Gorka studied him for a long moment without answering. “Peace is nothing without justizia,” he replied at last as he placed the freshly rolled cigarette between his lips and searched for a match.
“Then you don’t believe in the disarmament?”
“Too many rot in Spanish jails beyond our mountains…” Gorka said quietly. “’Kale Borroka’ means street fighting – what you would call in America, civil disobedience, no? The Spanish court calls this terrorism and imprisons all they convict without possibility of parole.”
“So ETA still lives?”
“ETA never dies. It fills the heart of every Basque – Euskal nazioaren.”
Corbett managed a nod as the conversation awkwardly stalled. Nationalism, like terrorism, he thought, would always be dependent on whose ox was being gored.
“Thank you for joining our project on such short notice,” Asurias attempted to bridge the impasse and shift the conversation to something less combustible. “When Dr. Guzman withdrew, we thought we might have to postpone operations at the site until next summer. A great disappointment, especially to our students.”
Gorka struck a wooden match with the thumbnail of his left hand then touched the sulfurous flame to the end of his cigarette as the waiter returned with a bottle of Rioja and three glasses. Placing a glass before each of them, he began uncorking the bottle.
“Glad it worked out,” Corbett replied. “I was actually supposed to be in Gibraltar on a dig for the University of Pennsylvania, but at the last minute their funding fell through. Sometimes fate takes a hand.”
Pouring the first swallow of wine into Asurias’s glass, the waiter hesitated, waiting for the older man’s approval. Swirling the dark liquid, he held it up to the light. Then placing it beneath his nose, he inhaled before taking a small sip, savoring its rich flavor before nodding to the waiter to continue.
“Si… Life is like a river,” he agreed. “We are all caught in its currents, are we not?”
Corbett nodded then lifted his glass. “To the river then,” he said as the others joined him in a toast. “May it bring us success.”
“Did you have a chance to read through the material I sent you?” Asurias set down his glass and selected a tapa.
“On the flight up from Madrid. From the look of the photographs the site appears to be pristine. An extraordinary find.”
“Indeed. From the fossil record and Mousterian tools recovered near the mouth of the cave, we believe the inhabitants to have been Neanderthal. But, of course, until we can actually excavate, we have no way of knowing for certain. But now you are here, the funds are in place. Time is of the essence.” He bit into the tapa savoring its pungent flavor.
“When do we depart?”
“Regretfully, we do not have the luxury of delay. The advance party has been sent ahead. You depart in two days with the rest of your team. Tomorrow you will come to the university. Meet your principal interns. Go over the details.” Noticing the bruises on Corbett’s hand, Asurias frowned.
“Your hand… Hector told me about the incident at the airport. You are all right?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, flexing his fingers as if to prove the point. “Sign of the times. Should’ve been more careful.”
“A sign of the times indeed,” Asurias nodded. “From the eighth century when the Muslim caliphate overran Iberia until 1492 when Ferdinand and Isabella finally completed the Reconquista, Spain was at the mercy of Islam. Today Islam would seem to be making a return.”
“Arabs,” Gorka said, turning his head and spitting on the ground. “Pozoi – they are a poison.”
“Even worse,” the professor’s voice darkened. “They come here as workers, but have no wish to become Spaniards. They think this land is theirs, and they would take it without asking. So violence begets violence. Which is why I have insisted that the university provide a security detail. A necessary extravagance. There was a time I never would have considered such a thing. But today…” He shrugged with a shake of his head.
With a nod, Corbett concurred while silently wondering what the university considered “security.”
As if reading his thoughts, Asurias added: “Three armed men have been assigned to protect you, your team and the equipment. They were sent ahead with the advance party.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” Corbett replied. “With any luck, we’ll never need them.”
“One would hope. But today we find our world steeped in war.”
“Perhaps. But in the end, all wars are local.”
“An interesting observation,” Asurias nodded.
Gorka listened quietly, watching as the blue-gray tobacco smoke from his cigarette dispersed into the cool night air. Looking across the table at Corbett, he asked: “How do you mean ‘local’…?”
“Wars are not fought by armies. They’re fought by men. Two soldiers alone in a field. Strangers who, had they met in some bar somewhere, might have passed the time telling stories and laughing over a couple of cervesas. And yet here, on this battlefield, each will do his best to kill the other for some cause neither fully understands. Because in war, death is the only winner.”
“So, you are a cynic then…” Asurias said.
“No, not really. More of a disillusioned idealist still searching for something to believe in,” he replied with a sardonic smile, lifting his glass to his lips.
“Idealism…yes!” Gorka grinned. Raising the now empty bottle of Rioja above his head, Asurias held up his hand to signal their waiter to bring another.
*****
A short way off along the colonnade, two men stood watching from the shadows. The first was Jarral, his face still showing the bruises from the fight at the airport. Beside him, the second man, Buttar, was also of
