Flies buzzed around the freshly slaughtered lamb that hung from steel hooks in an open-air stall. Offered for sale beside it were handmade sausages and a selection of rabbits and quail. Bushels of apples and peaches, lemons and figs stood alongside cucumbers and corn and olives. Wheels of cheese and bottles of wine, and a hard cider called Txakolin. Cook fires burned in cast iron charcoal braziers filling the air with a rich mix of exotic aromas.
As they moved down through the streets of the village, Gorka stopped to inhale deeply, his dark hooded eyes immediately alive with culinary possibilities. “Smell…?” he grinned at Ella as they reached the edge of the market and began to negotiate the crowded stalls. Watching him, Corbett shook his head as the old man selected a small garlic sausage from a roasting pan and popped it in his mouth. Savoring the explosion of flavor, he exclaimed, “Loukinkos… superb! Here you try…” he insisted, offering one to each of them as he purchased a dozen more.
At first uncertain, Ella found herself unable to resist the pungent aroma. It tasted of garlic and olive oil and exotic spices she could not place. Seeing the look on her face, Gorka laughed. “You see. Is good, no?”
She nodded, pleased when he offered her another.
“We’re going to need a couple of men -- maybe four a day to help run cable and set the lights as we begin the excavation.” Corbett said.
“No problem,” the Basque replied. “At same time, I pick up some lamb. Fruits. Vegetables. All delivered. Save trouble.”
Corbett looked at Ella. “Stay with him. Make sure he doesn’t eat more than he buys.”
Gorka nodded with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he ate another loukinkos.
“All prime cut. Very fresh. You see… Come, little one. I show you how to shop.”
Ella looked desperate. Her eyes pleaded to Corbett to save her. “Sure you don’t need any help?” she asked.
“Positive. Just have to stop by the clinic. Let them know we’ve arrived. You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Watching Corbett disappear down the cobblestone street, she turned at last to follow Gorka as he began to roam among the stalls. After all, she thought, if nothing else, it would be an experience she’d never forget.
THIRTEEN
M oving along the hand-wrought cobblestone street, Corbett passed the clusters of whitewashed houses with their red tiled roofs. At the far end of the street, he spotted what passed for a hospital. A two-story wood and brick building, it stood out like an afterthought, totally apart from the rest of the village. A large sign, written in Euskararen, the language of the Basques, and hand painted in block letters, hung above the oaken door: “MUGARIK GAREKO MEDIKUAK – XERIA FREE MEDIKU KLINIKA.”
As he approached, Corbett could see that the door was ajar. Pushing inside, he found the cramped waiting room filled with old men, women and children, all with a variety of ailments in need of attention. Nursing mothers and silver haired grandfathers with leather skin tanned by the sun. A twelve-year old boy with a broken arm. A young girl coughing as she struggled to breathe.
Feeling conspicuously out of place, Corbett took a spot along the wall near the door, watching as a nurse named Nakane administered a shot to a screaming infant while her mother attempted to comfort her. Glancing up as she withdrew the hypodermic and covered it with a bandage, the nurse’s eyes fell upon the stranger.
“Ezin duzu laguntza dut…?” she asked in Euskararen.
“¿Habla usted ingles?”
She nodded, shifting into broken English: “Si… little bit. I help you?”
Relieved, Corbett managed a smile. “I’m looking for Dr. Alesander,” he said.
“She busy… you wait,” she said curtly, turning away to minister to those in need. Something about her – perhaps her brusque efficiency – reminded him of his mother.
Opinionated and outspoken, Miranda Corbett had met his father in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention. It was a story she never tired of telling. It had been her summer of rebellion when, at seventeen with three friends, she had driven cross-country from her parents’ home in Mill Valley, California, in a VW minibus to protest the Vietnam War.
