The Galician Parallax (9 page)

Glen Richards, their new Cornish business partner who ran a yachting agency, was completing the rest of the paperwork that included the chartered voyages from May to September and the advertising in the yachting media reaching out to adventurous customers.

The two Bermudez brothers, Ignacio and Luis, were sitting on rocking chairs on the porch of The Morocho restaurant. They had just finished their typical Argentine-style roast and were waiting for their coffee.

‘Got a message from Mr Billson. He’s got a new route into England,’ said Ignacio.

‘Who, how much and when?’

‘Reckon on four shots of 300 kilos each. Start up around the middle of next year. Says he’ll send us the courier name and other details in due course including a new bank account.’

‘Suppose we’re to work on contact in Galicia?’

‘You’ve got it.’

The restaurant is situated high up in the beautiful mountain range of north-western Colombia, ten miles out of the city and overlooking the vast rainforest, home to part of South America’s greatest flora and fauna riches. It is secluded, away from the housing estates of the area and can only be reached by four-wheel drive vehicles as the road connecting the nearest highway can turn into a mud haven during the heavy rainy season. It was so christened on its inauguration date, 24 June to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Carlos Gardel, the most famous Uruguayan tango singer-come-composer who died in an airplane crash at the Olaya Herrera airport in Medellin on the same date in 1935. Gardel had many nicknames; one of them was
“El Morocho de Abasto’”
because of his greasy black hair and because he often sang in the Buenos Aires fruit and vegetable market, known as
“El Abasto”
. The main eating areas of the restaurant are clustered with memorabilia of the famous artist, from autographed photographs to posters of his many film debuts, from musical scores to an original guitar used in one of his concerts in Bogota. The location was also one of the meeting places for members of the infamous Medellin Drug Cartel, headed by the most notorious and internationally renowned cocaine drug dealer.

The coffee arrived. Both brothers settled down to their last-minute leisure time.

‘Remember the good old days, Luis, when Don Pablo was still around?’

‘Thank God we didn’t get caught.’

‘Yeah. It’s taken us a while to get going again. At least there’s no need for bloodshed this time. The Yanks and the government are too busy worrying about our competitors.’

After the break-up of the main cartel, the major cocaine business had transferred into the jungle in the eastern and central parts of the country. It was now dominated by the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, better known as the FARC, considered by the USA and the European Union as yet another terrorist organisation.

Except for the low-key group led by the Bermudez brothers, Medellin had been forgotten.

It was that time of the year when some of the Royal Navy ships took time off for rest and recreation before proceeding back to base in the United Kingdom. Those that are in the Mediterranean or South Atlantic region will set sail for the Iberian Peninsula and spend a few days in one of the ports within reach of their position.
HMS Piper
, still under the command of Commander Lesley “Les” Sheppard, had arranged to visit Villagarcia for two reasons. The crew off the trawler
Maruxa
that the minesweeper had rescued back in March of last year was from the Arousa Bay area and the town council of Villagarcia wished to honour the ship and its crew for returning the Galician fishermen safe and sound back to their homeland. Juan Jose, as the honorary representative of Her Majesty’s Government, had also suggested that they should take advantage of the visit to lay the “usual” wreath at the British Naval Cemetery in the outskirts of the town in respect of the sailors buried there over the years.

‘Good to see you again, sir,’ said Commander Sheppard as he greeted the honorary consul just after docking. ‘Last time, if I recall, was a couple of years ago in Vigo, on
HMS Arrogant
.’ Juan Jose nodded. He remembered it well.

In April 1998, the British Government imposed large fines on twelve Spanish fishing companies for exceeding their fishing quotas. As the ships were based in Vigo, huge demonstrations took place in protest opposite Mauro Shipping Agency, alias British Consulate. Police protection was required to avoid any violence.
HMS Arrogant
was the first visit by the Royal Navy since the incident.

Just after ten in the morning was enough time for a coffee and a review of the procedures for the events of the day.

