The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

Jennet, carefully continued to excavate the area around the twin skulls.   He was still staring at him when Tariq looked up, momentarily catching his eye.  Forcing a nod, Karim tried not to arouse suspicion.  Tariq returned the nod, then resumed his work.

Quickly exiting the cave, Karim slipped unnoticed down the mountain.  Skirting the base camp, he headed toward the dirt and gravel path that led to the main road and the abandoned farmhouse below.  Running now, his mind flashed back to his time at Oxford where he had first been approached by MI-6 to act as an agent on behalf of the Crown. Without letting on that he had already been recruited by ISIS, Karim had accepted the British offer.  Then applying for a summer internship with the University of Salamanca, he had barely reached Spain before Jarral had contacted him.  A situation had arisen.  ISIS needed his help.  Without hesitation, he had volunteered.

Nearly out of breath, he reached the birch grove at last and circled around behind.  Approaching the farmhouse from the rear, he quietly knocked on the weathered wooden door.  Glancing nervously over his shoulder to be sure he was alone, he waited.

*****

Eleven Jihadis now sat together in the barren room at the back of the abandoned farmhouse, cleaning their weapons and preparing for what Jarral had promised would be the penultimate battle – death to Tariq and the American Infidel and all who were with them.  The prelude to Armageddon.

Hearing a soft knock on the rear door, the men exchanged an uneasy look then turned to Jarral who sat cross-legged on the floor sharpening the blade of an ivory handled peshkabz with a whetstone. Rising, he moved to the door and cracked it open just enough to see the intruder’s face.  Standing there, his expression dark and troubled, Karim spoke quickly.

“As-salamu ‘alaykum.”

“Wa’alsykum as-salam.”

Opening the door, Jarral motioned to Karim to step inside.  Declining, the young Pakistani with the British accent shook his head.  “There is no time,” he said.  “Tariq is here.”

“You are sure?” Jarral asked, his mind already alive with possibilities.

“Positive.  I saw him myself.  The American brought him.  He is one of the day laborers from the village.  They have set him to work near the entrance to the cave.”

Jarral frowned as he considered how this would alter his plan of attack.  When he finally spoke, his words came in a rush.

“Then they will attempt to move him as soon as the sun is down.  The question is how?”

He held up the peshkabz.  Eighteen inches from tang to tip, the knife was hollow-ground and capable of cutting through bone in a single stroke.  Staring at it, Karim felt a dryness in his mouth.  While it was true he had trained for such a moment as this two years before when he had returned home to Karachi on the pretext of seeing his parents, the truth was the instruction he had received in one of the Jihadi camps in the Borderlands had been cursory at best.   Until this moment, none of the training he had experienced had seemed remotely real.  Staring at the blade, he felt a sudden chill run the length of his spine.

  “Return to the site but say nothing,” Jarral was saying.  “Stay close to Tariq.  Find out their plan.  How will they move him?  We need details.  Now go. We must make ready.  Praise Allah, the most merciful, who shall welcome us into Paradise.”

With a nod, Karim stepped away from the door sensing the afternoon light upon his neck.  Then turning, he hurried back the way he had come.

Jarral watched him go, then turned to the others. “It is time,” he said.

*****

Carefully repositioning her camera, Ella found herself listening to Aaron Copeland’s “Appalachian Spring” as she prepared to photograph the next series of paintings from the granite wall.  Something in the music reminded her of being a teenager back in Minnesota when the snows finally melted and the air was crisp and fresh with promise.  As Copeland’s idyllic opening bars suddenly gave way, replaced by a burst of arpeggios, she felt a familiar thrill course through her body.  Allowing the music to wash over her, she glanced up to discover a light coming toward her out of the opaque recesses of the upper chamber.  Hesitating, she felt a knot of anticipation at the base of her stomach as Corbett emerged from the darkness.  Pausing the music, she smiled at him as she removed her earbuds.

“What a nice surprise,” she said suppressing an unexpected desire to be held as the fleeting memory of their night together slipped across her mind.  “I thought you said you had business in the village.”

“I did. But I’m back,” he said evenly.  There was something vaguely seductive about the way she wore the loose-fitting powder blue oxford.  Half unbuttoned, it still managed to reveal the curve of her breasts beneath her thermal top.  “Just wanted to stop down and let you know there’s a chance I’ll be gone for a day or two.”

“Really…?” she tried not to sound disappointed.  “Where are you going?”

“University business,” he lied.  “Nothing serious.”

Half turning, he approached to the section of the painting depicting the dark entrance to the cave surrounded by primitive figures armed with spears.  “I’ve been thinking about your theory: that this might actually be the record of some primal conflict.  I think you might be right.”

Impressed by his willingness to reconsider his position, she smiled.  “Really?  What changed your mind?”

“All the evidence we’ve uncovered so far points to the inhabitants of the cave being Neanderthal.  Until recently, Neanderthals were presumed to have gone extinct around 40,000 years ago.  But if we could show through carbon dating that these paintings were more recent – say something in the neighborhood 30,000 – it seems plausible that we are looking at the depiction of some sort of climatic