NINE
T he day broke cool and clear. As the first rays of the morning sun reflected off the clock tower of the old cathedral, Corbett checked out of his hotel, asking the clerk behind the desk to call a taxi. Sitting in the backseat as the cab drove through the early morning streets, he caught one last glimpse of the ornate façade of the university, turning his thoughts again to memories of Magdalen.
It was at Oxford that Corbett had begun sculling along the Thames just beyond Christ Church Meadow. After his broken clavicle had healed enough to begin serous physical therapy, Amaia had suggested he might use rowing as a way of accelerating the process. Her brother, Jon, had crewed at Yale and was coming to England on extended business. She introduced them one afternoon at the hospital and one thing had led to another. Soon the two men had begun meeting at the Magdalen Boathouse at dawn and taking out a double scull for an hour’s workout. The physical demands and teamwork necessary to propel a scull over the smooth, dark water created a kind of temporal bond between them. Before long, the two had formed a firm friendship.
His involvement with Amaia had come later. He had felt attracted to her from that first time they had met in the emergency room but had been reluctant to ask her out. Then one day Jon mentioned he was meeting his sister that evening at The White Horse, the Elizabethan pub on Broad Street, and suggested Corbett join them.
Established in the 16th century with thick oaken ceiling beams and dark paneled walls, The White Horse looked like something out of Falstaff. Arriving late from his tutorial, Corbett stood just inside at the top of the steps, surveying the crowded tables. Finding no sign of Jon anywhere in sight, he was about to leave when a familiar voice to his left called out.
“Michael… over here.”
Turning he spotted Amaia sitting alone at one of the tables. She waved him over.
“Jon couldn’t make it,” she had confided with a quick smile as he slipped into the chair opposite her. “He asked me to make amends and buy you a drink.”
“Absolutely not,” Corbett had insisted. He had been the one who was late. The least he could do was pay for the beer. They agreed to compromise. Going Dutch, they ordered a couple of pints of Brakspear Gold and a basket of chips to start. Discovering they shared a mutual love of early Renaissance art and art history they had talked until after midnight. By the time he finally walked her back to her flat, it was nearly one in the morning. Watching her fumble for her keys, he felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Resisting the impulse, he asked instead for her phone number. Pleased, she smiled and waited while he searched his pockets for something to write with. He was still looking when she opened the door and slipped inside leaving the door ajar.
Tentatively stepping into the vestibule, he had found her jotting her number on a pad lying on the desk just inside the door. But as she turned to hand it to him, he found himself embracing her. Effortlessly, her body folded into his. He began caressing her neck. Encountering no resistance, he shifted his attention to her right ear before finding her lips. Wordlessly, they communicated in kisses, exploring each other as they moved deeper into the apartment. In the throes of passion, they had first made love on the floor then again on the couch. It was daybreak before he finally left her sleeping wrapped in an afghan.
*****
Descending through the deserted streets, the taxi reached Calle de San Gregorio and turned right. Below them, Corbett could see the Río Tormes flowing briskly, the sunlight glinting off its fractured surface. Ahead, he could make out the arches of the Puente Romano near where the convoy of university vehicles was being assembled.
According to legend, the Roman Bridge had been first built by Heracles, son of Zeus, gatekeeper of Olympus. But in actual fact, it hailed from the first century and had been constructed by the Emperor Trajan, a lasting reminder of Roman rule. At the head of the bridge on the Salamanca side of the river, stood a granite monolith, one of many known as verracos dating from the century before Christ. Verraco literally meant “boar,” though it reminded Corbett of a stone bull.
Three well-maintained and gracefully aging Land Rovers, all pre-2000 and bearing the seal of the Universidad de Salamanca on their doors, were parked in tandem as Gorka moved from one to the next, double-checking the contents of each. Bringing up the rear were a pair of ancient M35 two-and-a-half ton 6x6 Diesel cargo trucks that had seen better days.
As the taxi rolled to a halt near the stone verraco, Corbett could
see two of his three interns, Ella and Roberto, standing together talking. Spotting him, Roberto smiled and nodded, causing the girl to turn. She was wearing a loose-fitting sweatshirt and jeans, and looked better than Corbett remembered. She caught his eye as he climbed out of the rear seat of the cab. Despite himself, he held her gaze a moment longer than he intended, smiling at her as the driver secured his luggage from the boot.
“Dr. Corbett,” she smiled back, “Good morning…”
“Good morning. And it’s Michael,” he corrected. “’Doctor’ sounds like somebody’s grandfather.”
“Michael,” she repeated with a nod, pleased by his informal off-hand manner.
Realizing that he was still looking at her, Corbett forced himself to turn away, paying the driver as Gorka lumbered toward him to collect his suitcases.
“Buenos dias. ¿Como estas…?”
“Muy bien, gracias… ¿y usted?”
“We are almost in readiness pretty soon,” the old Basque replied. “All present and accounted for… Except for the short one.”
“The short one…? Karim?”
