The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

“Xeria…” Gorka said, indicating that their destination was at last in sight.  Ella smiled and nodded, relieved that they might actually reach there in one piece.

Coming out of a series of hairpin turns, the Land Rover abruptly overtook an open stake bed truck, hauling goats to market. Forced to apply the brakes at last, Gorka cursed under his breath as he fell in behind and waited for his chance to pass.  As they slowly crawled through one blind turn after another his impatience overtook him, and he suddenly accelerated around the truck only to find a horse drawn hay wagon directly in their path.  Ella started to cry out but the words caught in her throat.  Instead, she shut her eyes tight as Gorka stepped on the gas.  Bracing herself for impact, she did not look up again until she heard the old man’s voice.

“You look now, eh, little one?” he cackled with delight.  “God hates a road hog.”

“You drive like a crazy man.”

The old man shrugged. “I am Euskal.  May be same thing.”

“And you…?” she turned in her seat looking back at Corbett, seemingly unfazed.  “How can you just sit there?”

Corbett shrugged.  “Sometimes you just have to trust the devil you’re with and enjoy the ride,” he said at last. “Zure ordu da, zure ordu da.”

“Really…?”  Ella shook her head. “You’re as bad as he is.”

Turning back, she attempted to ignore them both as the Rover hurtled toward town.

*****

Xeria was a small village of roughly fifteen hundred that served as the center of commerce and agriculture for all who lived within fifty kilometers in any direction.  Driving the Land Rover along the main street leading to the central square, Gorka was forced to pull to the side and park as the road had been closed to traffic for market day.  Climbing out, they began to walk.  Already alive with a mix of farmers, artisans, merchants and housewives, the open-air market consisted of stalls covered by well-worn tarpaulins suspended from poles to shade the produce from the rising sun.

In contrast to the twin cathedrals of Salamanca, Maria Birjina Eliza – the Church of the Blessed Virgin – stood at the center of town facing the square.  Rising barely forty feet above the street below, its bell tower remained the tallest structure for miles.  As they approached the square, Corbett could not help but be struck by the church’s rough, uncomplicated beauty.  A medieval sanctuary, its Romanesque design had been cobbled together from fieldstone and timbers hewn by hand more than a millennium before.  Built as an act of faith.  All who labored had given freely, accepting no earthly payment. Confident their promised reward would await them in heaven.  Corbett stared up at the bell tower in wonder.  The things men do for an unseen God.  Was it the same in every culture, he wondered?  The infinite ways religion played upon human insecurity and man’s fears of the hereafter.

Flies buzzed around the freshly slaughtered lamb that hung from steel hooks in an open-air stall.  Offered for sale beside it were handmade sausages and a selection of rabbits and quail.  Bushels of apples and peaches, lemons and figs stood alongside cucumbers and corn and olives.  Wheels of cheese and bottles of wine, and a hard cider called Txakolin.  Cook fires burned in cast iron charcoal braziers filling the air with a rich mix of exotic aromas.

As they moved down through the streets of the village, Gorka stopped to inhale deeply, his dark hooded eyes immediately alive with culinary possibilities.  “Smell…?” he grinned at Ella as they reached the edge of the market and began to negotiate the crowded stalls.  Watching him, Corbett shook his head as the old man selected a small garlic sausage from a roasting pan and popped it in his mouth.  Savoring the explosion of flavor, he exclaimed, “Loukinkos… superb!  Here you try…” he insisted, offering one to each of them as he purchased a dozen more.

At first uncertain, Ella found herself unable to resist the pungent aroma.  It tasted of garlic and olive oil and exotic spices she could not place.  Seeing the look on her face, Gorka laughed.  “You see. Is good, no?”

She nodded, pleased when he offered her another.

“We’re going to need a couple of men -- maybe four a day to help run cable and set the lights as we begin the excavation.” Corbett said.

“No problem,” the Basque replied. “At same time, I pick up some lamb. Fruits. Vegetables. All delivered. Save trouble.”

Corbett looked at Ella. “Stay with him.  Make sure he doesn’t eat more than he buys.”

Gorka nodded with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he ate another loukinkos.

“All prime cut. Very fresh. You see… Come, little one. I show you how to shop.”

Ella looked desperate.  Her eyes pleaded to Corbett to save her.  “Sure you don’t need any help?” she asked.

“Positive.  Just have to stop by the clinic.  Let them know we’ve arrived. You go ahead.  I’ll catch up.”

Watching Corbett disappear down the cobblestone street, she turned at last to follow Gorka as he began to roam among the stalls.  After all, she thought, if nothing else, it would be an experience she’d never forget.

THIRTEEN

M oving along the hand-wrought cobblestone street, Corbett passed the clusters of whitewashed houses with their red tiled roofs.  At the far end of the street, he spotted what passed for a hospital. A two-story wood and brick building, it stood out like an afterthought, totally apart from the rest of the village.  A large sign, written in Euskararen, the language of the Basques, and hand painted in block letters, hung above the oaken door:  “MUGARIK GAREKO MEDIKUAK – XERIA FREE MEDIKU KLINIKA.”

As he approached, Corbett could see that the door was ajar. Pushing inside, he found the cramped waiting room filled with old men,