The Galician Parallax (38 page)

The civil guards fell short of linking Sr Rodriguez and the warehouse to Sr Perez’s network or Teixugo’s outfit. Meanwhile, Sr Perez and his family booked into the Quinto do Lago five-star hotel overlooking the estuary in the famous Ria Formosa Nature Park. Both he and his wife were avid golfers and the month-long stay down in the Algarve offered beach and pool for the two kids and golf for the parents. Teixugo had other plans. He arranged an urgent meeting in Madrid with his top “collaborator”.

Someone tipped off the guards that were not on the records. He needed more information.

Since 9/11 in the US and the attacks in Madrid, the European Union had set in motion a series of measures to tighten up security aimed at curbing further terrorist attacks. These included all ports and naval installations in the region.

Stan was at the airport to meet the two inspectors from the UK Maritime Agency that had flown in from Madrid on the noon flight.

‘Morning Mr Bullock,’ said Josh Spiller. ‘This is my assistant, Lisa Kalowski.’ A short, middle-aged woman shook hands and in broken English said, ‘Please to meet you.’

‘Lisa has recently joined us; she comes from Poland.’

Stan had received a message two weeks earlier that the inspectors were on a European tour checking on all ports that had ferry and cruise ship activity. They had already visited Barcelona and Cadiz; Vigo was their next stop before going on to the Spanish islands. Lisbon would be their last call.

‘No need to go into the details, but ever since al-Qaeda has attacked the European mainland, the UK is keen to check out all possibilities of a further attack in Britain,’ said Josh.

The attack in Madrid prompted a special “terrorist action team” set up by the home secretary. They had already deployed splinter groups to check out all possible targets that could be aimed at transport services within Britain. As far as air traffic was concerned, liaison with airlines and European airports was well under way. A major parallel effort was taking place that concerned ports.

Once out into the airport car park Stan said, ‘I received your rough list on security checks and have given the port authorities a copy although haven’t had a chance to meet with them yet.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Lisa, ‘it’s better if we all go through this together, avoids any misunderstanding.’

‘Your counterpart in Cadiz is also the HBC. It helps to have the government rep knowing something about shipping.’

After checking into the NH Hotel, Stan suggested a quick lunch before a scheduled meeting at four.

‘Didn’t realise the amount of shipbuilding that went on here,’ said Lisa as they returned from lunch at the Rey Pescador in Canido, on the outskirts of the city. They were driving back along the seafront and the shipbuilding yards.

‘Most are medium-size tonnage, nowhere near to your country’s output capacity.’

Further down the road Josh commented, ‘I now see why Spain is so advanced in the fishing industry.’

They’d reached Beiramar Avenue where dozens of dormant deep-sea trawlers were moored alongside the wharfs. The massive fish-market buildings soon appeared alongside as they drove past the dock area. Pointing to the other side of the road, Stan added, ‘And there you’ve got all the major fish processing and freezing companies; rich lot.’ Once again he felt the sharp “sting” in his mind as the whole set-up reminded him of his past. Minutes later they were entering the main maritime building.

‘You’re in my territory now,’ he said jokingly.

For two hours, the port manager, Chema Cervera, representing the pilots, Stan Bullock and the two inspectors went over each clause of the European security requirements.

‘Puts a damper on some of our plans to remodel the docking area,’ said the manager. ‘The town council insists on public access as part of the rights of the citizens to visit the port at their leisure.’

Having taken note of the layout and understood the point Josh said, ‘All you need is a cordoned-off area from the ships themselves. You have plenty of space all around for people to wander about with the kids, dogs or whatever.’

Referring to a number of amateur fishermen he’d seen lined along the pier he said, ‘No more guys with rods near the ships. That’s the “no-go” area we’re talking about.’

Halfway through the discussion, having covered some apparently irrelevant and detailed points such as spacing of cranes and amount of containers per square metre, Chema interrupted and asked, ‘How would you expect a terrorist to attack?’ He’d hit the right note. As far as he was concerned this was the main reason for the meeting. ‘All this security is all very well but we must have some idea of what we’re up against.’

