Tearing open a book of matches, Jarral struck a single match then touched it to the rest. As the entire book exploded into flame, the Spaniard stared in horror as it arced through the dusky air, hitting him in the chest. In an instant, Diego’s body was crawling with fire as the gasoline ignited. Thrashing wildly as his tormentors watched and shouted, the Spaniard’s screams rose into the darkening sky until he became a human torch, completely engulfed in flame.
Transfixed by what they had done, they continued to chant God’s name as if it somehow sanctified the deed, absolving them from blame. Turning at last, Jarral motioned to Buttar and the others. “Allahu Akbar…!” He shouted. By the Sword of the Prophet, this was but a prelude, he promised, to the glories that lay ahead. Backing toward their vehicles, they watched the burning man as he staggered between the pumps.
Slipping into the passenger seat of the red Peugeot, Jarral nodded to Raza. “Drive,” he said. And stepping on the accelerator, Raza did as he was told. For without question he had to concede, Jarral must indeed be God’s messenger and as such he must be obeyed.
As the last of the four vehicles finally drove away, Diego slammed into one of the pumps, knocking the hose to the ground as the flames continued to spread. Without warning, the entire station suddenly exploded in a fireball, lighting up the night.
*****
It had taken them the better part of two hours to unload the trucks, leaving only the large and small generators as well as the two heavy-duty aluminum equipment cases containing the 3D Laser Scanner and its computer in the back of the last truck for morning. In the meantime, Gorka had somehow managed to produce several impressive platters of tapas, which, with a little Rioja left them bone tired and ready for bed. As they sorted out the sleeping arrangements, Corbett spoke with Sebastian and Hector.
“They will sleep well tonight,” Sebastian noted as he surveyed the interns and others. Turning to Corbett, he indicated a single tent set up apart from the rest just beyond the command tent. “I’ve had them pitch your tent over there. With luck, it will offer the best chance at a wi-fi connection. Don’t expect miracles. But by using the bi-directional antenna, you should be able to communicate with the university and the rest of the outside world using the Internet… at least most of the time. In these mountains, of course, there are no guarantees.” He stopped with a small smile. “When in Spain, as long as one maintains a sense of humor, anything may be possible.”
“Appreciate the warning. And thanks again for coming up here with the advance party and setting things in motion,” Corbett said then turned to Hector. “First thing in the morning, I want that winch up and running so we can have a look at the cave.”
“You got it, Boss.” Hector grinned. “Get to it quick, quick.”
“Good. Sebastian, if you can get things started here, I’ll take one of the Rovers and run down to the village in the morning. Make arrangements for food and supplies and anything else we need.”
“Por supuesto...” Sebastian grinned. “Like you, I feel it is a sin to waste time, especially up here. The faster we get things moving, the more time we have for discovery. I have been making a list of what we will need.” He handed him a folded piece of paper.
Corbett turned to where the three interns sat with two student volunteers, German exchange students from Munich named Gretchen and Heidi, finishing their meal. “Anyone up for a drive down to the village in the morning…?
“I’ll go,” Ella said. The words tumbled out faster than she’d expected. She bit her tongue. “I mean… if you’re looking for volunteers, I’d love to go.”
Corbett nodded, “Right. We’ll leave at dawn.“ Seeing Ella’s face fall, Karim and Roberto exchanged a knowing look. “The rest of you grab an extra hour of sleep. You’re going to need it. That’s it. Big day tomorrow.”
As Corbett moved toward his tent, Karim winked at Roberto, raising the timbre of his voice to mimic Ella’s. “l’ll go…” Immediately picking up on it, Roberto did the same: “No, take me, take me…” Barely able to contain their laughter, they watched as Ella arose from the table.
“Why don’t you both go fuck yourselves,” Ella whispered under her breath. Then turning, she followed Gretchen and Heidi as they made their way to the tent they’d be sharing. Exhausted, she decided there would be plenty of time to wash and get ready in the morning. Still in her clothes, she crawled onto her cot and immediately fell asleep.
