The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

deeply into a wide variety subjects.  Thus, it had become a habit, which was why she still tried to run at least three times a week.  Excelling in English and history, she had also decided to join the high school debate team where her skills brought her to the attention of Ms. Oona Murphy, the team’s faculty advisor.  Murphy had attended Northwestern where she had been a debater helping to lead the Wildcats to a national ranking.  Though Ella had been unaware of it at the time, it was Murphy’s quiet but determined influence that had ultimately caused her to choose Northwestern over Carleton, much to her mother’s dismay.

Throughout those years her father had been nothing more than a shadow figure, a distant voice, who would occasionally call from New York to see how she was doing and send money on her birthday or holidays to assuage his guilt.  After the birth of her half-brother Stephen, the calls became even less frequent.  She began to realize that she could barely remember his face.  Over time, she had become reconciled to the idea that her father found her to be an imposition, an uncomfortable reminder of a mistake from his youth when he had been forced to marry her mother after they discovered that Ella was already on the way.  The truth was that he had never really wanted her.  Which was why the arrival of a mysterious box on the eve of her graduation from high school had come as such a surprise.

Having already explained that he would be traveling out of the country on company business throughout the month of June, she had expected his usual $200 gift certificate redeemable on Amazon accompanied by a preprinted card signed “Love, Dad.”  All she had to do to feel the warmth of his sincerity, she thought sarcastically, was place her hands on her computer.  But as she opened the box and removed the packing materials, there within lay a brand-new Nikon D3300-DX Single Lens Reflex camera with a 55-200 mm zoom lens and a handsome black carrying case.  Until that moment she had never given so much as a thought to photography.  But the instant she picked up the camera and looked through the viewfinder, she was hooked.

Throughout the summer before leaving for college, she had become obsessed with every detail of photography.  From f-stops to focal length to depth of field and shutter speed, the camera became an extension of herself.   By the time she left for school in the fall, she had developed her skills to the point where she actually flirted with the idea of possibly becoming a photojournalist.  But having been accepted in English, she would have to wait at least a year before transferring to Medill, Northwestern’s School of Journalism.  And of course, by then she had discovered anthropology, which, unlike English, saw her photographic prowess as a plus.  How strange, she thought, that such seemingly random events could so alter the course of her life.  And now here she was in Spain about to embark on what seemed like the adventure of a lifetime.  Perhaps some things are just meant to be.

In the distance, a flashing sign indicated that a gas station lay just ahead.  As the lead Land Rover began to slow, Antonio followed suit.  At least, Ella thought, this would give her a chance to get out and stretch her legs.

*****

Having spotted the sign for the independent petrol station ahead on the right, Corbett glanced at Gorka.

“How we doing on gas?”

“Just so.  We stop there,” Gorka nodded toward the approaching station as he fished the university voucher from his shirt pocket. “University has account.  We fill up.”

“Sounds good.”

The large neon sign read: La Mejor Compra – Gasolina / Diesel.  Putting on his turn signal, Gorka pulled in rolling up the entrance drive and slowing to a stop at the first gas island.  Following behind them, the rest of the convoy followed suit.  As the three Land Rovers lined up and began to fill their tanks, the two supply trucks moved to the Diesel pump.

Climbing out from behind the wheel, Gorka indicated the cashier’s office with a nod. “I take care of it. Plus, I buy tobacco…  Anything you need?”

“No, I’m good.”

The old man shrugged.  “I pass the word – last chance to pee before we reach camp,” he added with grin.

“Got it,” Corbett took out his cell phone. “Sounds good.  Meantime, I’ll try reaching Sebastian again.”

The old man nodded, then called to Hector to inform the others about the restrooms.

Entering the station office, Gorka nodded to the cashier, an older man with a thick white moustache and a silver crucifix suspended from a chain around his neck.  According to the stitching above his breast pocket, his name was Diego, and he sat perched like a bird on a high stool behind the counter.  “Buenos dias.” He greeted the Basque with a toothy grin.

“¿Como estas…?” Gorka replied, handing him the voucher.  Behind the counter were candy, soft drinks and assorted magazines proclaiming the latest sporting news from Madrid.  Looking over the packages of cigarettes, Gorka spotted several pouches of loose tobacco.

“Tobaco y papeles… por favor.”

“¿Uno…?”

“No, tres” Gorka said with a nod as Diego placed three pouches of tobacco along with cigarette papers and several books of matches on the counter.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Gorka produced a manila envelope with Universidad de Salamanca letterhead.  Explaining that it contained a university purchase order along with a map to the base camp’s location, he said they would need him to deliver Diesel for the generator and propane for the stove once a week beginning next Friday.  Accepting the envelope, Diego thanked him for the business as he tacked the order to the corkboard behind the cash register.  Collecting his tobacco and papers, Gorka headed back out, returning to the lead Land Rover.