The Exfiltrator

by Garner Simmons

  *****

  Driving through the moonless night with both Tariq and Ella fitfully asleep in the back seat, Corbett found himself troubled by the memory of the base camp, of the needless slaughter. The image of Gorka lying dead in the darkness, his hand still gripping his carbine, abruptly cut through Corbett’s conscious need to suppress it. As he had learned following the horrors of 9/11, to take action demanded a compartmentalization of pain. When facing someone trying to kill you, empathy had no place. And so he had walled off his emotions like a surgeon, steeling himself against his own humanity. Yet sometimes in the aftermath, certain memories refused to be denied. In the short time he had known Gorka, he had become fond of the old man. And what of Sebastian or of Hector and the rest? Had any survived the murderous assault at the hands of terrorists? And what of his own culpability? Had he not placed the entire camp in jeopardy by agreeing to get Tariq out? With effort, he managed to push the thoughts from his mind. What was done, was done. Clearly the only thing now was to get word to the police on the chance some might still be alive. As soon as Tariq is safely gone, he promised himself, he would see to it.

  Attempting to refocus, he turned his mind to the situation that he knew lay ahead. Clearly, at the moment they had a lead on their pursuers, but for how long he could only guess. Without question, the Jihadi attack on the camp along with the destruction of the chopper had rendered Plan A completely buggered. Certainly Reed would know that by now. However, he would have had no way of knowing whether or not the terrorists had succeeded in assassinating Tariq. And if things went according to form, without proof of his death, ISIS would be reluctant to go public just yet. Assuming Reed would play it close to the vest rather than prematurely admitting defeat, Corbett could only hope that the rendezvous with the trawler was still an option. If it was, then Tariq had a chance.

  In the dark, the mountain road was treacherous with unexpected twists and turns as it descended through the foothills to the sea, causing Corbett to constantly downshift and adjust his speed. Fortunately, due to the lateness of the hour, so far, they had encountered no traffic. Nevertheless, he kept checking for lights in the rearview mirror. Somewhere behind but closing fast, he was certain ISIS was pressing the chase.

  “You still never answered my question,” Ella’s voice drifted out from the darkness behind, intruding upon his thoughts. Corbett glanced over his right shoulder. He could barely make out the features of her face among the shadows of the backseat. Tariq’s bandaged head still rested unconscious on the seat beside her.

  “What question was that?” He said, once more attempting to avoid answering her without success.

  “Who are you…?” she persisted. “You’re obviously not just some American archeologist working in Spain. So, what are you doing here?”

  “That’s two questions,” he answered evasively.

  “Could you just for a minute stop the bullshit, and tell me the truth.”

  “The truth…?” Corbett hesitated, weighing his words. What could he say? How to explain to her all that was in play here?

  “The truth is,” he said at last. “There is no truth. Only violence, ignorance and death. A senseless war of attrition in which everyone is right and everyone is wrong.”

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “The only one I’ve got. Unfortunately, the trouble with mixing religion and politics is there are no simple answers. No rational explanations. Just blood on the hands of the righteous.”

  Ella shook her head. “So that makes you what… a cynic…? an atheist?”

  “A realist.”

  “So, you don’t believe, yet you’re willing to risk your life to save…,” she looked toward Tariq, still asleep beside her, “some stranger.”

  “First, Tariq’s not a stranger. He’s my friend. And second, that he’s even here at all is because of me. That means it’s up to me to get him out.”

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Corbett reacted to the pair of headlights that now appeared out of the darkness in the distance behind them.

  Seeing Corbett’s attention abruptly shift, Ella reacted as well. “What is it…?” she asked turning in her seat to stare out the rear window.

  “Trouble,” he said as he stepped hard on the accelerator once more. The headlights looked to be roughly a kilometer behind them and closing fast.

  “What can we do? Outrun them?”

  “Not likely. Just buckle up and stay low.”

