The Galician Parallax (28 page)

‘What about your laptop? And the disks?’

‘I’ll check them out later.’

‘And… what about…’ Sergio sensed that Gloria was almost in hysterics. He took her into his arms.

‘Look, someone’s obviously broken in,’ he paused and chuckled. ‘Well, hardly. They seemed to have had a pass key… and were looking for I don’t know what.’ Sergio reflected. ‘Shit. We were right. Somebody didn’t like us poking around in that bloody bungalow.’

Gloria calmed down but knew that Sergio once again would be fired up on his pet theme.

‘One thing’s for sure, I’m going to bloody well find out why.’

‘Oh no. Don’t you dare. You just tell the bosses and let them figure it out. After all, you’re on the same side, aren’t you?’

Sergio didn’t answer. Ordes continued to buzz around in his mind more than ever.

Yolanda’s waters had broken at 4.30 a.m. Stan immediately called up a radio cab and rushed her to the hospital. She wasn’t due for another two weeks and had even been working late the previous evening closing the travel agency accounts for the month. It took another four hours in labour before a new addition to the Bullock family popped its head into the world. Young Sonia Maria was born at exactly 9 a.m. on a bright autumn morning without a cloud in the sky and a full smiling sun to greet her.

Since Juan Jose’s ailment was revealed, more and more workload, especially the commercial shipping section of the business, was handed over to his son-in-law. Stan knew the ropes and the ins and outs of the docks but dealing with mainly container ships instead of cruise liners was a new chore to be tackled. Sr Jimenez had been handling the extra administrative paperwork as well as the travel side to take up the slack when Yolanda eventually took the sabbatical to nurse the newborn. Juan Jose would always be around to give advice although the doctors had advised him to keep away from any stressful activity. As a good Galician though, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

‘Don’t ever forget to call me if you need help,’ he had said to Stan, ‘you know I’m always around. Doctors don’t know everything.’

Stan always checked any money matters with him, as he needed the old man’s counter signature on the agency bank account cheques; a vital must in Juan Jose’s books.

Danny Wilton in Madrid had already spoken to Juan Jose earlier in the month. Apart from the classic “get well soon” message, he had reassured him that he’d take into account the changes and keep an eye open for any heavy-duty consular work that may crop up in the following months. When young Sonia Maria was born he called Stan right away.

‘First things first, congratulations.’

He then told Stan that whilst Yolanda was away Madrid could try to take some of the load off his hands by handling many of the minor queries or requests.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep it to strict emergencies at your end.’

‘Sure, but don’t forget I’ve also got the bloody World Fishing Exhibition coming up next month with the ambassador and his troops included.’

‘Shit. I’d forgotten about that.’

The Porteiro family, father, two sons and a cousin were preparing their wetsuits, harnesses and ropes in their daily attempt at scraping off the bundles of goose barnacles that grew on the exact tidal level of the rocks below. For weeks and months they defied the crushing sea that battered the shores of the northern coast of Galicia as they bounced from rock to rock and into the sea, their bodies held tight by a strong rope and minds full of willpower to fill their small baskets with the lucrative “catch”. The whole coastal area from Fisterra to Corme, known as “Death Coast”, is rich with one of the country’s most prized seafood delights. Thanks to the determination and courage of the fishermen that risk their lives dangling from the Galician cliffs, customers in elite restaurants in Madrid are able to sample a small ration of the delicacy for a hundred Euros a shot.

About a half-hour later, Juan was at the edge of one of the cliffs, about fifty feet above the sea holding onto one of the ropes whilst his brother, Salva, made his way down to the lower rocks. He momentarily looked out to sea and noticed something bobbing up and down in the ocean about half a mile away. He waited until Salva was safe and secured the rope before taking a closer look.

Within half an hour, the Pesca 1 helicopter was plucking a body out of the undulating waves clad in seafaring gear including the corresponding life jacket.

Sergio was still reeling with anger at the thought that intruders had entered and expertly searched Gloria’s flat leaving garlic peelings as the only evidence of any human invasion. Access to his PC was almost impossible as he had a double coding system to enter his files. Anyone trying to open them would come up against the second request that could only be entered by an external CD that Sergio kept in the HQ safe. None of the CDs that were in the flat had incriminating information. Nevertheless, he suspected that whoever had been snooping around would most certainly have had a go at his system.

