts beneath her thermal top. “Just wanted to stop down and let you know there’s a chance I’ll be gone for a day or two.”
“Really…?” she tried not to sound disappointed. “Where are you going?”
“University business,” he lied. “Nothing serious.”
Half turning, he approached to the section of the painting depicting the dark entrance to the cave surrounded by primitive figures armed with spears. “I’ve been thinking about your theory: that this might actually be the record of some primal conflict. I think you might be right.”
Impressed by his willingness to reconsider his position, she smiled. “Really? What changed your mind?”
“All the evidence we’ve uncovered so far points to the inhabitants of the cave being Neanderthal. Until recently, Neanderthals were presumed to have gone extinct around 40,000 years ago. But if we could show through carbon dating that these paintings were more recent – say something in the neighborhood 30,000 – it seems plausible that we are looking at the depiction of some sort of climatic battle – a kind of prehistoric last stand. Where the last of the Neanderthals fought and were overwhelmed by Cro-Magnon invaders.”
His description excited her imagination.
“That would be incredible.”
“For the moment, let’s just say it’s a legitimate possibility.”
“Maybe by the time you get back, I’ll have more to show you,” she self-consciously smiled. The awkwardness of the moment made her words feel stilted. “At least you’ll know where to find me.”
“Right.” He turned back. “How long do you expect it’s going to take you to finish?”
“Documenting the wall?” She hesitated then shrugged. “Total, probably a week to ten days.”
“That long?” He stared at the wall. “I would have thought a couple of more days at most.”
“Actually, it depends,” She said pointing to a section at the far right where a sharp rock overhang was casting a shadow over a portion of the painting. “Details matter. To do it right, areas like that require careful relighting. And that takes time. But in the end, I think you’ll be pleased when you see the final results. Why, is there a rush?”
“Not really. But given the double skeletons Sebastian’s discovered near the mouth of the cave, I’m going to need you to make a photographic record of them as well.”
“Absolutely. As soon as I’m done down here, we can move everything up there,” she replied, pleased at the prospect of working with him on a second project. “Was there anything else?”
“That should do it,” he glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Right. I’ll be here.”
They stood in silence for a moment longer as if neither wanted the conversation to end.
“And don’t forget to eat,” he said with a grin. Then turning, he started back the way he had come.
Watching him go, she slipped her earbuds back in place and un-paused her music. As Copeland’s score once again filled her head with images of spring, she reminded herself that what had happened the night before was nothing more than a memory. Soon she was again lost in her work.
TWENTY-FIVE
D ust particles danced through the late afternoon sunlight near the mouth of the cave as Tariq stood operating the sifting screen. Kneeling to one side, the student volunteer known as Nestor carefully excavated the space surrounding the twin skulls with a trowel, depositing the loose soil into a bucket, which Jennet then spread across the wire mesh. By carefully shaking the screen back and forth, Tariq managed to free the detritus, causing it to fall away, leaving behind only fossilized fragments of bone and other forensic evidence. These, Sebastian had explained to him, would then be collected and placed on flat wooden trays to be tagged for identification later. It was a tedious, mind numbing process, but at least it had helped to pass the time.
As the hours slipped away, Tariq’s mind had begun to wander. He thought of his father whose sense of obligation and enlightened views had shaped his own. Having been one of Iraq’s foremost scholars, Ahmed Abdul-Qadir-al-Bakr had been a voice of moderation. Convinced that Saddam Hussein could be persuaded, he had argued for government refor
m following the failure of the First Gulf War. But with that war, Saddam’s paranoia had only deepened, and in the end, Tariq’s father had been forced to flee with his family to the West, seeking asylum in the UK. Tariq had been twelve and despite his father’s insistence that their dislocation was only temporary, he had enrolled his son in Eton. It was the beginning of his education in the ways of the West.
Following the events of 9/11 and the ravages of the Second Gulf War, things in Iraq changed yet again as the Americans invaded, toppling Saddam and sending the country into chaos.
