The Galician Parallax (12 page)

He dialled 062, the national ambulance number.

‘Fish market; man is dying… heavy burns.’

The night clerk on the emergency switchboard made a note.

‘Who’s calling please?’

It was then that he realised that the kid was still lying on the concrete floor with blood oozing from the back of his skull. Sergio panicked and ran off.

He arrived back at his hostel and without waking the porter, entered through the night entrance using his pass key and rushed up to his room. He had blood on one of his sleeves. He looked at his night-table clock. It was four-thirty in the morning. He sat on the bed and for a moment just stared into space. Sergio began to shiver. The shivers soon turned into spontaneous crying followed by a full-scale outburst of anger.

‘No!’ he screamed at the top of his voice; over and over again.

Sergio had witnessed the humiliation of the homeless and the unscrupulous and asinine behaviour of some of today’s younger generation, oblivious of real human suffering.
You little bastards
, he thought,
you may be one of them one day
.

Lieutenant Quiroga returned to normal duties. Colonel Lobeira closed the file. ‘Let’s hope this blows over, Lieutenant.’

Although the summer season was over for most of the visiting beachcombers that flock the shores of the north-west region of Spain, the flow of religious pilgrims from all corners of the earth continued arriving in Santiago to pay tribute to St James. The final cornerstone: to kiss his stone effigy and receive the cherished “stamping” in their travel log at the cathedral tourist shop confirming the end of their saintly journey. Despite the creeping inclemency of the autumn weather, the city was crawling with them, young, old, poor and rich, camouflaged as devout disciples or dressed up in battle fatigues.

Sergio was standing in the main square opposite the entrance to the cathedral watching the procession of arrivals and departures of Christians paying homage to a saint that supposedly spent his life fighting the Moors back in the thirteenth century.

It was midday and he was debating whether to return home to patch up with his mother or head straight for Corunna. He’d found a tapas bar in one of the pedestrian side streets and settled for a plate of octopus and a jug of white wine. He was still turning his ordeal over in his mind. His boss, Colonel Pedro Lobeira, on orders from above, had removed Sergio from all work involving the drug trade. He had no choice but to cover up the lieutenant’s undercover activities.

‘You’re taken off the “Castriños” case. They’re attaching you up north to the legal department in Corunna. Keep you out of trouble.’ As the colonel handed him his new orders he added, ‘You’re lucky the injured kid, who by the way had to have dozens of stitches in his head, and the rest of the gang that nearly killed the foreigner are being charged with attempted manslaughter. It’s a local police matter now.’

The civil guards had managed to “remove” any evidence of Sergio’s involvement in the incident at the fish market including the tracing of the emergency phone call he’d made on his mobile. They couldn’t afford operation “Parkers” to be dragged through the courts. As luck would have it, bagmen are not always registered in town councils. Society considers them non-existent and the authorities prefer to turn a blind eye and “let sleeping dogs lie”. The defence lawyers on the case were unable to obtain any reliable information from Chicho or Moncho. Both had denied any wrongdoing. Paco and Sergio had run off before any help arrived. Everything happened so quickly that they “Didn’t see a thing,” they had said. A sort of common bond of protectionism in the underworld of the homeless kept the courts in the dark on who was and was not involved. The hooligans were another matter. Too much evidence of foul play was available. The injured youth led to the arrest of the rest of the gang. The police report and Paddy’s statements from the hospital had done the rest. Who beat the kid over the head remained an unsolved part of the drama.

Paco’s convenient disappearance at the scene of the “crime” and his former meetings with what appeared to be a police officer kept humming in Sergio’s brain as he humped over his bike and headed for home.

August had been a busy month for the Mauro Shipping Agency. A total of twelve cruise ships visited the city. It included hospitalisation for five sick passengers and arrangements for the repatriation of the body of an elderly gentleman who passed away on the
Ocean Pearl
whilst at sea and en route between Lisbon and Vigo. The usual visits to Bayona and Santiago for the passengers had to be arranged with dozens of buses and tour guides at the ready for the ship’s arrival. Whilst Yolanda was in the final stages of her pregnancy, its gender was kept a secret on purpose, Stan had not only been introduced to the staff including Jimenez, Juan Jose’s senior administrator but he had literally been thrown in the deep end of the business. He was a fast learner, and although he was struggling through two hours of evening Spanish classes he managed to keep pace with the workload imposed on him.

