The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

Pakistani descent.  Dark haired with a pock marked complexion, he, too, wore the nondescript clothes of a day laborer.

Across the Plaza, the American continued to talk with his two companions.  Silently motioning to Buttar, Jarral indicated it was time.  With a nod, Buttar turned and slipped quietly into the night.

Moving swiftly through the darkened streets, Buttar allowed his mind to wander.  It had been nearly two weeks since the cell had received word from ISIS Central Command that in the city of Najaf a powerful Iraqi cleric had barely survived an assassination attempt and was now near death.  Reportedly, his son was now hiding somewhere in the mountains to the north.  The thought of finding the son and publicly executing him before he could return to his father’s side filled Buttar’s imagination.  An act that would justify the path he had chosen.

Once a promising medical student at Civil Hospital of Karachi, intent on becoming a doctor of emergency medicine, Buttar had been radicalized by the so-called Arab Spring.  With the outbreak of the Syrian Civil War, he had left his studies much against his mother’s wishes and traveled to Aleppo where he had been recruited by the al-Nusra Front.  The fighting had been more intense than anything he had ever expected, as Syria’s president Bashar al-Assad ruthlessly and systematically attempted to crush all resistance, indiscriminately killing his own people, including children.  Though he had at first seen his role purely as a medic, the horrors of war soon hardened him into taking up arms.  Attempting to make some sense of the violent brutality inflicted upon the innocent, it had become clear to Buttar that the true blame belonged to the West, the Europeans and their American allies who talked of peace but sent drones instead.  Until they could be made to feel the pain of war, he decided, nothing would change. And so, he had migrated west.

In Spain, he had been put in contact with a radical Islamic sleeper cell led by an intense young Jihadist named Jarral, who was operating in the city of Salamanca.  Discovering that they shared much in common, Buttar had quickly risen to become Jarral’s chief lieutenant largely because he was more intelligent than the rest.  This show of favoritism, however, had resulted in a certain internal friction and distrust.  To the rest of the cell, his actions were suspect.  Determined to find some way of proving himself, Buttar saw this new mission as his chance to demonstrate the depth of his commitment.  A chance to set the world on fire in the name of Allah.

Reaching the Hotel Palacio de San Esteban, he entered by the service entrance, unseen.  Having hacked the hotel’s computer earlier that afternoon, he climbed quickly up the stairwell to the third floor where he located room 303.  Picking the lock, he silently stepped inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVEN

 

H aving said good night to Gorka in the Plaza Mayor, Corbett moved with Dr. Asurias as they walked along the darkened side streets back toward his hotel.  Turning onto the Calle del Consuelo, they could still hear the voices of the young men of La Tuna singing on into the night.

“When I was a young man, I attended the university,” Asurias was saying, “where I first discovered the work of Miguel de Unamuno.  You are familiar with his writings?”

Corbett nodded.  “Unamuno…? The humanist.”

“Si…  Poet, novelist, playwright, essayist, philosopher – he taught right here at the university – before my time, of course.  He was a visionary who challenged the Fascists until Franco had him arrested.  He died under house arrest.  A tragic loss for Spain.  But his work – especially the novel Abel Sanchez – fired my imagination.  Did you know Unamuno was a Basque?

“Like Gorka?”

“Si, like Gorka,” the older man smiled. “There are times when I look at Gorka – despite his rough words – it is as if I can feel Unamuno’s presence.  It lies in their Basque roots, I am certain. ”

“And this cave we are going to be excavating, it’s in Basque country as well.”

“Exactamente.  Which is why Gorka will be like your indispensible left hand. He will see to the camp’s daily operations so that you can devote your time to exploring and cataloguing the site.  A team effort, as you say in America. You agree?”

“Given how little time I’ve had to prepare, I appreciate all the help I can get.”

“It was the least I could do under the circumstances.”

As the Calle del Consuelo meandered around to the left toward his hotel, there in the moonlight Corbett could see the Iglesia Convento de San Esteban looming before them, its intricately carved Plateresque façade floodlit in striking chiaroscuro against the darkened courtyard.

“You know San Esteban…?” Asurias asked as they approached the church.  “Salamanca’s Dominican monastery, where Christopher Columbus once waited for an audience with the king and queen in order to plead his case for sailing West to reach the Orient.”

“The Dominicans. ‘Domini… cane’ -- the ‘Dogs of God,’” Corbett mused recalling the medieval word play on the Latin.  “Ever think how different the world might be had the Queen’s Inquisitors decided Columbus was a heretic?”

Asurias smiled. “You have a very curious mind, Doctor Corbett.  Fortunately for history, the Inquisitors were more interested in purging old ideas than with prosecuting new ones.”

“Obviously that was their first mistake.”

“Perhaps.  But in the words of Unamuno, ‘A faith that does not doubt is already dead.’”

Corbett said nothing.

“But here is where I must leave you,” Asurias said, extending his hand as they reached the drive leading to the hotel.  “Until tomorrow then. Adios.”

“Adios.”

Shaking hands, Asurias turned and headed back toward the university, leaving Corbett alone.  Moving to his left through the iron gates leading to the hotel, he made his way up the cobbled drive.

*****

Watching Asurias move off into the