The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

there be something else?  Somewhere in the recesses of her mind the thought occurred that she might be over-thinking his intentions.  Attempting to force Corbett from her thoughts, she turned on her MP3.  A moment later, Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 5 in D Major filled her with renewed energy as she began to refocus on the work before her.

But despite her best intentions, she found herself unable to completely shake Corbett from her mind.  The very fact that he might be coming back at any moment produced a kind of urgency.   As she finished the final shot of the day, she stopped and looked around at her equipment now strewn across the furniture pads in random disarray.  Kneeling, she began to collect and return everything to its proper place.  Then refolding and repositioning the heavy-duty pads, she attempted to create a more inviting space near the paintings themselves.  A soft glow emanated from the opposing banks of lights illuminating the immediate area while simultaneously generating enough heat to overcome the chill dank air.

Stopping at last, she took stock of what she had just done.  As the music of Bach segued into Mozart’s sensuous Piano Sonata Number 21, she was overtaken by a sudden impulse to do something foolish.  Uncoupling the belt that held her MP3 player, she set it down beside her camera case and took the earbuds from her ears.  Then opening the zipper to her top exposing her throat, she reached down and grasped the bottom of her thermal top with both hands. Pulling it up over her head, she set it aside then quickly removed her sports bra.  With a strange sense of liberation, she tossed it down beside the case as well.  But as she pulled her top back on, she was almost immediately seized by second thoughts. Staring down at the bra, she experienced a momentary twinge of doubt.  What was she doing?  She really didn’t want to appear to be throwing herself at him.  Only to be ready should the moment arise.  But suppose she were totally misreading the signals?  What if he had really meant what he said about not allowing things to go any further? Would she look like a fool?  How long had he been gone?  What if something had come up and he couldn’t make it back?

In the midst of these questions, she thought she heard the sound of someone coming.  Had she somehow been so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she had failed to hear the winch?   Kneeling down beside the camera case, she quickly opened it and stuffed the MP3 player along with her bra inside.  Then picking up the Canon Mark III, she sat down facing the paintings.  Selecting the digital menu, she began to scroll through the day’s work, attempting to appear busy.

*****

Returning late to the abandoned farm house, Jarral collected his prayer rug and stepped out into the cool evening behind the farmhouse. The moon was on the wane.  The sound of a rock thrush could be heard calling to its mate somewhere in the night.  Spreading the rug beneath the trees once more, he raised his hands even with the lobes of his ears, palms facing toward Mecca, and began to pray. Having missed the appointed time, he took longer than usual to finish, knowing that he would still be able to have a small repast then pray one final time before retiring.

Standing in the shadows, Sameer and Umair waited in silence for Jarral to complete his prayer before intruding.  When he finally began to roll up his rug, Sameer broke the silence.

“Praise be to Allah, the most just and powerful,” he began, “But the time of patience is at an end.  Tariq should already be long dead and these Infidels with him.  Words are no longer enough.  The men grow restless.  They demand action.”

Hearing the echo of Buttar’s words in this, Jarral immediately knew the source of their discontent.  Waiting for Sameer to finish, Jarral said nothing.

“The men…?” he said at last.  “And who besides Buttar has been saying these things?”

Hearing Buttar’s name, Sameer and Umair exchanged an uneasy glance.

“All of us,” Sameer said at last. “We come to you with one voice.  We must act now.”

“And what do you propose?”

“The Infidel has already led us to the village. Tariq has been spotted entering the clinic where this woman is doctor.  We have the explosives.  I say we drive the truck into the village and park it near the clinic.  Connect the firing mechanism, set the fuse and be done with it.”

“And if it fails to kill Tariq?”

“It will still have sent the message.  The Infidel will recognize he must move Tariq quickly.  They will act before they are ready. And when they do, we will kill them all.”

“And photographic proof of his death?”

“Will make no difference once we declare Tariq has been killed if they are unable to refute it.”

Jarral allowed the idea to percolate.  At last he met Sameer’s expectant gaze.  “When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.  We drive the truck down to the village early and park it near the clinic before anyone is awake.  Then attach the C-4 to a cell phone.  When Tariq appears… we call the number.”

Carefully weighing his options, Jarral realized that to refuse to act in the face of such unanimity would undermine his position. He had tried his best to hold the line but had come up short.  At last, he nodded.  “Let the will of Allah be done.”

 

*****

 

Having passed on the pungent rabbit stew that Gorka had called “untxi gisatua,” Corbett had him prepare a plate of tapas and place them in a cardboard box. Then collecting a bottle of vino blanco, he headed back up the mountain.

Descending in the lift once more, he spotted the laser scanner still perched on its tripod where Roberto and Karim had completed their