Directly above him, Noor reached the red tiled roof of the first house and clambered over the edge. By the time Corbett did the same, Noor was several rooftops away threading his way along the uneven tiles. Leaping from one roof to the next, the Jihadi glanced back, his still bloodied face fighting panic as Corbett closed the gap.
Ahead, Noor reached the far end of the roof of the last house on the block and froze. Nowhere to go. Looking down, he could see the worn stone cobbles of the street some thirty feet below. Behind a wall to his right, a barking dog began to throw itself against a wooden door in a frenzied attempt to get at some unseen intruder. Glancing back, Noor found Corbett coming hard. Desperate, he looked across to the flat roof with a vegetable garden standing one story below and a dozen feet away. Stepping back and drawing a breath, he suddenly ran forward, hurtling himself through space, arms flailing as he landed hard beside the garden. To his left, a door. Scrambling up, he rushed at the door only to find it locked.
At the same time, Corbett came charging across the roof, loose tiles slipping beneath his feet. Reaching the edge, he stopped, staring across and down to where Noor was now attempting to force the wooden door. Putting his shoulder to the sun-bleached, rotting wood, Noor finally managed to splinter the doorjamb. Swinging free on its hinges, the door yawned open and he disappeared inside.
Ignoring the steep drop to the stone street and barking dog, Corbett eyeballed the distance to the far building. Then without waiting, he suddenly launched himself into the gaping void between the buildings. But instead of propelling himself onto the roof garden, he took aim at the second story window to the left of the now open door. Hurtling through space, he shielded his face with his arms as he smashed through the window. In an explosion of glass and wood, he came crashing onto the landing of a stairwell inside, a few steps from where Noor was now descending. Caught unprepared, the Jihadi started to turn as Corbett slammed into him. The force of the impact drove both men into the balustrade and down the steps onto the landing below. Shards of glass and window trim flying everywhere.
Instantly, both men found their feet and squared off. Fists and feet in rapid combinations. Blow and counter-blow. Without warning, Noor pulled a six-inch knife from a concealed sheath strapped below his left knee. Lashing out, the blade sliced through Corbett’s shirtsleeve, barely missing his arm. But as the Jihadi came at him a second time, Corbett caught him by the wrist, slamming his hand against the bannister repeatedly until the blade fell harmlessly between them. Releasing his grip on Noor’s wrist, Corbett slipped around behind him. Then wrapping his arm around the man’s throat, in a single move, Corbett snapped his neck. Feeling Noor’s body go slack, he lowered him to the floor. Still gasping for breath, he quickly turned and slipped unnoticed down the stairs leading to the street.
Reaching the street, Corbett cracked open the door and checked to be sure he was alone. Seeing no one, he stepped out onto the cobblestone street, his eyes immediately registering details in every direction. But as he started to make his way back toward the clinic, he was suddenly knocked off his feet by the concussive force of a deafening explosion. Momentarily disoriented, he stared into the sky as a column of thick black smoke curled into the morning air several blocks away. Instantly he realized: C-4…! Scrambling up, he took off at a run, racing for the clinic.
TWENTY-FOUR
R acing on the double, his ears still ringing, Corbett reached the street leading to the clinic and pulled up short. Before him, the skeletal remains of the stake bed truck now rested in a large crater directly across from the still burning entrance to the clinic. A small clutch of villagers had begun to gather just up the block, openly fearful of moving closer. Somewhere, the sound of a fire siren had begun to wail. Minutes later the town’s volunteer fire brigade – four men in an ancient GMC pumper – arrived on the scene, making their way cautiously down the narrow street. Coming to a halt before the clinic, the firemen deployed, coupling their hose to a yellow hydrant as they began pouring a steady stream of water on the flames in an attempt to keep the fire from spreading.
Filled with apprehension, Corbett spotted Nekane across the street, sheltering a young boy in her arms, her eyes fixed on the burning clinic. Willing himself forward, he approached her, his voice raw with emotion.
