The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

the talisman into the void listening as it ricocheted off the rocks in the darkness below.  Bleeding and alone, unable to move, the Neanderthal could do nothing now but wait as he felt his life slowly slipping away.

 

 

ONE

 

A t first glance, it had seemed to Michael Corbett like a fortunate coincidence.  A project tailor made for someone with his background and unique skills. But now as he sat in the fifth-row window seat on the starboard side of an Iberia flight bound for Salamanca by way of Madrid, he began to have second thoughts.

Studying the contents of the file that had been emailed to him overnight at his Gibraltar hotel by Dr. Gabriel Asurias of the University of Salamanca, he had the uncomfortable feeling that this might not have occurred entirely by chance after all.  Having arrived in Gibraltar just two weeks earlier, Corbett had originally been retained by the University of Pennsylvania to oversee an archeological excavation of Neanderthal remains discovered in an abandoned limestone quarry on Gibraltar’s north face only to have the funding fall through at the last minute.  Left temporarily unemployed, he had been preparing to return to the States when Asurias’s telegram arrived.  An archeologist originally brought in by the university to oversee the excavation of a cave in the Pyrenees had suffered a cardiac episode and been forced to withdraw at the last minute.  Was Corbett available on such short notice?

Corbett immediately wired back to say that he was and could he see the research.  Pleased, Asurias had promptly emailed the research file along with a contract and a voucher for Iberia Airlines.  The next morning he found himself at Gibraltar International. With Flight 3417 only half full and open seating, Corbett found a seat by himself and set to work.

As he opened his laptop and began to read through the file, Corbett couldn’t help questioning the timing of events.  A week before, he had been contacted by Langley inquiring about his availability for an unspecified project of extreme urgency.  Just a feeler.  But having committed to Penn for the Gibraltar dig, he had felt obligated to decline. Then like dominoes tumbling, in less than a week, the Penn project folded and the Salamanca offer arrived in his in-box.  Mere happenstance? Or was it the kind subversive request known as a Langley “love note” – the Company’s way of asking you to bend over and take one for the team without ever really asking?  Sort of proctology practiced by other means. Deciding he was becoming entirely too paranoid he pushed his doubts aside and forced himself to focus on the computer file before him.

The subject of the Salamanca dig was a cave high in the Pyrenees Mountains that had been recently exposed by a seismic shift.  An unspoiled site.  The possibilities intrigued him.  As he read through the file a second time, he began taking notes.  Within the hour, they landed at Madrid-Barajas Airport.   Checking his watch, Corbett waited for several passengers to deplane.  Then, just as they were about to close the cabin door, a single passenger, a wizened old woman dressed in black and pulling a beat-up carry-on suitcase, hurried aboard.  Making her way along the aisle, she stopped beside Corbett’s row and began struggling to lift her suitcase. Her hair was dark and pulled severely back.  And her eyes were a strikingly pale blue.  When no one moved to help her, Corbett unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped into the aisle.

“¿Puedo ayudarte?”  he asked indicating her suitcase.  Nodding, she watched as Corbett opened the overhead compartment.  But when he went to lift the case, he was surprised at its weight. Glancing at the woman, he grinned.

“Heavy…,” he said.  “Must be packing a bag of hammers.”

The woman never cracked a smile.

Stowing her case with effort, Corbett shut the overhead door.  As he returned to his seat, the old woman hesitated indicating the empty seat beside him.

“You are American…?”  Her eyes arrested his gaze.

Corbett managed a nod.

Then in broken English she added: “The seat… taken, yes?”

“Taken…?” Corbett shook his head.  “No, no… please.  Sit down.”

As the old woman sat down beside him and buckled her seatbelt, she mumbled, “Most kind.” Corbett tried to place her accent without success.  Definitely not Spanish.  If he were to guess, he’d have said she was a Gitana – a Romani or Gypsy.

Once the flight attendant had completed her pre-flight routine, Corbett asked:  “How did you know I was American?”

The woman demurred with a shrug but said nothing.  The plane began to taxi.  Neither spoke again until they were airborne.  Then reaching over, she placed her hand upon his forearm. As Corbett reacted to her touch, her penetrating eyes met his.

“There is a journey.  Deep into the mountains to the north. Others will need you.  There is much danger.”

Struck by her words, Corbett forced a smile. “Danger…?”  When she didn’t respond, it hit him.  This had to be a con. The next thing she would ask for would be money in exchange for the lurid details.  It was a game as old as time.

For a long moment, the woman said nothing then added.  “In España, señor, one must always beware.”  Placing her palms together, she closed her eyes and began silently to pray.

She’s good, he thought.  Stringing him along before making her pitch.  He resolved not to bite.

As the plane continued to climb, the awkward silence between them continued.  The flight from Gibraltar had been relatively smooth.  But the moment the plane turned toward Salamanca the winds kicked up.  With the turbulence beginning to buffet the plane, the woman took out an ancient rosary and began to pray just above a whisper: “Padre nuestro, que estas en el cielo…”  After several minutes as the pilot climbed above the turbulence, the old woman drifted into a fitful sleep.  Turning to his computer, Corbett went back to