The Galician Parallax (27 page)

When
Serene Maiden
had arrived back in Falmouth, Donald and Jerry were immediately summoned by the local police as well as officers of the maritime agency to present their evidence on the tragedy.
Serene Maiden
had been anchored offshore with all the fenders neatly placed alongside the hull as normal. No yacht inspection took place. The yachtsmen then testified that Lieutenant Commander James Bentley-Smith at around six-thirty in the evening had gone up on deck for some fresh air whilst they were busy down in the cabin preparing an evening meal. The yacht was navigating on “auto”. An hour later, when they had finished their chores, Donald had gone up to let the lieutenant commander know that it was time to eat. The old man was nowhere about. The yachtsmen then sent off the emergency signal and proceeded to search for a MOB as per maritime procedures. The case was filed; classified as another misadventure at sea.

‘OK,’ said Mr Billson, ‘let’s hope that that’s the end of it.’

A week later the fenders were in the Penryn warehouse, dismantled and the wholesale drugs transported in batches for redistribution to the peddlers throughout the UK. Business was back to normal although
Serene Maiden
’s next run, for obvious reasons, would be without passengers.

‘Awesome,’ said Stan, ‘yet what a shame.’

The Bullocks and Juan Jose had stopped for a brief moment at the small town of Oia to visit the famous monastery built by the Benedictine monks in the twelfth century. Legend has it that for hundreds of years it stood firm facing the Atlantic Ocean fighting the invasion of hordes of Turks and then the Moors that tried to invade Spain as early as the thirteenth century. Other historians vouch for a Portuguese pilgrim route to Santiago with a stopover night at the holy hostel. It was now on the brink of rack and ruin due to lack of interest and funds. They had lunched at the Parador in Baiona and then driven along the coast towards La Guardia, a couple of miles from the mouth of the River Miño that separates Spain from Portugal.

‘To think that the Republicans turned it into a prison during the Civil War, after they’d kicked out the monks,’ said Juan Jose.

He had a special interest in showing Stan this beauty of Cistercian architecture as it was on this spot and on this day many years ago that he had proposed to his wife. Yolanda had stayed in the car as she was too big and tired to walk the few yards up to the main building. Baby Gabriel was let loose in the monastery’s adjacent gardens.

‘It may sound corny, but I haven’t been back since she died; that’s until now.’ He looked towards the car. Yolanda seemed to be dozing off. He turned and faced his son-in-law.

‘Couple of months, right?’

Stan nodded wondering what he was driving at.

‘Had a medical check the other day; Doctor said that I had to take some time off, son.’

The two men were now paused opposite the ground wall that overlooked the small bay a few feet below. It was windy, brushing in from the south-west. The waves were crashing up against the rocks, rhythmically caressing a small beach at several seconds’ intervals. Baby Gabriel was now hugging at his father’s leg confirming his place in the family. Stan picked him up and after a small welcome kiss and hug brushed him off back towards the gardens.

‘Is it serious?’

Juan Jose took him by the arm and walked him back towards the car.

‘Just a small problem with my heart. Doctor’s given me some pills.’

If there was one thing that Stan had learned about Galicians it was that they never disclosed their inner feelings, no matter how close the relationship, when faced with adversity.

‘With the new kid about to arrive, Yolanda will also be off work.’

They were very near the car. Baby Gabriel had already come back to his family. Yolanda was now awake but still sitting in the back seat. Stan realised what Juan Jose was driving at. He’d have to take control of the agency and all its related activities.

‘I’ll manage,’ he said as they all got back into the car.

‘I haven’t been to Mexico since the 80s,’ said Teixugo. ‘Brought my first wife here on our one and only holiday abroad. This hotel wasn’t even built.’

On his request, the Bermudez brothers had arranged an emergency reunion, as there had been an increase in police activity on the coasts of Galicia over the past few months. Tons of cocaine loads had been confiscated and numerous drug runners charged and sent to prison. An added problem was confirmation of the filtering of al-Qaeda agents into the drug network. Teixugo’s informers were also scared. Ignacio, Luis Bermudez and their Galician partner were seated round the main pool overlooking the beach, dressed casually in shorts,
guayaberas
and flip-flops. They had purposefully avoided bringing any documents, PCs or mobiles in order not to arouse suspicion.

