The Galician Parallax (18 page)

‘That could up the price on heroine and a drop on cocaine.’

‘There’s another problem,’ pitched in Mr Billson. ‘You’ve just mentioned it, Sr Bermudez; security. Here in Europe they’ll be stepping up controls. It’s bound to have a repercussion on our traffic which brings me to the next question. Do we need to review any of the routes?’ He looked at Teixugo who was at the receiving end of the bulk supply.

Teixugo took a sip of wine before responding. After a few seconds he said, ‘Good question.’

The statistics remained the same. The shipments from Columbia via Panama had not encountered any change in interception. The containers that were caught prior to shipment at Colon were few and far between and investigations by the drug enforcement authorities resulted in the odd arrest of an intermediary that could not be traced back to the Medellin cartel. Sr Bermudez had covered his tracks. As for entry into Galicia, once again Teixugo made sure that anything found “on land” pointed westwards towards South America. His local network was too powerful and was helped by heavy subsidies to the corresponding corrupt authorities that kept the police at bay. Any interception at sea before landing was not his problem. The route into the UK was another matter.

‘You both know that since the end of all the fishing problems the Royal Navy has switched to the drug inspection of trawlers…’

Before Mr Billson could finish Teixugo butted in, ‘I know, we all remember the
Maruxa
; it cost me a great deal of money.’

Ever since the incident, his organisation had tightened the network by constantly alternating shipping routes both seaward and by land. By splitting the amounts into even smaller packs the cartel was able to devise more ingenious methods of concealment into Europe. It was also increasing costs.

Sr Bermudez finally brought up the subject. ‘How’re our yacht club smugglers getting on?’

Mr Billson got up from the table and walked towards the window. Stretching his legs and arms he looked out towards the port area. The marina opposite the restaurant was crammed full of yachts of all shapes and sizes. ‘There’re some real rich bastards out there.’ He walked back to the table. ‘I’ll give them another year’s run and if successful they better start working on increasing the amount; two yachts, another port, more crew, who knows?’

The Falmouth yachtsmen were already aware.

The Spanish Minister of the Interior had finally received a full-blown report on the attacks in the USA and the invasion of Afghanistan by NATO forces. It was a cocktail of information from different sources within the country compiled and put together by his department. The report was massive. After skimming through the headings of each section and briefly reading a sentence or two he called in Jose Pardoso, his secretary general.

‘As far as I can make out, Jose, there’s a hint that the attack on the Twin Towers was orchestrated from here, am I right?’

Jose knew that the minister would pick out the salient point that could affect Spain’s political machinery and the present government’s popularity rating. Before he could answer, the minister went on, ‘Is the press aware of this?’

As he continued leafing through the report and ignoring the question Jose said, ‘I suggest you look at section VII b, paragraph 3.1, sir.’

The minister paused for a moment and then searched for the section. It read:
There is ground for suspicion that the perpetrators of said crime may have had connections with ETA as…
He called his secretary on the intercom. ‘Get hold of Ruben Cardoso right away.’

The Director of the National Intelligence Centre was away from his office at an undisclosed location.

He threw the report on the desk. ‘Shit.’

The
Sea Explorer
with 2,500 British passengers and 800 crew was starting its final trip from Southampton down to the Mediterranean and approaching the Cíes Islands’ northern channel. It was nearing the end of the cruise holiday season with only two more ships due in December. The
Explorer
was still five hours away from docking time. It was 3 a.m. when Stan received an urgent phone call on his mobile from Chema Cervera, the duty pilot at the port advising him that there was an emergency on board. Yolanda and Gabriel were still fast asleep as Stan picked up the receiver.

‘Hello? Sr Bullock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry to bother you but the captain on today’s cruise ship says he’s got a medical problem. The ship’s doctor confirms that a large attack of gastroenteritis has broken out on board. Several passengers have been confined to their cabins suffering from diarrhoea and heavy bouts of vomiting. He’s asking for urgent medical assistance.’