Gloria was more concerned about their personal safety. She’d insisted he tell his bosses. At first he did not respond.

‘OK. I’ll try. Problem is they might upset everything.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

He ignored her remark. Although his adrenalin soon took over, Sergio was in two minds whether to continue his own private investigation following his original hunch or pass the buck onto the force. The professional approach to the Ordes murders and the break-in had now convinced him of a link between ETA and al-Qaeda in Galicia.
What the hell were they up to
? he thought. What to do about it was another matter.

As a law enforcement officer, he knew the procedures. Yet he was concerned that if it was treated as a normal burglary case without casualties it would be handled by the local police. The last thing Sergio wanted was for another authority to start prying into his own private investigations. Yet if he kept quiet it would be tantamount, in legal terms, to “withholding evidence” on a crime. His indecision was soon taken care of the moment he walked into his office.

‘We’ve got to get down to the Canalejo, sir,’ said his assistant, Corporal Fonseca. ‘They’ve just flown in a stiff that’s been plucked out of the sea.’

When they arrived at the morgue, the forensic experts were already examining the body. The local magistrate was on his way.

‘Not a pretty sight. He’s been floating at sea for about two months,’ said Dr Baltasar as he greeted the civil guards. Pointing at all the clothes that were neatly laid out on another table, he said, ‘Looks like a yachtsman; elderly man.’

The body was already decomposed and bloated. The doctor handed Sergio a copy of the coastguard’s initial report. He had a quick read through the cryptic notes as a full report would be sent later from the agency to the magistrate as well as his office. Sergio concentrated on the drowned man’s belongings. All the normal seafaring attire was there including a modern life jacket. The rest of the clothing had also been separated; underwear, boots, socks, jeans, long-sleeved shirt and a thick cardigan. He noticed that apart from a wristwatch, there were no other personal items on the body. There was nothing abnormal, nor was there any indication of the yachtsman’s origin.

‘Caucasian but could be from any part of the world,’ he said to the corporal who was taking notes. By this time, the local magistrate had turned up. After greeting everyone and examining the body, he ordered a full-blown autopsy.

Addressing the doctor, Sergio said, ‘I’ll be going back to the office. Corporal Fonseca will fill me in as soon as you’ve finished. He knows the procedures.’ He turned and bid farewell to the magistrate and put on his jacket to leave the room. Just before he left, the corporal said in a low voice, ‘There was no beacon, sir.’ Sergio, at first, did not react. Although familiar with the maritime world he had never been a sailor.

‘The life jacket, sir, it should have had an automatic distress beacon attached.’

The height of the summer belching heat was attacking Madrid. Temperatures were at maximum, pounding on the few residents that were left after the usual masses had deserted to the coastal areas of Spain. Every possible means of transport was booked up solid away from the city whilst the centre, except for the beer havens, was like a ghost town. Offices were closed, schools vacant and apart from minimum social services the place was as quiet as it could be, except for Badi and Habib wandering aimlessly through the halls of the Prado Museum.

‘Art, dear Habib, is universal, is it not?’

Habib didn’t answer; he just continued to look blankly at one of the paintings.

‘Velázquez’s
Las Meninas
, Habib. Did you know that he was an Arab from Al Andalus?’

Habib was unimpressed, not conversed in Spain’s history. Badi moved on to another one of the famous painter’s works of art. Making sure they were not being overheard he changed the subject.

‘Have we still a problem up north, Habib?’

‘The place was clean, couldn’t find anything. There was nothing on file in the only laptop found,’ lied Habib. ‘The CDs were checked out and none had anything to do with the cops.’

The Madrid cell had ordered one of their brethren based in Galicia to go over Gloria’s flat to make sure that there was no indication of any link of their cell to the Ordes’ murders.

‘What about documents, papers, books, any hidden box or safe?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Still don’t like it, but let’s leave it for now. Time will soon be upon us, Habib.’