Between taunting the police and dodging tear gas canisters in Grant Park, she had met Corbett’s father, a first-year economics major from the University of Chicago, and fallen in love. As a result, to her parents’ great displeasure, she had elected to pass up early admission at Stanford and applied to Chicago instead. By the end of her sophomore year, they had moved in together but didn’t marry until 1975 after both had graduated and Corbett’s father had been accepted into the MBA program at Wharton.
Eventually they had bought a house in an unincorporated suburb northwest of Philadelphia where his sister, Margaret, was born in 1978. Michael followed three years later. And while his father’s leftist politics had become a casualty of success, his mother never wavered. With the end of the Vietnam War, she had turned her energies to passing the Equal Rights Amendment and was devastated by its inability to secure ratification. Devoting herself to liberal causes, she had remained an outspoken pacifist.
“Nakane… Kirurgiko set-up kopuru bat behar noa bat…,” the sound of Amaia’s voice intruded on his thoughts as she came out through the door leading to the makeshift surgery. Failing to see Corbett, she spoke quickly to her nurse in Euskararen.
Her dark hair was longer than he remembered and tied in a single braid, she wore a green medical smock and latex disposable gloves. A surgical mask hung loosely from her neck and a stethoscope was draped over her left shoulder.
“This man… ask for you,” Nekane replied indicating Corbett with a nod.
Turning, Amaia stopped short. Staring at him, she said nothing. The uncomfortable silence lengthened.
“Amaia…” Corbett began but found himself at a loss for words. Her eyes fixed on his, filled with the ghosts of unspoken accusations.
“Whatever you’re doing here, Michael, I really just don’t have time…”
“Good seeing you, too,” he said with an ironic smile.
“Don’t start.”
“I just need a minute...”
Ignoring him, she turned back to Nekane: “Hori Kirurgiko set-up kopuru bat behar – I orain.”
“Amaia, listen. I’m here on behalf of the university. An archeological excavation of a cave in the mountains north of here,” he spoke quickly. “I was told the clinic had an agreement with the University of Salamanca to provide medical services.”
“Really…? And that’s all? Just university business?” Her voice was laden with anger and suspicion. “I don’t understand. When I spoke with a Dr. Asurias from the university, he mentioned someone named Guzman.”
“Guzman dropped out at the last minute. I’m his replacement.”
“How convenient. And that’s the only reason you’re here?”
He hesitated, glancing around at the faces filling the crowded waiting room. “No…” he said at last. “Could we speak somewhere… in private?”
“Private…?” She shook her head in disbelief. Indicating her patients, she asked: “Do you honestly think anyone here speaks English…? Or cares?”
Turning to an old grandmother, she shifted into Euskararen to make her point. “My atzerapena apologies. Izan pazientzia. Zurekin egon nintzen handik gutxira.” Caressing the old woman’s face with her hand, she smiled. The old woman smiled back.
Watching Amaia, Corbett could not help but remember her touch. The warmth of her body pressed against him. The touch of her lips…
“So whatever it is you have to say, just say it and go,” Amaia’s words were cold, drained of emotion, jarring him back to the present.
“It’s about Tariq…” he said at last.
At the mention of his name, Amaia turned back, instantly on guard. “Tariq…?” she said flatly, her voice betraying no trace of recognition. “There’s no one here by that name.”
“That’s bullshit and we both know it,” he said ignoring her words. “I know he’s h
ere. Somewhere. Either in this village or close by. There’s not much time. His father’s been seriously wounded…”
She stared back in silence.
“In the holy city of Najaf. Word is he may be dying. If Tariq wants to know more, it’s imperative he come see me.”
Amaia remained silent as through the door behind her, a little girl of perhaps three named A’ishah came running out into the room. Squealing with delight, the toddler rushed up behind her and grabbed her around her left knee.
“A’ishah, no…” reaching down, Amaia attempted to pry the little girl loose. “Not now.”
