The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

toward the still burning ruins of what had once been the clinic, she lashed out at him again. “All this is because of you, Michael.  I hope you burn in hell…”

Corbett said nothing.  The little girl began to cry.   Stepping forward, Tariq handed her back to Amaia then turned to meet Corbett’s gaze with a mixture of anger and resignation. “Give us a minute,” he said at last.

Backing off, Corbett watched as Tariq guided Amaia and their child to one side. They spoke barely above a whisper, but the passions behind their words were intense and clear.  Whatever Tariq was saying, Amaia adamantly refused to accept it as she comforted the little girl, stroking her hair.  But in the end, she had no choice.  Corbett found himself sympathizing with her in spite of himself.  Forced to accept the pervasive sense of his own culpability, he could see no other way out. The casualties of war, he thought.  They also serve who only stand and wait.

As the fire brigade began to get the upper hand on the burning clinic, Amaia cast a last angry look in Corbett’s direction.  Then clutching her daughter, she quickly turned and moved back the way she had come, disappearing up the street.  Stoic, Tariq moved to the rear of the van and retrieved a duffel bag.  Then turning to Corbett, he nodded, “Let’s go.”

*****

 

Jarral had waited all morning for word following the news of the explosion of the IED in the village.  Some confirmation of Tariq’s death that they might announce to the world that the son of the apostate Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr was no more.  A blow struck for Allah and the Caliphate.  But by mid-morning, the local radio was reporting that the detonation of an Improvised Explosive Device in the Basque town of Xeria had destroyed the local medical clinic and killed three people: an old man, a woman, and a ten-year old child.  Since clearly none of the descriptions matched Tariq, Jarral could only presume their plan had failed.  At the same time, the police had reported finding the body of another man who had been killed separately several blocks away.  With no word from Noor, Jarral could only assume the worst.  A new plan would have to be made and made quickly.  The explosion of the IED would surely have alerted the Infidel. No doubt he would attempt to move Tariq without delay.  When he did, Jarral vowed that this time, with Allah’s strength, they would not fail.

He looked down at the shortness of his shadow.  The sun was now nearly directly overhead.  Soon it would be time for Dhuhr, the noon prayer.  Strange, he thought, how the midday prayer had become irrevocably linked in his memory to the reputed collapse of the Islamic Caliphate in Iraq.

It had been during the holy month of Ramadan.  He had just arisen from Dhuhr that day when word had come from Mosul announcing that the Grand al-Nuri Mosque with its leaning minaret had been blown up rather than be allowed to fall into the hands of the Infidels.  Those in the West had taken this shocking event to signify the beginning of the end of ISIS.  But Jarral knew this to be a lie just like the coalition’s declaration that it had totally defeated ISIS on the battlefield.  The true Islamic State was not a physical place but lived in the hearts and minds of the faithful who devoutly believed in Allah as revealed through the words of the Prophet as recorded in the Holy Qur’an.

It was on that very day that Jarral had formed al-Battar, Jihadis in the service of Islam.  Fighters whose sole mission it would be to strike terror in the hearts of all who oppose ISIS and prove to the world that the Islamic State was alive and well and would ultimately triumph victorious over the forces of the West.  For was it not written in the Holy Qur’an: “Fight them until there is no more rebellion, and religion is all for Allah.”  And so it would be.

Timing was key.  Assuming the Infidel must now move Tariq to the mountain camp, Jarral would need confirmation the moment he arrived if they were to successfully launch their attack.  With such short notice, he would have to rely on their informant – the one he had so carefully recruited following word of Tariq’s presence in the Pyrenees.  In the immediate aftermath of the assassination attempt on Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr, coupled with the arrival of the American Infidel in Salamanca, Jarral had felt certain it would only be a matter of time before Allah would call upon al Battar, the Sword of the Prophet, to wreak His wrathful vengeance upon the unbelievers.  And now that time had come.

Unrolling his prayer rug once more, he prepared to pray.

*****

The Land Rover with the damaged front bumper churned its way back up the long winding unmarked blacktop leading from the village below.  It was nearly noon on Sunday and the road was all but devoid of traffic.  Corbett could feel a dull throbbing in both his hands, physical reminders of his brutal encounter with the Jihadi in town. He would have to ice them.  His knees as well.  Clearly, he thought, this business took its toll.

For a long time, Corbett and Tariq drove in silence, each lost in his own thoughts as an uneasy truce spread between them.  Wearing the baseball cap, jeans and work shirt supplied by Corbett, Tariq barely resembled the man ISIS was seeking or so Corbett hoped. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

So much had happened and yet ironically here they were, forced to work together, trust each other one last time despite their differences.  Corbett thought of the hours they had once spent in the coffee houses discussing art and politics at Oxford.  An unbreakable friendship.  Had Amaia not come between them,