It was Lisa who answered, ‘You’re right, Captain.’ Addressing the others she added, ‘I think we can dispense going over the rest of the detailed information.’ She came straight to the point. ‘Ships with plenty of people. That’s what these bloody terrorists would be after.’ She went on to explain the main scenarios of attack that ranged from external ramming by speedboats loaded with explosives to frogmen planting limpet bombs similar to those used against warships.

‘Then there’s the possibility of suicide bombers somehow going aboard and blowing themselves up, but that is a remote possibility.’

Stan was somehow uneasy about the second possibility but handled the questioning with caution.

‘What did they have to say at the other ports… Barcelona, for instance… I mean, about suicide bombers?’

It was Josh again, ‘… Said it was feasible but unlikely. Entry into the ships is very heavily scrutinised at each port. This will be reinforced. All you have to do is make sure the shore-end checks are equally as thorough.’

Just before they were about to break up Stan asked, ‘How about the crew? Will they need extra scrutiny?’

There was no answer.

Teixugo waited for a couple of weeks after the raid on Sr Perez’s warehouse before making his next move. He had made sure that the authorities investigating the haul had not stumbled on any information that may have led to his own organisation. After his local informants had assured him that the coast was clear he called for an emergency meeting with his main collaborator in Madrid. They arranged to meet at the Palace Hotel. Teixugo was there from early Sunday morning.

Despite having shaved and showered Texiguo was still in his nightgown. He had just finished a “room service” breakfast. He looked at his watch. It was ten thirty-five. His anger was mounting. ‘Bastard’s late as usual,’ he mumbled just as someone knocked on the door. He opened it. Lieutenant Colonel Armando Saavedra from one of Madrid’s civil guards’ suburban branches had just managed to take off his coat when Teixugo plunged right in with his offensive.

‘What the hell happened, Armando? Why wasn’t I warned about the raid?’

The lieutenant colonel still hadn’t said a word as Teixugo continued questioning in rapid succession, ‘Why no early warning? Who pulled the plug on the warehouse? Or is it that you’ve lost my mobile number; on purpose? What gives, Lieutenant Colonel?’

‘Calm down, will you?’

‘We agreed it on any raids. That’s what you get paid for.’

Teixugo went back to his breakfast tray and poured another cup of coffee. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you any; no extra cup.’ He took a sip and spat it out. ‘Bloody cold.’

‘Teixugo, the so-called tip-off you’re talking about never came from the civil guards, at least not to my knowledge. Do you think I’m bloody stupid to let my people in Galicia buck your network without me knowing it? I’d be cutting my own throat and you bloody well know it.’

Seeing that the drug baron had stopped fuming the lieutenant colonel turned the argument around. ‘Have you or your people changed tactics; any unusual “product” movement in another direction, or method?’

Teixugo calmed down.

‘Now that you mention it, one of my “dispatchers” sold several batches to an “intermediary” on a regularly monthly basis since around December last year. They suddenly stopped just…’ He thought for a moment. ‘Shit. It coincided with the terrorist attacks.’ Teixugo had inadvertently figured out Don Simmons’ connection with the al-Qaeda group but because Sr Perez had acted as a buffer he was unaware of the details that included names, dates or whereabouts of all the transactions let alone Simmons’ murder. He sat down. His anger had been defused. He reached for a small pack of tissues in his breast pocket, took out a sheet and wiped his forehead and his eyes. As he began to reflect over the last few months his anxiety began to mount.

‘Colonel, is there any way you can find out… I mean… about the tip-off. Hell, man, I need to know who was behind it and what I’m up against.’

‘Could be dangerous. I think we may be dealing with some real heavy stuff here. As an old saying goes, “maybe we should let sleeping dogs lie”.’

As the lieutenant colonel said farewell he asked, ‘By the way, why do they call you Teixugo?’

The Galician drug baron for once managed a smile. ‘The “teixugo” is a mysterious animal; a type of ferret or ground hog that lives alone, out of sight and out of mind.’

‘Still brooding over your new duties, then? Where’s that spark, Lieutenant?’