Having matriculated by then to Oxford, Tariq had begun to feel more English than Iraqi. His dark good looks, his fluency in English, his circle of friends, both British and American, had allowed him to slowly reinvent himself. He had stopped praying. He began to introduce himself as Terry Baker. He enjoyed the nightlife. He had a series of English girlfriends. Life was good. And then one day, his father asked him to meet him for dinner at London’s Savoy Hotel.
There, over grilled lobster from the Isle of Skye, Ahmed al-Bakr had informed his son of his decision to return home. If Iraq were to become a nation again, it would need men like al-Bakr to step forward, to make a difference. Tariq was stunned. Given the violence and uncertainties of war, not to mention the rise of ISIS, he had questioned the wisdom of such a move. But his father remained steadfast, insisting that he could no longer sit passively by and ignore his country in its time of need. As matter of faith and of personal honor, he had no choice but to return.
Then staring across the table, his father had asked him directly. Once his studies were complete, would Tariq be willing to join him there as well? Not wishing to disappoint him, yet unable to fully commit, Tariq had managed a nod. Of course, he would come if his father called. And so he had struck a devil’s bargain. Promising his father while silently praying that such a time would never come.
But in the months following his father’s departure, Tariq’s growing friendship with an American named Michael Corbett had taken an unexpected turn. Corbett had introduced him to a girl, one whom Corbett himself had intimated he was seriously involved with, an American doctor named Amaia Alesander. From the moment he met her, Tariq had felt a connection that was both visceral and immediate. More intense than anything he had ever experienced. When Corbett had to return to the States for some sort of extended training, Tariq’s relationship with her had deepened. By the time Corbett returned, Tariq and Amaia were deeply in love. Unavoidably, among the casualties of that love had been his friendship with Michael Corbett.
Eventually Amaia had been offered an opportunity to head a small rural medical clinic in the remote Basque-Spanish village of Xeria. Having taken his degree, Tariq had tried to explain to her how his obligation to his father made things complicated. An uncollected debt of honor. But Amaia had been adamant. Having accepted the offer in Spain, she was moving there. And if he loved her the way he had claimed, he would come with her. They could leave all the rest behind. Start a new life. She would earn enough for the both of them to live on, and he would have the time to write.
And so, he had agreed. Without telling his father, he had followed her to Spain. They had settled in Xeria and soon had a child, a little girl. To overcome his feelings of guilt, he began to rationalize that if his father had needed him, he would have heard. At the same time, he had independently decided to return to Islam, studying the Qur’an in earnest for the first time in years, searching for answers.
But the moment Amaia told him that Corbett had appeared at the clinic with news of his father, he knew. The time to repay the debt had come due at last.
*****
As the winch came to a stop, Corbett stepped out of the cage onto the rock surface that served as a staging area. Crossing to where Sebastian knelt methodically liberating the two fossilized skulls from the surrounding earth, he barely acknowledged Tariq as he operated the sieve. In his left hand, Corbett carried a memory stick.
“Sebastian,” he called as he approached the university computer set up on a table beside the water cooler. “You’ve got to see this.” Setting down his tools, the older man rose to join him.
“Impeccable timing, Michael,” Sebastian grinned. “I was just looking for an excuse to stop. What have you got?”
As Corbett inserted the memory stick into the USB port in the side of the laptop, it automatically booted up. Clicking on the icon, the screen filled with an image of the interior cave wall below the entrance. “I had Roberto and Karim spend the morning scanning the wall directly beneath us… and there it was, just as we thought.”
Sebastian stared at the computer screen. Captured by the Scanner was what appeared to be a ledge descending from the cave’s entrance to the cavern floor below. As Corbett enhanced the image, Sebastian moved closer, his enthusiasm mounting as the path became clearer.
“Bravo, Michael… increible. You were right,” Sebastian said, pointing to the irregular line delineating an incline gradually descending into the cave. “So this was how the first cave dwellers must have found their way down. Tomorrow perhaps we follow it and see for ourselves.”
“Exactly. I’d suggest we do it now, but you’re right. It’s getting late. Better to call it a day,” Corbett nodded as he removed the memory stick. “Why don’t you go on ahead and let Gorka know we’re coming. I’ll begin sending the others down.” Behind them, the winch again whirred to life as someone below was calling for the lift.