  Putting the Rover into a steep bank, Corbett negotiated a series of hairpins, accelerating out again as the Jetta continued to cut the distance. From a kilometer to a half. Then closer and closer still.

  In the backseat, Tariq felt the unexpected lurch of the car and awoke with a start. Sensing something had changed, he tried to sit up. But gripping him with both arms, Ella held him down as she buckled them both into their seat belts.

  “Michael…?” he asked, his voice still groggy. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

  “Stay down,” Corbett ordered, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead.

  Without warning, the Rover’s rear window exploded in a shower of glass, forcing Tariq and Ella to cover themselves as Buttar opened up with the AR-15. A moment later, the Jetta’s driver, Umar, attempted to pull alongside. More semi-automatic rifle fire pounded into the Rover’s left rear quarter panel as Corbett hunkered down behind the wheel, refusing to give way.

  Racing neck and neck, they headed into the next turn. Just ahead, Corbett caught a glimpse of an approaching pair of headlights. Craning his head to the right, he could just make out the ancient six-ton Scania Diesel making its steady climb up the grade from the coast in the dark. Using the Rover like a battering ram, Corbett slammed against the Jetta forcing it further into the left-hand lane as they moved together into the turn. Consumed with passing, Umar failed to hear Buttar’s panicked cry or see the oncoming truck until just before the moment of impact.

  As the truck driver leapt from the cab of the Scania, the Jetta slammed headlong into the Diesel’s grill. The massive explosion engulfed both vehicles at once. His rifle still gripped in his hand, Buttar tumbled through the window on the passenger side of the Jetta, his body wrapped in flames. A firebrand consumed by his own obsession.

  Barely avoiding the downed driver, Corbett slipped the Rover past the wreckage by balancing along the gravel shoulder of the road. As a massive explosion shook the night directly behind them, Corbett muscled the Rover back onto the pavement then stepped on the gas.

  In the backseat, Ella turned to watch as the fireball consumed both car and truck. As the air began to boil, thick with the rancid mixture of burning Diesel fuel and gasoline, Tariq shifted in his seat, brushing the broken glass from his clothes as he caught Corbett’s eye in the mirror. “Not to seem ungrateful, Michael,” he said dryly, “But if we ever do this again, remind me to call a cab.”

  Corbett shook his head at Tariq’s lame attempt at gallows humor. Then with his eyes fixed on the highway spilling into the darkness before them, he pointed the Rover down the mountain and sped toward the sea.

  *****

  Nearly twenty minutes had elapsed by the time the Ford pickup reached the scene of the crash. Slowing down for a better look, Jarral and the others skirted the still burning wreckage. A green and white Nissan GR with Guardia Civil markings was now parked to one side as a pair of officers cordoned off the scene with cones and directed traffic. Staring hard at the wreckage, Jarral found himself unable to separate the remains of the car from what was left of the truck. However, it was clear the Rover had not been involved. Therefore, Tariq and the American had to be somewhere in the darkness ahead.

  Rolling past the twisted metal and caustic smell of smoldering rubber, Jarral silently gave thanks to Allah. By sparing Tariq and the Infidel from this conflagration, the honor of killing them both would now at last surely fall to him.

  Moving on, the Ford pickup accelerated as it continued down the road. Jarral felt his pulse quicken. There could
be no question, the Final Reckoning was now at hand.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The highway descended rapidly now as the road wound its way down through the cragged bluffs overlooking the sea. Ella could taste the bite of the salt air as it caressed her lips and filled her nostrils. Marveling at the rugged beauty of the shoreline, she tried without success to remember the name of the seaside village he had mentioned. No matter, they would be there soon enough.

