The Galician Parallax (19 page)

‘Still got to call Madrid; I told Danny Wilton to stand by.’

It was Yolanda who was most excited when she turned up an hour later. ‘I must remember to buy you a nice sweater. You looked tatty on the television,
mi amor
.’

Although the panic was over the
Sea Explorer
was not allowed to dock and all passengers were ordered to stay on board. She sailed back to Southampton the next day. The area hospitals were taken off their “Mayor Emergency Alert” status as the disembarked passengers recovered from an undiscovered virus that had attacked the ship’s kitchens.

The whole Mauro family was seated along the large dining table at the club, together with another 300 guests and club members to await and celebrate the incoming New Year. On the exuberant club’s dinner menu was a selection of five different dishes ranging from an assorted array of seafood to a main course of roast lamb, Galician style, ending with portions of Santiago “cake” and ice cream ready to be gushed down with gallons of red and white wine. As the crucial hour descended upon the guzzling congregation all eyes were glued to the inevitable television broadcast awaiting the twelve chimes from the clock tower of the Madrid “Royal” Post Office. All guests had a small bunch of grapes in their hands ready for the event.

‘It’s an old custom from Valencia dating back a hundred years,’ said Juan Jose to a bewildered Stan. ‘Legend has it that the grape growers in 1909 had such a huge harvest that to get rid of the surplus they convinced the population to swallow one grape on each chime of the midnight clock to bring good luck.’

Once the show of gongs and grapes ended, bottles of champagne were uncorked, bells and whistles blew, children screamed and streamers where catapulted across the room whilst most couples just hugged and kissed. The music started, the dance floor began to creak and the elderly settled down to a good coffee and a brandy. The men gently rolled, snipped the end and lit the inevitable Cuban cigar to take the first puff of welcome for the New Year.

It was gone two o’clock in the morning, the party was in full swing, when Juan Jose took Stan to one side and said, ‘You’ve heard of the local drug rehabilitation centre run by the town council called “Cedro” haven’t you?’

Stan nodded, not quite sure what his father-in-law was driving at.

‘They called me the other day.’

Juan Jose paused for a moment whilst he downed the remains of his second brandy. He then reached for the bottle of “Duque de Alba” on the table and proceeded to refill his goblet. ‘An extra one won’t hurt I suppose.’

He plucked up courage. ‘Did Yolanda ever tell you about her relationship with one of her exes called Gerardo? Oh. Hell…’

Stan immediately saw a sign of anguish in Juan Jose’s face, as if he had something bottled up inside that suddenly was about to burst. He gently said, ‘Yes, she told me about her affair when we were going out together back home.’

‘Did she tell you that they both ended up on rehabilitation courses for drug addiction… she was at a very early stage, but still hooked on cocaine?’

Stan was taken aback. Yolanda had only said that she had been living with a guy and that the affair turned violent. There was no mention of drugs.

‘No,’ he said attempting to withhold his own shock, ‘she only spoke about the bust-up and the court case.’

Juan Jose stepped closer to his son-in-law and ignoring the details went on, ‘Once it was all over we decided, that is, my sons and I, to send Yolanda away for a while.’ He started giggling. ‘A bit like Al Pacino in the
Godfather
. When she said that she was mixed up with you, my heart sank. I thought,
Oh God. Not again
. But you…’ Stan sensed the next reaction. Juan Jose couldn’t help it. He hugged Stan as hard as he could, brandy goblet still in his hand. ‘You brought her back to life.’

Stan recalled his initial encounters with Yolanda. He had been offensive because she came from the heart of his enemy country. However, it hadn’t taken him long to realise that her family was on the other side of the fence. Being the honorary British consul at the time, Juan Jose, had to seek riot police protection from insults and other attacks from the fishing community at the height of the so-called “Merchant Shipping Act” war between Galicia and the United Kingdom. The consulate was an obvious target for all kinds of demonstrations against Britain.

Once Juan Jose calmed down and as his emotions resided he backed off. He composed himself. ‘I had a call from the rehabilitation centre the other day. It was about Gerardo. He’s been transferred to the Nicolas Peña Hospital in a critical state. In fact, he’s in a coma and in intensive care. Nothing more can be done. He’s dying.’