The captain’s normal call requesting pilot assistance was overshadowed by this short and urgent message that preceded his request.

‘Do you know how many people are affected?’

‘No.’

‘OK, give me half an hour and I’ll be down at the wharf.’

Before he could hang up, Chema went on, ‘I have to advise the health authorities right away, SrBullock.’

Stan had ordered a taxi from the nearest night rank and by 3.45 was checking through the port gates and heading for the pilot’s office. Not only was he greeted by Chema but by one of the night medical staff from the International Health Centre that was a couple of hundred metres from the port. No sooner had Chema introduced both that, without hesitation, Dr Campos hit them with the bombshell.

‘The ship can’t dock.’

The doctor went on to explain that as per procedures of this nature the Galician emergency sanitary system had been set in motion and that a thorough investigation into the cause of the infection by an inspector had to take place before anyone could board or leave the ship. Stan’s past experience with the Cornish coastguards kicked into gear. A similar incident had occurred on a Royal Navy frigate about to enter Falmouth harbour and the ship was quarantined for three days. After a full health inspection it was allowed to dock alongside the wharf.

‘What you’re saying is that the authorities are quarantining the ship.’

‘Correct.’

A few minutes later Stan was on the phone to the captain asking for more details and explaining the situation at the port.

‘Fully understand, Mr Bullock, although similar problems have happened before, it’s never been on a scale like this. We’ve got over 400 people confined to cabin at the moment and many elderly people suffering from dehydration.’

‘OK, Captain. I’ve taken note. Will get back to you as soon as possible.’

It was now four-thirty. The director of the port, two inspectors from the local police and two more medical staff from the General Hospital had arrived. Meanwhile, the
Sea Explorer
was told to eventually drop anchor opposite the islands and wait for further instructions. Whilst the mishmash of local authorities was sorting out a course of action, Stan had called the night operator at the British Embassy in Madrid to report the emergency. Once the message had been delivered the operator set in motion the “crisis management” procedures.

Danny Wilton looked at his watch. It was four forty-five. His wife Janet was still fast asleep, oblivious to the ringing of the mobile phone.

‘The problem started when they left Southampton, Danny. Presume something they drank or ate. Not sure how many passengers will eventually be affected.’

‘Have you advised Juan Jose?’

Stan suddenly felt uneasy. His adrenalin was fired up alright. For the past couple of hours or so he had been bombarded from different angles dealing with the different people that were now on the scene but a simple question from Madrid stopped him in his tracks. He realised that there was nobody else around to take responsibility as an interlocutor between a Spanish port and a British ship with passengers’ lives at stake. He was in the driving seat.

‘Didn’t have time.’

‘You bastards, you fucking bastards, how could you?’

Glen Richards was holding one of the “hollow” fenders in his hands. Jerry and Donald had received word from Mr Billson that they had to up the quota of drugs next year. It had been agreed between the main barons at their meeting in Greece. It was now time to include their third partner in the business as new crews were going to be needed.

‘I don’t want any part of it, do you hear? This is preposterous…’

Before he could finish Donald interrupted violently, ‘You’re in it up to your shitting eyebrows whether you like it or not.’ Pointing at the dozens of fenders stacked up in the warehouse, ‘Who the fuck signed off on the delivery of the little beauties then?’

Jerry had made sure that Glen’s signature appeared on any goods’ transactions to do with the
Pollyanna
thus if any of them were caught, all partners would be indicted. Jerry cooled everyone down.

‘Look Glen, you’re a bachelor, no strings attached, we needed to operate as a legit business to start with, hence a well-known member of the Falmouth yachting community with vast sailing experience. You were it.’

He then went on to explain how the system was working, who the contacts were in England and Vigo and what the plans for the future were as instructed by the barons. Glen calmed down when Donald chipped in and told him about his cut of profits in the deal.