‘It’s rather ironic,’ said Commander Sheppard after they had returned to the ship in the late afternoon. ‘We were in the process of boarding the
Maruxa
when she sent out the Mayday signal and later sank.’

Juan Jose was taken aback. He asked for a refill of his tea. ‘What do you mean?’ Les Sheppard had bypassed tea and had gone straight for a swig of scotch.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this but now that it’s all water under the bridge, why not?’

The
Maruxa
had been spotted a week earlier by an Irish coastal surveillance aircraft. She was tied up alongside a larger vessel just west of the “Irish Box” fishing area’s limit but by the time the report had been sent back, the
Maruxa
was already in British territorial waters and proceeding on a fishing course as normal.

‘It’s not the first time we’ve checked out fishing vessels for drug smuggling.’

‘Yes, I know that, but…’

Sheppard interrupted, ‘What do you do when the proof is destroyed in such a dramatic way? They must’ve had tons on board. I’d even say they cleaned out the bulk carrier or it was the carrier’s last delivery, as she was later found to be “dry”.’

Before Juan Jose could answer Commander Sheppard changed the subject. ‘How’s that lovely daughter of yours? I was hoping you would’ve brought her along like last time.’

‘She’s gone and got herself married.’

‘No kidding. That’s great.’

‘To an Englishman of all people.’

Sheppard got up and raised his glass. ‘Congratulations, sir.’

Juan Jose had to smile.
What the hell
, he thought. He began by telling Commander Sheppard about her need to polish her English, skipping the sour bit about her affair. ‘She ended up in Falmouth doing a Masters and met this Cornishman. I suppose it’s bloody normal. He’s an officer at the coastguard called Stan Bullock.’

‘Well I’ll be… he’s the one that picked up the Mayday signal from the
Maruxa
. Never met him mind you, as we’re based in Portsmouth but he kept real cool during the rescue mission.’

Juan Jose got back to Vigo late that evening. He had two cruise ships coming in the next day and needed a rest before another hectic day of seafaring activity. Yet his mind was not concentrating on his work. All he could think of was his daughter, Yolanda, and her new man. What he didn’t tell Commander Sheppard was his daughter and her husband’s plans for the future.
How should I know
? he thought,
That scatterbrain still hasn’t told me a thing
. Juan Jose didn’t even know that he would soon become a grandfather.

HMS Piper
spent the next few days relaxing and enjoying sporting events laid on by the people of Villagarcia. Commander Sheppard and two other officers had arranged for golf and a visit to the cathedral city of Santiago. The
Maruxa
affair was soon forgotten.

The summer holiday season was approaching and The College of Arts recess was just around the corner. The town was readying itself for the normal tourist onslaught as hotels and shops completed their yearly uplift and the local authorities ended the usual paint job of public places, glad on the other hand to release hundreds of students as they returned back home after the end of their studies. Yolanda completed her Masters degree and had started a new six-month course at the beginning of the year in Basic Art, as she put it, “to keep busy awaiting motherhood”. She was now five months pregnant, happy to have survived the first rounds of craves and nausea yet still scared of the unknown fate that could await her.

Ever since their marriage, Yolanda worked on persuading Stan to return to Vigo and take up a new life in Spain. Both Stan’s parents had died and his sisters were married and living away from Cornwall. His family ties were non-existent. Nevertheless, he enjoyed his work and his maritime leisure, sailing around the Cornish coast. Beer and darts with his friends completed the rest. Yolanda on the other hand had painted a rosy picture of a job at her father’s shipping agency.

‘You’ll fit in great. Dad has been pretty lonely since Mother died and has been working very hard. Feels he has nobody to rely on or take over when he retires except for me, and… doesn’t trust me an inch.’

Stan didn’t quite understand what she was driving at until she had turned serious. ‘Look. We still live in a
“machista”
world in Spain, especially in Galicia and Father wouldn’t hand me over the business even if he died.’

Stan had felt uneasy, as if Yolanda was using him. Realising what she had said and sensing the concern, she soon rectified.