“The doctor…?” he managed at last. “Dr. Alesander… did you reach her? Did she get out?”
Still in shock, Nekane stared at him as if unable to comprehend his question. But before Corbett could ask it again, he heard the sound of protesting brakes as down the street came the same medical van Tariq had used to escape the Jihadi attack two days before. Behind the wheel was Amaia, her eyes filled with rage. Tariq sat in the passenger seat with the little girl perched on his lap. Spotting Corbett, Amaia brought the van to a halt and leaped out. Running full tilt at Corbett, she cursed him as she came.
“You son of a bitch…!” Doubling her fists, she wildly struck his chest with all her might. “Bastard…! Why? We were free. Away from the violence and the terror. All we wanted was a chance. To raise a family. Live our lives. And now...!”
Stepping up behind her, Tariq carried their little girl in one arm as he reached out to Amaia, encircling her shoulders with the other.
“Amaia…” he whispered in her ear. “Amaia, listen…”
But she pulled away, unwilling to surrender what little peace they had known here without a fight.
“Michael… answer me!” she shouted in his face. “Why? Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?”
Unable to blunt her rage, Corbett looked to Tariq. “It’s time,” he said quietly. “Your father needs you. Your country is on the edge of oblivion. Turn your back and everything your father has worked for will be lost. Any chance for peace depends on you. Unless you come with me now…”
“Unless he comes with you now, what…?” Amaia repeated, her words awash with rancor. Nodding her head toward the still burning ruins of what had once been the clinic, she lashed out at him again. “All this is because of you, Michael. I hope you burn in hell…”
Corbett said nothing. The little girl began to cry. Stepping forward, Tariq handed her back to Amaia then turned to meet Corbett’s gaze with a mixture of anger and resignation. “Give us a minute,” he said at last.
Backing off, Corbett watched as Tariq guided Amaia and their child to one side. They spoke barely above a whisper, but the passions behind their words were intense and clear. Whatever Tariq was saying, Amaia adamantly refused to accept it as she comforted the little girl, stroking her hair. But in the end, she had no choice. Corbett found himself sympathizing with her in spite of himself. Forced to accept the pervasive sense of his own culpability, he could see no other way out. The casualties of war, he thought. They also serve who only stand and wait.
As the fire brigade began to get the upper hand on the burning clinic, Amaia cast a last angry look in Corbett’s direction. Then clutching her daughter, she quickly turned and moved back the way she had come, disappearing up the street. Stoic, Tariq moved to the rear of the van and retrieved a duffel bag. Then turning to Corbett, he nodded, “Let’s go.”
*****
Jarral had waited all morning for word following the news of the explosion of the IED in the village. Some confirmation of Tariq’s death that they might announce to the world that the son of the apostate Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr was no more. A blow struck for Allah and the Caliphate. But by mid-morning, the local radio was reporting that the detonation of an Improvised Explosive Device in the Basque town of Xeria had destroyed the local medical clinic and killed three people: an old man, a woman, and a ten-year old child. Since clearly none of the descriptions matched Tariq, Jarral could only presume their plan had failed. At the same time, the police had reported finding the body of another man who had been killed separately several blocks away. With no word from Noor, Jarral could only assume the worst. A new plan would have to be made and made quickly. The explosion of the IED would surely have alerted the Infidel. No do
ubt he would attempt to move Tariq without delay. When he did, Jarral vowed that this time, with Allah’s strength, they would not fail.
He looked down at the shortness of his shadow. The sun was now nearly directly overhead. Soon it would be time for Dhuhr, the noon prayer. Strange, he thought, how the midday prayer had become irrevocably linked in his memory to the reputed collapse of the Islamic Caliphate in Iraq.