He couldn’t help thinking on how his life had changed since the first encounter with his father-in-law. On the evening of his arrival, once they had finished a quick evening snack and sent Yolanda off to bed, Juan Jose and his new son-in-law, in typical Latin style had settled for a coffee and a brandy in the large living room on the ground floor overlooking the villa’s garden. Stan remembered how Juan Jose had come straight to the point.

‘Yolanda hasn’t really said much about you except that she’s expecting me to give you a job.’

Stan kept silent, not knowing how to respond. For seconds that seemed like hours, Juan Jose had stared at his goblet as he rolled the brandy around the inside of the glass. Eventually he’d looked at Stan.

‘How’s your Spanish?’

‘I’ve taken crash courses back home. I had to deal with many Spanish fishermen during my work.’

‘It needs polishing, right?’

Stan nodded.

‘We’ll get you started on evening classes right away. On the other hand, your English is an asset. I suppose Yolanda hasn’t stopped talking to you about what we do around here?’

Stan began to relax. Rather than an interrogation, Juan Jose seemed to be looking for common ground.

‘You’re also from a seafaring family, so you should know all about the sea, right?’

Once again, Stan sheepishly nodded.

Over the next hour, Juan Jose spoke to Stan about Galicia, its history, its culture and the whole background of the Mauro ancestry.

‘We’re a proud and well-respected family in the community and as long as I live I intend to keep it that way.’

Stan recalled how Yolanda’s father got up and walked over to the drinks cabinet. Refilling his goblet with another slug of brandy he had turned and smiled, ‘I don’t normally have a second. Not good for my blood pressure.’

He had looked at his watch. It was well past one in the morning.

‘Stan, tomorrow morning we’ll go to the office and I’ll introduce you to everyone. My supervisor, Jimenez, who deals with cruise ships, will fill you in. You can use Yolanda’s desk… it’s still there. For obvious reasons she won’t be working for a while. Besides, once the baby is born, by law she’s to stay home and nurse it.’

When he had finished his brandy, he walked up to Stan and put his arm around him. ‘Welcome aboard.’

The next morning, as Yolanda continued to laze in bed, Stan had showered, dressed and was downstairs in the kitchen looking for a kettle or pot to boil some water.

It was just past seven when Juan Jose walked in. ‘Don’t bother. First lesson; we’ll have breakfast in my cafeteria next to the office.’ The driver was waiting outside and within minutes both had left the villa and were on their way to the port area.

The Cornishman had been accepted into the inner circles of the Mauro family.

Three middle-aged men met in the lobby of the small Dutch hotel overlooking the canal. They exchanged greetings and walked out into a cold, late autumn breeze.

‘Why can’t you arrange for a warmer place, Mr Billson; say Italy, Malta or how about one of the Greek islands? You know how I hate this weather.’

Mr Billson ignored his remarks. ‘I’ve got a new restaurant you’ll all like. Just opened; it’s called El Asado. Good Argentine beef steaks they tell me.’

Sr Bermudez answered, ‘Better be close ‘cause it’s freezing out here.’ Teixugo didn’t say a word.

Once they had settled at a table in a corner of the restaurant making sure they were secluded enough for their talks, and all had ordered their meals plus wine, Mr Billson opened his briefcase and handed each a folder.

‘I’ve been able to audit the first two quarters up until the end of June. There’s a rough estimate for the third one, as I haven’t yet received September’s statements, and… don’t forget the Euro is now in effect. My accountants are still getting used to the bloody currency.’ He grinned. ‘At this rate I reckon we’ll have an increase of between twelve and fifteen per cent on last year’s profits; a total of one hundred million dollars.’