  Her thoughts turned once more to Corbett himself. What was it about this man that aroused such conflicting emotions within her? She tried to remember what it was that had first attracted her to him. Without question, it had been his intellect. That first lecture. Those brilliant insights into the evolution of Early Man and their relevance to the world today. And of course, his charisma. His lifestyle. All the things that had spoken to her. Things that had caused her to reshape her life. Then meeting him here again in Spain. That mysterious sense of inevitability. The feeling that this moment had somehow been preordained. She could still taste the touch of his lips, still feel the incandescence of their bodies entwined. Lost in the afterglow beneath the ancient wall paintings. It had all seemed so right. And yet, it had gone so terribly wrong. How could she ever truly care for a man who was this capable of killing other men? The question troubled her. And what did these feelings for Corbett reveal about her?

  Staring out as the sliver of a moon climbed at last above the horizon, she suddenly saw with complete clarity: the conflict within Corbett was as old as humanity itself. Man’s unique capacity for brilliance forever yoked to his capacity for violence and self-destruction. The one unbreakable link in the chain of human DNA. And despite her deepest desire to deny it, she had to admit that no matter how much she might want to change him, it could never happen. When this terrible night was over, she would break things off. Though the idea pained her, she realized now that there could be no other way.

  “Almost there,” Corbett’s voice intruded on her thoughts as the dark and empty road reached the Costa Vasca, the Basque Coast, at last. Off to the east lay San Sebastian, to the west Bilbao. The narrow, winding two-lane strip of asphalt skirted along the blue-black waters of the Bay of Biscay. Ella watched in silence as the string of tiny, darkened coastal villages slipped by until finally they reached the cobblestone streets of Elantxobe. At the side of the road, a black dog ravenously tore through an overturned trashcan, devouring whatever remained from the previous night’s revels. Moving through the empty streets, Corbett headed for the beach beyond.

  *****

  On the bluff high above, Jarral stared down at the sea as the pickup began its descent. They were close. He could feel it. Out across the black water, he could see the crescent moon rising and took it as a omen. Victory would be theirs at last. Urging Furag to drive faster, he clutched his Uzi and prayed to Allah for the strength to carry out His will. Tariq and the Infidel could no longer escape God’s wrath. Their time had come at last.

  *****

  Three kilometers beyond the village lay a deserted beach. A rocky promontory marked the leeward side. Twenty meters from the rush of the incoming tide, a dozen beached fishing boats lined the sand, their hulls turned upward in the pale moonlight like great sea turtles washed up from the depths. Out beyond the breakwater, black waves flecked with white broke, then raced toward shore.

  Emerging from the darkness, the Rover pulled off the road and came to a stop fifty meters from the water’s edge. Without turning off the engine, Corbett climbed out, his body stiff from the demands of their escape and hours of driving. Stretching, he opened the rear door and helped Ella out. Tariq followed, the wound to his forehead no longer bleeding as he peeled away Ella’s improvised bandage.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked, still half asleep. Then staring out across the sand, she realized, “This is it… the beach you mentioned.”

  Corbett nodded then retrieved the carbine from between the seats. Slinging the bandolier across his shoulders, he stepped to the rear of the Rover and opened the boot. Rummaging around, he managed to find a worn sweatshirt bearing the Salamanca University logo.

  “Here, better put this on. It will be cold out there,” he said, handing the sweatshirt to Tariq. Turning back to Ella, he asked: “Think you can drive stick shift…?”

  “Stick shift…?” she shrugged. “If I have to. Why?”

  “Because I need you to drive to the police.”

  “And leave you here? That’s stupid. Why can’t we all go?”

  “Because Tariq and I have unfinished business and somebody has to tell the authorities. Just stay on the road until you reach Bilbao. Find the garrison for Guardia Civil. Explain what’s happened – the terrorist attack on the camp and how you managed to escape. Somebody will need to get up there. There may still be survivors. They’ll need help. Then call the university.”

  “I don’t understand. What about him?” she nodded toward Tariq. “And you. What am I supposed to say?”

  “Nothing. As far as anyone needs to know, he doesn’t exist and you have no idea what became of me.”

  She stared at him, unable to speak. “You’re not serious…” she said at last. “Are you? I mean you can’t just disappear.”

