32,000 YEARS AGO: High in the Pyrenees in what is now Spain, a young Neanderthal is pursued and mortally wounded by a Cro-Magnon hunting party. Attempting to escape his attackers, he seeks refuge in a cave.
TODAY: In the holy city of Najaf, a powerful Iraqi cleric has been critically wounded in an ISIS terror attack. If he dies, peace and stability in the region die with him.
The only hope rests with his son, Tariq, who has currently gone missing somewhere in the Basque mountains north of Madrid. With time running out, the CIA turns to -- MICHAEL CORBETT.
American by birth and Oxford-trained, Corbett is a world-class archeologist. But to the CIA, he is an “exfiltrator,” a freelance operative who specializes in locating and extracting high value targets under extreme duress. Having been hired by the University of Salamanca to lead an archeological team into the Pyrenees to explore a newly discovered cave that may be the last redoubt of the Neanderthals, he accepts the CIA’s assignment.
But there are complications…
At Oxford, he and Tariq were friends. Today Tariq is believed to be living with a woman, a doctor named Amaia, who runs a free clinic in a remote Basque village. She was also once Corbett’s lover.
At the same time AN ISIS TERROR CELL begins tracking Corbett believing he will lead them to Tariq. Religious fanatics, they are obsessed and will stop at nothing from carrying out the “Will of God.”
Racing against time and the Terrorists, Corbett must find Tariq and exfiltrate him…before ISIS takes his head!
“Fast-paced with a labyrinth of thrilling twists and turns. THE EXFILTRATOR blends action and international intrigue with an archeologist hero reminiscent of Indiana Jones and a style calling to mind the acclaimed Fredrick Forsyth.”
[Charles Veley – Author of The Last Moriarty]
“A first-rate thriller rich in atmosphere that builds to an explosive climax that should have movie producers reaching for their checkbooks…!”
[Bill Barich – Author of Laughing in the Hills]
“Simmons raises the bar with this one. THE EXFILTRATOR ‘s Michael Corbett is right up there with THE EQUALIZER’s Robert McCall.”
[Michael Sloan – Creator of “The Equalizer” TV series and author of the best selling Equalizer: Requiem]
THE EXFILTRATOR
A Novel
By Garner Simmons
Copyright © 2021 Garner Simmons/Equuleus Productions, Inc.
Los Angeles, California
All rights herein are reserved. No part of the text
may be reproduced in any form or in any media without
written permission of the publishers, except in brief quotations
used in connection with literary reviews.
First edition.
ISBN: 9798701359381
Jacket design by Damonza.com
To George Wead, who first opened my eyes to Spain.
And to Sheila, who has made all things possible.
Also by Garner Simmons
Peckinpah: A Portrait in Montage - The Definitive Edition
50 Years After The Wild Bunch from the Writer Who Knew Him Best
Available at bookstores and at Amazon.com
Audiobook version at Audible.com
performed by Jason Culp
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to thank my wife Sheila McHugh Simmons, whose suggestions, insights and exceptional editorial skills plus her willingness to read, reread and proof the text has added immeasurably to the quality of this novel. To George Wead and a friendship forged at Northwestern’s graduate school that has lasted through the years ever since. To my sensei, Michael Haller, whose Japanese sensibilities have helped to keep me focused on what is important. To Charles Veley and Bill Barich, among the most skillful writers I have ever known, who encouraged me to pursue this project. And to Tom Rose, Lee Woltman, Craig Bell, and Karl Baumgartner, all of whom read early drafts and provide me with their candid comments. To Grant Rosenberg with whom I have spent serious time in the trenches. To Rick Mancke and Barbara Hobbie, who were good enough to read multiple drafts and whose comments caused me to dig deeper. And to Tom Yerg, a friend and chess aficionado whose deep knowledge of the spy genre plus his willingness to help me polish my imperfect Spanish have made this a far better book. To my attorney, Wayne Alexander for his faith and guidance through thick and thin. And to Larry Becsey, my Los Angeles literary agent of more than 25 years and his remarkable assistant Emma Alban, whose keen insights are reflected in these pages. To my New York literary agent Murray Weiss for helping me prepare the manuscript and to better understand the idiosyncrasies of today’s publishing world. And to Bob McCullough, whose faith in my writing and willingness to put in endless hours to make certain we got it right. To Adam Leipzig for his constant support. And finally, my brother, John Galbraith Simmons, the real writer of the family, whose advice and critical insights helped me shape and organize this novel from the very beginning. To one and all, may you find this book worthy of your efforts.
