The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

“Maybe you’d better sit down and let me show you what we have.”  Corbett crossed to his desk and unlocked the case containing the false compartment.  “I should warn you, what you are about to see is difficult to watch.  It shows an attack on your father that occurred in the holy city of Najaf during Ashura.”

Taking out his computer, he plugged it in and powered it up.  Then slipping the Micro SD chip into the card reader, he clicked on the icon.  Moving closer, Tariq uncomfortably dropped into the chair to watch. Instantly, the encrypted memory card began to replay the attack on Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr:  The sea of wild-eyed penitents… The cleric’s arrival at the mosque…  The sudden rush of the assailant… The explosion…  Corbett could not help but notice as the images took their emotional toll, subtly ravaging Tariq’s features as he stared unblinking at the screen.  When the final image faded to black, Corbett shut down the computer.

“You okay…?” he asked.

Tight lipped, Tariq managed a nod but said nothing.  Swallowing hard, he finally found his voice. “Ashura was weeks ago…  My father…?”

“Still alive.  As far as anyone knows.”

“And the people who gave you this…?

“Are prepared to help you reach your father’s side… provided we act now.”

“We…?  I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

“It’s what I do,” Corbett answered quietly without elaborating.

“So you’re still with the Agency?”  Corbett nodded, but remained silent.  “After what happened between us… my coming between you and Amaia.  Taking her away.  We were friends, you and I.  Amaia was…” He hesitated, searching for words.

“What she’s always been.  Free to do whatever she wanted,” Corbett replied.  “Only this isn’t about her.”

Corbett’s words registered.  Meeting his steady gaze, Tariq said nothing, then added, “We have a daughter… A’ishah.”

“The little girl at the clinic…?  Then you’re married?”

“No, she says she loves me but refuses to raise our daughter in Islam.”

“But if you go back…?”

“A child out of wedlock is against Sharia law.  Fornication is forbidden.  The punishment for a woman found guilty of fornication is death by stoning.  So there is no way.  If I go, it must be alone. It is the will of Allah.”  Clearly conflicted, Tariq hesitated, “How soon?”

“Time is against us,” Corbett replied.  “Any delay puts you further at risk.”

“I understand.  Obviously, I must return.  But I need time to set things in order, to explain to Amaia.”

“Then do it.  I’ll make the arrangements.  As soon as we’re ready, how do I reach you?”

“Leave word at the clinic.  Then wait at the café around the corner.  I will meet you there.”

Corbett nodded. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

“I know.”

For a brief moment, their eyes met, the fleeting memory of what had once been the bond between them.  Turning, Tariq quietly slipped from the tent into the gathering dusk.

Corbett watched him go then turned at the sound of someone moving just outside the tent, followed immediately by footsteps on the run.  By the time Corbett reached the tent flap, the intruder was gone.

*****

The battered red Peugeot had pulled off the road and circled around as it approached the base camp.  Making its way without being seen, it quietly maneuvered into a position behind the rock outcropping across from the clearing.  Seated behind the wheel, Raza switched off the ignition.  Beside him, another man, the one they called Akif, sat watching as Tariq exited the far tent and crossed quickly to the medical van.

Pressing his eye to the telescopic sight mounted on the AK-47 now gripped in his hands, Akif placed Tariq’s face squarely in the crosshairs.  Without looking, he simply said: “It’s him.”

“Him…?”

“Tariq… it’s him.” He spoke through clenched teeth, the index finger of his right hand resting on the trigger.

Picking up his cell phone, Raza felt a rush of excitement as he hit auto dial and waited. After a moment, Buttar’s voice crackled out of the cell phone.

“Let me speak to Jarral,” he spoke with urgency into the phone.

“He’s praying,” Buttar replied quickly in Urdu.  “Whatever it is, tell me.”

“Tariq…” Raza said, his voice rising.  “He’s here…!”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.  Positive…” Raza glanced at Akif.  The rifle still clutched in his hands, his right eye pressed against the gun sight, Akif whispered: “We kill him now…?”  Repeating the question into the cell, Raza anxiously waited for Buttar to process this sudden turn.

At the same time, he watched Tariq cross to the grove of trees beyond the gravel path.  Reaching the van, he opened the driver’s side door.  As he climbed behind the wheel, Raza spoke again, his voice now fully limned with urgency: “He’s getting away.  We must act!”

Clutching the cell phone to his ear in the back room of the abandoned farmhouse, Buttar hesitated.  In the yard beyond the window, cloistered within the stand of birch, he could see Jarral now prostrate upon his prayer rug.  Although keenly aware of Jarral’s insistence that Tariq be taken alive, his beheading recorded and posted on YouTube for all to see, Buttar had no such scruples.  As long as they could prove that the son of the cleric had been captured and killed, the message would be clear enough.  But to waver in their resolve and allow Tariq to escape was, in Buttar’s mind, an unacceptable sign of weakness. The time for action was now.

“Do it…  Kill him now,” he commanded at last.

Without warning, Buttar flinched as the sharp crack of an AK-47 came over the cell. Four shots followed in quick succession.

“What is happening…?

No response.

”Speak…!” he commanded.  But instead of a reply, all he could hear was the sound of Raza’s shouts as he berated Akif.  Then the line went dead.

*****

The bullets had pounded into the side of the