Corbett stared down at her, his mind suddenly filled with pangs of regret. Memories of his sister Margaret’s daughter, Hallie. The way she laughed. The innocent wonder of her gaze. Her trusting smile. Unable to look away, Corbett smiled.
Dark curly hair, dark eyes, A’ishah smiled back as Amaia picked her up. “Where…?”
“Twelve clicks along the road to Amboto,” Corbett continued, “there’s an abandoned farmhouse. Tell him to turn off and head up the mountain. Our base camp’s a couple of kilometers up the dirt road.”
“You are such a bastard,” she said, her voice was low, raw with emotion. “After what happened to Jon…” Turning, she handed A’ishah to Nekane, who took the little girl and disappeared back into the rear of the hospital.
When Amaia turned back, her eyes were filled with disdain.
“Amaia, don’t do this. Jon was my friend…” Corbett began, but could not find the words to finish.
“Your friend…? Really? Because you were there, weren’t you?” She asked, the tone of her voice becoming accusatory, defying him to deny it. “What gives you the right to come here now and ask for our help? The day Jon died… in Nairobi…? Where were you? Don’t lie to me. What was it the official letter said? ‘Complications from pneumonia’…? He was 36 years old, Michael. In the best shape of his life. His body was never recovered.”
In his mind’s eye, the image of Jon Alesander’s bullet-ridden body lay dead in the road. He tried to speak, to explain the unexplainable.
“It’s complicated...” He said at last. “I wrote you…”
“You liar. You never wrote anything. You’re as bad they are. No, worse, because Jon trusted you. Believed in you. And you betrayed him just like the rest.”
“Amaia, listen…” he tried again. “What happened in Kenya was fucked. We both knew the situation going in…”
“Except he’s dead and you’re not.”
Realizing there was nothing more he could say to alleviate her sense of betrayal and pain, Corbett swallowed hard. An awkward silence rose up between them. “Listen, just tell Tariq…” he started at last.
“Fuck you, Michael,” the rage in her voice rising as her words cut into him. “Just fuck you and get out.”
Staring at each other without moving, neither spoke. Then from the doorway behind him he heard Ella’s voice.
“Michael…?” she said.
Turning, he found her standing in the open doorway. Amaia did the same. For a brief moment, the two women stood staring at one another before Corbett finally turned, stepping between them.
“Ella…” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Yes… yes, everything’s fine,” she answered slightly flustered. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Gorka just wanted me to let you know we’re ready to leave when you are.”
“Sounds good… You go ahead. I’ll finish up here and meet you at the car.”
Her eyes darted from Corbett to Amaia and back again as if she were waiting for him to introduce her. When he didn’t, an uneasy silence filled the space between them.
“Was there something else?” he asked at last.
“No,” she answered. “No… See you at the car.” Then turning, she slipped back out the door and was gone.
“Seems a bit young…” Amaia said as she watched Ella leave.
“I really hadn’t really noticed,” he lied.
“That’s because you’re a man.”
Ignoring the remark, Corbett studied Amaia’s face, a face he had once loved, and wondered how things could have gone so wrong.
“Don’t forget to let Tariq know about his father,” he called after her as she disappeared through the double doors into the rear of the clinic.
Turning, he started for the door leading to the street. Reaching it, he hesitated once more and, out of habit, quickly scanned the intersection for any sign or trouble before stepping out into the brilliant sunlight.
FOURTEEN
A s the morning sun rose above Xeria’s rust-colored tile roofs, Jarral positioned himself in the shadow of the whitewashed building directly across from the free clinic. Having used the map, they had found at the gas station as a guide, Jarral had led the others to the abandoned farmhouse. Arriving in the dark, they had set up temporary quarters and an observation post. From the farmhouse, they could easily monitor all who might traffic along the dirt road to and from the university base camp.
