The Exfiltrator by Garner Simmons (read after txt) 📗

“Think about it before you decide.”  Rising, Reed added, “Good seeing you again.  Enjoy the rejoneo… and don’t forget your program.”

Without warning, the crowd gasped as the bull caught the white Arabian with its horns, knocking both horse and rider to the ground.

Reeling, the Rejoneador managed to pull himself free and began to shout as he waved his hands above his head attempting to drive the bull back.  At the same time, rushing forward, his retainers began to twirl their capes in the futile hope of distracting the bull’s attention.

But consumed with rage, the bull would not be denied.  The scent of blood fresh in his nostrils, he drove his horns deeper into the soft underbelly, disemboweling the horse as the cries of the crowd filled the air.

His eyes still locked on the dying animal Corbett found himself unable to look away.  In the ring below, the retainers were finally able to ward off the bull.  The white stallion staggered to its feet.  Dazed, entrails hanging down like harbingers of death, he allowed himself to be led away.  The Rejoneador stood watching in shattered disbelief then followed him out of the arena.

Turning at last, Corbett found himself standing alone. On the aisle seat beside him, a program now rested where Reed had been a moment before. Casually reaching down, he collected it. Then slipping it beneath his arm, he turned and started toward the exit as the crowd continued to stare at the spectacle in the ring.  The rest was death and death alone, as the poet said… at five in the afternoon.

FIVE

R eturning to his hotel, Corbett took the stairs to the third floor.  Inserting the key card, he opened the door to his room and stepped inside.  Tossing the program on the bed, he moved to the well-stocked minibar and cracked a miniature single malt Scotch, pouring it into a brandy snifter.  Then dropping into the leather armchair near the window, he took a long slow swallow, allowing the effect of the alcohol to course through his system.  Staring out at San Esteban, he watched as the lengthening shadows began to play across the ornate façade, golden in the late afternoon sun.  A moment later, uninvited, thoughts of his time in the military filled his mind.

It had all started back in the late summer of 2001.  The recipient of a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford, he had been about to leave for England when the savage events of 9/11 radically changed his world. Withdrawing from school, he had acted out of pain and patriotic impulse, volunteering instead for the Army.

They sent him for Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.  It was there that he received his first Article 15 for disobeying a direct order: failure to secure his footlocker prior to inspection.  It was a lesson in stupidity that was not lost on Corbett.  When they offered him an opportunity to go to OCS, he declined and was consigned to combat infantry.  Assigned to the Third Infantry known as “Sledgehammer” whose motto was “Not Fancy, Just Tough” he was deployed to Iraq where he won the Bronze Star for valor in the fierce fighting around Nasiriyah’s Talil Airfield.

Described by his superior as “an exceptional and resourceful soldier, who at times has difficulty following orders and tends to question authority,” Corporal Michael Corbett promptly put in for discharge the moment President Bush declared “Mission Accomplished.” His two-year commitment complete and the war “officially” over, he reapplied to Oxford.  Reinstating his Rhodes, he attempted to restart his life.

Three years later as Corbett was completing his dissertation and casting about for a job, he was contacted by a CIA recruiter named Richard Reed.  They met over a pint at The Bear Inn where Reed produced a copy of Corbett’s discharge papers pointing out that despite serving two years, Corbett’s actual term of enlistment called for eight. A minor detail that could easily be overlooked assuming Corbett would volunteer for service with the Agency instead.  Given that the alternative was a tour of Afghanistan, it hadn’t been a hard sell.  In fact, there was something about Reed’s proposition that secretly excited him.  The truth was, after years of toiling in academia, he was ready for a change.

That seductive rush of flattery, danger and intrigue that had once ignited the imagination of T.E. Lawrence, now fired his, altering forever the course of his life.  What he had once thought would be his career had become a cover for something more sinister and subversive.  An unfortunate necessity.  In the words of George Orwell: “We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.” Without question, the old bastard had a way with words.  And so Corbett had become such a man.  And no matter how much he might wish to now escape that part of his life it was simply not an option.  As Reed had once sardonically noted at the end of a particularly drunken evening in Malta several years before, in their line of work, retirement wasn’t on the menu.

Finishing the Scotch, he rose from the chair and moved to the bed at last. Picking up the program from the Rejoneo, he flipped through the pages and found a Micro SD Chip taped inside the back cover.  Moving directly to the room safe, he punched in the security code and retrieved his laptop.

Crossing to the desk, he set the slim computer down on the dark leather blotter and peeled the SD Chip from the program.  As soon as the laptop had booted up, he inserted the secure, encrypted memory chip into the card reader.  A moment later, the computer beeped once, followed by a whirring sound as the chip engaged and an icon labeled “Untitled” appeared on the desktop computer screen.  Clicking his