“So…” she teased nodding toward the computer, “You have a secret admirer?”
“Not really. Just posting a daily report…” he said, casually closing the laptop. “Something you wanted to see me about?”
“Actually,” she hesitated, “while I was running, I began thinking about the paintings again… The truth is, they’re so incredible I can’t get the images out of my mind.”
Rising, Corbett turned to fully face her. “So the paintings spoke to you. That’s good. Given the recent advances in cracking the Neanderthal genome, assuming the carbon dating holds up, we could be looking at a significant step forward in our understanding of the culture.”
“That’s exciting.” Stepping closer, she smiled. “I just feel so lucky to be part of it.” Her hair was wet and smelled of lavender. The faint odor of her body wash invaded his nostrils. Feigning disinterest, he held his ground.
She was very close now. Too close to be ignored. Hesitating, she slowly reached up to run her fingers along his cheek. Her lips found his as he kissed her. Their embrace lingered for several seconds as his tongue touched hers. She started to press her body into his only to feel him catch himself.
“Bad idea,” he whispered. His voice sounded thick and unsteady.
“Really…?” She hesitated then kissed him again, harder this time. Feeling him respond excited her. “What makes you think so?”
Attempting to gain some measure of control, he managed to end the kiss but continued to hold her against his body. Whispering in her ear, he could feel her breath against his cheek.
“Priorities…” he said at last. “Too much to do.”
“You’re right,” she whispered back, not really believing it.
“Call it bad timing,” Corbett added, releasing her. He watched as she stepped back, already half regretting his decision. For a long moment, neither seemed willing to break the spell. Then attempting to disarm the moment, he forced a grin. “In Africa, there’s a saying among the Bassari that roughly translates: ‘A man cannot play the drums and fuck his wife at the same time.’ “
Suppressing a wistful smile, she started toward the opening in the tent. “Then I guess I’m lucky I’m not your wife.” Glancing over her shoulder, she disappeared into the early morning light.
Watching her go, he tried to regain control of his emotions. Clearly, she had aroused something unexpected within him. But between exploring the cave and exfiltrating Tariq, the rest of his life simply had to be put on hold. Yet, despite this, he had been powerless to stop himself. In the future, he would have to be more careful.
Disconnecting his computer, he slipped it into the false bottom of his suitcase and relocked it. Rubbing his hands across his two-day stubble, he made the conscious decision to forego shaving, at least for now. One of the few luxuries of an archeological dig, he thought: No need to keep up appearances.
Outside, the rose-colored dawn was beginning to give way as the sun began its climb. Sounds of movement emanated from the cook tent where Gorka was already busily firing up his stove and setting to work. The aroma of wood smoke mingled with the smells of bacon and fresh coffee.
“Hola… Boss? You up?” Hector’s voice called from just outside.
Stepping to the opening, Corbett folded back the tent flap to find him waiting. “Buenos días,” he said. “Good. You’re up early.”
“Si, the winch,’ Hector grinned, “She needs some extra loving this morning. So, I figure I get at it right away.”
“How long do you think it will be before we can actually have the lift up and working?”
“End of the day if all goes well. Tomorrow if it doesn’t.”
“Tomorrow’s too late. Take whoever you need to get it running. Until we can have full access to the cave, we’re just treading water.”
“Gotcha, Boss. I let you know as soon as we’re ready.”
Watching Hector move off, Corbett returned to his desk. Taking out the checklist he had prepared in Salamanca, he began to run through the details. Yesterday’s descent into the cave had whetted his appetite for what lay ahead. The truth was, he loved the exploration of an unspoiled site. It was what had attracted him to study archeology in the first place. The idea that there were secrets hidden in the depths of the earth that might provide some fresh insight into the human condition still fired his imagination. Though it might be seen as his “cover” by Reed and others back in Langley, the work itself had somehow always given him a sense of worth that made all the rest in his life possible. Taking the checklist with him, he headed for the cook tent and breakfast.
