The Exfiltrator Garner Simmons (best e book reader for android txt) 📖

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 here.  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,”