The Galician Parallax (33 page)

‘Remember how we came across each other,’ said Teixugo, ‘back in ‘94?’

Sr Perez was still savouring a glass of red wine from the latest harvest of Teixugo’s vineyard. Seated in the private dining room, the two men were still clearing their plates after a hefty dish of lamprey cooked in typical Galician style.

A few seconds later Sr Perez said, ‘This year’s been great, hasn’t it?’

Teixugo began to laugh. He momentarily forgot about his question. ‘
Amigo
, are you talking about my new crop or the business?’

Sr Perez raised his glass. ‘Both. Here’s to our friendship.’

Later, as they settled in the lounge for a coffee and a brandy and Teixugo, standing opposite a roaring fireplace, was lighting up a Cohiba, Sr Perez said, ‘You certainly talked me into it at the time.’

Teixugo’s regular outlet in the early 90s had been caught red-handed by the civil guards in a raid of the one and only warehouse that was used as a transfer point. His contact including the distributors was soon imprisoned although no trace was ever found leading back to Teixugo, the main import point. The amounts were nowhere near those that he was now handling through Sr Perez. Nevertheless, he had needed to establish a new link and once again reverted to his “insider” contacts in the authorities. Ironically his Colombian liaison had also changed to the Bermudez brothers as the infamous Pablo Escobar had been gunned down on 2 December 1993. Sr Perez at the time was running a successful local marajuana racket with several small warehouses scattered around Galicia.

‘It was an ideal set-up. All I had to do was persuade you to go for the real stuff. Smoking “pot” was kids’ stuff.’

Between them they had grown the multimillion-Euro drug racket to its present lucrative position. It was gone five-thirty and as the sun was soon disappearing Teixugo leaned back in his worn-out armchair.

‘I’m concerned about Simmons and these Arabs. Can’t help feeling we’re sticking our necks out.’

Sr Perez remained silent.

Sergio was lounging on the sofa watching TVG, the local television station. A commentator was broadcasting the regional news of the day. Another farmer was killed in south Orense as his tractor rolled over and squashed him.

‘Bloody idiots just won’t learn… go back to…’

At that moment Gloria walked out from the kitchen with a tray of pastries and a pot full of coffee. She sat down beside her lover and proceeded to serve a couple of coffees.

‘Here, have one of these, they’ll cheer you up.’

When Sergio met up with Gloria after his session with Colonel Lobeira he’d told her that the colonel was sympathetic and would check with his contacts in Madrid. In the meantime, he was to carry on with his assigned work as usual and not go chasing rainbows looking for non-existent criminals. To date, Colonel Lobeira had not come back to him. Sergio had been moody ever since.

‘Two cases of drunk and disorderly arrests on the motorway, another woman going on about her knife-wielding husband and then this severe case of food poisoning at one of the local clinics outside the city. That’s my workload to date, love. Keep off drugs and Arabs. Nothing but crap.’

‘I thought the police handled the clinics?’

‘They do, except that in this particular case one of the victims was a civil guard sergeant.’ He started to laugh. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? You chase scumbags all day long and when you pull the ace that lands you under the scalpel it’s a rotten hamburger that does it.’

At that moment the news broadcaster was on to the international news section.

‘There’s been a new terrorist attack in Russia killing at least forty people and injuring more than a hundred. Although the Chechnya Independence group has denied the attempt, the deputy prosecutor blamed Chechen guerrillas for the massacre. A bomb exploded on a passenger train in Stavropol Krai in the south. This is not the first time that…’

Sergio caught the gist in mid-sentence. ‘Bastards, I knew it. They’re after the train service.’

Accustomed to his sudden bursts of incoherent statements, Gloria kept quiet and waited for the next barrage of abuse.

‘Sons of bitches, I’ll prove it. They better listen this time.’

He soon calmed down when the news moved on to the business sectors.

After five minutes, Gloria changed her tune.

‘OK, lover boy, spill it.’

