The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

battle – a kind of prehistoric last stand.  Where the last of the Neanderthals fought and were overwhelmed by Cro-Magnon invaders.”

His description excited her imagination.

“That would be incredible.”

“For the moment, let’s just say it’s a legitimate possibility.”

“Maybe by the time you get back, I’ll have more to show you,” she self-consciously smiled.  The awkwardness of the moment made her words feel stilted.  “At least you’ll know where to find me.”

“Right.” He turned back.  “How long do you expect it’s going to take you to finish?”

“Documenting the wall?” She hesitated then shrugged.  “Total, probably a week to ten days.”

“That long?” He stared at the wall.  “I would have thought a couple of more days at most.”

“Actually, it depends,” She said pointing to a section at the far right where a sharp rock overhang was casting a shadow over a portion of the painting. “Details matter.  To do it right, areas like that require careful relighting.  And that takes time.  But in the end, I think you’ll be pleased when you see the final results.  Why, is there a rush?”

“Not really.  But given the double skeletons Sebastian’s discovered near the mouth of the cave, I’m going to need you to make a photographic record of them as well.”

“Absolutely.  As soon as I’m done down here, we can move everything up there,” she replied, pleased at the prospect of working with him on a second project.  “Was there anything else?”

“That should do it,” he glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run.  I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Right.  I’ll be here.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer as if neither wanted the conversation to end.

“And don’t forget to eat,” he said with a grin.  Then turning, he started back the way he had come.

Watching him go, she slipped her earbuds back in place and un-paused her music.  As Copeland’s score once again filled her head with images of spring, she reminded herself that what had happened the night before was nothing more than a memory.  Soon she was again lost in her work.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

D ust particles danced through the late afternoon sunlight near the mouth of the cave as Tariq stood operating the sifting screen.  Kneeling to one side, the student volunteer known as Nestor carefully excavated the space surrounding the twin skulls with a trowel, depositing the loose soil into a bucket, which Jennet then spread across the wire mesh.  By carefully shaking the screen back and forth, Tariq managed to free the detritus, causing it to fall away, leaving behind only fossilized fragments of bone and other forensic evidence.  These, Sebastian had explained to him, would then be collected and placed on flat wooden trays to be tagged for identification later.  It was a tedious, mind numbing process, but at least it had helped to pass the time.

As the hours slipped away, Tariq’s mind had begun to wander.  He thought of his father whose sense of obligation and enlightened views had shaped his own.  Having been one of Iraq’s foremost scholars, Ahmed Abdul-Qadir-al-Bakr had been a voice of moderation.  Convinced that Saddam Hussein could be persuaded, he had argued for government reform following the failure of the First Gulf War. But with that war, Saddam’s paranoia had only deepened, and in the end, Tariq’s father had been forced to flee with his family to the West, seeking asylum in the UK.  Tariq had been twelve and despite his father’s insistence that their dislocation was only temporary, he had enrolled his son in Eton.  It was the beginning of his education in the ways of the West.

Following the events of 9/11 and the ravages of the Second Gulf War, things in Iraq changed yet again as the Americans invaded, toppling Saddam and sending the country into chaos.

Having matriculated by then to Oxford, Tariq had begun to feel more English than Iraqi. His dark good looks, his fluency in English, his circle of friends, both British and American, had allowed him to slowly reinvent himself.  He had stopped praying.  He began to introduce himself as Terry Baker.  He enjoyed the nightlife.  He had a series of English girlfriends.  Life was good.  And then one day, his father asked him to meet him for dinner at London’s Savoy Hotel.

There, over grilled lobster from the Isle of Skye, Ahmed al-Bakr had informed his son of his decision to return home.  If Iraq were to become a nation again, it would need men like al-Bakr to step forward, to make a difference.  Tariq was stunned.  Given the violence and uncertainties of war, not to mention the rise of ISIS, he had questioned the wisdom of such a move. But his father remained steadfast, insisting that he could no longer sit passively by and ignore his country in its time of need.  As matter of faith and of personal honor, he had no choice but to return.

Then staring across the table, his father had asked him directly.  Once his studies were complete, would Tariq be willing to join him there as well?  Not wishing to disappoint him, yet unable to fully commit, Tariq had managed a nod.  Of course, he would come if his father called.  And so he had struck a devil’s bargain. Promising his father while silently praying that such a time would never come.

But in the months following his father’s departure, Tariq’s growing friendship with an American named Michael Corbett had taken an unexpected turn.  Corbett had introduced him to a girl, one whom Corbett himself had intimated he was seriously involved with, an American doctor named Amaia Alesander.  From the moment he met her, Tariq had felt a connection that was both visceral and immediate.  More intense than anything he had ever experienced.  When Corbett had to return to the States for some sort of extended training, Tariq’s relationship with her had deepened.  By the