*****
Jarral had arisen from a troubled sleep in the darkness before dawn and begun his day as always with the prayer known as Fajr.
He prayed to Allah for strength that they might find Tariq and slay him before he could return to his dying father’s side. Death to both father and son in accordance with God’s law.
Agitated by such thoughts, Jarral finally stood. Rolling up his prayer mat, he placed it against the crumbling wall beside the door then moved to where Buttar sat cross-legged, watching the road for anyone coming or going from the camp.
“Any sign of the Infidel?” he asked.
Buttar shook his head, his eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. “Nothing moves all night.” He answered.
“Vigilance,” he replied. “Trust in Allah and He will surely reward our devotion.”
“Vigilance…?” Buttar scoffed. “Vigilance is for old women and dogs. Are we not men anointed by Allah to carry out His word? Instead of laying here in wait, we should go to their camp and behead them as they sleep. Allah be praised.”
“And if we did, what chance would we have of finding Tariq? He is the one we must capture and behead, recording the moment of his death as a warning. Proof to all enemies of the true faith that this prodigal son of the apostate al-Bakr has been silenced for now and forever.”
“And if he escapes? What then?”
“Failure is not part of God’s plan. We must trust in Allah and know that His hand guides us in all things.”
With a grunt of grudging acceptance, Buttar rose and turned. Shuffling back across the room he spread out his prayer rug so that the niche pointed toward Mecca and began to pray, reciting from memory the verse from the holy Qur’an that begins:
“We will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve for what they have associated with Allah of which He had not sent down authority. And their refuge will be the Fire, and wretched is the residence of the wrongdoers.”
Fire, indeed. He whispered the phrase once more. For Buttar knew in his heart that the world would end in fire. It was only a matter of time. Allahu Akbar…! Then completing his prayer, he rolled up his rug once more and fell asleep.
*****
Repairing the winch took until just after noon. At the same time, the four men from the village recruited by Gorka the day before arrived and were put to work by Corbett assembling the superstructure needed to support the lift. Anchored in the bedrock at the mouth of the cave and standing seven feet tall, the superstructure extended six feet beyond the edge to allow the lift basket to be lowered and raised without obstruction. Essentially, a simple six-foot square aluminum cage covered with wire mesh, the basket had a lightweight sliding door and was attached to the winch’s thirty-meter, inch-and-a-half galvanized steel cable that ran through the pulley system at the apex of the structure. The cable could hold up to 30,000 pounds and had a descent rate of seven meters per minute. A pair of walkie-talkies were installed to provide communication between the surface and lift. By early afternoon, the entire assembly was in place and ready to be tested.
Donning a helmet, Corbett slid the door to the lift open. Then stepping into the cage, he pressed the remote. With a shudder, the winch hummed to life. As the basket swayed and began its descent into the cavernous void below, he attempted to ignore the mild sense of displacement that swept over him by turning on his LED light and focusing on the sedimentary lime
stone strata that defined the cave’s interior walls as it passed before him. Three minutes later, he reached the rock floor of the main chamber.
Pressing the button marked “talk,” Corbett spoke into the walkie-talkie. “That’s it. I’m down. We’re looking good. Better start organizing the men. As soon as everything’s been double-checked, I want to start bringing the equipment down.”
“You got it, Boss,” Hector’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Let me know when and we bring you back up pronto.”
Corbett turned on his handheld LED and slowly played the light across the rock face of the cave as he felt a wave of excitement rise up within him. “Copy that,” he said at last. “Ready whenever you are.”