For two years the main cells had been gathering information on Spain, its political system, its infrastructure and its most vulnerable spots for an attack. They had infiltrated the authorities, made indirect contact with ETA, secretly studied their terrorist methods and set up a foolproof financing system for the operations. They were ready. As they left the museum and headed towards the Castellana Avenue, Badi began to chuckle.

‘Bin Laden will rejoice again.’

A small boy was vigorously kicking a football across the public lawn at the base of Corunna’s most famous monument. His mother was busy pushing a pram with his newly-born sister, trying her hardest to keep up with her son. The ball started to career down a slope on the sea side of the hill and as the kid tried to catch up with it he fell flat on his face two feet away from Sergio and Gloria who had taken the day off and had gone for a fresh-air stroll. Sergio immediately picked the young boy up who was by now howling his head off.

‘There now, let’s take a look,’ he said as his mother rushed up beside them. Stroking the child’s head he added, ‘I see no broken bones.’

Another bunch of youngsters had picked the ball up, walked up to the group and handed it back to Gloria, who was standing to one side and the only one not involved in the mishap. A few minutes later, once the rumpus was over and the mother and her offspring were on their way she said, ‘Didn’t know you had fatherly instincts?’

‘Always wanted to be a footballer.’

As they began walking down the hill she took hold of his arm.

‘You’ve never told me about your youth.’

Gloria had made a point very early on in their relationship not to pry into his past and yet Sergio’s unexpected reaction to a young boy who had hurt himself pricked her curiosity. Without thinking, she then asked, ‘Why did you become a civil guard?’

Sergio didn’t answer. Gloria didn’t insist.

Gone twelve-thirty, they found a small terrace opposite the Riazor Beach in the centre of town and stopped off for a beer. It was the height of the holiday season and Corunna was fully booked with hundreds of tourists that had flocked to this cooler part of north-west Spain.

‘My father was killed by a hit-and-run drunken driver.’

He gulped the remainder of his first beer. He beckoned a passing waitress to bring him a second.

‘I was only thirteen at the time and an only child.’

For a few seconds neither said a word. Once the second beer had arrived Sergio looked at Gloria.

‘I guess it was a sort of revenge… I mean, joining the cops.’ He took a huge gulp at the cool beverage. ‘Corny, isn’t it?’

They spent the rest of the morning wandering around the old part of Corunna until they reached the restaurant area. Walking along the pedestrian-protected passages, browsing at the assortment of seafood displays outside each one, Sergio couldn’t resist commenting, ‘Great part of Spain this, even if I say so myself.’

‘You never cease to amaze me.’

Sergio smiled and pointing at a large halibut went on, ‘Where else in the world can you find such a beauty? Tell me.’

‘I know, you want to eat.’

After a full plate of octopus, a ration of the exposed halibut, a slice of Santiago almond cake washed down with a jug of white Riveiro wine, Sergio felt completely relaxed.

‘I haven’t seen you like this for yonks; reason please?’

When the waitress asked if they wanted a coffee, Sergio surprised Gloria even further by ordering a glass of brandy and a cigar to go with it.

‘Well, I’m waiting.’

He still didn’t say a word although he kept looking at her with a constant smile on his face.

‘I didn’t tell my boss a bloody thing. Didn’t have to. You see, I’ve got another puzzle to work out; took me all day until I got confirmation from the coastguard station back in England.’

Sergio went on about the body that had been brought in from the sea and how he spent the whole day checking it out. Gloria still couldn’t understand why he was gleaming all over. In her mind it sounded as another routine case of misadventure. Sergio by now was puffing at his cigar. He leaned across the table.

‘Body was miles away from where it should’ve been.’

Gloria asked for another coffee.

‘Here we go again.’

With Yolanda’s maternity leave on the one hand and Juan Jose’s relaxing work hours on the other, Stan had turned his daily shift into a fourteen hour, non-stop ordeal. Port pilot Chema Cervera offered certain relief by inviting him to breakfast down at the port with the others thus combining his early-hour workload with their morning break. It also gave Stan more insight into port activities that affected the business whilst sipping a good cup of rough-brewed coffee. Stan was down at the docks promptly at six-thirty every morning.