Only two weeks before, he had received word from the city of Najaf that the leader of the newly formed Iraqi coalition government, Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr, had been critically wounded in an attack and now lay near death. Strenuous efforts were being made by the Western Allies to locate al-Bakr’s son, Tariq, who was reportedly living somewhere in the remote mountains of northern Spain. Should the infidels find and return him to Iraq in time, he would breathe fresh life into the coalition’s chances for success and deliver a significant blow to the dreams of a permanent Islamic State. However, if Tariq were to die before reaching his father’s side, then the Caliphate might arise anew and quickly fill the void.
Thus, Jarral had made inquiries. An archeological expedition into those very mountains was soon to depart. By the grace of Allah, he had been able to recruit an informant who told him of a last-minute addition to the team: an American named Michael Corbett was being brought in to direct the operation. The press release put out by the university had included Corbett’s biography, which mentioned that he had studied at Magdalen College, Oxford. Just as Tariq had done. For Jarral, the coincidence confirmed the connection. Thanking his informant, he ordered him to stay close to the American. If Jarral was correct, the Infidel would lead them to Tariq, Allah be praised. At last, he closed his eyes. Morning could not come too soon.
NINE
T he day broke cool and clear. As the first rays of the morning sun reflected off the clock tower of the old cathedral, Corbett checked out of his hotel, asking the clerk behind the desk to call a taxi. Sitting in the backseat as the cab drove through the early morning streets, he caught one last glimpse of the ornate façade of the university, turning his thoughts again to memories of Magdalen.
It was at Oxford that Corbett had begun sculling along the Thames just beyond Christ Church Meadow. After his broken clavicle had healed enough to begin serous physical therapy, Amaia had suggested he might use rowing as a way of accelerating the process. Her brother, Jon, had crewed at Yale and was coming to England on extended business. She introduced them one afternoon at the hospital and one thing had led to another. Soon the two men had begun meeting at the Magdalen Boathouse at dawn and taking out a double scull for an hour’s workout. The physical demands and teamwork necessary to propel a scull over the smooth, dark water created a kind of temporal bond between them. Before long, the two had formed a firm friendship.
His involvement with Amaia had come later. He had felt attracted to her from that first time they had met in the emergency room but had been reluctant to ask her out. Then one day Jon mentioned he was meeting his sister that evening at The White Horse, the Elizabethan pub on Broad Street, and suggested Corbett join them.
Established in the 16th century with thick oaken ceiling beams and dark paneled walls, The White Horse looked like something out of Falstaff. Arriving late from his tutorial, Corbett stood just inside at the top of the steps, surveying the crowded tables. Finding no sign of Jon anywhere in sight, he was about to leave when a familiar voice to his left called out.
“Michael… over here.”
Turning he spotted Amaia sitting alone at one of the tables. She waved him over.
“Jon couldn’t make it,” she had confided with a quick smile as he slipped into the chair opposite her. “He asked me to make amends and buy you a drink.”
“Absolutely not,” Corbett had insisted. He had been the one who was late. The least he could do was pay for the beer. They agreed to compromise. Going Dutch, they ordered a couple of pints of Brakspear Gold and a basket of chips to start. Discovering they shared a mutual love of early Renaissance art and art history they had talked until after midnight. By the time he finally walked her back to her flat, it was nearly one in the morning. Watching her fumble for her keys, he felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Resisting the impulse, he asked instead for her phone number. Pleased, she smiled and waited while he searched his pockets for something to write with. He was still looking when she opened the door and slipped inside leaving the door ajar.
Tentatively stepping into the vestibule, he had found her jotting her number on a pad lying on the desk just inside the door. But as she turned to hand it to him, he found himself embracing her. Effortlessly, her body folded into his. He began caressing her neck. Encountering no resistance, he shifted his attention to her right ear before finding her lips. Wordlessly, they communicated in kisses, exploring each other as they moved deeper into the apartment. In the throes of passion, they had first made love on the floor then again on the couch. It was daybreak before he finally left her sleeping wrapped in an afghan.