*****
Entering his tent, Corbett looked around at the general disarray. A field desk had been set up in the center with a cot to one side. Above, suspended on a hook, the LED lantern temporarily illuminated the tent casting shadows about the canvas walls. Since he would be living out of his suitcases, he had stacked them, one on top of the other, beside the desk. Opening the larger of the two, he unlocked its false bottom and removed his laptop. Placing it on the desk, he attempted to power it up but failed to get a signal. Frustrated, he re-secured it, returning it to the suitcase before shutting off the lantern. Then lying down on the cot in the darkness, he tried to organize his thoughts for the coming day.
First thing in the morning, he would drive down into the Basque town of Xeria with Gorka and the girl. Leaving Gorka to secure supplies and arrange for local laborers to help work the site, he would locate the medical clinic and hopefully make the initial contact with Tariq. Which of course meant he would have to deal with Amaia. Not something he was looking forward to. Although he had sent her a handwritten note following Jon’s death, he had not gone into detail and was not even certain that she’d received it. Had it really been almost three years?
Closing his eyes he felt a familiar sense of vertigo sweep over him as another older memory filled his mind. Some wounds never heal. And this one had remained as horrific and troubling as the day it had happened. A restless, implacable specter from his past.
Rising, he moved to the smaller of his cases and located the bottle of single malt he had packed before leaving the hotel. Foregoing a glass, he uncorked the bottle and placed it to his lips. Feeling the whiskey burn its way down, he stared into the darkness as it all came back in a rush.
Following his graduation from Penn, Michael Corbett had been preparing to move to the UK to begin graduate studies at Oxford. It was September 11th, 2001. With less than a month until the start of Michaelmas, he had shipped his luggage ahead and booked a seat on the redeye out of JFK for London Heathrow on British Air.
The plan had been to meet his sister Margaret and her husband, Jack Rawdon, along with his niece, their three-year old daughter Hallie, at 8:30 that morning for a farewell breakfast. Jack, a stockbroker with PaineWebber whose offices were in the North Tower, had reserved a table at Windows on the World, the restaurant atop the World Trade Center.
Having taken the early train up from Philadelphia, Corbett was standing outside Penn Station attempting to hail a taxi when he phoned his sister to say he was running late. He was still talking to her when the first plane hit.
Reacting to what sounded like a freight train followed by his sister’s terrified scream, he glanced south toward Lower Manhattan just as the tail of American Airlines Flight 11 disappeared into the building above the 93rd floor. Stunned, he could hear the panic in his sister’s voice as she cried out to Jack to get the baby. Shouting into his cell, Corbett called her name but Margaret was no longer listening. The only sounds were chaos and death. Then nothing as the line went dead and black smoke began to boil out of the gaping scar in the North Tower.
Most of what followed had become lost in the fog of memory. What remained was a raw ache in the pit of his stomach. The overwhelming sense of nausea. A feeling of powerlessness and loss. In the end, their bodies were never recovered.
His parents were devastated as the days that followed became a blur of half remembered details. He notified Oxford as well as the Rhodes committee that he would be withdrawing from school. He organized a memorial service and attempted to comfort his parents. But nothing could erase the terrib
le reality of what they had been forced to endure.
It was war. But confronted with the reality, Michael Corbett had simply refused to surrender. All those unsuspecting people – men, women and children murdered in the name of God. For Corbett such a God either didn’t exist or didn’t care. Or if he did, he was a sadist. Attempting to cope, Corbett had turned his pain inward, cauterizing his emotions while silently promising never to forget. Two days later, he went down to his local Army recruiter and volunteered. When he told his parents, his mother rushed from the room refusing to speak to him. It would be more than two years before they could again have a civil conversation.
But even now, in the silence of the night, Margaret’s death still haunted the deepest recesses of his being. As did Jack Rawdon’s laughter or the open, trusting smile of three-year old Hallie, her tiny fingers wrapped firmly around his thumb. In the darkest places of his mind, these were the memories that drove him – to take action, to do whatever the situation required. It had become his self-imposed mission: to make the world a safer place, one act at a time.