Sergio went on about the train timetables. ‘The train service in Madrid is what these unknown shits are after. Trouble is, when?’

The couple looked at each other for a brief moment and almost in synch uttered aloud, ‘And we can’t do anything about it.’

‘It’s not going well, Mr President,’ said Colin Powell. ‘Still no sign of Saddam and…’ he hesitated, ‘no bad bombs.’

George Bush had called an urgent meeting with Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld as well as General Powell when the news of the bomb attacks in Russia by supposedly Muslim fundamentalists hit the US press.

Rumsfeld chipped in, ‘And the insurgency is rising.’ Before Bush could answer he added, ‘We’ve given General Sanchez in Baghdad new powers of interrogation on prisoners just like those bastards in Guantanamo. That’ll weed the lizards out of their holes.’

The more pragmatic Powell added salt to the wound. ‘And public support is waning as some of our boys are coming back in coffins, sir.’

George Bush ignored all the comments. ‘Where’ll the bastards strike next, gentlemen? I mean, are we still in the firing line or are they going to have a go somewhere else?’ He got up from the desk, walked over to the window and began rubbing his eyes. He then turned round and faced his senior staff.

‘Get me Putin on the line, personal condolences right away. Also want an emergency meeting in London with Blair and Aznar.’ He walked round the table. ‘And put pressure on the Germans and the French. Scare the shit out of them if you have to. They’re in this now whether they like it or not.’

Colonel Lobeira put the phone down. He’d just spoken to General Jacinto Cardanza, head of the drug department of the civil guard HQ in Madrid. Moments later his secretary knocked and walked in with a set of files. He said nothing, just stared into space. She placed them on his desk and walked out.

He took out his mobile from his jacket, hesitated, and then called an unlisted number.

Stan hadn’t been back to England since he left Falmouth nearly four years earlier. As he walked through immigration at Heathrow and made his way to the underground, he began to reminisce on his past and how everything had turned upside down. A great deal had happened in his life since then; a short courtship followed by marriage, then fatherhood with two offspring in a row; an alien country, completely different work but certainly more lucrative, and now heading to meet up with Her Majesty’s Government as one of their representatives. Danny Wilton had more or less briefed him on what to expect on the consular course.

‘All members of the overseas locations need training, especially honorary consuls; besides you’ll enjoy it and it’s a good break for you.’

Yolanda was as jealous as hell but knew full well that she couldn’t accompany him as she had to look after the business whilst he was away.

‘One day I’ll get even,’ she’d said before he left. She meant it.

Stan checked into the Strand Palace early enough in the evening for a stroll around central London. The hotel had been booked by the Foreign Office and was close to Waterloo Bridge, a brisk early-morning’s walk from the course conference rooms near Westminster. As he wandered around Piccadilly Circus mingling with hundreds of tourists of all types, shapes and sizes he couldn’t help feeling strange. He’d only visited London on a couple of occasions when he was a bachelor; and that was a long time ago.
A real country bumpkin in my own country
, he thought. As he reached the Soho area he began to feel peckish. The Iberian flight meal had long been digested. Although he found himself ambling through Chinatown with dozens of Oriental restaurants to choose from he eventually decided on an Italian, the Bocca di Lupo, for some antipasto followed by a plate of grilled calamari and a half bottle of Valpolichela. Galician cuisine had taken over his daily ration of calories very early on and Italian food was the next best substitute. Gone nine in the evening he found a proper coffee bar just off Holborn, offering an assortment of ports and brandies including Spanish ones; once again indulging in a newly acquired habit thanks to his father-in-law’s indoctrination into the good life of the well off. Settled, and halfway through his Torres 10 he suddenly realised that he hadn’t called Yolanda. Once on the phone a thousand apologies didn’t pacify an angry wife.