*****
Descending through the deserted streets, the taxi reached Calle de San Gregorio and turned right. Below them, Corbett could see the Río Tormes flowing briskly, the sunlight glinting off its fractured surface. Ahead, he could make out the arches of the Puente Romano near where the convoy of university vehicles was being assembled.
According to legend, the Roman Bridge had been first built by Heracles, son of Zeus, gatekeeper of Olympus. But in actual fact, it hailed from the first century and had been constructed by the Emperor Trajan, a lasting reminder of Roman rule. At the head of the bridge on the Salamanca side of the river, stood a granite monolith, one of many known as verracos dating from the century before Christ. Verraco literally meant “boar,” though it reminded Corbett of a stone bull.
Three well-maintained and gracefully aging Land Rovers, all pre-2000 and bearing the seal of the Universidad de Salamanca on their doors, were parked in tandem as Gorka moved from one to the next, double-checking the contents of each. Bringing up the rear were a pair of ancient M35 two-and-a-half ton 6x6 Diesel cargo trucks that had seen better days.
As the taxi rolled to a halt near the stone verraco, Corbett could
see two of his three interns, Ella and Roberto, standing together talking. Spotting him, Roberto smiled and nodded, causing the girl to turn. She was wearing a loose-fitting sweatshirt and jeans, and looked better than Corbett remembered. She caught his eye as he climbed out of the rear seat of the cab. Despite himself, he held her gaze a moment longer than he intended, smiling at her as the driver secured his luggage from the boot.
“Dr. Corbett,” she smiled back, “Good morning…”
“Good morning. And it’s Michael,” he corrected. “’Doctor’ sounds like somebody’s grandfather.”
“Michael,” she repeated with a nod, pleased by his informal off-hand manner.
Realizing that he was still looking at her, Corbett forced himself to turn away, paying the driver as Gorka lumbered toward him to collect his suitcases.
“Buenos dias. ¿Como estas…?”
“Muy bien, gracias… ¿y usted?”
“We are almost in readiness pretty soon,” the old Basque replied. “All present and accounted for… Except for the short one.”
“The short one…? Karim?”
“Si, Karim. Los jovenes,” looking away, Gorka spat on the ground. “No respect for anyone’s time but their own.”
“Let me text him…” Ella replied. Turning, he found her standing closer than he’d expected. Already on her iPhone, she was texting before he could reply.
Corbett nodded. “Thanks.” Then turning back to Gorka, he added: “The minute he gets here we go.”
Having finished making last minute adjustments to the carburetor of the second Land Rover, Hector emerged from under the hood, slamming it shut.
“Morning, Boss.” He smiled, wiping the engine grime from his hands with a rag. “Ready to roll.”
In the meantime, Professor Asurias had arrived. Driving up in a university van, he parked across the road from the lead vehicle. Waving to Corbett as he climbed out, he crossed to join him.
“Buenos dias. A fine morning to begin.”
“Any last minute changes?” Corbett asked.
“Si. Sebastian called from the site. He tells me the winch is broken. Until it is repaired, you won’t be able to descend into the cave. Hopeful
ly, he can have it ready by the time you get there.”
“Sounds good. Anything else we’ll deal with once we’ve arrived.” Turning back to Ella, he asked, “Any reply from señor Akhtar?”
“Sorry…” She replied. “Maybe his phone’s turned off.”
“Señor Ahktar…? Again?” Asurias shook his head, clearly annoyed. “My apologies. He is actually quite an excellent student. His abilities in operating the Laser Scanner are exceptional. I cannot imagine what is keeping him.”
A moment later, the high-pitched whine of a car’s engine could be heard as it downshifted. Rounding the corner from Paseo de San Vincente, a red Alpha Romeo Spider convertible raced into view. Accelerating up Calle de San Gregorio toward them, the stunning young blonde behind the wheel brought the car to a tire-shredding halt at the entrance to the Roman Bridge. From the passenger seat beside her, Karim, looking disheveled, grabbed his bags from behind the seat as the blonde, dressed in a revealing shift, pulled him into a rough embrace kissing him hard on the lips. As the kiss lingered, the other students stepped closer, enjoying the show.