The three drug barons had been partners for several years in the cocaine trade between Colombia and the United Kingdom. Mr Billson had been introduced to Teixugo Castro and Sr Bermudez by a third party from the USA during the heydays of the Medellin cartel. They had gradually set up a series of “flexible” routes, banking channels and intermediaries that were relatively safe from the drug administration authorities in America and Europe. If any “cache” was intercepted en route between the two continents, a fail-safe system was in place so that no connection could be made to either end of the run. Teixugo had his own system in place with dozens of prominent people “paid off” to protect him.

The Galician route was the busiest. One of the various methods used by Sr Bermudez’s organisation to transport the drugs in bulk was by land to the port of Colon in Panama. His partners at the “Free Zone” area would then conceal them in various containers destined for the ports of Galicia and advise Medellin with details of the ship and its consignment numbers identifying the recipient company. It was up to the Colombian group to advise the “Castriños” clan with the same information including the ship’s estimated time of arrival. Once the containers arrived, Teixugo Castro’s men sent them to several “cover up” company warehouses in the interior of the region. The hundreds of kilo packets would be extracted and each allotted a route “slot” ready to be transported to the United Kingdom. Like any other wholesale activity, awaiting couriers took care of the rest. At the final destination, Mr Billson’s plethora of partners received each courier in turn and through a series of different storage and outlets distributed the “white stuff” in a multitude of quantities out into the awaiting British drug-addicted population.

Mr Billson took care of the finances. His accounting firm acted as auditors for dozens of “front end” offshore companies registered in a variety of activities. All members of his staff were spread across the board of directors of each as key representatives. Numerous bank accounts in some of the major tax havens across the world, money laundering through ingeniously diversified bank transfers and “cash on delivery” for the end product completed the hierarchy of Mr Billson’s empire.

‘What’s the latest on the new English route?’ asked Sr Bermudez, looking at Teixugo. ‘I understand contact has been made in your territory?’ Teixugo nodded affirmatively.

Mr Billson chipped in, ‘They’ve made three test runs and confirmed it’s safe; intend to start up around May next year…’

Sr Bermudez interrupted and in a stern tone said, ‘Great, but did you agree on how much they intend to carry? You know that the courier risk factor is proportional to the amount. No point in even the slightest exposure if the money is peanuts.’

Mr Billson came up with Simmons’ proposal. ‘The yachtsmen suggested three trips with seventy-odd kilos per trip; total around 200; at today’s prices that’ll fetch around six million quid, or over nine to ten million dollars. OK for a start?’

Both other partners looked at each other; Sr Bermudez was the first to answer, ‘Agreed. As a matter of interest, how do they intend to camouflage the goods?’

‘Fenders,’ said Mr Billson.

‘What?’

It was Teixugo’s turn. ‘Special thick polystyrene bags, the ones used over the side of a yacht to protect it against the wharf. They still have to come up with the details.’ Looking at his partner he added, ‘That’s your department, right?’

Sr Bermudez shrugged his shoulders. ‘Glad I’m up in the hills.’

It was Danny Wilton from the consulate in Madrid.

‘Hello Juan Jose, I’ve just had a police officer on the phone about a possible Brit that’s been in Povisa hospital for the last couple of weeks with burns and bruises; has no papers or documents, some money… not much. He’s just been taken off the danger list and is now up in a ward.’

‘How come we didn’t find out about this before? Besides, how do they know he’s British?’

‘Sorry, but that’s all I’ve got; needs checking out I’m afraid.’

Juan Jose was not sure how Madrid was called before he was as most of the local authorities had direct access to Juan Jose in serious cases of hospitalisation.
Must be a new cop on the switchboard
, he thought. He was about to leave when he had second thoughts. Stan was at his desk busily sorting out a list of invoices for supplies for the following week’s shipping when Juan Jose approached him.

‘Got an interesting case of a Brit in hospital; he’s not a passenger; thought you might like to come along.’

Once Stan had put on his jacket, Juan Jose put his arm around his shoulder and led Stan out to the awaiting and ever-present company limousine. A strange shiver ran down Stan’s spine.

‘He’s got third-degree burns on the back of both his hands and all the left side of his face. The right hand is still pretty bad. Apart from that he’s finally out of danger,’ said Doctor Segura holding a clipboard in his hand.