The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

“Por favor, señor…” the boy attempted his most sympathetic face. “¿Compre un programa…? Solo dos Euros…” Declining with a wave of his hand, Corbett started to move past only to be grabbed again. “Okay, okay…” the boy said, abruptly switching to English.  “For you, I make special: un Euro…” the boy entreated. “Deal?”   Grinning despite himself, Corbett shook his head and dug a one Euro coin from his pocket, handing it to the boy. “Deal,” he said.  Without warning, the boy turned and took off with both the money and the program. Before Corbett could grab him, the boy was gone, lost in the crowd.  “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Another budding entrepreneur.”

Climbing the stone steps leading to the door marked “Entrada,” Corbett emerged from the darkness into the brilliant afternoon light. Moving to his right he found the shade of the “Sombra” section.  Checking the ticket against the numbered rows, he located his seat – second from the aisle – and settled in just as the trumpets sounded. Instantly, the crowd rose to its feet with a spontaneous roar.

Across the ring to his left, a pair of gates opened, allowing the paseillo or parade of the participants to begin.  First came two distinguished looking bearded elderly riders known as Alguacullos, the judges or magistrates, whose job it would be to preside over the bullfight and whose rule in the bullring was law. Riding matched horses and dressed in ornate 17th century costumes, they were followed by three Rejoneadors, bullfighters on horseback, majestically attired, their steeds prancing.  Next came nine retainers each carrying a cape – not matadors, but assistants to the Rejoneadors – for in El Corrida de Rejoneo all of the fighting must be done on horseback.

Corbett watched with fascination. He had heard of such contests but until now never actually witnessed one.  With the paseillo completed, the first Rejoneador, dressed in 18th century finery, rode out into the ring astride a snow-white Arab. Patiently waiting as across the ring, another set of wooden gates abruptly slammed open, releasing a muscular, thick-necked Vistahermosa fighting bull into the arena.  450 kilos – a thousand pounds – of anger on the hoof.  Skidding to a stop, the bull defiantly tossed his head then belligerently surveyed the ring. Spotting the horse and rider, the bull lowered his head and began to paw the ground.

With astonishing élan, the Rejoneador began to maneuver his mount closer, taunting the bull to charge.  Without warning, all of the animal’s pent up energy exploded, propelling him forward on a murderous tear.  Unfazed, with an attitude bordering on disdain, horse and rider gracefully feinted to the left, prancing sideways as the bull barreled past. Pleased, the crowd cheered as the bull pulled up short and turned back.  Hesitating, he charged again.  Dancing to one side, the white stallion narrowly avoided the deadly horns then turned back.  Time and again, the crowd shouted its approval urging the rider ever closer.  With cool precision, the Rejoneador planted the first of the rejones de castigo – the colorful barbed spears – into the thick muscle atop the bull’s neck.

“It’s the horses that really get me…” The voice came from directly to his left.  Corbett continued to stare at the spectacle before them as the newcomer added: “The way they move.  Totally fearless in the face of death… El rejoneo. An acquired taste.”

Corbett nodded. “Bullfighting on horseback.  And I thought we were crazy.”

“But you’ve got to love it,” the man marveled.

In the aisle seat, the bespectacled American in jeans and a travel vest spoke without taking his eyes off the bullring.  Corbett did the same. The man’s name was Reed though Corbett had known him by several aliases in the past.  He had a face like a baboon’s ass and a personality to match. The tone of their conversation was off-handed, almost familiar but with a decided edge.

“That why you left the ticket at my hotel?” Corbett asked.

“Chalk it up to cultural diversity,” Reed half smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, the tickets were comped.”

“If you say so…  Not to seem ungrateful, but in my experience, free tickets are never free.”

In the ring, the white stallion bounded away, then came prancing back as he baited the bull once more. All eyes were riveted on the center of the ring as the bull prepared to charge again.

“If you’re looking to reactivate my file,” Corbett added, “somebody probably should’ve told you – I canceled my subscription.”

Tiring, his hump muscle now festooned with three brightly colored barbs and darkening with blood, the bull stopped. Then lowering his head, he came at the horse and rider only to have them elude his charge again. Applause filled the Plaza.

Digesting Corbett’s words, Reed nodded then attempted a different tack.  “Long time since Nairobi.”

“Not long enough.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault.  Besides, Xi Lin has proven to be an exceptional asset.  The director is very pleased.”

Corbett said nothing.  Once again, the image of Jon Alesander’s face as a bullet took off the back of his head crowded his mind like spiders from the past.

“Let’s leave it there, okay?”

For an attenuated moment, neither spoke, focusing on the spectacle in the bullring.

“We understand you had some trouble at the airport,” Reed said at last.

“You don’t miss a trick.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Some locals tried to grab my laptop… no big deal.  Basic bump-and-run.  Looking for quick cash. They lost.”

“Arab…?” Reed asked.

“Could be.  Maybe Gypsy…”

“Freelance?”

“Got me…,” Corbett answered without emotion.   “So, you want to tell me what this is really about, or are you just here for the bullfights?”

“Actually, the Company needs an independent contractor with your particular skillset.  I’ve been asked to make you an offer.”

“Not interested.”

“We’re looking for an exfiltrator – someone experienced.”

Corbett said nothing.

“It involves a friend of yours… Tariq Baker.”