The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

cursor on the icon, Corbett watched as the screen blinked then resolved itself into an image of mayhem:  An open Middle Eastern courtyard filled with a throng of young Iraqi men working themselves into a frenzied state.  Wearing white, ankle length thawbs, their heads bared beneath the blinding late afternoon sun, they cut themselves with long knives and scourged their heads and shoulders with steel chains while crying out to Allah to allow them to atone for their sins with their own blood.

Unable to turn away from the violent display, Corbett stared at the screen as the sound of Reed’s voice insinuated itself onto the sound track:  “As I am sure you are aware, ISIS has suffered a series of defeats on the battlefield driving them underground. The result has been more extreme measures.  This video was taken two weeks ago by one of our people in the Iraqi city of Najaf during Ashura, the Shi’a Muslim holy day of atonement.  Self-mutilation is part of the ritual as they mourn the seventh century assassination of Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet.”

Clearly taken using a cellphone camera, the picture was unstable as the unseen photographer was jostled by the crowd.  To the left of the screen, an extremely agitated wild-eyed young man stood watching intensely as an older man dressed entirely in black from turban to toe and accompanied by his entourage of bodyguards, emerged from a nearby mosque and began to make his way toward the camera.

Reed continued his voice-over: “The one in the center, dressed in black, is Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr, venerated spiritual leader of the Iraqi Sunnis.  One of the few stable voices in the region currently preaching Iraqi sovereignty and a key figure in the fight against radical Islam.  His participation in the formation of any future government would be critical.”  Watching the old man, it was clear that he wielded an almost mystical power over the crowd as he raised his arms above his head and began to chastise the blood-splattered penitents for their public display of remorse.

At the same time, Corbett watched as the intense young man slipped his hand inside his tunic. Producing a grenade, he pulled the pin and rushed forward just as the old man raised his hands to heaven to give praise to Allah.  Shouting “Allahu Akbar…!” he embraced the cleric before his bodyguards could grab him.  As a violent explosion rocked the camera, Corbett stared at the computer screen, watching as the image turned to chaos before being lost.

Abruptly, a still photo of Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr’s face appeared on the screen as Reed’s voice filled the sound track once more:  “Ahmed al-Bakr was severely wounded in the attack. Should he die, his death would once again destabilize the entire region and provide ISIS with an opportunity to reclaim the offensive.”

On the computer screen, al-Bakr’s photo was replaced by that of another man – his son, Tariq, a young man in his early thirties.  Tall and charismatic, he wore a blue blazer bearing the crest of Oxford’s Magdalen College but no tie.  Reacting, Corbett stared at the image. “This is al-Bakr’s son, Tariq.  Educated in England from the age of thirteen, he seems to have gone missing. Our files show that you and Tariq were friends at Oxford where he sometimes went by the name of ‘Terry Baker.’  He was last seen in the company of this woman…”

Instantly Tariq’s face was displaced by that of a dark-haired, sensual young woman of perhaps thirty wearing surgical greens.   “…Amaia Alesander, an American medical doctor of Spanish descent. You worked closely with her late brother, Jon, during the civil war in Kenya…”

Jarred again by Reed’s words, Corbett suppressed his emotions as the memory of Jon Alesander’s death in the mud-choked Kibera street once more intruded with a vengeance. “Today she runs a free clinic in the small Basque village of Xeria.  We have reason to believe she is still in contact with Tariq.  Since Xeria is located just to the south of the archeological dig you’ll be running for the University of Salamanca, the Company felt you were our last best hope.”

Abruptly, Tariq’s face once again filled the screen.  “For obvious reasons we need to find Tariq.  As his father’s son, his return to Iraq could be a game-changer.  Sorry we can’t give you more time to think it over. But we need an answer now.  If you agree, light a candle to the Blessed Virgin in the apse of the old cathedral.  We’ll be in touch.”  As abruptly as it had begun, the image vanished as the screen went black.

For a long moment, Corbett continued to stare at the computer as his mind stumbled back upon another place, another time. Memories of violent lovemaking.  Amaia’s face lost in ecstasy.  The taste of her lips.  Her mouth covering his.  Fingernails digging into his shoulders…  Without warning, the sound of a telephone brought him back to the present.

Moving to the room phone, he lifted the receiver from its cradle and spoke into the mouthpiece.

“This is Corbett…”

Listening to the sound of Hector’s rapid Spanish coming across the wire, he nodded at last.

“Si… Si…  Las Torres at nine. Please tell Professor Asurias I look forward to it. Gracias. Buenas tardes…”

Returning the receiver, he checked his watch.  Half-past seven.  Lifting the receiver, he dialed the desk and left a call for eight.  Then stepping once again to the wet bar, he selected a second single malt and cracked the seal, adding its contents to what was left of the first.  Holding the glass in the palm of his hand, he swirled the Scotch several times then lifted it to his lips.  Savoring the bite of the whiskey, he finally tossed it back neat.  He could feel it burn all the way down to the pit of his stomach. Outside the window, the sun was finally beginning to set, washing the