Donald continued, ‘Mr Billson is expecting us to include this new yacht to add to
Pollyanna
by next year. We’re to work out the details down here. He’s got two “confidants” who are experienced yachtsmen that will crew…’

Glen interrupted, ‘We can’t change anything in Falmouth. We’re too well known.’

‘He’s right, Don.’

Donald got up from the office table to pour himself a coffee from the automatic machine.

‘How about opening another branch office down in Penzance then? These Stantons could run it…’

‘Who the hell are the Stantons?’ interrupted Glen.

Donald looked at Jerry and both smiled back at him. It was Jerry’s turn again to enlighten their “honest” partner.

‘They’re a respectable married couple in their early fifties who work for Mr Billson on his accounts. They also have a large yacht berthed at the West Lancashire Yacht Club called the
Gentle Maiden
.’

Glen looked puzzled until he was told that Mr Billson had suggested that the couple would take “early retirement” and settle somewhere in Cornwall. He left it up to the two
Pollyanna
sailors to sort out the details.

The main hurdle had already been surpassed. Glen Richards was not only in the picture, he was now part of the gang. Whether he was comfortable with the situation was another matter. Jerry and Donald couldn’t care less. They were ready to push forward a new venture known as Maiden Voyages. All they needed was a new company registration, an increase of fender production and a change of name for
Pollyanna
; Mr Billson and his contacts would take care of the rest.

Jerry suggested, ‘How about
Serene Maiden
?’

By 6 a.m. the local press had arrived, including a crew from TVG, the regional television station, to pick up the story of the stricken cruise ship. They tried to make their way into the central office but were held back by the police at the steps of the building. Meanwhile, the television technicians operating from their van were setting up broadcasting equipment on the spot ready for the batch of information or pictures of the event. Although the ship was still under strict orders to remain offshore, the emergency wards of every hospital in the city had been alerted, ready to assist in evacuation of passengers should the release be given by the sanitary authorities. The number of casualties had stabilised at just under 500 passengers, all confined to cabins. The captain had confirmed that a total of twelve were on the critical list. On the one hand whatever had caused the massive outbreak had to be identified and on the other, human lives were at stake. Amongst the havoc caused by the number of different players on the scene and whilst Stan kept permanent contact with the ship’s captain, he was battling with Dr Reyes, the head person responsible for decision making who had taken over from Dr Campos.

The doctor had insisted on a full inspection before any further action. A team of scientific experts was still being sorted out.

‘Appreciate your concern, Doctor, but those elderly, sick passengers must have immediate emergency assistance. I cannot allow them to remain on board indefinitely,’ said Stan.

A police officer approached the arguing couple. ‘Excuse me, but the press is getting restless for a statement.’

Stan ignored him and continued with the doctor. ‘Look, is there any way we can speed this up? The captain has confirmed no more casualties in the past few hours. Doesn’t that suggest anything?’

Dr Reyes looked at his watch. It was now nearly seven-thirty. Dawn was just around the corner.

‘Ask the ship’s doctor for an update on the critical passengers. Tell him to give us a “time prognosis” on each one; he’ll know what I mean. In the meantime I’ll get the Red Cross infirmary across the road to isolate a complete ward.’

Stan could sense that at last something was happening.

By eight-thirty Dr Reyes, with Stan by his side, was before the television cameras and speaking into a nest of microphones from the different broadcasting stations. The Pesca I helicopter had evacuated four elderly passengers to safety who were taken by a special ambulance to the infirmary isolation ward whilst the sanitary inspection team was now on their way in a civil guard coastguard vessel to check out the source of the outbreak. Two doctors and three nurses accompanied the team. After receiving assurance that if there were any further passengers falling critically ill, they would be transferred immediately to the Red Cross station, Stan made his way back to the agency office.

‘Heard the news on the radio,’ said Juan Jose when he finally reached the office. ‘Looks like you had a busy night, son.’