Garner Simmons
Woodland Hills, California
The Exfiltrator
Prologue
The Pyrenees Mountains, Northern Iberia
32,000 B.C.E.
Scrambling over the rough, rock-strewn terrain, the young Neanderthal drove himself onward and upward toward the distant ridgeline and the promised safety of the cave. Around his neck, a half-dozen shells painted violet, a talisman suspended upon a strand of twine, rattled together as he ran. The frigid air tortured his lungs, burning with each labored breath. He could hear the sound of his own wheezing. Beads of sweat began to form along the slope of his forehead collecting on his brow, stinging his eyes. Stumbling over a root, he tumbled, falling hard. Scrambling up, he hesitated, turning to look, attempting to catch a glimpse of his pursuers. No sign… nothing. No… wait. There. In the shadows among the rocks something moving caught the sun. One… no, two… no, a dozen strange looking figures suddenly emerged into the late afternoon haze, then just as suddenly disappeared back into the shadows once more.
Feeling the sense of panic rising, he turned, redoubling his efforts to escape. Nostrils dilated, eyes wide with fear, he glanced over his shoulder once more. The air suddenly seemed stifling, filled with the promise of death, his death. Somewhere behind him, his pursuers were closing fast, calling to one another in a singsong, guttural tongue that sounded alien to his ears. Who were these tattooed outlanders? Where had they come from? Strange angular creatures whose agility and long striding gait now overwhelmed him with a sense of dread.
Behind and below, the Cro-Magnon hunting party moved nimbly over the rock outcroppings, fanning out to prevent any possibility of escape a they ran their prey to ground. Cries ofbloodlust rattled in their throats. Eyes darting, yellowed teeth flashing behind excited tight-lipped smiles. These were the Homo sapiens, aggressors from beyond the sun. Fierce interlopers who attacked without warning, took without asking, killed without hesitation.
Stopping, the young Cro-Magnon hunter raised his hand to shade his eyes against the afternoon sun, scanning the rocky upland for some sign of their quarry. Where had he gone? Surely he must be close. In one hand, he gripped a fistful of flint-tipped reed spears; in the other, his atlatl, a primitive tool fashioned from the femur of a saber-toothed cat that allowed him to accurately hurl a shaft far further and faster than seemed possible. Spotting movement among the rocks above, the hunter cried out to the others as he pointed toward the Neanderthal still scrambling to escape a hundred yards ahead. Instantly the others picked up the cry.
Planting his spears in the ground, the hunter quickly selected one, fixing it firmly in the carved cup at the far end of the atlatl. Then gripping the spear thrower by the opposite end, the
hunter took aim and in a single, fluid motion, sent the shaft whistling through the air.
Up ahead, the Neanderthal could see the darkened recess beneath the rock shelf that marked the mouth of the cave. Half obscured by brush the opening might go unnoticed by all but a practiced eye. Seeing it made his heart soar. A rush of new energy infused his aching legs. Without warning, somewhere close, an unexpected rush of wind was followed by a deadly thud. Disoriented by its closeness, the Neanderthal felt his step falter but willed himself not to look. Having heard the whisper of their death sticks before, he fixed his gaze on the opening to the cave above as the loose shale unexpectedly gave way causing him to stumble again. Then the deadly rain descended as a flurry of flint-tipped missiles filled the air.