Gloria and Sergio were ambling once again through the gardens surrounding the Hercules Tower. It was the height of the tourist season and Corunna was flooded with
Madrileños
. A week had gone by since his meeting with Colonel Lobeira and Sergio was still turning the strange assignment over in his mind.

‘Look at all that lot,’ he said, pointing at a group of six or seven “citizens from the capital” all dolled up in the latest summer outfits. ‘All they do is cause the price of seafood to go up.’

Gloria punched him lightly on his arm. ‘Oh, come on. You know we always welcome them. Our economy thrives on tourists, lover boy.’ She went back to her original question, ‘You still haven’t said a word… even back home… how about it then, aren’t you going to let on?’

He turned serious, stopped for a moment and with both hands clasping her sides, said, ‘It’s complex. I also think it’s dangerous.’

Gloria started to laugh. Sergio hardened his grip.

‘I mean it.’

‘Come on. Pull the other one. What about our caper at the Ordes bungalow? Wasn’t that…’

Sergio stopped her in her tracks. ‘Look, you’ve forgotten about the snooping around the flat. By the way, I think it’s got something to do with it.’

Gloria released herself. ‘OK, let’s have it then.’

Sergio expanded on his instructions or rather his peculiar assignment and the aura of mystery that surrounded it. For all the years that he’d known Colonel Lobeira, his old boss never showed any signs of weakness or concern in the pursuit of criminal activity. Yet here he was asking, almost begging one of his subordinates to act in complete isolation from the rest of the force in a sort of post-mortem of what appeared to be just another successful raid on the drug trade, especially one actually supervised by the colonel. Gloria was still not convinced.

‘I don’t see anything strange; nothing unusual in some mop-up activity. By the way, the guards must be following up on the guys that were caught, surely?’

Sergio ignored her remarks and continued with his own interpretation. ‘The point that’s been bugging the colonel, and I agree, is that the tip-off was not normal; too neat, as if planned by a third party.’

‘Oh. Come on.’

A strange criss-cross of events and facts kept darting simultaneously in Sergio’s mind: raid, tip-off… who by? Drugs, terrorists, Simmons murder, Arabs, drugs, Madrid attack, drugs and more drugs. Another group of tourists passed next to them as they reached the bottom of the hill. The tourist tramcar was rumbling to a stop to pick up yet another lot of holidaymakers all spread out randomly in total disorder at the stop.

‘They think they can do what they like…’

Ignoring him and with her innocent wide-open eyes, Gloria said, ‘Look why don’t you talk it over with that friend of yours at the drug centre, Paco?’ He’s probably the only one you can trust.’

Sergio smiled at her and followed up with a big kiss.

‘It’s nice to see you’re back in business,’ said Paco. ‘I thought you’d given up the ghost last time we spoke. What gives then?’

Sergio was looking around the centre. It was the first time he’d ever been near a drug rehabilitation clinic let alone inside one. As he continued to just walk around the entrance hall looking at the noticeboard and all the posters, Paco went on.

‘Would you like a tour now or later?’

‘So this is the final result at the end of the shit-corrupted production line.’

Paco nodded, refraining from further comment. He led Sergio to the main office and introduced him to Doctor Nogueira and his staff.

‘We have all sorts come here for treatment; young, old, male and female, wealthy and poor,’ said the doctor. ‘We treat them all the same with one objective in mind. Try to get them back on their feet.’ He then explained each programme in detail, the time it could take depending on the addiction and will of the patient. ‘We allow at least a year for their complete return to society.’

‘What percentage makes it, Doctor?’

Doctor Nogueira was about to answer when several youngsters arrived for treatment. Two workers were at the reception desk filling in the registry and directing some of them to the different daily programmes within the centre. After clearance from the doctor, Paco took hold of Sergio’s arm and led him on a tour of the clinic starting off at one of the classrooms.

‘You’ll notice that in this session the majority look like housewives. That’s because they’re addicted gamblers.’

‘Hadn’t thought about them.’

Sergio knew about the problems at the bingo halls from some of his police counterparts who were often called out because of theft.

‘They’re non-violent and treatment can take about ten months. They don’t need any reinsertion programme; most don’t even have a criminal record.’