‘Just in case,’ Luis had warned Teixugo, ‘we’re in our neck of the woods, remember?’

Although Mr Billson was informed, he was kept out of it on purpose as the main problem was between Central America and Spain.

‘The lots confiscated don’t belong to our batches. Apart from one container all the rest have been at sea, on the beaches or at the airports,’ said Ignacio.

Luis chipped in, ‘Nevertheless, it’s serious.’

A waiter turned up with a round of
margaritas
and a coke for Teixugo. ‘Don’t know what you’re missing,’ said Luis as he sipped his first cocktail of the morning. Teixugo ignored him. He chose his words carefully.

‘Something’s brewing in Europe since Bush invaded Iraq…’

‘We all know about security tightening,’ interrupted Ignacio. ‘Hell, since 9/11 the Yanks are pressing down hard on our northern routes. Thank God the kids are just as hooked as ever and need the stuff; otherwise we’d be out of business.’

‘It’s not that,
viejo
… it’s the Arabs. They’re all over Spain and are up to something.’

Although Teixugo had mentioned the Ordes massacre when it happened, he said he had fresh news from his informers that a cell was still active in Galicia.

‘You all know how these guys use drugs to buy weapons and explosives, don’t you?’

The Bermudez brothers nodded in agreement.

‘Well, those guys murdered in my back yard had left some specks of “snow” around the place.’

‘So?’ said Luis.

‘The civil guards that had dropped the case… guess what… they’ve opened it up again.’ Teixugo was referring to Sergio and Gloria’s snooping around a few months back. What his informer had not told him was that they were doing it on their own without official permission.

‘By the way, what happened to one of the yachts on the UK run?’ asked Luis.

Teixugo’s response just brushed it off as an accident that could have occurred anywhere in the world and that it was back to “business as usual”. He didn’t tell them that the body of the retired British naval officer was still missing.

Prior to the invasion of Iraq in March, President George Bush, British Prime Minister Tony Blair and President Jose María Aznar from Spain met secretly on the Portuguese islands of the Azores. They agreed to send an ultimatum to Saddam Hussein that if he didn’t get rid of his weapons of mass destruction he would have to accept the consequences of “inspection” by military force. Portuguese Prime Minister, Jose Manuel Barroso, hosted the reunion but did not participate in the discussions. When the invasion finally took place and the Ba’ath regime in Baghdad toppled, the country was swarming with foreign troops from several countries turning over every cornerstone from north to south and east to west searching in vein for dangerous weapons that were never ever found.

Although Spain contributed initially with 900 troops and the right-wing press was boasting of the country’s participation in such an important international peacekeeping mission in the Middle East, left-wing movements were already in place defying the government’s decision to back the USA and condemning the invasion as illegal. The protests in Madrid had already begun. Spaniards were not the only ones taking note of the situation.

Three different al-Qaeda groups, members originating mostly from North Africa, had convened in Madrid from different areas of Spain for a major conference at the Spanish Muslim HQ. More than a dozen militants were seated at the round table presided by Badi, head of the movement.

‘Most important before we begin, have we a firm date for the elections?’

‘First two weeks in March next year,’ answered one member with a clipboard in his hand. He was referring to the forthcoming Spanish national elections in 2004.

Badi went on, ‘This country is going to send more troops to Iraq to help the Yanks. This is good. The deeper they become involved the easier our mission will be.’

Badi had dozens of newspaper clippings that he had collected over the past couple of months neatly divided into “pros” and “cons” and spread across the table. He had been studying the build-up from all angles for weeks and kept selecting the salient parts that summarised Spain’s as well as other major European countries’ mood on Iraq. He then changed to the main theme of the meeting.

‘Despite public protests the European governments are still behind Bush with this “war on terrorism”.’ Badi suddenly raised his voice as he thumped the table.