Grabbing a second shaft, the young Cro-Magnon rearmed his atlatl and took careful aim once more. Drawing his arm straight back, he snapped the atlatl forward sending the spear into the sky.
Exhausted, the Neanderthal lumbered toward the cave mouth, each step more painful than the last. Another forty meters. He could feel his hamstrings begin to tighten and cramp. Ignoring the pain, he refused to stop. Ahead, the cool protective darkness of the cavern’s mouth beckoned. Mechanically placing one foot before the other, he was almost there when he felt the spear impale him. Passing through his body just an inch beneath his right shoulder blade, it lodged in the ground before him, miraculously preventing him from falling. Staring in disbelief, he reached down, grabbing the shaft with both hands, sticky with his own blood, momentarily paralyzed.
Staring up at him from below, the Cro-Magnon hunters erupted, exulting at the sight of their now wounded prey. Howling and leaping in the air, they rushed forward, closing in for the kill like a pack of wild dogs. Loping up the steep incline, they moved now with the certainty of a successful hunt.
At the same time, stifling a cry, the Neanderthal gripped the shaft protruding from his chest and, through sheer force of will, drew his body upright, freeing himself from the spear. Then using the shaft to keep from falling, he glanced back at the hunters. Clearly there was no time. He had to act now. Casting the spear aside he lurched forward. Eyes fixed on the yawning entrance the Neanderthal began to move. Sweating profusely, he clutched his wound. He felt a strange sense of vertigo as the blood – his blood – seeped through his fingers, leaving a dark trail behind him as he staggered the last few feet, finally dropping to his hands and knees. Scuttling crab-like into the shelter of the cave, he managed at last to drag himself into the darkness.
Jabbering excitedly, the Cro-Magnon hunters approached the mouth of the cave at last. Scanning the ground, they stopped and stared. Expecting to find a fresh kill, they were clearly upset at discovering it had escaped. Annoyed, the young hunter who had delivered the fatal blow retrieved his spear. He ran his fingers along the shaft. Then pressing them to his tongue he began to wail. Picking up the cry, the others transformed themselves into a wilding – savage and rapacious and raw. Then spotting the darkened trail of blood leading into the cave, they hesitated. Stepping forward, cautious and uncertain, they peered into the blackness and began to chatter among themselves as to what exactly to do next.
From within the darkness just beyond the cavern’s mouth, the mortally wounded Neanderthal struggled to prop himself against the cool limestone wall as he listened to the strange cries of the interlopers now debating his fate. Aware of the urgent need to somehow warn the others of his clan, he grasped the string of shells and tore them from his neck. Then in a single motion, he flung the talisman into the void listening as it ricocheted off the rocks in the darkness below. Bleeding and alone, unable to move, the Neanderthal could do nothing now but wait as he felt his life slowly slipping away.
ONE
A t first glance, it had seemed to Michael Corbett like a fortunate coincidence. A project tailor made for someone with his background and unique skills. But now as he sat in the fifth-row window seat on the starboard side of an Iberia flight bound for Salamanca by way of Madrid, he began to have second thoughts.
Studying the contents of the file that had been emailed to him overnight at his Gibraltar hotel by Dr. Gabriel Asurias of the University of Salamanca, he had the uncomfortable feeling that this might not have occurred entirely by chance after all. Having arrived in Gibraltar just two weeks earlier, Corbett had originally been retained by the University of Pennsylvania to oversee an archeological excavation of Neanderthal remains discovered in an abandoned limestone quarry on Gibraltar’s north face only to have the funding fall through at the last minute. Left temporarily unemployed, he had been preparing to return to the States when Asurias’s telegram arrived. An archeologist originally brought in by the university to oversee the excavation of a cave in the Pyrenees had suffered a cardiac episode and been forced to withdraw at the last minute. Was Corbett available on such short notice?