“Señor Akhtar…” Corbett said at last. His voice carried an edge. “You’re late.”
Disengaging himself, Karim hopped out dragging his luggage with him. “Sorry, sir. Breakfast and morning prayer took a little longer than expected.” Blowing him a kiss, the young woman dropped the Alpha into gear and peeled off into the dawn.
The others laughed, kidding Karim as she raced out of sight. Hector shook his head. “Puta,” he said, staring after her and clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Corbett looked at Asurias, who shrugged raising his eyebrows. “Of all God’s jokes, the cruelest is to waste youth upon the young.”
Clutching his suitcase and a duffel bag, Karim looked to Corbett in confusion. “Which vehicle…?” he asked.
“With Antonio,” Corbett indicated the tall handsome Spaniard standing beside the last of the three Land Rovers. “Toss your gear in the back of number three. Let’s move. Time to hit the road.”
Seeing Karim coming toward him, Antonio flashed a smile and moved to help him with his bags.
“Hola… Lo hiciste. Casi fuimos sin ti,” the Spaniard said taking Karim’s suitcase and duffel, hefting them onto the roof rack. Nodding in the direction the blonde had driven the Alpha, Antonio grinned with a wink as he secured the luggage to the roof rack with bungee cords. “Muy caliente…”
“Si…” Karim answered slightly flustered, then realizing, “Hot…? Oh, you mean her?” Antonio whistled as he held open the rear passenger door and offered his hand. Karim grinned with a self-conscious shrug. Then accepting Antonio’s helping hand, he climbed in back beside Roberto.
Moving to where Gorka now waited beside the lead vehicle, Corbett felt Ella’s hand touch his elbow. “Excuse me… Dr. Corbett… I mean, Michael. Which vehicle am I in…?”
Finding her there beside him again, he tried to ignore the way she looked in the morning light. Turning, he called out again to the driver of number three. “Antonio…? Key interns go with you?”
Half stepping out from behind the wheel of the third Rover, Antonio waved back, “Si señor… Interns over here.”
“There you go,” he said, pointing Ella in the right direction.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “See you up there.”
Watching her hurry toward Antonio’s vehicle, Corbett found himself lingering over the way her body moved. Vaguely aware of some primordial urge, he shook his head. “Bad idea,” he thought, shifting his focus as Gorka climbed behind the wheel of the lead Rover.
Moving to join the Basque, he found Asurias waiting to say goodbye. “I look forward to your daily reports.” The professor held out his hand.
“Count on it,” Corbett answered.
“Vaya con dios…” the older man replied.
They shook hands and Corbett stepped to the passenger side of the lead vehicle, climbing in beside Gorka. In the backseat, two muscular young Spaniards, part of the university support team, were already asleep.
Corbett grinned at the Basque. “Vamanos…!” he said.
Engaging the clutch, Gorka put the Rover in gear and they headed at last across the river.
TEN
T he convoy drove northeast along the motorway toward Valladolid, the city where Cervantes had spent his last days and where Columbus had died impoverished and alone in 1506. Before the end of the first Millennium, Valladolid had represented the northernmost incursion of Muslim rule. Looking out at the sprawling industrialized city of today, Corbett was struck by its stark contrast to Salamanca’s graceful charm.
Encountering some roadwork, they had to make a detour, losing time. As a result, it took them until eleven to reach the outskits of Burgos, home of El Cid, whose legendary courage had inspired the Spanish Reconquista. Given the traffic, Corbett consulted with Gorka, who suggested they stop at a small bodega on the far side of the city for a light meal and a bottle of Rioja before heading up into the Pyrenees.
Built in the 19th century, Una Canción Antigua was an open-air café with long wooden tables and passable food. Its walls were covered in photos and paraphernalia touting Real Madrid FC, and a 72-inch television screen which was tuned to a cable sports channel. While the others ate, Corbett made arrangements to pay the bill while attempting to call ahead to alert Sebastian that they would be arriving later than expected. Unable to get through to the base camp on his cell phone, Corbett motioned to Gorka that it was time to get everyone up and moving. As they left Burgos behind, the condition of the roads began to decline as they started their climb into Basque country.
