The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

city in amber light.  Placing the glass on the nightstand, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.  In a moment, he was asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIX

 

A maia’s lithe body pressed against him once more.  Her dress riding up exposing her naked thighs.  Arousing him.  Demanding.  Somewhere the abrasive sound of waves crashing jostled him from his fitful sleep.  Awakening, he stared into the darkness.  Nothing made sense.  The strangeness of the room.  The emptiness of the bed.  A sudden insistent ring as the telephone finally brought him fully awake. On the third ring, he managed to reach for the receiver.  Listening as the desk clerk informed him that the time was now eight o’clock in the evening, Corbett managed “Gracias” and hung up.

Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he placed them on the cool stone floor.  Outside his window, the Church of San Esteban was all but lost in the gathering dusk.  Checking his watch, he had just enough time to shower and shave before meeting Asurias.  Rising, he switched on the bed lamp and started to unbutton his shirt.  In the mirror above the dresser, he caught his reflection.  His eyes were grey-green, intense and flecked with gold.  Running his fingers through his dark hair, he quickly slipped out of his clothes then stepped closer to the mirror to examine the bruises from his encounter at the airport.  At just over six feet, his lean muscular build was beginning to show a little wear.  He’d need to be more careful in the future.

Moving to the glass-enclosed shower, he turned on the hot water and stepped inside.  The pulsing showerhead helped relieve some of the aches and pains.  Soaping his body, he rinsed himself off then stood there for a full minute before turning the handle from hot to cold.  The shock of the frigid water was bracing.  Fully awake now, he climbed out and toweled off.  Then turning to the sink, he began to shave.

*****

By the time Corbett had finally dressed, the moon had begun its ascent above the ancient city.  The façade of San Esteban was now awash in artificial light.  Securing his computer in the room safe once more, Corbett stepped into the corridor as the door automatically closed and locked behind him.  Taking the elevator to the lobby, he stopped at the front desk where a uniformed desk clerk by the name of Rodrigo informed him that he had no messages.  Crossing to the main entrance, he stepped out into the fragrant night air.

Moving along the well-worn cobblestones, he crossed beneath the 15th century turrets of the Torre del Calavero and turned up the Calle de San Pablo.  In the darkness ahead, he could already hear the music and muted sounds of laughter coming from the Plaza Mayor.  He followed the sounds.

Entering the plaza, Corbett moved along the colonnade.  The various nightspots were just beginning to open for business as the tourists and townspeople filtered in.  Open-air cafés, bodegas and tapas bars warmed to their clientele.  Passing a crowded bar called Don Mauro, he encountered a group of boisterous young men – La Tuna.  University students dressed as medieval minstrels, they accompanied themselves on guitar and mandolin as they sang for drinks.  Corbett shouldered his way past.  Echoes of his own college days.  Some things never change, he thought.

At a table on the edge of the plaza, Corbett spotted a pair of older men talking.  Having met the better dressed of the two at a conference in Madrid two years before, he immediately recognized him as Gabriel Asurias. Stepping out from the colonnade, Corbett moved toward them.  In his late fifties, elegantly dressed with a neatly trimmed goatee, Professor Asurias looked up at the same time and smiled.  Rising from his chair, he waved him over.  The second man stood up as well.

“Ah, Doctor Corbett.  So good to see you.”

“Sorry I’m late…”

“On an evening such as this, time is of no concern.” Asurias turned to his companion.  “Allow me to introduce Gorka Saransola.”

Muscular with a build like a wrestler, Saransola looked to be in his late forties.  Unshaven with a three-day salt-and-pepper beard, his face had been weathered by the sun giving it a patina like antique leather.  He extended his hand.

“Urte askotarako…” he said with a smile, taking Corbett’s hand in his thick fist.

“Basque…?” Corbett guessed.  Gorka laughed, pleased that a stranger might actually recognize his mother tongue.

“Euskal… bai, horrela da,” he said with a nod. “Basque through and through.”

“Please sit.” Asurias motioned them toward the table as a waiter, in a white collarless shirt and black trousers, approached.  He carried a white serving towel draped over his left arm. Turning to the waiter, Asurias held up three fingers. “La Rioja y tres vasos… por favor,” he said.

With a nod, the waiter moved off to retrieve the wine as the men took their seats.

“Gorka will be taking you into the mountains.  Manage the base camp, arrange for supplies…”

“And cook,” Gorka added with a smile.

“Si…” Asurias nodded. “And cook.”

Corbett attempted to mask a dubious smile at the thought of what exactly such a term might mean.  Sensing his concern, Gorka hastily slapped his chest adding: “You will like… trust Gorka.  My cooking is muy bueno.”

At the same time, an attractive young woman arrived carrying a tray of tapas.  Smiling, she set it in the center of the table.

Removing a small leather pouch of Turkish tobacco from the pocket of his vest, Gorka liberated a loose cigarette paper and began to roll his own.  Corbett watched, impressed at the remarkable dexterity with which the man’s thick fingers produced a smoke.

“Must be a relief knowing there’s finally a brokered peace between ETA and the Spanish government,”