It had been during the holy month of Ramadan. He had just arisen from Dhuhr that day when word had come from Mosul announcing that the Grand al-Nuri Mosque with its leaning minaret had been blown up rather than be allowed to fall into the hands of the Infidels. Those in the West had taken this shocking event to signify the beginning of the end of ISIS. But Jarral knew this to be a lie just like the coalition’s declaration that it had totally defeated ISIS on the battlefield. The true Islamic State was not a physical place but lived in the hearts and minds of the faithful who devoutly believed in Allah as revealed through the words of the Prophet as recorded in the Holy Qur’an.
It was on that very day that Jarral had formed al-Battar, Jihadis in the service of Islam. Fighters whose sole mission it would be to strike terror in the hearts of all who oppose ISIS and prove to the world that the Islamic State was alive and well and would ultimately triumph victorious over the forces of the West. For was it not written in the Holy Qur’an: “Fight them until there is no more rebellion, and religion is all for Allah.” And so it would be.
Timing was key. Assuming the Infidel must now move Tariq to the mountain camp, Jarral would need confirmation the moment he arrived if they were to successfully launch their attack. With such short notice, he would have to rely on their informant – the one he had so carefully recruited following word of Tariq’s presence in the Pyrenees. In the immediate aftermath of the assassination attempt on Ahmed Abdul-Qadir al-Bakr, coupled with the arrival of the American Infidel in Salamanca, Jarral had felt certain it would only be a matter of time before Allah would call upon al Battar, the Sword of the Prophet, to wreak His wrathful vengeance upon the unbelievers. And now that time had come.
Unrolling his prayer rug once more, he prepared to pray.
*****
The Land Rover with the damaged front bumper churned its way back up the long winding unmarked blacktop leading from the village below. It was nearly noon on Sunday and the road was all but devoid of traffic. Corbett could feel a dull throbbing in both his hands, physical reminders of his brutal encounter with the Jihadi in town. He would have to ice them. His knees as well. Clearly, he thought, this business took its toll.
For a long time, Corbett and Tariq drove in silence, each lost in his own thoughts as an uneasy truce spread between them. Wearing the baseball cap, jeans and work shirt supplied by Corbett, Tariq barely resembled the man ISIS was seeking or so Corbett hoped. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
So much had happened and yet ironically here they were, forced to work together, trust each other one last time despite their differences. Corbett thought of the hours they had once spent in the coffee houses discussing art and politics at Oxford. An unbreakable friendship. Had Amaia not come between them, who could say how strong that friendship might yet be today? As they approached the turn-off beside the abandoned farmhouse, Corbett finally broke the silence.
“Given what’s happened…” he began. “I just wanted to say that if there had been any other way...” Unable to find the words, he left the thought unfinished.
“There wasn’t… isn’t,” Tariq answered, his voice flat, stripped of emotion. “Amaia and I…” he started again, then hesitated. “We both knew the risks from the start. We just thought if we could find someplace far enough off the grid, quiet, remote, inconspicuous-- we could disappear and no one would come looking. Of course, we weren’t counting on you.”
“I know,” Corbett agreed. “I mean, what are the chances?”
“When the stakes are high enough...” Tariq shrugged. “Obviously, there are people out there who want me dead. Who knows, if you had not been there today, perhaps they would have succeeded.”
“So… is that the reason you agreed to leave? If you go, the threat goes with you?” Corbett speculated aloud, shaking his head at the irony. “The only way you can protect your wife and child is desert them?”
“Something like that,” Tariq said looking off to his right. “What a terrible business.”
Corbett said nothing as he turned off the main road and headed up the mountain. As they approached the base camp, Corbett quickly went over the plan. Tariq would join the work crew from the village following the midday meal and be sent to help Sebastian uncover and catalogue the double skeleton being excavated near the cave’s mouth. Whenever the day’s work finally ended, Corbett would come to collect him and make the final preparations for exfiltration. Trying to keep things simple, he decided not to go into the remaining details.
