The Galician Parallax (21 page)

They never realised that one of their rucksacks had never been recovered during their aftermath clean-up of the massacre. It had inadvertently been left, hidden under one of the beds. They never bothered about the “odds and ends” found in the night-table drawer.

Confirmation had just come through from the British Admiralty that
HMS Tripod
, a type-23 class frigate, would attend, as “guest of honour” the 300th anniversary of the Battle of Rande to be held in Vigo in October. The official request to participate had come from the local town council authorities. Not only had the Royal Navy accepted the invitation, the Mayor of London also confirmed that a senior member of the council would be present at the ceremony as representative of the city. Amongst the multitude of events scheduled would be the inauguration of a new street called “London” as a reciprocal honour for the naming of the Spanish city’s name on a street in the heart of Britain’s capital.

‘Let “JJ” know right away. I’m sure he’ll be tickled pink,’ Captain John Sedgwick, the naval attaché said to his secretary.

Juan Jose had had several meetings with the mayor of Vigo, the port authorities as well as the local Spanish Navy commander months earlier and had sent HM’s British Ambassador all the details of the proposed jamboree planned by the locals. Apart from a full-blown cocktail and luncheon party with all the Galician dignitaries invited, the American team that had spent nearly five years diving and searching for any wrecks back in the 50s of the previous century agreed to be present and show a restored version of the original documentary of their exploits. No treasure was ever found at the time, but history had been revisited.

‘I know it’s not due until later on in the year but the town is all excited and ready for a big party.’

Juan Jose was on the phone to Danny Wilton who was rather apprehensive of the whole affair. ‘It’s not consular work,’ he had warned Juan Jose. ‘We’ve got the Dutch as well as the French consulates agreeing to join in. It’ll be quite a do. What’s wrong with us being the main attraction?’

A reluctant Madrid British consulate finally accepted the apparent extra effort that would be needed by what was to all intents and purposes an event far removed from assisting Brits in distress.

‘Well, you better be prepared for the World Fishing Exhibition to be held here next year, Danny. That is going to be a mammoth event… and crawling with British businessmen.’

He had felt for some time now that the British Government through its stronghold on the Foreign Office was imposing a sort of “strictly business” code on its British honorary consuls. There were hundreds of events that he had attended to in the past in the name of Her Majesty the Queen thus cementing extremely important contacts within the Galician society. Yet the feeling he had was that of creeping disinterest. The world was changing.
London wants to have its cake and eat it
, he thought,
is it time for me to retire
? He couldn’t have been in much lower ebb of enthusiasm in carrying out his obligations as consul when he received a new request regarding a Brit in trouble, minutes after coming off the phone with Danny.

‘Call for you from London, sir,’ said his secretary. ‘It’s Pam at the Spanish desk in the FCO.’

Juan Jose went up to his office, picked up the headset and switched the call through. ‘Hello Pam, what can I do for you?’

Pam said that an MP from Bristol had called urgently to say that one of her constituents was being held in a prison hospital in Galicia. The Brits’ daughter who was anxious for any news had advised the MP, as she had not heard from her mother since she left on a cruise.

‘What’s her name, Pam?’

After taking down the particulars of the person in question Juan Jose said, ‘It’s OK, she’s in the local hospital here in Vigo. Brought in two days ago off the
Sheridan Star
, haven’t had time to check the case out but… where did her daughter get the idea that her mother was in trouble?’

‘No idea.’

‘I’ll find out and call you back.’

He was on to the hospital right away. In a few minutes Dr Segura was giving him an update. A Mrs Peggy Lambert aged seventy-five had been put into intensive care as soon as she arrived in the ambulance suffering from suspected heart failure. After twenty-four-hour sedation and observation she was sent up to one of the main wards. She had been taken off the danger list. Juan Jose had already been made aware of the case and although he had advised the duty officer in Madrid, the information had not reached London in time to stop Mrs Lambert calling her daughter to say that she was being imprisoned against her will in Spain. He rushed to the hospital to find out what was going on. An hour later, in ward 557, he called the Foreign Office on his mobile.