‘Hey. Don’t get me wrong,
amor
. Nothing would make me prouder than having a husband that I love and can look up to. Besides, you know all about marine life and dealing with the Brits and that’s what really counts back home.’

Stan retorted, ‘What about your father? Wouldn’t he have a say?’

‘That’s my problem.’

A retreating clear-blue sky welcoming an unusual twilight was the right setting as the Bullock couple walked barefooted along Falmouth beach discussing the final plans for their future. They still had many knots to tie before leaving Cornwall for good. Routine matters to finalise such as handing in his notice at the Coastguard Agency, the disposal of his flat, the sale of his car and his ten-year-old sailing dinghy were twirling in Stan’s mind. After throwing the umpteenth pebble across the still waters, watching it bounce into disappearance he said, ‘You know? The biggest problem I’ve probably got is mastering the Spanish language.’ He picked up another pebble. ‘I need to know more than
“nombre de barco”
or how about, “
con el Capitán, por favor”?’

Yolanda shrugged her shoulders. ‘Liar; I bet you can also swear like “
hijo de…”

Stan smiled as he covered her mouth. ‘I also know how to say,
“por favor”
and “
no gracias
”.’

‘Comedian.’

As they walked up the staircase and reached the pavement Stan picked up his wife, swung her round and kissed her large belly. ‘What are we going to call “it”?’ he shouted gleefully. ‘In Spanish or English?’

After lowering her gently, Yolanda kissed him passionately.

‘How about in Galician?’

Vigo has several posh clubs that cater for yachting, golf, tennis and other snobbish sports. The Coruxo Country Club is one of the oldest and most exclusive ones, home to many international tennis contests that had been held over the last few decades with matches between some of the best known players in the world. It is also a meeting place for the southern sector of the consular core during their monthly luncheon parties. On this particular occasion the consuls and their wives were celebrating Juan Jose’s sixty-fifth birthday including presents and toasts to his future health.

‘Any signs of retirement, Juan Jose, or are you going to go on supporting the Brits for ever?’ said Françoise Duprée, his French counterpart, as he raised his glass to honour his friend and colleague of over twenty years.

Juan Jose thought for a moment. ‘You’re older than I am, you old bugger.’

There was a round of applause intermingled with laughter by all the guests.

He raised his hand to calm everybody down then reverted back to a serious mode. ‘There is something that I’ve been meaning to get off my chest for some time now. You all know that my daughter, Yolanda, who has up until now been working with me, is presently in the United Kingdom finishing her studies.’ He picked up his glass and gulped down the remains of the mineral water. ‘Well, she’s gone and got married.’

Many of those present had heard the rumours that were now confirmed directly by their colleague.

‘Not only that. She’s pregnant and is coming back with my new son-in-law and… what is more… expects me to give him a bloody job.’ He put down his glass and picked up his napkin to wipe his face.

Before he could utter another word, the menfolk stood up and clapped incessantly until small tears began to sprout from his eyes. Juan Jose was not quite sure how to take the response.

The Secretary General of the Spanish Ministry of the Interior, Jose Pardoso had convened the usual monthly meeting with the heads of the civil guards, General Francisco Pelegrino, the national police force, Chief Inspector Raul Gomez-Pelayo and the Director of the National Intelligence Centre, Eusebio Ruben Cardoso. They were to review the major issues concerning the security of the state.

‘We are continuing to receive excellent cooperation from the French on ETA, although I believe we still need to pressure their top brass for more information on their methods of locating the whereabouts of the terrorists. The prime minister is concerned that they are not doing enough and the opposition continues to give the government a hard time despite the good record of arrests in the last few months.’ He picked up a series of papers. ‘I’ve got your updated reports… they’re very positive, but I’d like to know your own personal feelings.’

Eusebio was the first one to speak. ‘True, we’ve got a very strong working relationship in exchange of data with Paris. However, it depends on whether the info coming from the “field” is correct or not. Another problem is the lack of border control. European freedom of movement is having its effect.’