Placing a hand against the wire mesh, Corbett braced himself as the winch kicked in and he began his ascent. Clearly having the lift in place made the entire enterprise possible. He could not imagine transporting the equipment they would need for the Laser Mapping, not to mention Ella’s photographic gear, without it. The wages of modern technology. But what of the original cave dwellers? How, he wondered, had they made their way down into the bowels of the earth? What had driven them underground? And what of the artist who had so painstakingly sought to capture the world beyond on the walls of the cave below? How had he or she or they managed to reach the depths and return? Clearly there had to have been another way. A path perhaps, either naturally formed or carved into the rock itself? With any luck, the 3-D Laser Mapping might somehow provide them with a meaningful clue. Making a mental note to discuss the matter with Sebastian, he glanced upwards through the opening at the top of the cage as the light from the mouth of the cave drew closer. There was much to be done.
As the lift finally reached the surface, Hector secured it, opening the door and giving Corbett a hand as he climbed out. Outside in the sunshine, the day laborers waited like roadies getting ready for the load-in. Corbett grinned at the thought. Laissez le bon temps rouler, indeed.
EIGHTEEN
H aving spent the remainder of the afternoon testing the lift, they began to transport the equipment and supplies necessary for the initial exploration of the cave from the surface to the floor of the main chamber. By the end of the day, all was finally in place for work to begin in earnest the following morning.
By the time Corbett returned to the base camp, the sun was slowly declining toward the western horizon. As the day laborers boarded their truck and headed down the mountain to the village, he walked toward his tent. A well-traveled minivan stood parked at the edge of the clearing. A red cross had been stenciled in paint to the driver’s side door. Above it were the words: “Clinica Medica.” Entering the musky coolness of the tent, Corbett stopped, sensing he was not alone. On the far side, Tariq stood half obscured in shadow. His beard neatly trimmed, he was wearing a loose fitting white thawb and a skullcap.
“Michael,” he said quietly, breaching the awkward silence that lay between them.
“Tariq…,” Corbett replied. “Good to see you. It’s been awhile.”
“Amaia said you had word of my father.”
“Maybe you’d better sit down and let me show you what we have.” Corbett crossed to his desk and unlocked the case containing the false compartment. “I should warn you, what you are about to see is difficult to watch. It shows an attack on your father that occurred in the holy city of Najaf during Ashura.”
Taking out his computer, he plugged it in and powered it up. Then slipping the Micro SD chip into the card reader, he clicked on the icon. Moving closer, Tariq uncomfortably dropped into the chair to watch. Instantly, the encrypted memory card began to replay the attack on Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr: The sea of wild-eyed penitents… The cleric’s arrival at the mosque… The sudden rush of the assailant… The explosion… Corbett could not help but notice as the images took their emotional toll, subtly ravaging Tariq’s features as he stared unblinking at the screen. When the final image faded to black, Corbett shut down the computer.
“You okay…?” he asked.
Tight lipped, Tariq managed a nod but said nothing. Swallowing hard, he finally found his voice. “Ashura was weeks ago… My father…?”
“Still alive. As far as anyone knows.”
“And the people who gave you this…?
“Are prepared to help you reach your father’s side… provided we act now.”
“We…? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
“It’s what I do,” Corbett answered quietly without elaborating.
“So you’re still with the Agency?” Corbett nodded, but remained silent. “After what happened between us… my coming between you and Amaia. Taking her away. We were friends, you and I. Amaia was…” He hesitated, searching for words.
“What she’s always been. Free to do whatever she wanted,” Corbett replied. “Only this isn’t about her.”
Corbett’s words registered. Meeting his steady gaze, Tariq said nothing, then added, “We have a daughter… A’ishah.”
“The little girl at the clinic…? Then you’re married?”
“No, she says she loves me but refuses to raise our daughter in Islam.”
“But if you go back…?”
“A child out of wedlock is against Sharia law. Fornication is forbidden. The punishment for a woman found guilty of fornication is death by stoning. So there is no way. If I go, it must be alone. It is the will of Allah.” Clearly conflicted, Tariq hesitated, “How soon?”
“Time is against us,” Corbett replied. “Any delay puts you further at risk.”
“I understand. Obviously, I must return. But I need time to set things in order, to explain to Amaia.”