  Corbett said nothing. Clearly troubled, Ella managed a slow nod, staring into his eyes, unable to look away as the reality set in. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

  “Hard to say. Never’s a long time,” he half grinned then took her by the arm. As he started to help her climb into the front seat behind the wheel, she turned back. Framing his face in her hands, she drew him to her. He started to resist but couldn’t. The moment lingered, their lips barely touching until he finally found the will to end it.

  “You’d better go,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. She slipped behind the wheel. Stepping back at last, he shut the driver’s side door. She looked up at him, her eyes holding his. Having expected to be the one to end it, she now found herself filled with an unexpected sense of loss. The words of a half-remembered poem filled her mind: “The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing alive enough to have the strength to die...”

  Turning away at last, she engaged the clutch.

  He watched as she slipped it into first. The Rover shuddered and threatened to stall. But she double-clutched and stepped on the gas. Lurching forward, it regained the road. Then shifting gears, she drove off. He watched until the taillights disappeared.

  Reaching down, Corbett unzipped the side pocket of his cargo pants and took out the LED flashlight. Turning, he looked at Tariq.

  “Ready?”

  “As much as I’ll ever be.”

  Taking a half-dozen steps onto the beach, Corbett stared out across the wine-dark sea. There, perhaps 500 meters from shore, what appeared to be a fishing trawler rode at anchor just beyond the breakwater. He raised the light and began to signal: SHORT-LONG-SHORT. No response. He signaled again. Still nothing. He glanced at Tariq who showed no sign of emotion.

  Then without warning, a lamp mounted on the afterdeck of the ship sent back the same reply. Corbett countered by repeating the code twice in quick succession. From across the water came the sound of an outboard motor as a launch carrying three sailors started for shore.

  “That’s it. Let’s go.” Corbett motioned toward the swiftly approaching outboard.

  Crossing the sand together, the two men moved quickly down to the water’s edge. Neither spoke as an awkward silence enveloped the moment. Beyond the rocky promontory, the beached fishing boats huddled together like silent witnesses.

  “You okay…?” Corbett asked at last, breaking the silence.

  Tariq nodded, struggling to put into words what needed to be said. “Back in Xeria, the moment I heard you had come for me, my first thought was to refuse. To send you away, even fight you if it came to that. But after they bombed the clinic and I saw the devastation – the look on Amaia’s face, her fear for our daughter – I knew there could be no other way. To stay would make
things worse. That the only way to save them, was for me to leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” Corbett said. “Sometimes no matter which way you cut it, it’s a bad deal.”

  “That is life.” Tariq replied, his voice now filled with resignation. “Insha’Allah… Whatever Allah intends, so shall it be.”

  Slipping past the breakwater, the launch made its way toward the shore. Stopping twenty meters out, the helmsman cut the motor to an idle.

  “That’s as close as he can get,” Corbett turned to face his friend one last time. “You’ll have to wade out.”

  “So, this is it… How do I thank you?”

  “Just be your father’s son.” He took Tariq’s hand in his own. The two men embraced.

  Separating, the Iraqi nodded. “Until we meet in a better place.” Then turning, he started to wade out to the waiting launch.

  Corbett watched as the sailors helped Tariq into the boat. Then turning, they started back toward the waiting trawler. He was still staring after them when he heard the whine of the pickup’s engine as it raced along the road from the village. Unslinging the carbine from his shoulder, he turned and started back toward the beached boats on the run.

  As the lights of the Ford pickup appeared out of the darkness, Corbett raced for the cluster of hulls and threw himself down into a firing position behind them.

  *****

  Having driven past the outskirts of Elantxobe with no sign of the Land Rover, Jarral had begun to despair that somehow Tariq had managed to escape. But as they approached the beach beyond, he noticed what appeared to be some sort of launch heading back through the breakwater. At this hour, who else could it be? Looking beyond, he spotted the fishing trawler anchored several hundred meters out. Pointing, he began to shout.