The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

before being supplanted by the new.  But unable to part with its past, the citizens of Salamanca had refused to demolish the old edifice.  Instead they had created a curious hybrid with the north wall of the original supporting the south wall of its replacement.

Their joint exterior now rose into the night sky, illuminated by floodlights from below.  Reaching the entrance to the Old Cathedral, he turned to his right and stepped through the doorway into the musty silence of the basilica.  The smell of burning tapers clotted the air. Directly before him at the far end of the nave beyond the transept stood the apse, a monumental gilded reredos by Dello Delli Florentino.  In 53 painted panels it retold the lives of Jesus and the Virgin Mary capped by a ceiling fresco of the Risen Christ on the Day of Reckoning painted by his brother Nicola.  Dating from the 15th century, as a work of art alone, it retained a kind of majesty that still seemed formidable, Corbett thought, even for a non-believer like himself.

Stepping to the right of the altar, he found the statue of the Blessed Virgin and bought a votive candle for two Euros, depositing the coins in the wooden collection box.  Lighting the taper, Corbett said a silent prayer for his sister, Margaret, her husband and three-year old daughter as the haunting memory of their terrified screams reverberated once more through the chambers of his mind.   Forcing the image of the burning towers from his thoughts, he slipped the taper into a glass cylinder on the rack beneath the statue of the Blessed Virgin.  At the same time, as if materializing out of the darkness, Reed was standing beside him.  Purchasing a candle, Reed prepared to light it as well.

“You’ve been busy,” he said in a quiet businesslike tone.

“Yeah. The nightlife’s been killing me.”

“So we hear.  Anyone we know?”

“No idea… but he wasn’t Spanish.”

Digesting this, Reed frowned.  “ISIS…?”  He glanced at Corbett out of the corner of his eye as he inserted his candle into a cylinder as well.

“Could be.”

“Watch yourself.  It would be extremely inconvenient if the Company had to find someone to replace you.”

“I’m touched,” Corbett replied.  The Company’s concern exuded all the warmth of a fart in a snowstorm. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing fancy.  Just locate Tariq.  Exfiltrate him. We’ll do the rest. Whatever you need, let us know.”

“Right,” Corbett nodded, inwardly amused by Reed’s use of Company jargon.  “Exfiltrate.”  What a word.  Why not just say it in plain English?  Find Tariq and get him out of Spain without attracting the authorities.

“Unfortunately, you’re going to have to work faster than we’d hoped.  The word we’re hearing is that his father may not make it much longer.  I’ll drop you an encrypted email.  Code name: ‘Mother.’  As soon as you make contact, reply in kind.”

“Got it.”

“Any questions?”

“Just one…” Corbett hesitated.  “Gibraltar – did the funding really fall through… or did the Company ‘intercede’…?”

Reed said nothing.  As the silence lengthened, Corbett glanced to his right to find himself standing alone.

“Fuck me,” he whispered as if in answer to his own question.  Then turning, he headed back along the side aisle and out into the evening mist.

*****

In the darkened backroom of a cramped apartment beyond the Rio Tormes, Jarral turned toward Mecca and prepared for the evening prayer known as Isha’.  Having bathed and donned a freshly laundered thawb, he stood on the prayer mat and raised his hands, palms outwards, until they were even with the lobes of his ears.

“Allahu Akbar,” he whispered placing his hands upon his chest, right over left. Continuing to pray, he began to recite the Ayat as-sayf, the Verse of the Sword:

So when the sacred months have passed away.

Then slay the idolaters wherever you find them,

And take them captives and besiege them,

And lie in wait for them in every ambush.

Completing his prayer, Jarral bowed from the waist. “Allah is attentive to those who praise Him. Our Lord, to You is due all praise.” Then prostrating himself twice, he whispered again: “Allahu Akbar,” before rising.

The evening prayer had helped him to regain his focus.  Rolling up the prayer mat, he put it away and moved to where a cot stood against the far wall.  Lying down on his back, he stared into the darkness.  His mind, however, was still too cluttered to sleep.

Only two weeks before, he had received word from the city of Najaf that the leader of the newly formed Iraqi coalition government, Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr, had been critically wounded in an attack and now lay near death.  Strenuous efforts were being made by the Western Allies to locate al-Bakr’s son, Tariq, who was reportedly living somewhere in the remote mountains of northern Spain.  Should the infidels find and return him to Iraq in time, he would breathe fresh life into the coalition’s chances for success and deliver a significant blow to the dreams of a permanent Islamic State.  However, if Tariq were to die before reaching his father’s side, then the Caliphate might arise anew and quickly fill the void.

Thus, Jarral had made inquiries.  An archeological expedition into those very mountains was soon to depart.  By the grace of Allah, he had been able to recruit an informant who told him of a last-minute addition to the team: an American named Michael Corbett was being brought in to direct the operation.  The press release put out by the university had included Corbett’s biography, which mentioned that he had studied at Magdalen College, Oxford.  Just as Tariq had done.  For Jarral, the coincidence confirmed the connection.  Thanking his informant, he ordered him to stay close to the American.  If Jarral was correct, the Infidel would lead them to Tariq, Allah be praised.  At last, he closed his eyes.  Morning could not come too soon.