‘Our brothers continue to be humiliated.’

He got up and went over to another small table in the corner of the room. He served himself a glass of mineral water. Trying to control himself, he returned to the meeting. After a couple of swigs he placed the glass on the table. He’d calmed down. Looking around the table at silent faces, he smiled.

‘OK. Here’s the plan. With a massive attack in Europe we will split the coalition that is killing our brothers in Iraq and Afghanistan right down the middle.’ He saw the inquisitive looks of his fellow militants. He thumped the table yet again. ‘Spain. We will topple the Spanish Government and make them look like fools.’ Those amongst the chosen audience still looked perplexed. With the back of his hand he swiped all the cuttings on the table onto the floor. ‘Our mission will follow the same pattern as in New York… transport… but not with airplanes.’ Pulling out a large map of the city of Madrid and laying it on the table he waved his hand across several large markings dotted around the map.

‘My brothers; our target… the Madrid commuter system.’

For the next hour, Badi and the militants discussed and took notes on the rough details of the plan. ‘We know how ETA operates. We shall imitate their method including the use of the same explosives. There is a lot of work to be done.’ He was about to wrap up the meeting when he asked Habib, ‘Any more news on that civil guard up in Galicia that snooped around Ordes?’

‘None, except that he’s now shacked up with the head secretary of the Corunna magistrate.’

Badi was collecting the remaining press clippings off the floor.

‘Better check him out, just in case. You know what to do.’

‘Mail,’ bellowed the intruder into the intercom.

He had pressed several buttons at the same time to make sure someone was around in the building. Three tenants answered from different apartments all at once. It was sufficient for one of them to click and open the front door allowing him access to the hallway opposite the two elevators. A second intruder followed in behind. It was 9.30 a.m. as they made their way to Gloria’s apartment. They had made sure that Sergio and Gloria had left for work before they acted. Without any problem they opened the front door. Once inside, the first intruder beckoned the second to search in the bedroom closets whilst he took on the living room cupboards.

‘Don’t upset anything,’ said the first intruder, ‘we just need proof.’

It wasn’t long before they found Sergio’s laptop on the bedroom night table. The first intruder was quick off the mark. He sat on the sofa, switched it on and tried to introduce a set of possible passwords to open up the files. The second intruder continued rummaging around the odd papers he found in a desk in the living room next to the large cupboard full of glassware, crockery and cutlery.

‘What are we really looking for?’

The first intruder ignored him and continued punching away on the laptop keyboard.

When Sergio returned home later that evening he found Gloria in the dining room with three dresses spread out across the table. Before he could even greet her she said, ‘Fantastic summer sales. Which one do you prefer… or… shall I buy all three?’

Ignoring her remarks he went up to her from behind, clasped around her waist and hugged her as tight as he could. He suddenly stood back.

‘Have you been eating garlic?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there’s a stink of it around here. Sure you haven’t been playing around with some in the kitchen?’

‘No. You know I hate the stuff.’

Sergio began to pace around the room, his eyes snapping from lamps to chairs, onto the walls and then down to the carpets and floor. In the meantime, Gloria went into the kitchen. There were no signs of anything different to the morning scene when they had had their usual quick breakfast. The sink still had the coffee mugs and plates they’d used in the morning waiting for an evening wash-up.

‘My laptop.’

Sergio moved into the bedroom and straight for his PC. It was there in its bag with all his disks. He thought of switching it on but changed his mind. There was no hint that anything had been touched. He was replacing it back when Gloria hollered from the small washroom outside the kitchen. Seconds later he was by her side. She had a small garlic peel in her hand.

‘It was on the sink next to the plate with our breakfast leftovers.’

‘Teach you to be tidier.’

Sergio took a closer look, this time inside the dustbin. There were a few more peels amongst the rubbish. He didn’t need to rummage much further.

‘I wonder what strange animals eat this stuff for breakfast?’

He continued to check around the apartment. Gloria was close behind, following his footsteps.