Parking the Land Rover, he escorted Tariq to the cook tent. There he introduced him to Sebastian and the other workers as an extra hand. Leaving them to finish eating, Corbett returned to his tent where he took out his laptop and sent a short, encrypted email to Reed:
Dear Mother -- Trouble in town but Specialist okay. Here now ready to fly. Send bird as planned. Don’t be late. Storm clouds gathering. – Sonny
*****
As the men finished eating, Sebastian collected Tariq and the two student volunteers and began the trek back up the mountain to the cave. Having followed them outside the cook tent, Karim stared hard at the newcomer. As a result, he was only half-listening as Roberto spoke to him.
“Ready to head back…?” Roberto asked emerging from the tent to stand beside him. “With a little luck, we can finish what we started this morning and get back to mapping the main chamber.”
“What…?” Karim replied distractedly, his attention still focused on this new laborer whom he had seen Corbett bring back with him from the village. This was Tariq. It had to be. He would have to get word to the others.
Annoyed, Roberto tried again. “Scanning the section below the entrance. See if there is actually a path. ”
“Path…?” Karim repeated, his attention still divided.
“Earth to Karim. Are you reading me?” Roberto stared at him. “Where is your head today?”
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“The scan we’ve been working on all morning,” Roberto said, annoyed at having to repeat himself. “The path leading downwards. The one Sebastian suspects the Neanderthals might have used.”
“Right. The path. Got it. Sorry. Just not thinking today,” he forced a smile. “Let’s get to it.” Attempting to conceal his excitement at having spotted Tariq, Karim tried to stay focused. If the son of the cleric was here, it must mean they were preparing to move him. Allah be praised…! Here indeed was the opportunity he had prayed for. At last, a chance to atone for his carnal transgressions.
Quickly adjusting his thoughts to accommodate this unexpected development, Karim needed a plan. With little time to waste, he would somehow have to find an excuse to slip away in time to let Jarral and the others know before it was too late. He had only been contacted by Jarral once since arriving at the site of the university dig. That had been to show him a photo of Tariq and inform him that al Battar, the Sword of the Prophet, now occupied the abandoned farmhouse below. If he saw this man, Jarral had said, indicating the photo, he must get word to them immediately. Pleased at having been included, Karim had assured him he would not fail.
Moving up the incline leading to the cave’s entrance, Karim tried to make small talk with Roberto, his mind struggling as he searched for some convenient lie, a plausible excuse that would allow him to get away. As they entered the lift and awaited their descent, Karim seemed to wince, then pressed his hands to his stomach.
“You all right?” Roberto asked.
“Just a cramp. Must be something I ate.”
Reaching the cavern floor, the two men moved to where the 3D Scanner sto
od. As they began their work, Karim abruptly winced again, pressing his fingers against his abdomen. Claiming the cramping was becoming worse, he blamed the old man’s cooking. Clutching his stomach he shook his head, stopping to allow the imaginary pain to pass. Working together, they repositioned the instrument for a final scan of the space beneath the cave’s entrance high above. But as soon as they finished, Karim excused himself. Urgently explaining that he had to go, he promised to see Roberto back in camp and headed for the lift. Shaking his head, Roberto watched him step into the cage and begin his ascent. What a slacker, he thought. Then returning his attention to the computer, he began compiling the critical data.
*****
As the lift reached the surface, Karim stepped out. Glancing to his left he could see Tariq now at work operating the sieve as Sebastian and the other two, Nestor and Jennet, carefully continued to excavate the area around the twin skulls. He was still staring at him when Tariq looked up, momentarily catching his eye. Forcing a nod, Karim tried not to arouse suspicion. Tariq returned the nod, then resumed his work.
Quickly exiting the cave, Karim slipped unnoticed down the mountain. Skirting the base camp, he headed toward the dirt and gravel path that led to the main road and the abandoned farmhouse below. Running now, his mind flashed back to his time at Oxford where he had first been approached by MI-6 to act as an agent on behalf of the Crown. Without letting on that he had already been recruited by ISIS, Karim had accepted the British offer. Then applying for a summer internship with the University of Salamanca, he had barely reached Spain before Jarral had contacted him. A situation had arisen. ISIS needed his help. Without hesitation, he had volunteered.
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