Eight-thirty the following day Stan was walking up the steps of the Old Admiralty building, the Foreign Office’s central office, to meet up with the rest of the members of the conference and the two tutors, Jennifer Brown and Joseph Senturino, both staff experts on consular protocol and procedures. Before they began the week-long sessions they were invited to a tour of the “front line” operations centre, divided into European geographical areas with twenty-four-hour staffing. Stan was able to put a face to familiar voices over the phone in the many calls made to the “Spain Desk” as it was known.

‘So you’re Robin,’ he said shaking hands with a thirty-something-year-old. Addressing the young woman next to him he went on, ‘And you’re Debra.’

The latter smiled. She was involved in the one and only dreadful rape case in Corunna, in May the previous year.

‘It was the worst experience I have had to endure.’

‘And mine.’

An hour later, everyone was seated round a conference table, each in their allotted positions with a large “name, rank and serial number” designation opposite each one They were all facing a large television screen at the end of the room. The tutors were standing alongside manipulating a laptop that eventually sprang into action introducing the beginning of the course.

‘The importance of this course is not only to teach you the basic requirements of Her Majesty’s Government in dealing with British citizens abroad, be they residents or tourists, but to exchange viewpoints and experience. It will add to our own portfolio of knowledge back here in London,’ said Jennifer, who was in charge of the class.

‘For many of you this will be old hat as some have already been on a similar course in the past; doesn’t matter.’ She paused for a moment to fill her glass with water. ‘We live in a changing world with new generations, new international and national laws, and the continuation of never-ending worldwide strife. They create new problems that have to be taken into consideration with whatever alterations are needed to our system and network back here in London and on your home patch.’

The first item on the agenda was a review of the rules and regulations, the interrelationship between all sectors that included the British Government, the FCO, embassies and consular network and the roles of each one on the pecking order of responsibilities. By lunchtime, the routine and bureaucratic items had been dealt with. Once the internal buffet lunch break was over, the afternoon session began with the nitty-gritty of consular work.

Joseph Senturino started by introducing himself.

‘My parents came from Italy, my father was called Giuseppe; so were my grandfather and his father. I got stuck with Joseph, the English version. You can just call me Joe.’

For the next two hours, Joe went through the menu of “Brits in distress” to be dealt with during the rest of the week and ended with the first one on the agenda. “Crisis Management” flashed up on the screen.

‘Many of you that have been on post for years will probably have experienced a major problem affecting a number of Brits, but I am sure that few have had more than one or two during all those years. The most important point is the coordination and teamwork including priorities when a major catastrophe occurs in any part of the world that kills or maims British citizens.’

He gave some examples.

‘An airline crash, a terrorist attack or a hurricane on a tropical island, they will all trigger off the “action” button in the Foreign Office. On a milder note, the FCO considers international football matches involving a British team in the same league.’

The Liverpool match against Deportivo three years ago in Corunna immediately came to Stan’s mind. Joe then continued to explain the different stages of involvement depending on the magnitude and who would be responsible for what in the event of participation by more than one outfit of the government’s consular system.

In the days that followed, Joe and Jennifer alternated on all subjects that ranged from rape to drug trafficking, lost passports to hospital and prison visits. The instructors also emphasised the importance of good relations with the local authorities, in particular the police and the law courts. The last item was a brief on routine notary work.

‘Some of you already know about signing documents,’ said Jennifer, ‘so I won’t harp on about what really is the dullest, yet most lucrative subject of all.’

Jokingly, Joe added, ‘Just make sure they pay.’

Before they wrapped up the conference, Stan asked a key question, ‘I happen to be on the coast and have a great deal to do with shipping and other maritime problems.’

By the look on the rest of the “students’” faces it was obvious that Stan was the only member from a seaside post. He then told them about the gastroenteritis episode on the
Explorer
when he was not yet the HBC.

‘How would the FCO have handled a load of elderly passengers if the epidemic had spread throughout the ship with hundreds of Brits on the verge of exiting this planet and the local authorities refusing to allow access or help?’

Jennifer, who had over twenty years’ experience, came straight out with it. ‘Our foreign secretary would have been advised and the matter taken up at the highest level of government.’