“Then do it. I’ll make the arrangements. As soon as we’re ready, how do I reach you?”
“Leave word at the clinic. Then wait at the café around the corner. I will meet you there.”
Corbett nodded. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
“I know.”
For a brief moment, their eyes met, the fleeting memory of what had once been the bond between them. Turning, Tariq quietly slipped from the tent into the gathering dusk.
Corbett watched him go then turned at the sound of someone moving just outside the tent, followed immediately by footsteps on the run. By the time Corbett reached the tent flap, the intruder was gone.
*****
The battered red Peugeot had pulled off the road and circled around as it approached the base camp. Making its way without being seen, it quietly maneuvered into a position behind the rock outcropping across from the clearing. Seated behind the wheel, Raza switched off the ignition. Beside him, another man, the one they called Akif, sat watching as Tariq exited the far tent and crossed quickly to the medical van.
Pressing his eye to the telescopic sight mounted on the AK-47 now gripped in his hands, Akif placed Tariq’s face squarely in the crosshairs. Without looking, he simply said: “It’s him.”
“Him…?”
“Tariq… it’s him.” He spoke through clenched teeth, the index finger of his right hand resting on the trigger.
Picking up his cell phone, Raza felt a rush of excitement as he hit auto dial and waited. After a moment, Buttar’s voice crackled out of the cell phone.
“Let me speak to Jarral,” he spoke with urgency into the phone.
“He’s praying,” Buttar replied quickly in Urdu. “Whatever it is, tell me.”
“Tariq…” Raza said, his voice rising. “He’s here…!”
“You are sure?”
“Yes. Positive…” Raza glanced at Akif. The rifle still clutched in his hands, his right eye pressed against the gun sight, Akif whispered: “We kill him now…?” Repeating the question into the cell, Raza anxiously waited for Buttar to process this sudden turn.
At the same time, he watched Tariq cross to the grove of trees beyond the gravel path. Reaching the van, he opened the driver’s side door. As he climbed behind the wheel, Raza spoke again, his voice now fully limned with urgency: “He’s ge
tting away. We must act!”
Clutching the cell phone to his ear in the back room of the abandoned farmhouse, Buttar hesitated. In the yard beyond the window, cloistered within the stand of birch, he could see Jarral now prostrate upon his prayer rug. Although keenly aware of Jarral’s insistence that Tariq be taken alive, his beheading recorded and posted on YouTube for all to see, Buttar had no such scruples. As long as they could prove that the son of the cleric had been captured and killed, the message would be clear enough. But to waver in their resolve and allow Tariq to escape was, in Buttar’s mind, an unacceptable sign of weakness. The time for action was now.
“Do it… Kill him now,” he commanded at last.
Without warning, Buttar flinched as the sharp crack of an AK-47 came over the cell. Four shots followed in quick succession.
“What is happening…?
No response.
”Speak…!” he commanded. But instead of a reply, all he could hear was the sound of Raza’s shouts as he berated Akif. Then the line went dead.
*****
The bullets had pounded into the side of the van, shattering the window of the passenger side door. Grasping the steering wheel with both hands, Tariq pressed the pedal to the floor as the van took off, careening down the steep path toward the two-lane asphalt that led to Xeria below. Casting a quick glance in the rearview mirror, he could see an older, red Peugeot begin to race after him.
*****
Having heard the gunshots, Corbett stepped from his tent just as the Peugeot drove out from behind the rock outcropping and took off in pursuit of the medical van. Recognizing the car from the airport, Corbett turned and ran to the nearest Land Rover. Jumping behind the wheel, he flipped down the sun visor and grabbed the keys that had been secured there. Jamming the key into the ignition, he cranked the engine. As it roared to life, he forced the buckle of his seat belt into the clasp until he heard it click. Then dropping the Rover into gear, he stepped on the accelerator. By the time he was heading down the mountain, he could barely see the Peugeot’s taillights receding in the distance.
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