Allahu Akbar …!
Above him, the board abruptly changed, once more updating the flight information. At last, Iberia Flight 3417 from Madrid had landed.
TWO
A s the flight attendant opened the cabin door of the ATR-72, Corbett helped the old woman retrieve her suitcase. But by the time he had collected his travel bag and laptop then turned back, she was gone. Reflexively checking his jacket pocket, he was surprised to find his wallet still intact. He shook his head and smiled. Perhaps Spain really was making him paranoid. If he ever saw her again, he owed the old lady an apology.
Deplaning, he headed for the air-conditioned terminal. Behind him, the ground crew began removing the checked baggage.
Entering the terminal, Corbett heard the warning buzzer sound as the single baggage carousel lurched to life. Stiff from his journey, he moved to a spot near the conveyor belt and set his carry-on bag on the ground between his legs. Attempting to stretch his lower back and torso, he watched as the first pieces of luggage began to circle. The flight had been only half full, a testament to Spain’s uncertain economy and the general decline in air travel to Castilla y Leon in recent years. Three-dozen passengers, mostly tourists and students, now waited to retrieve their checked bags before securing ground transportation for the ride into Salamanca proper. As his suitcases tumbled onto the belt and glided his way, Corbett snagged first one then the other, hefting each with some effort and setting them down beside his carry-on.
“Doctor Corbett…?”
Hearing his name, Corbett turned to find a muscular, compact Spaniard in his forties walking toward him pushing an airport luggage cart. Meeting his gaze, Corbett nodded.
“Hector Diaz…” the man said, extending his hand. “With El Departmento el Prehistoria y Arqueologia de Salamanca.” They shook hands.
“Dr. Asurias sent me to meet your plane. How was your flight?”
“A religious experience,” Corbett said with an ironic smile.
“I have a van from the university in the parking structure across the street.”
“Excellent,” Corbett replied. “But call me Michael.”
“Whatever you say, Boss…” Hector indicated the two suitcases. “These two…?”
“Si… Traveling light.”
Hefting the suitcases one at a time, Diaz set them on the cart. “We go like this.” Propelling the cart forward, Hector moved swiftly, threading his way through the crowd toward the automatic sliding doors marked “Salida / Exit.” Shouldering his carry-on and gripping his computer case, Corbett swung into step beside him.
The air outside was thick. Heat rose from the shimmering asphalt in waves causing Corbett to feel a slight sense of queasiness. Ignoring it, he said nothing.
If Hector was affected by the oppressive heat radiating upwards, he refused to show it, speaking in short bursts between his teeth. “Dr. Asurias… sends his regards. He asks… that you… join him this evening… after the sun is down… for a drink.”
“Sounds good…” Corbett answered, maintaining a smile.
They continued in silence finally entering the protective shade of the parking structure. Noxious odors of Diesel fuel and gasoline laced with burnt rubber abruptly filled his nostrils conjuring up memories of Nairobi’s Kibera Slum and his friend Jon Alesander lying dead in the street. Specters from the past.
“How are the preparations going?” Corbett asked, forcing himself to refocus.
“You mean the dig, Boss…?” Hector asked in reply as he force-marched the luggage cart along the row of parked cars to where a Volkswagen minibus bearing University of Salamanca logos on its doors waited. Stopping the cart beside the tailgate, Hector opened the rear door.
“Has all the equipment arrived?”
“Si... El equipo de excavación all sent ahead.” Hector made room in back for Corbett’s suitcases. “Looking pretty good.” He began to load Corbett’s luggage into the rear of the van.
At the same time, a pair of men dressed in worn jeans and ill-fitting cotton T-shirts approached from the next aisle of parked cars. Loose-limbed and sinewy, they looked like day laborers. The taller of the two, the man called Noor, nodded to Hector as he spoke.
“Un momento…,” he said.
Corbett recognized the thick North African accent.
Hector tried to ignore them.
“Un momento…” the man repeated, raising his voice.
“¿Que desea usted?” Hector replied without looking up.
Seeing their attention momentarily divided, the second man, Jarral, suddenly reached out without warning and snatched Corbett’s computer case, ripping it from his grip.
“What the f…” Totally unexpected, it happened in a blink. Caught completely off-guard, Corbett cursed his own stupidity. But as he started to go after the thief, he felt Noor’s fingers grab his arm. Now already twenty meters ahead, clutching the computer case, the shorter man raced through the parked cars. As Hector managed to grab Noor from behind, Corbett finally broke free,
“Rapido, señor…! Vaya!”
Racing after the man, Corbett dodged between, around and over the parked cars. Stride by stride, he cut into the thief’s lead. Legs pounding, fists pumping, he felt the adrenaline course through his veins. The sense of lethargy he had experienced coming off the plane was now completely gone, wiped away in a surge of kinetic energy. Twenty meters became ten. Ten became five. He could almost reach out and grab him when Jarral darted through a line of parked cars right into the path of an oncoming black Mercedes sedan. Hitting the brakes, the driver cursed as he barely avoided striking Jarral while simultaneously blocking Corbett.