‘Have you told Yolanda?’

Juan Jose was more concerned with his reputation. Would two prominent local families be at loggerheads once again?

‘No.’

When Ron and Mavis Stanton finally arrived in Falmouth in late November they also had with them a tall and slim woman in her late forties. Donald and Jerry had met them at the station and had arranged accommodation at the Park Grove Hotel. They were not expecting a third party.

‘I’m Ron Stanton and this is my wife, Mavis.’

‘And I’m Joan Flashman, Mr Billson’s personal assistant.’

Before the two yachtsmen could react she added, ‘Once we’re in a discreet place I can explain.’

Mr Billson had insisted that one of his “confidants” take up residence in the area and act as a manager for the front office. Ms Flashman was well aware of the drug business up north and was one of Mr Billson’s most trusted collaborators.

The new yachting company had been set up just before Christmas and a large and central office in Market Jew St. had been acquired through rental to cater for the expected increase in tourist trade. The summer season was soon on the horizon and preparations were well under way for it to open for trade within a month.

Mr Billson knew full well that any increase in drug smuggling routes had to be protected with counter cover-up measures. He was pleased with the way Donald and Jerry had come up with the idea of increasing the yachting business as a whole. Glen already had a small office operating in Falmouth. It was just a question of marrying both enterprises and creating a larger “cover-up” outfit to protect the network. The new team had rearranged schedules for both yachts as well as the crewing rotas. During the spring and autumn, small runs around the southern coast of England would take up any slack in income smoothing over the accounts in case of any surprise auditing as well as satisfying the tax authorities.
Pollyanna
was registered as
Serene Maiden
, the fender production was increased, the Stantons arranged to sail the
Gentle Maiden
sometime in April and Mr Billson made sure that Teixugo’s men received the new schedule with approximate dates of arrival for the coming year.

Maiden Voyages was officially born.

On 21 March, the Basque separatist movement ETA celebrated its first murder attempt of the year. Juan Priede Perez was shot dead in the Guru Txoko bar in the small town of Orio in the province of Guipuzcoa whilst having a beer with some friends. He was a simple town councillor but the news of his death once again shook Spain. Meanwhile, a series of suicide bombings by the Palestinians were taking place against Israeli settlements causing the Israeli army to begin yet another large-scale series of incursions into the West Bank and Gaza Strip harassing the Palestinian leader, Yasser Arafat’s, headquarters. Over a thousand people died in the skirmishes.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said “Spike” Saunders, head of the terrorism department of MI6 as two middle-aged people knocked and entered the room. He moved towards them and shook their hands. ‘Let me take your coats.’

Pointing towards four other people seated around the large table in one of the confidential conference rooms he said, ‘I’d like you to meet senior special agents Francis Pastroni and Aaron Ikesman from the CIA, and my two personal assistants Simon Grundy and Joe Fitzsimmons.’ He turned his attention towards those already in the room.

‘These are Sr Eusebio Ruben Cardoso, Director of the National Intelligence Centre in Spain and General Francisco Pelegrino of the civil guards.’

After the new participants greeted everyone, took to their allotted seats and finished “unpacking” their documents onto the table, Sr Ruben Cardoso said, ‘I’m afraid General Pelegrino doesn’t speak very good English. I’ll try to act as interpreter.’

After the initial mutterings of sympathetic approval of the Spaniards’ apology, the top-level meeting called for by the Americans began.

Francis Pastroni started the session. ‘Gentlemen, it’s been six months since the attack on our mainland by Bin Laden’s army. Our government, the Pentagon and my organisation have been hard at work around the clock in piecing together, not only the caboodle of the bastard’s plot, but how far, how deep and in what direction the sons-of-bitches are heading next. First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for the excellent cooperation we’ve received so far and assure you that our president, Mr Bush, is fully aware of all our activity.’

He looked at the Spaniards. ‘Before I go on, my deepest condolences to your people on the latest ETA murder. Aaron and I only heard about it yesterday morning coming in on the plane.’ The Spaniards nodded in appreciation.

