The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

– something more sinister.  But having avoided the red tape earlier, he knew it would only compound the situation if he were to bring it up now.  Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

Finishing his questioning, the policeman thoughtfully tapped his notebook with his pen and frowned. “You must be careful. In my experience, Señor, all things happen for a reason.  You were very fortunate. This man could just as easily have stabbed you as well.”  He put away his notebook and pen, then added: “As a foreign visitor, such an incident as this would reflect very poorly on our city.  Salamanca prides itself on our hospitality.  You understand what I am saying…?”

Corbett met the policeman’s gaze then nodded. “You’d prefer I not file a formal complaint.”

“It is up to you, of course.  But in something as random as this, what good can come?  The paperwork alone…” He shrugged and shook his head.   Then as an afterthought, he added: “On the other hand, were you to see this man again, of course, that would be a different matter.”  Taking a card from the breast pocket of his shirt, he handed it to Corbett.  “Feel free to call me if you think of anything else.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Will you be staying in Salamanca long?”

“Until the day after tomorrow.  But you can reach me through the university… Professor Asurias.”

“Ah, Professor Asurias… si.  A fine man.  Very well.  If anything develops, we will be in touch.  Buenas noches.”

“Buenas noches.” Corbett watched the policeman return to his squad car and drive off into the night then returned to the hotel.

Back in his room, he carefully unpacked and repacked his suitcases, looking for some indication of what the intruder had been looking for but found nothing.  He poured himself a Scotch and thought again about his encounter with Reed at the bullring that afternoon.  What had the policeman said? All things happen for a reason.  The Company wanted to make him an offer.  They needed an exfiltrator.  “It involves a friend of yours – Tariq Baker.”

Finishing the Scotch, he set down the glass on the nightstand and stretched out on the bed. Too many uncomfortable coincidences.  Exhausted, he would have to sort it out in the morning.  Closing his eyes, he laid back and before he knew it, Corbett was asleep.

 

EIGHT

 

H e awoke in the darkness before sunrise.  Lying there listening in the predawn quiet, he gradually became aware of the room’s oppressive sameness.  Virtually interchangeable with so many other half-forgotten rooms in other towns.  And yet, there was something strangely familiar, an aura surrounding Salamanca itself that seemed to elicit a kind of déjà vu.  Like some vaguely suppressed, atavistic memory buried deep within the lavender folds of his temporal lobe. Insistent, slowly pressing its way into his conscious mind, making him aware of a shared connection with another town.  Memories of Oxford and with it, Tariq Baker.

They had first met at the Bodleian Library on the Old Schools Quadrangle more than a dozen years ago.  Corbett had been a graduate student working on his doctorate (known at Oxford as a “DPhil”) in Archeology at Magdalen College.  When he mentioned that he had served in the Army during the first year of the Second Iraq War, Tariq, who had not seen his homeland since he was a boy, pressed him to describe it in great detail.    The son of a controversial Iraqi Sunni cleric, Tariq had come to England at the age of thirteen when his father had been forced to take his family and flee their native land.  Enrolled in Eton, he began his education in the ways of the West.  After matriculating to Oxford, he continued his studies at Magdalen as Iraq and the world he had once known dissolved into bloody civil war.

He had liked Tariq from the first.  Tall with dark good looks and an affable smile, he possessed the natural charm and grace of someone born to lead.  He spoke flawless English with a British accent and had a quick mind with the ready ability to argue either side of a debate.  They had become fast friends.  At least in the beginning.  Before Amaia.

Outside his window, the penumbra of dawn began to creep across the façade of San Esteban as he attempted to suppress the memory of Amaia’s breath against his cheek in the throes of passion as she whispered in his ear.  It seemed strange now looking back, how he had met her by chance one Sunday afternoon when he had broken his collarbone playing rugby, five-on-a-side, in Harmsworth Park and had to be taken to St. Thomas’ Hospital.  As the resident on call, Amaia had smiled at his American accent and explained that she, herself, had been born in Brooklyn to a Spanish father and Irish mother.  As she examined his fractured clavicle, she told him he reminded her of her brother – impulsive with a love of contact sports.

He had flirted with her as she examined his shoulder then sent him for X-rays.  It had turned out to be a hairline fracture.  When he returned from radiology, she had fitted him for a sling and recommended physical therapy.  Handing him her card, she suggested he call her if there were any complications.  Which, of course, there were.  They began dating within the month.

Eventually, she would introduce him to her brother, Jon, who had come to London on business.  She claimed he worked for the U.S. Department of State, which soon turned out to be a lie.  But in truth, Amaia had been a pretty good judge of character.  He and Jon were, indeed, a lot alike.  Five months later, shortly before completing his degree at Oxford, Corbett received an unexpected call from Langley, Virginia.  A mutual friend, Jon Alesander, had recommended him to the Company for possible work as an “analyst.” It was the beginning of the end.

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