Dodging his way through another row of parked cars, Jarral could feel Corbett now close behind him. Just ahead, a Fiat Spider was about to pull out. With a deceptive move, Jarral abruptly changed direction, barely missing the Fiat while bringing Corbett directly into its path. Struck by the rear bumper, Corbett hit the pavement just as the driver of the Fiat slammed on his brakes. Immediately back up and running, Corbett redoubled his speed.
Ahead, a beat-up red Peugeot stood parked alone in the last aisle. Reaching it, Jarral threw open the driver’s side door and was about to toss the computer case inside when Corbett grabbed it by the shoulder strap and spun the smaller man around. Swinging his elbow, he caught the thief hard in the mouth then drove a knee into his groin. Refusing to let go of the case, Jarral reached for a knife tucked in his belt. Seeing the glint of metal, Corbett grabbed his wrist, slamming it into the fender of the Peugeot. The blade skittered across the pavement. Wrenching the computer case free at last, Corbett staggered backwards. At the same time, Hector came racing through the parked cars. Clearly outnumbered, Jarral jumped behind the wheel and cranked the engine. Jamming it in reverse, he nearly ran Hector down. Then dropping it into gear, he accelerated and headed for the street.
Winded, Corbett stood, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. Straightening, he turned his attention to check the computer. As Hector watched, Corbett moved to a nearby parked car and set the case on the hood. Unzipping it, he took out the laptop.
“Boss,” Hector said at last, “you okay…?”
Corbett managed a nod as he booted up the computer.
“Other one… got away. Caray…! Should have warned you. Los culeros! Arabs… Nothing but trouble.”
With an electronic chime, the computer screen blinked then came to life.
Pleased, Hector forced a grin. “Is working, si…? And you…?”
Corbett nodded again, examining the bruise on the heel of his left hand where he had grabbed the computer strap. “Nothing a little Scotch won’t cure.”
“Muy bien. Vamonos…!”
Turning, they made their way back across the parking structure. Reaching the van, they climbed inside. But as Hector backed the van out of its space and headed for Salamanca, yet another set of eyes were watching from the shadows.
THREE
The university van rolled along the center lane of the three-lane blacktop connector road that ran between the airport and Salamanca. Three lanes, Corbett thought – only in Spain. Each outside lane was dedicated to a single direction. The center lane, however, was designated “el carril de paso” – the passing lane – available to anyone with cojones big enough to chance it. And given the way Hector drove, Corbett guessed, he must have had balls the size of boulders. He simply commandeered the center lane all the way into the city, forcing the oncoming traffic to back down or pull over.
Ignoring the horns and curses, they sped toward town as Corbett decided to leave his fate to the madman behind the wheel. At the same time, unnoticed at a discreet distance, a gray Volkswagen Jetta now followed, never losing sight of the van.
Attempting to distract himself, Corbett turned his attention to the passing landscape. If he was going to die at the hands of this lunatic, at least he could enjoy the scenery. He forced his mind to focus on the archeological dig somewhere in the Basque mountains to the north – a recently discovered cave that, according to the information sent by Asurias, dated from approximately 32,000 B.C.E.
“B.C.E….?” What bullshit. Who came up with such abbreviations anyway? Attempting to be inoffensive, it offended everyone. “B.C.E.” stood for what exactly? “Before the Common Era?” “Before the Current Era?” Perhaps “Before the Christian Era” like its predecessor, the politically incorrect “A.D.”? Anno Domini. “In the Year of our Lord…” As if God gave a shit.
In retrospect, Corbett decided that it all went back to Einstein. Egregious, wire-haired, meddling old bastard. It had taken the universe billions of years to evolve and in no time at all, one hair-brained genius had managed to truly fuck things up. It had all been so simple. Time was time. The past was history. The future opaque. All you really needed was a grip on the present, that never-ending ribbon of incontinent nanoseconds leaking out across the universe, unstoppable, unfailing… unquestioned. Centuries flowing like a dark river, pooling into millennia. Recorded memories of lost time.
Corbett continued to stare out at the distant mountains, dusky purple against the arid ochre landscape. Was there a common thread, he wondered? Some master plan connecting all humankind? From Australopithecus to Homo habilis to Homo erectus to Neanderthal to Homo sapiens. Like links in a chain. Or was it all simply random happenstance? A demented creator’s dirty little joke. In time’s infinite progression, given the limitless possibilities, combinations and permutations, could a rational case be made for some greater purpose? Or did it always demand a leap of faith?
Corbett frowned. If a human life could be expressed as a mathematical equation reduced to the lowest common denominator, then every man began the same. The scientific standardization of human existence. Written as a fraction, your first day of life on earth could be divided by the number of days you’d been alive: 1/1.
Uno…aon…eins…un…eme…un…one... Which makes your first day the longest you will ever live. 86,400 seconds. Endless. Unyielding. Nothing again will ever equal it. And then, without warning comes…
Day Two.
And suddenly the equation changes. A new day divided by two days of existence. Half as long as the lingering memory of that first day that already must seem so long ago. And for every day thereafter the relentless drumbeat of lost time marches forward,