‘Pam, Mrs Lambert is OK. She’s not in prison. It’s the usual problem, nobody speaks English and she was “forced” to take her medicine “against her will”.’ Looking at a sheepish Mrs Lambert full of tubes and drips he added, ‘So she said.’

When he’d arrived he calmed her down and lucky for her, there were three other British cruise-ship passengers on the same hospital floor to keep her company.

‘Doctor says it was only a scare and you’ll be up and about in no time. No more panic calls home, OK? You’ve got my number just in case.’

He left the hospital muttering to himself again about retirement.

Judge Sara Peterson was reviewing a set of papers when Gloria knocked on her office door. She was seated at her huge desk in front of three large flags, Galicia, Spain and the European Union that dwarfed her minute size; a young King Juan Carlos portrait on the wall between the flags oversaw her everyday chores as if making sure she knew who paid her salary.

‘Come in.’

Gloria closed the door behind her. For what seemed like an eternity, Judge Sara continued reading her documents. She finally looked up at her senior secretary and came straight to the point.

‘What were you doing entering a police-restricted bungalow in Ordes three months ago?’

Gloria was stunned and speechless. An experienced professional, Judge Sara hit harder. ‘With a civil guards’ officer; I can’t remember seeing any written authorisation.’

As she composed herself, Gloria’s first thoughts were
how the hell did you find out
? However, she knew her boss and carefully chose her defence. ‘The officer had been with the surveillance team last year checking out the premises and was concerned that vandals might have destroyed remaining evidence. The case is still open.’

‘It was against the law and you know it.’

Gloria now expected the worst. The judge looked through her papers once again. She then leaned back in her oversized chair, took off her reading glasses and stared straight at Gloria. ‘You’re to forget all about this case, is that clear?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

The judge continued with her reading. Gloria walked out of the office.

Back at her desk, she was on her mobile frantically trying to call Sergio. The answer was very familiar. A cybernetic voice was saying, “
The phone you are trying to reach is either switched off or out of reach. Please try later
.”
Bloody instruments of the devil
, she thought as she shoved it back in her pocket. It wasn’t until she got back to her flat later on in the evening that she found Sergio seated on one of her lounge sofas enjoying a fresh beer stolen from her fridge.

‘Hi, what kept you so long?’

Without even taking her coat off Gloria asked, ‘Where the hell were you? I’ve been trying to contact you all day.’

Sergio continued sipping his beer from the bottle nonchalantly uttering sighs of satisfaction. ‘Good stuff, our local brew. Have you ever visited the bottling plant? You know, it’s just up the road…’

‘For God’s sake, Sergio.’

He put the bottle on the small table beside him, got up and walked over to his loved one who was, by now, nervously trying to control herself. ‘I know. I know all about your bout with your boss.’ He held her in his arms. ‘Do you remember that farmer we saw ploughing the land?’

She nodded.

‘He and his family were paid to report any strange movements going on around the place.’

‘But… what about the vandals?’

Ignoring her obvious question, Sergio went back to his beer and sat down on the sofa. The timing was perfect. Gloria was to receive her orchestrated reprimand on exactly the same day as Sergio was called into his superior’s office to discuss the same subject; the Ordes murders of over a year ago.

‘You’re not going to believe this. The higher-ups have advised me that rival drug gangs could’ve committed the murders as these guys were also dealing in cocaine. This is just crap, bloody crap. I’ve spent a couple of months going through my own database on the whole drug set-up here and I’ve never come across these pushers, dealers… I don’t know… but they certainly aren’t the usual shit peddlers.’

Sergio was now worked up.

‘What gets me is all the hush-hush. By the way, they also told me that you’d get the “be silent” treatment.’

Gloria went over to her fridge and helped herself to a coke. ‘Is that it, then?’

‘Hell no.’

‘So, now what?’ It was Gloria’s turn to be uptight.