Using the flat of his palm, he re-corked the bottle. Then stowing it in the case, he laid down once more. It was going to be a long night. He closed his eyes again. It would be after three before he finally drifted off only to be awakened by the first light of dawn.
TWELVE
B y six a.m., the sun had begun its day, climbing over the rim of the world and bathing the base camp in brilliant yellow light. At an elevation no more than a hundred feet below, however, a dense layer of cumulus clouds had gathered during the predawn hours, cloaking the mountain like a shroud. Awake and dressed, her short hair, still damp from washing, Ella made her way from her tent to where Corbett stood beside the front passenger side door of the lead Land Rover, two paper cups of black coffee in his hands. She wore a loosely buttoned white cotton blouse and tight-fitting jeans. Corbett smiled as he offered her a cup.
“Here you go. Hope you like it black. We seem to be short on cream and sugar. Put some wind your sails,” he smiled.
Pleased, she accepted it gratefully. Taking a sip, she held it with both hands absorbing the warmth.
“Thanks,” she said. “You always so cheerful at this hour of the morning?”
“No… strictly the caffeine, ” he answered. “Don’t trust anything I say before noon.”
She smiled, enjoying his casual flirting. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
Turning, he reached for the handle and opened the door, holding it so that she could enter. Her body brushed against him as she slipped into the front seat only to discover Gorka already behind the wheel. He flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Ongietori, pretty lady…” he welcomed her in Euskara. “Up early… catching worms. Fast we go, yes?”
From the look on her face, this was obviously not the arrangement she had expected.
“I’ll jump in back,” Corbett volunteered shutting the door behind her. “Better buckle up. Looks like we’re stuck with zero visibility for the first couple of miles at least.”
“Gorka knows road,” the old man grinned. “Not to worry.”
Climbing into the backseat, Corbett stretched out as the old man turned the key. As the engine coughed then roared to life, Ella buckled her seatbelt and looked up only to find Corbett’s face in the rearview mirror. Averting her eyes, she stared straight ahead.
“Now I show you real Euskal,” Gorka said.
“Euskal…?” she repeated, uncertain.
“That’s what the Basques call themselves,” Corbett offered from the backseat. “One of the oldest indigenous peoples on earth. Unrelated to the Spanish or the French. Distinctively different. Just like their culture.”
“Oldest and best,” the old man behind the wheel added as he engaged the clutch and slipped it into first gear. With a shudder, the Rover began to move down the mountain and into the cloudbank.
“So, where did they come from? The Basques, I mean,” she asked trying to make the most of an awkward situation.
“Come from nowhere,” Gorka shrugged. “Here from the beginning of time. Always these mountains.”
Ella eyed the old man with askance.
“Owe allegiance to no one. Not Spain, nobody,” the old man added with an obvious sense of pride. The clouds engulfed the car as the road before them all but disappeared. Ella nervously glanced from the old man behind the wheel to Corbett’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
Sensing her discomfort, Corbett recalled the rocky drive up the mountain the day before and attempted to assuage her concern. “Don’t worry. Gorka knows the way.“
“Bai…,” the old man said. “Was born in these mountains. Not to fear.”
“Do you think he could slow down… at least until we can see?” She managed.
Hearing the edge of panic in her voice, Gorka turned to look at her with a grin. “No hay problema, pretty lady. In Euskararen we say, ‘Zure ordu da, zure ordu da.’ When it’s your time, it’s your time.”
“Wonderful. But if it’s all the same to you, when it’s your time, I’d just as soon be somewhere else.”
The old man laughed. “Trust me.”
“Maybe if you could keep your eyes on the road…” she suggested.
The old man laughed again as he guided the car into a series of blind turns while barely touching the brakes. “No fear, Missy. Must learn to live a little.”