‘You’ve all had time to read our latest reports so I’ll cut the bull and come straight to the point.’

Francis was short and brief. He explained how the Americans had come to two important conclusions. They were sure that the al-Qaeda movement was preparing to strike again, but this time in the heart of Europe and that there was almost certainly a link within the continent with other terrorist organisations.

‘The Irish problem is well under control but then we cannot lower our guard because we all know about their past connections with ETA.’

It was Sr Ruben Cardoso who spoke up. ‘As I am sure Mr Saunders has kept your department informed, we now feel that both the British and Spanish Governments have long discarded secretive strategic assistance by the Irish in Spain. In fact the Sinn Fein politicians… if we can call them that…’ there were smiling chuckles around the room, ‘… speak openly in our own press about their so-called “Peace Movement”.’

‘What about the Arabs?’ asked Aaron, who had been quiet over the last half-hour. ‘Haven’t you reached a dead end since the murder of those ETA guys up in Galicia back in May of last year?’

The Spaniards were speechless.

Through the customary “back door” channels of the Spanish civil service system, Gloria had managed to secure a copy of the police report on the murders committed in the bungalow outside the town of Ordes nearly a year ago. Seated at one of the many desks, towards the exit corner of the library, she handed it to Sergio who immediately began flipping through the pages. As per procedures of unsolved mysteries, the case was still open but there were no signs of any further progress other than confirmation that the three victims were not on any wanted ETA terrorists list. The police were still in the process of identifying the bodies. There was a vague hint in the conclusion section that they could belong to a faction of some new and unknown independence movement in Galicia. Other than that the report looked more like a supermarket shopping list of items found at the scene of the crime. Since the attack on the US, Sergio could not take his mind off the shelved case; after all, he had been involved in the stake-out and he and his colleagues were convinced that they were onto something big. Gloria had tried to persuade her lover to forget about the whole affair but Sergio insisted.

‘Don’t you see? All this intelligence info that we used a year ago to sit on these guys’ tails for three months blew into nothing. Then this bloody police report hardly mentions the murders other than that the investigation is still open and that the sods could’ve been a bunch of Galician weirdoes. End of story.’

Gloria was beginning to tune into Sergio’s argument. ‘It took some doing to get hold of the report.’ With a puzzled look she added, ‘… Not normal.’

‘What do you mean?’

She went on to explain that within the court’s bureaucracy, a simple form asking for something attached to a bunch of other requests, usually for written information or documents, filters into the system and a few days later they arrive neatly bundled together in a package. But this time there was a response from the archives asking for a reason for the request.

‘I stuck my neck out, Lieutenant. I used one of our normal tricks and replied “Judge’s Discretion”.’

‘Wow. I’m impressed.’ Sergio tried to hug her. Gloria held back.

‘How come whoever bumped off these guys, whatever they were, sneaked up on them whilst you lot were keeping guard?’

Sergio paused for a few seconds, looked down at his hands and gently rubbed his knuckles. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ He again skimmed through the report. ‘I’ve got a hunch, let’s get down to Ordes.’

They were soon speeding south down the A-9 motorway on Sergio’s motorbike. They branched off at the A-524 exit and half a mile before reaching the town turned down a solitary side road leading towards an isolated group of small farms. It was nearly four-thirty in the afternoon; a slight fog was creeping in as they reached the bungalow tucked away from a cluster of houses a few yards away. It was still sealed off with “No Entry” police tape surrounding the perimeter of the premises. Gloria got off the bike and unstrapped her helmet.

‘When the hell are you going to buy a car?’

Ignoring her remark, Sergio carefully propped up the machine at the same time searching around the neighbourhood for any human activity. There was no one about except for a farmer a few hundred yards away busily riding his tractor across a field. The couple went up to the front door. It was locked. Having been with the initial squad who went over the place after the crime, Sergio knew the ground well. He made his way to the back entrance leading into the kitchen, beckoning Gloria to follow him. One of the glass panes of the door had been broken.