He gulped down the remains of his beer. ‘Then there’s this possible Islamic connection, right?’

She looked puzzled.

He grinned. ‘I still haven’t figured it out.’

Two weeks later ETA struck again.

Young Sylvia, the six-year-old daughter of a civil guard was getting ready for bed in the bedroom of her parents’ apartment, whilst her mother and aunt were putting away her array of dolls that were strewn all over the room.

‘You must teach her to clean up before bed,’ said her aunt, ‘she’s spoilt.’

Meanwhile, a few yards away from the building at the nearby bus stop, Cecilio Gallego was chatting to a fellow passenger waiting for the next bus to return home. There were dozens of other pedestrians, mainly tourists, either walking away or towards the area where Cecilio was standing, all out for a stroll on a hot summer Sunday evening on the Mediterranean coast. At precisely eight-thirty, a parked car in Azorín St. packed with explosives blew up; the bomb was detonated by remote control. The whole front of the civil guards’ HQ in the town was blown off including Sylvia’s bedroom. Her mother and aunt survived the blast. Young Sylvia never made it to the hospital. Cecilio was killed instantly; over thirty people were injured, the majority of them civil guards assigned in Alicante.

There was debris everywhere. Many adjacent buildings had also been damaged. Witnesses described it as a scene from “Hell”; people running in all directions scared out of their wits. It took two days for the citizens and visitors of Santa Pola to return to normal. The fear of another ETA car bomb in the area still loomed.

Mr Billson arrived at Penzance station at around 1 p.m. He had caught the early train from London after spending a week with his financiers in the City. He went straight to the new premises of Maiden Voyages.

‘Mr Billson. What a pleasant surprise,’ said Joan Flashman as she greeted her boss. ‘You caught me just in time, sir, I’m off to lunch.’ There was no one else in the office.

Standing at the counter of the Admiral Benbow pub waiting to be served, Mr Billson remarked, ‘Haven’t been here for years. The place has changed.’

Joan was busy ordering a couple of gin and tonics. ‘Tourist trade has dropped somewhat, I’m afraid.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Not ours, sir. We’re booked solid into next year.’

Mr Billson took a sip at his drink. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Joan. Ever since the attacks in New York the authorities have been stepping up security measures at all public transport areas. I’m not a yachtsman… Heaven forbid, I hate the sea… but can’t help feeling that one day they’ll start snooping around the yacht clubs and catch our lot red-handed.’

Joan knew full well that Mr Billson’s empire was well covered against any drug trafficking arrests that could occur in the courier system. She also knew that if anything happened, third-party action would take place and she herself would have to disappear into thin air. Yet something was bothering her boss beyond the normal fears of exposure by the authorities.

‘There’s more to this Islamic terrorist problem than just the security angle. My brokers in London showed me some new statistics of our business and these bastards are infiltrating into our networks around Europe.’

Joan was never involved with the financials, as Mr Billson had used her more as a liaison “confidante” between dealers and couriers. Mr Billson continued to unwind.

It was common news that the FARC had been using their influence in drug trafficking in order to purchase arms for their rebel army to fight the Columbian Government forces. Theirs was a longstanding deal with wholesale international dealers, streaks ahead of being discovered thanks to the nature of the armed struggle well inside the jungles of Columbia. On the other side of the equation, the Taliban in Afghanistan were using their drug income from heroine for the same reason; waging their longstanding war, first against the USSR and now with the recent NATO forces that had invaded the country. In both cases the geographical position and isolation acted as an advantage for the terrorists to any exposure of the democratic law enforcement agencies from the West.

Al-Qaeda was another matter. Up until the 9/11 attack in New York, and others around the world prior to the US attack, it was a mere offshoot from the Taliban regime directed primarily from the mountains bordering Pakistan. However, as Osama bin Laden began to spread his tentacles around the globe, the need to finance all the isolated cells that were popping up, especially in Europe, needed careful strategy. The terrorists were now vulnerable to closer scrutiny by the Western secret services. Camouflage was the answer.