Ella closed her eyes. Why, she wondered, had she been so quick to volunteer? She made a mental note that if she survived, she would never be so foolish again. Feeling the Rover sway, its tires squealing as Gorka guided it through the turns with seeming equilibrium, Ella felt a mild sense of deja vu. It reminded her of being nine, the year before her parents’ divorce, when her father had taken them with him on business to San Francisco. Although she had not been fully aware of it at the time, it had been her parents’ final attempt to save their marriage.
Renting a car, her father had driven them across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin Country to see the giant redwoods. The narrow torturous two-lane road had twisted through thick forests only to be unexpectedly engulfed by fog. Feeling unsafe, her mother had demanded they turn back, but her father persisted. Eventually, as they argued, they had become lost. Refusing to admit defeat, her father had driven too fast and momentarily lost control, skidding off onto the shoulder of the road before stopping. Ella could still recall that sense of queasiness followed by the deafening silence of the ride back. Looking back now, she found herself wondering how two such different people could have remained married for as long as they had. The answer, of course, was Ella. They had done it all for her.
By the time Ella opened her eyes, Gorka was downshifting as they finally emerged from the cloudbank. Ahead and below, she could see the steep, twisting mountain road that descended before them like some primeval roller coaster.
Attempting to control her sense of panic, Ella tried to focus on the rugged beauty of the land. Spotting a herd of long horned sheep grazing in a meadow under the attentive eye of a Basque shepherd and his dog, she found herself marveling at how this way of life could somehow exist in a world now ruled by the Internet. Occasional red roofed caserios, farmhouses that Gorka called “baseri,” now dotted the landscape. Far below, she could see a village.
“Xeria…” Gorka said, indicating that their destination was at last in sight. Ella smiled and nodded, relieved that they might actually reach there in one piece.
Coming out of a series of hairpin turns, the Land Rover abruptly overtook an open stake bed truck, hauling goats to market. Forced to apply the brakes at last, Gorka cursed under his breath as he fell in behind and waited for his chance to pass. As they slowly crawled through one blind turn after another his impatience overtook him, and he suddenly accelerated around the truck only to find a horse drawn hay wagon directly in their path. Ella started to cry out but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she shut her eyes tight as Gorka stepped on the gas. Bracing herself for impact, she did not look up a
gain until she heard the old man’s voice.
“You look now, eh, little one?” he cackled with delight. “God hates a road hog.”
“You drive like a crazy man.”
The old man shrugged. “I am Euskal. May be same thing.”
“And you…?” she turned in her seat looking back at Corbett, seemingly unfazed. “How can you just sit there?”
Corbett shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to trust the devil you’re with and enjoy the ride,” he said at last. “Zure ordu da, zure ordu da.”
“Really…?” Ella shook her head. “You’re as bad as he is.”
Turning back, she attempted to ignore them both as the Rover hurtled toward town.
*****
Xeria was a small village of roughly fifteen hundred that served as the center of commerce and agriculture for all who lived within fifty kilometers in any direction. Driving the Land Rover along the main street leading to the central square, Gorka was forced to pull to the side and park as the road had been closed to traffic for market day. Climbing out, they began to walk. Already alive with a mix of farmers, artisans, merchants and housewives, the open-air market consisted of stalls covered by well-worn tarpaulins suspended from poles to shade the produce from the rising sun.
In contrast to the twin cathedrals of Salamanca, Maria Birjina Eliza – the Church of the Blessed Virgin – stood at the center of town facing the square. Rising barely forty feet above the street below, its bell tower remained the tallest structure for miles. As they approached the square, Corbett could not help but be struck by the church’s rough, uncomplicated beauty. A medieval sanctuary, its Romanesque design had been cobbled together from fieldstone and timbers hewn by hand more than a millennium before. Built as an act of faith. All who labored had given freely, accepting no earthly payment. Confident their promised reward would await them in heaven. Corbett stared up at the bell tower in wonder. The things men do for an unseen God. Was it the same in every culture, he wondered? The infinite ways religion played upon human insecurity and man’s fears of the hereafter.
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