The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

while your perception of each day retreats until, at age forty-one, you watch your life careen past like a drunken Goliard sloshed on altar wine.  Another day – a mere fifteen-thousandth of the original.  Blink and it’s gone.  Blink again and…

“Salamanca, Boss…” Hector abruptly broke in upon his thoughts as el carril de paso disappeared, collapsing into a two-lane city street with all the attendant traffic snarls as things slowed to a crawl.  Hector shouted above the blare of car horns. “Goddamn city drivers… but not to worry.  I get you there pretty quick.”

“Am I staying near the university?”

“Si, Senor.  The Hotel Palacio de San Esteban.  Very famous.  Dr. Asurias has seen to everything.”

“You said we were meeting him this evening?”

“The Plaza Mayor around nine. He has asked me to make the reservations.  I will confirm and call you at your hotel to let you know.  Give you a little time to rest after such a long trip, no?”

“Si… not to mention our reception committee,” he added dryly.

“Recepción…?” Hector appeared momentarily confused, then smiled. “Ah si… el culeros.”

Picking his way through the crowded streets, Hector drove the van across the bridge over the Río Tormes and several streets later arrived at the Hotel Palacio de San Esteban.  Built in the 16th century as a Dominican convent, the massive exterior stonewalls were all that remained of the original structure.  Cloistered cells transformed into well-appointed rooms for the well-to-do.

As they pulled through the stone gates and rolled up the drive, Hector brought the van to a stop before the lobby entrance.  Seeing them arrive, a uniformed bellman came out to greet them wheeling a plush brass and velvet luggage trolley.  Climbing out from behind the wheel, Hector opened the trunk and nodded to the bellman, allowing him to retrieve Corbett’s suitcases.

“All set,” Hector said at last. “I will let Dr. Asurias know you have arrived. Hasta luego…”

“Luego,” Corbett replied. Then shouldering his computer case and travel bag, he followed as the bellman pushed the trolley up the short walk and entered the hotel.  At the same time, an innocuous gray Jetta idled near the end of the drive, unnoticed.  As Corbett stepped into the cool quiet of the lobby, the driver of the Jetta, a man named Buttar, executed a tight U-turn and drove off.

 

FOUR

 

T he lobby occupied the main floor of the hotel with its stone staircase and iron railing leading to the second floor.  One wall was lined with bookshelves while comfortable chairs, arranged in pairs and separated by coffee tables, gave the impression of a private club. To one side stood the front desk. Crossing the dark marble floor, Corbett nodded to the uniformed clerk on duty.

“Buenos días… ¿Habla usted Inglés?”

“Si, señor… You are checking in?”

“Michael Corbett… I’m here with the university.”

“Of course. Professor Asurias’s office has taken care of everything.  May I see your passport?  And if you would please sign the register….” Handing his passport to the clerk, Corbett picked up the pen.

As Corbett signed his name, the clerk made a photocopy of his passport and removed the key card from its slot.  He handed it to the bellman: “Luis, please show Señor Corbett to 303…” Then smiling, he nodded to Corbett: “It affords a view of San Esteban.  I hope you will enjoy your stay with us.  And I almost forgot…”  Taking a plain white envelope from the cubicle marked 303, he handed it to Corbett: “This just arrived for you this afternoon.  If you will follow Luis, he will show you to your room.”

“Gracias.”

Glancing at the envelope, Corbett turned it over in his hands.  It was blank except for his name written in block letters across the front. With a nod of thanks to the clerk, Corbett slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket and followed the bellman as they moved to the elevators.

Room 303 was a single with a large queen-sized bed and a view of the monastery.  Corbett waited for Luis to adjust the air conditioning, point out the light switches, the minibar and the personal security safe.  When all was done, Corbett tipped the man and waited until he shut the door behind him.  Alone at last, he locked the door and took out the envelope.

As he tore it open, a single ticket fell out landing on the bed.  Retrieving it, he stared at the image of a mounted figure confronting a bull. The text read: “Entrada – Corrida de Rejoneo.”  Corbett shook his head.  Coincidence, my ass.  He checked his watch.  A little before four o’clock. Recalling the famous lines from a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca, the Corrida de Toros would begin at five. Pocketing the ticket, he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the tap.  Splashing cold water on his face, he stared into the mirror.  So much for sleep.

Drying his face, he moved to the bed and opened the computer case, removing his laptop. Then stepping to the room safe, he placed the computer inside and set the combination. Locking it, he grabbed his jacket and key card and headed out the door.

*****

Taking a taxi to the Plaza del Toros, he arrived a few minutes before five.  Known to the locals as “La Glorieta,” the bullring was 54 meters in diameter and dated from the 1890s. On a good day, La Glorieta could hold over ten thousand spectators.  This day, however, the crowd was perhaps half that.  Built in the classical style, three levels of red brick trimmed with white stone, the flags of Spain and Castilla y Leon rippled above the entrance as Corbett presented his ticket and stepped into the cool, cavernous space beneath the stands.  A young boy pulled at his sleeve, holding up a program with an illustration of a bullfighter on horseback – a rejoneador – barely evading the charge of a bull.