“You were able to contact base camp?” Gorka asked without taking his eyes off the winding road.
“No signal,” Corbett confessed. “Maybe once we get closer.”
The old man shook his head. “It’s these mountains. I don’t think you talk too much.”
“You’re joking…” Corbett reacted as the Basque shrugged. “We’re that cut off?”
“It is why we have never been conquered.” The old Basque smiled. “The land, she is like a woman, no…?”
Corbett stared out at the rocky updrafts and steep drop-offs. “Meaning what…? Beautiful… mysterious?”
The old man shook his head again. “Deceiving. Behind her beauty is a dark and brooding ground. They say when God made man, he took the bones from a Basque graveyard…. Euskal Herrira – the land of the Basques. Always has been. Always will be.”
Having pre-rolled a half dozen cigarettes before leaving that morning, he took one from his shirt pocket and fished for a sulfur match, igniting it with his thumbnail.
“Land of the Basques…?” Corbett asked, knowing it would provoke him. “Not Spain?”
Inhaling deeply, Gorka allowed the smoke to invade his lungs before answering.
“Never Spain. Before Christ, Hannibal used Basques to fight against Rome. Pompey, who fought with Caesar could not subdue us. Iruña – the town the touristas now call Pamplona, where they run with the bulls…? – is named in honor of Pompey’s defeat. Vandals, Visigoths, Muslims, Franks… everybody try, everybody fail. These mountains are a graveyard. Only Euskadi remains…” he looked sideways at Corbett. “You know ‘Euskadi’…?”
Drawing on his cigarette again, Gorka waited for an answer. Corbett said nothing.
“Means Basque Nation… my country.”
“Euskadi…”
“Bai… yes, exactly so.”
“Even though most people would disagree?”
“Most people have no eyes. A true nation lives in the hearts of its people. Euskadi is a true nation.”
The older man continued to smoke in silence, allowing his words to sink in.
*****
At the same time, two vehicles behind, Ella sat in the front passenger seat as Antonio drove in silence, smoking a Ducados with one arm out the window. In the rear seat behind them, Roberto and Karim passed the time playing video games on their cell phone
s. Grateful for not having to make small talk, Ella rolled down her window, feeling the rush of warm air as it caressed her cheeks and tousled her hair. There was something about Spain that she had found intoxicating from the very first. A magic land alive with an arcane history and exotic traditions. So unlike anything she had known growing up in the Midwest.
She half-frowned as she remembered the way her faculty advisor, Professor Blackwell, back at Northwestern had attempted to dissuade her from switching her major from English to anthropology. Noting that she had been a straight-A student with a gift for writing, Blackwell seemed to be taking it personally as she asked what had prompted such an unexpected and radical change. Explaining that she had recently attended a lecture on the evolution of the Neanderthals, Ella confided that the idea of exploring Stone Age cultures had excited her imagination more than anything she had ever experienced studying English literature. Shaking her head with an indulgent smile, Blackwell, who had herself once spent a summer working with Outward Bound in Costa Rica and therefore felt she knew of where she spoke, suggested that based on a single evening’s presentation Ella was allowing herself to become infatuated with the romantic notion of archeology portrayed in movies and popular fiction. She then attempted to paint a more realistic picture of what she could expect assuming she could even land a job in the field. Harsh conditions unlike anything she had ever experienced. Living in remote camps far from civilization. Frequently having to go without even the most basic necessities. Spending endless days sifting through mounds of detritus in search of minutia that almost no one cares about. Being underpaid and underappreciated. Why would she knowingly subject herself to such deprivation? Remembering her answer, Ella suppressed a smile: “Because the only thing I’m absolutely sure of is that I don’t want to lead an ordinary life.” Annoyed by the answer but lacking a ready retort, Blackwell had reluctantly signed her permission slip and Ella was on her way.
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