Corbett immediately wired back to say that he was and could he see the research. Pleased, Asurias had promptly emailed the research file along with a contract and a voucher for Iberia Airlines. The next morning he found himself at Gibraltar International. With Flight 3417 only half full and open seating, Corbett found a seat by himself and set to work.
As he opened his laptop and began to read through the file, Corbett couldn’t help questioning the timing of events. A week before, he had been contacted by Langley inquiring about his availability for an unspecified project of extreme urgency. Just a feeler. But having committed to Penn for the Gibraltar dig, he had felt obligated to decline. Then like dominoes tumbling, in less than a week, the Penn project folded and the Salamanca offer arrived in his in-box. Mere happenstance? Or was it the kind subversive request known as a Langley “love note” – the Company’s way of asking you to bend over and take one for the team without ever really asking? Sort of proctology practiced by other means. Deciding he was becoming entirely too paranoid he pushed his doubts aside and forced himself to focus on the computer file before him.
The subject of the Salamanca dig was a cave high in the Pyrenees Mountains that had been recently exposed by a seismic shift. An unspoiled site. The possibilities intrigued him. As he read through the file a second time, he began taking notes. Within the hour, they landed at Madrid-Barajas Airport. Checking his watch, Corbett waited for several passengers to deplane. Then, just as they were about to close the cabin door, a single passenger, a wizened old woman dressed in black and pulling a beat-up carry-on suitcase, hurried aboard. Making her way along the aisle, she stopped beside Corbett’s row and began struggling to lift her suitcase. Her hair was dark and pulled severely back. And her eyes were a strikingly pale blue. When no one moved to help her, Corbett unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped into the aisle.
“¿Puedo ayudarte?” he asked indicating her suitcase. Nodding, she watched as Corbett opened the overhead compartment. But when he went to lift the case, he was surprised at its weight. Glancing at the woman, he grinned.
“Heavy…,” he said. “Must be packing a bag of hammers.”
The woman never cracked a smile.
Stowing her case with effort, Corbett shut the overhead door. As he returned to his seat, the old woman hesitated indicating the empty seat beside him.
“You are American…?” Her eyes arrested his gaze.
Corbett managed a nod.
Then in broken English she added: “The seat… taken, yes?”
“Taken…?” Corbett shook his head. “No, no… please. Sit down.”
As the old woman sat down beside him and buckled her seatbelt, she mumbled, “Most kind.” Corbett tried to place her accent without success. Definitely not Spanish. If he were to guess, he’d have said she was a Gitana – a Romani or Gypsy.
Once the flight attendant had completed her pre-flight routine, Corbett asked: “How did you know I was American?”
The woman demurred with a shrug but said nothing. The plane began to taxi. Neither spoke again until they were airborne. Then reaching over, she placed her hand upon his forearm. As Corbett reacte
d to her touch, her penetrating eyes met his.
“There is a journey. Deep into the mountains to the north. Others will need you. There is much danger.”
Struck by her words, Corbett forced a smile. “Danger…?” When she didn’t respond, it hit him. This had to be a con. The next thing she would ask for would be money in exchange for the lurid details. It was a game as old as time.
For a long moment, the woman said nothing then added. “In España, señor, one must always beware.” Placing her palms together, she closed her eyes and began silently to pray.
She’s good, he thought. Stringing him along before making her pitch. He resolved not to bite.
As the plane continued to climb, the awkward silence between them continued. The flight from Gibraltar had been relatively smooth. But the moment the plane turned toward Salamanca the winds kicked up. With the turbulence beginning to buffet the plane, the woman took out an ancient rosary and began to pray just above a whisper: “Padre nuestro, que estas en el cielo…” After several minutes as the pilot climbed above the turbulence, the old woman drifted into a fitful sleep. Turning to his computer, Corbett went back to work.
Within the hour, the flight attendant announced, first in Spanish then in English that they were about to descend: “Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened. We will be landing shortly at Salamanca Regional Airport serving greater Castilla y Leon. Thank you for flying with us this afternoon. Local time is one-thirty-five.”
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