“Excelente,” Sebastian smiled. “See you in camp.” Turning, he motioned to Nestor and Jennet to join him on the hike back down the mountain. As the three of them headed off together, Corbett stepped to Tariq’s side.
“How you holding up?” he asked quietly.
Tariq stared at him ignoring his question. Then he posed a question of his own, the one that had been nagging at the back of his mind all afternoon.
“When does the helicopter arrive?”
“As soon as it’s dark. I’ll send the others down. But you and I will stay here. It will be easier if there isn’t a crowd.’
Taciturn, Tariq nodded, then walked back to the entrance of the cave and stared out at the gathering dusk. Corbett moved to the water cooler.
“Hard work. Let me buy you a cup of water.” Taking two paper cups, he filled each with water. Then glancing in Tariq’s direction to make sure his back was turned, Corbett slipped contents of the clear plastic envelope he’d been given by Fleckner into one of the cups. Watching it dissolve, he moved to Tariq.
“Here you go.” He raised his cup. “To a better tomorrow.”
Tariq said nothing, but joined Corbett in a long slow swallow as the two men drank in silence. Behind them, the sound of the winch kicked in as the lift started back up. Crushing the paper cups, they tossed then into the waste container beside the cooler as the lift reached the surface. Karim and Roberto stepped out followed by Hector.
“That’s it for today,” Corbett said, turning to Hector. “You and the others head down to camp and grab something to eat. Where’s Ella?”
“Still working,” Roberto replied. “Said she has no hunger.”
Karim rolled his eyes.
“Women…” Hector said with an exasperated sigh. “If you took ten women and rolled their best qualities into one… I would fire her.”
The three men shared a laugh. Watching them, Corbett shook his head. Ella was right. Machismo was alive and well.
Turning, Hector started down the mountain as Karim and Roberto lingered. Stepping to the cooler, Karim took two paper cups. Handing one to Roberto, he poured himself a drink. Roberto did the same.
“So where are these double skulls we’ve been hearing about?,” Karim asked, glancing sideways at Tariq.
“Over there,” Corbett indicated. Taking out his LED flashlight, he turned it on and directed the beam at the partially excavated mound to the left side of the cave’s mouth. Roberto and Karim stepped closer.
“Fantástico,” Roberto said, dropping to one knee.
&nbs
p; “Remarkable indeed,” Karim added with a slow nod. Behind them, Tariq started to speak, but his words seemed to slur and catch in his throat.
“Thin’m gonna be sick,” he said thickly.
Turning to look, Karim saw Tariq’s knees begin to buckle and exchanged a puzzled look with Roberto. “Is he all right?”
Reaching out, Tariq attempted to steady himself, momentarily leaning hard against the cool stone of the cavern entrance as Corbett moved to his side.
“He doesn’t look too good,” Roberto observed with concern.
Gripping Tariq by his shoulders, Corbett lowered him to the ground as he spoke. “Quickly. This man needs medical attention. You two run back down to the camp and let Sebastian know. I’ll radio ahead to see if we can get a Medivac out here.”
“Medivac…?” Karim repeated as if trying to make sense of the word.
“Medical helicopter. Now go!” Corbett commanded as he began to loosen Tariq’s clothing. About to lose consciousness, the Iraqi abruptly began to convulse as his body collapsed to the ground.
Seeing this, Roberto turned and started down the mountain at a run. But Karim seemed rooted to the spot. Staring at Tariq’s trembling form, he looked at Corbett. “Sure you don’t need help?”
“Positive. Go… now!” Corbett replied.
Managing a nod, Karim turned at last and took off after his partner.
Watching them go, Corbett waited until they were out of sight. Then kneeling beside Tariq, he checked his pulse. Irregular and thready, it was barely discernible. Quickly slipping off his own jacket, he covered Tariq’s upper body, trying to keep him warm. Then crossing to the right side of the entrance, he located the black backpack. Unzipping it, he took out the flare gun. Double-checking to be sure it was loaded, he removed the safety and pointed into the darkening sky. Pulling the trigger, he felt the gun recoil as the flare streaked high above before exploding in a red starburst. Now there was nothing left to do but wait for the helicopter and hope the Jihadis were too preoccupied to notice.
The Exfiltrator Page 22
