The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

continued to pound into Jon Alesander’s lifeless body, Corbett was suddenly gripped by a familiar fear that settled in the pit of his stomach, a sense of nausea coupled with helplessness.  The memory of 9/11.  His sister’s scream…!  The explosion of jet fuel.   The sense that if he had somehow moved sooner, acted faster.  A sickening sense of vertigo began to sweep over him…

Shutting his eyes tightly, Corbett attempted to erase the memory without success.  Returning his gaze out the window, he watched as the fractured limestone outcroppings besieged by lichen and scrub oak slowly gave way to the Euskal Herriko – the rugged mountains of the Basques that culminate in Txindoki Peak.

Beside him, the old man was singing.  The unmarked road had narrowed to two lanes as they proceeded through a series of switchbacks.

“Lau andre, hirur mutxurdin… Bat alarguna, jarriak itzalean…

Harri xabal bat belaunen painean… Ari ziren, ari ziren trukean…”

Turning to Corbett the old man grinned.  “You like this song.  Very old, very Basque.  About four old women gambling and drinking.”

Obviously feeling more at home as the elevation climbed, Gorka rolled a fresh cigarette with one hand and gripped it between his teeth as Corbett watched with a mixture of fascination and mild panic.  Firing up a match, he touched it to the exposed end.  Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs once more, he held it for a long moment before finally exhaling as he continued to hum his ancient Euskara tune.

*****

Walling off the images of death, Corbett attempted to refocus.  Recalling his discovery of the tracking device, he wondered who had planted it?  Whoever it was was out there somewhere trying to track their every move.  Corbett began sorting out his priorities.  While excavating the cave for the university posed a challenge, it was manageable precisely because the problems were purely either logistical or physical.  What concerned him were the unknown factors.  Finding Tariq and exfiltrating him as quickly as possible.  Anything that might get in the way of that was simply a distraction to be avoided.

He started to recalibrate the variables.  Assuming Tariq could be found, what were the chances he would be willing to return to Iraq voluntarily?  True his father needed him.  But what if there were extenuating circumstances?  What if he resisted?   And what if his father were to die in the meantime?  How would that change the calculus?  What other potential complications had Reed intentionally failed to mention?  And then there was the matter of Amaia.

Closing his eyes once more, Amaia’s face rose up to meet him. Her mysterious eyes like dark unfathomable pools. Her black hair pulled back.  Lips full. The touch of her tongue as it probed his own.  Her firm breasts, nipples aroused and erect.  Their urgent lovemaking that first time on the floor of her flat.  Running barefoot through the sculpture garden in Regent’s Park at dawn.  At the time, it had all seemed so right.  And yet…

Ironically, it had been Corbett, himself, who had introduced her to Tariq.  It was a rainy afternoon over coffee in the Vaults.  He needed to leave early to meet his tutor. Tariq said he would see her home.  It seemed to be nothing more than a friendly gesture.  It was spring and with examinations coming, Corbett had explained to her that he was going to need to sequester himself in order to prepare.  Within weeks, he was offered the job to train as an “analyst” at Langley, which meant relocating to Virginia almost immediately after completing his degree.  He had expected her to be upset.  Instead, she said she had spoken to her brother and understood completely.  Suggesting they make a clean break of things, not wait until the end, she had embraced him one last time.  Their lips barely brushed as she kissed him goodbye, then turned and walked away.  At the time, he had felt it was probably best for both of them.

As it turned out, Langley was more demanding than he had originally expected.  Idyllically situated in Virginia horse country, it boasted more horse’s asses than horses anywhere with the possible exception in the District of Columbia. Somewhat predictably, like in the Army, he did not entirely fit in but quickly adapted.  By focusing on the work, the year had passed quickly. It wasn’t until he returned to England from the States that Corbett discovered Amaia and Tariq had moved in together.  Not surprising considering the surgical way she had ended things coupled with the fact that he had been gone for so long.  Even so, he could still remember the sting of betrayal at seeing them together. Closing his eyes, he tried to put the memory behind him.

As the sun slowly descended toward the western horizon, the convoy continued to weave its way up the narrow road into the mountains.

 

ELEVEN

 

T he old stone farmhouse stood abandoned by the side of the road, its rotting roof beams sagging under their own weight.  A small stand of birch helped to obscure it from the unpaved dirt path that climbed steeply from the two-lane blacktop of the main road below.  As the convoy approached, Gorka downshifted.  Turning the lead Land Rover off the main road he dropped it into four-wheel drive.  One by one, the others did the same.

“Now you see.  Road goes straight up mountain.” The old man said.

“Road…?” Corbett shook his head as he stared out at the barely discernible overgrown dirt and gravel path stretching before them.

“Bai…! Road gets rough now,” the Basque laughed.

Corbett could hear the gearbox begin to labor as they started the final ascent. Looking off to his left as they rolled past, he stared at the spectral farmhouse and wondered how long it had been since anyone had lived there.  He marveled at the resourcefulness of a people to survive in this unforgiving land.  No wonder the Basques had