The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

Built in the 19th century, Una Canción Antigua was an open-air café with long wooden tables and passable food.  Its walls were covered in photos and paraphernalia touting Real Madrid FC, and a 72-inch television screen which was tuned to a cable sports channel. While the others ate, Corbett made arrangements to pay the bill while attempting to call ahead to alert Sebastian that they would be arriving later than expected.  Unable to get through to the base camp on his cell phone, Corbett motioned to Gorka that it was time to get everyone up and moving.  As they left Burgos behind, the condition of the roads began to decline as they started their climb into Basque country.

“You were able to contact base camp?” Gorka asked without taking his eyes off the winding road.

“No signal,” Corbett confessed.  “Maybe once we get closer.”

The old man shook his head. “It’s these mountains. I don’t think you talk too much.”

“You’re joking…” Corbett reacted as the Basque shrugged. “We’re that cut off?”

“It is why we have never been conquered.”  The old Basque smiled. “The land, she is like a woman, no…?”

Corbett stared out at the rocky updrafts and steep drop-offs. “Meaning what…? Beautiful… mysterious?”

The old man shook his head again.  “Deceiving.  Behind her beauty is a dark and brooding ground. They say when God made man, he took the bones from a Basque graveyard…. Euskal Herrira – the land of the Basques.  Always has been.  Always will be.”

Having pre-rolled a half dozen cigarettes before leaving that morning, he took one from his shirt pocket and fished for a sulfur match, igniting it with his thumbnail.

“Land of the Basques…?” Corbett asked, knowing it would provoke him. “Not Spain?”

Inhaling deeply, Gorka allowed the smoke to invade his lungs before answering.

“Never Spain.  Before Christ, Hannibal used Basques to fight against Rome.  Pompey, who fought with Caesar could not subdue us. Iruña – the town the touristas now call Pamplona, where they run with the bulls…? – is named in honor of Pompey’s defeat.  Vandals, Visigoths, Muslims, Franks… everybody try, everybody fail. These mountains are a graveyard.  Only Euskadi remains…” he looked sideways at Corbett. “You know ‘Euskadi’…?”

Drawing on his cigarette again, Gorka waited for an answer. Corbett said nothing.

“Means Basque Nation… my country.”

“Euskadi…”

“Bai… yes, exactly so.”

“Even though most people would disagree?”

“Most people have no eyes.  A true nation lives in the hearts of its people.  Euskadi is a true nation.”

The older man continued to smoke in silence, allowing his words to sink in.

*****

At the same time, two vehicles behind, Ella sat in the front passenger seat as Antonio drove in silence, smoking a Ducados with one arm out the window.  In the rear seat behind them, Roberto and Karim passed the time playing video games on their cell phones.  Grateful for not having to make small talk, Ella rolled down her window, feeling the rush of warm air as it caressed her cheeks and tousled her hair. There was something about Spain that she had found intoxicating from the very first.  A magic land alive with an arcane history and exotic traditions.  So unlike anything she had known growing up in the Midwest.

She half-frowned as she remembered the way her faculty advisor, Professor Blackwell, back at Northwestern had attempted to dissuade her from switching her major from English to anthropology.  Noting that she had been a straight-A student with a gift for writing, Blackwell seemed to be taking it personally as she asked what had prompted such an unexpected and radical change.  Explaining that she had recently attended a lecture on the evolution of the Neanderthals, Ella confided that the idea of exploring Stone Age cultures had excited her imagination more than anything she had ever experienced studying English literature.  Shaking her head with an indulgent smile, Blackwell, who had herself once spent a summer working with Outward Bound in Costa Rica and therefore felt she knew of where she spoke, suggested that based on a single evening’s presentation Ella was allowing herself to become infatuated with the romantic notion of archeology portrayed in movies and popular fiction.  She then attempted to paint a more realistic picture of what she could expect assuming she could even land a job in the field.  Harsh conditions unlike anything she had ever experienced.  Living in remote camps far from civilization.  Frequently having to go without even the most basic necessities.  Spending endless days sifting through mounds of detritus in search of minutia that almost no one cares about.  Being underpaid and underappreciated.  Why would she knowingly subject herself to such deprivation? Remembering her answer, Ella suppressed a smile: “Because the only thing I’m absolutely sure of is that I don’t want to lead an ordinary life.”  Annoyed by the answer but lacking a ready retort, Blackwell had reluctantly signed her permission slip and Ella was on her way.

As the countryside gradually became more rural, Ella noticed the faint odor of burning wood.  In the distance, she spotted smoke curling from the stone chimney of a small farmhouse.  Strangely, it reminded her of growing up as a teenager on the outskirts of Northfield, Minnesota. Having come from New York City, she had never felt entirely at home in the small rural town whose motto was “Cows, Colleges and Contentment.”  Yet no matter how often she had attempted to explain this to her mother, her protests fell on deaf ears.

Always the outsider, she had had few friends.  By the time she reached high school, her mother had insisted that she would need to participate in extracurricular activities if she wanted to go to college.  So she had grudgingly decided to go out for cross-country. Never a great runner, she grew to love the enforced isolation of distance running since it allowed her mind the time to delve more