The cloudbank had rolled in after midnight, obscuring the road. Unable to sleep, Jarral had arisen before dawn and, after performing his morning prayers, was waiting for the sun to rise when he heard the university Land Rover coming down the mountain. Aware that he would need to act quickly, he awoke the two men nearest the door as he ran for the red Peugeot. Telling them to jump in back, Jarral dropped behind the wheel, cranked the engine and raced after the Rover. Following the red glow of the taillights through the thick gray mist at a distance, he turned left at the main road and followed it down the mountain. Arriving a moment too late to join them, Buttar could only watch as they drove away.
Once they had finally descended below the clouds, Jarral eased back on the gas pedal, stalking the Rover while attempting not to arouse any undue suspicions. However, as the road became more demanding, he ordered the two jihadis with him – a large balding man with a beard named Amal and Moroccan named Khalid – to not let the Rover out of their sight so that he could focus on the road. Far ahead, whoever was driving the Rover was clearly a madman. They finally lost sight of the distant car on a hairpin turn when it passed a stake bed truck while nearly colliding with a hay wagon.
Reaching the outskirts of the village of Xeria, Jarral had driven off the blacktop into an empty field where he parked the car. Leaving it out of sight from the road, the three jihadis then walked the final two kilometers into town only to discover that it was market day. As Amal and Khalid, who had not eaten, sampled the roasting lamb, Jarral told them to keep a watchful eye for anyone who appeared to be out of place. The men nodded. Then splitting up, they moved separately through the market, intending to meet on the far side of the square when they were done.
Mingling with the villagers, Jarral was wandering among the stalls when he spotted the American exiting the far side of the village square. Following him at a distance through the narrow winding passageways, the jihadi watched as Corbett entered the clinic. Then turning, he melted into the shadows across the street and settled in to wait.
The time passed slowly. Bored, his thoughts returned once more to the events that had led him to this place. The time when, as a student, he had left his native Pakistan to travel to Spain. Reaching the city of Granada he had been repulsed by the crowds of American and European tourists whose excesses disgusted him. At the same time, he had found himself becoming obsessed with Western girls in their tight-fitting clothes, short skirts and wanton ways. He wondered how they could expose their bodies so openly? Had they no shame?
Did not the holy Qu’ran command: “Women are your fields. Go then into your fields whence you please.” Yet despite his carnal desires, he had been unable to approach such a woman in public. Instead, he began to frequent online porn sites, becoming addicted to virtual sex. He fantasized about young girls, especially those suggestively half-naked nymphets who were proclaimed to be “virgins.” In turn, his repressed desires caused him to constantly pray to Allah for guidance to help him atone f
or his lustful obsessions.
He found himself in the midst of these preoccupations when a young woman came around the corner. Fresh-faced and eager, he guessed by her clothes she, too, was British or perhaps an American. But what could she be doing here in this remote village unless she had come with the Infidel? The fabric of her jeans clung tightly to her thighs, stoking his imagination while her breasts seemed to revolt against her white cotton button-down as she hurried along the cobblestones. He watched her enter the clinic by the front door and momentarily disappear inside. Within a few minutes she returned, heading back the way she had come. He followed her with his eyes, keenly aware of his own lustful imagination until she vanished from sight around the corner.
Chastising himself for his impure thoughts, Jarral glanced back up the street just in time to see Amal and Khalid coming toward him. Rising, he hurried to intercept them. Quickly explaining that he had spotted the American infidel leaving the market and followed him here to the clinic. He was inside now. Perhaps Tariq, himself, was hiding somewhere within as well. Ordering them to stay out of sight and wait for his signal, he returned to his vigil.
*****
Stepping from the clinic, Corbett shaded his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the glare of the late morning sun. Glancing to his left, he found himself abruptly staring into the unexpected face of the man who had attempted to steal his computer at the airport only a few days before. As their eyes locked, Corbett started across the street. Seeing the American coming his way, Jarral felt a sense of panic. Spinning on his heel, he began to race back up the narrow street between the houses.
“Hey… you! Stop! ¡Deténgase…!” Corbett shouted then took off after him.
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