The Galician Parallax (20 page)

‘Shit,’ said Sergio, ‘bloody vandals have been at the place.’

However, thanks to whatever previous break-in had taken place, they were able to enter the house. Sergio’s training automatically put him on guard as he cautiously worked his way into the inner rooms with Gloria close behind. The bungalow appeared to be empty. It was still light enough to see the state inside the place.

‘Someone has been rummaging around all right.’

‘What did you expect, Sherlock? It’s been empty for over a year. Anyway, don’t think you’ll find anything that hasn’t been checked over before, including that rucksack.’

Sergio ignored her remark as he moved into the living room.

Whatever inventory of the contents that had taken place when the murders had been discovered was no longer valid. There were signs of partying with beer bottles and cigarette packets all over the floor. Blankets and carpets had been used as makeshift bed covers on the two large sofas. There was all kinds of filth everywhere. Gloria was getting nervous. She sensed that there was no point in any further searching.

‘Let’s go,
amor
. This gives me the creeps.’

Oblivious to her plea, Sergio moved into one of the bedrooms; more of the same. He began to think of his bagman experience.
At least we’d have had a roof over our heads
, he thought. Having overcome the initial surprise at the upheaval that seemed to have taken place his investigation instincts took over.

Gloria walked into the room. ‘Oh come on, Sergio.’

Sergio held up his hand as if to quieten her. He was looking for the rucksack. It was nowhere to be found. ‘Shit. It’s gone. The bloody vagabonds have probably buggered off with it.’

He fiddled with the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the police report and looked for other items listed in the bedroom. He walked over and opened the top drawer of the night table.

‘At least these are all here: two cheap novels, a box of toothpicks, earplugs, a bunch of keys,’ he looked at Gloria. ‘… could open anything, anywhere, who knows.’ He continued checking, ‘… A map of Galicia, a copy of a Madrid railway timetable and an assortment of sports and girlie magazines.’

The police reported inventory just mentioned “an assortment of insignificant literature”.
What the hell
, he mumbled to himself. Sergio just fumbled through the magazines and tossed them down. Suddenly something caught his eye. It was the train timetable. There was an almost indistinguishable circle pencilled round one of the main railway stations. He looked up at Gloria and held it at arm’s length pointing in her direction.

‘Somebody or bodies are covering something up. Another thing; where are the Arab prayer mat and the string of beads? They’re not even mentioned in the police report; just one simple rucksack. Why?’

Gloria reacted immediately. ‘You knew it would be missing all along, didn’t you?’

Sergio smiled. ‘You got me. But I found something else instead.’ He showed Gloria the train timetable.

‘If these guys were what we all thought they were, Basque separatist suspects drumming up business in Galicia, what’s this, with pencil marks on it, doing here?’

Three days later, the district judge called Gloria into his office. ‘I’ve received a call from civil guards. They want to know why we asked for the police report on those murders in Ordes.’

Gloria froze but soon reacted. ‘I felt that the file on our original surveillance order on the bungalow issued by this court was incomplete and asked for a copy of the police findings.’

The judge pondered over her answer and finally responded, ‘OK. Just destroy it, will you?’

Gloria phoned Sergio as soon as she had a chance. Although it fuelled up his curiosity even further, he knew that he had to slow down as he realised that the whole affair was way above his head. He took a cautious line of action and decided to go back to basics, using his own criss-crossing system of analysis and database of information.
Hidden in there must be some sort of an answer
, he thought.

Juan Jose couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been called down to the container sector of the commercial port by one of his employees who was dealing with the unloading of one of his agency’s ships,
The Primrose
and on arrival was confronted with a heavy contingent of civil guards from the coastguard section. Captain Valenzuela greeted him.

‘Good morning, sir. Take a look at what the PIF lot has found.’

The cross-border inspection agents, in a routine check of the merchandise of one of the containers belonging to a Peruvian company, by chance came across a hidden shipment of 4-kilo cocaine blocks hidden amongst the contents.

‘Three hundred kilos in total, sir; hidden in several false pallets.’

Before Juan Jose could ask about any suspicions, the captain added, ‘Total denial from both ends. Neither the container company nor the local warehouse this end knew anything about it. Not unusual, sir. We often come across a haul by chance, although in this case, we’ve never found them on these docks.’

In all his years in dealing with the various container shipping companies he had never had a drug case uncovered right in his own “backyard”. If ships openly carried wholesale drugs they would transfer the “load” at sea onto several smaller craft. These latter “high-speed” boats would then interweave in and out of the myriad of coves on the Galician coast and dump their allotment. Any interception was done en bulk on the illegal vessel or by one of the shore patrols intercepting the smaller load on land or on the beaches. Detecting drugs smuggled in by container was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The press splashed the story throughout the country as yet another coup by the drug enforcement agents. Word soon got out into the network. Teixugo was on the phone to Medellin and Manchester. Mr Billson called Penzance. Joan Flashman was urgently e-mailing Lisbon.
Serene Maiden
was due in Vigo on 23 May; three days away. Although this particular shipment did not affect other previously programmed Galician deliveries into Europe, as a precaution, Sr Perez cancelled the fender swap.

What to do with
Gentle Maiden
was another matter. She was due the following week. Both yachts were on their first simultaneous runs and the container “slip-up” had upset the programme.

Gerardo’s funeral was held in a private chapel in Cangas on the other side of the Vigo Bay. There was no pomp and circumstance and the family had kept it strictly within their own circle. The Mauros were somewhat relieved. Yolanda had taken it quite badly, especially as she had to relive her experiences to appease Stan’s inquisitive persistence in knowing the whole truth.

‘I know. I should have told you about the rest of my drug problem, but I was too scared of losing…’

‘Shush. It’s all over. Tomorrow is another day and a full one at that.’

The holiday season was in full swing. Two cruise ships were in at the same time, the
Sunset Sea
and the
Bella Rosa
, the latter belonging to an Italian company.

‘People are loaded these days,’ said Yolanda as the couple were recovering in the upstairs lounge of the yacht club enjoying a couple of beers and a plateful of potato crisps.

‘They no longer want the usual trips to London. It’s Bali or African Safaris.’

‘Pretty rough for your old man the other day, having to go through the third degree with the authorities.’

Yolanda reacted. Her own ordeal came back to life. Stan sensed it immediately.

‘God, I’m sorry.’

At that moment the club secretary approached them. ‘Good evening Mr Bullock.’ He pointed at a couple at another table in the room. ‘I thought you might like to meet those two English people. They come from Cornwall.’ Within minutes, Yolanda and Stan had introduced themselves.

‘Glad to meet you, I’m Jerry Fulton and this is Phil Kirkwood from London.’

Without any signs of anguish, Jerry nonchalantly told them about their trip.

‘Weather permitting, we should be heading back to your home town tomorrow.’

There was no mention of
Serene Maiden
tied up alongside the club’s wharf, a few yards away.

Three months had gone by since the meeting in London between the CIA, MI6 and the Spanish Intelligence Agency. A report had been prepared for the ministry that, amongst a plethora of subjects, included a chapter on the inter-relationship between al-Qaeda cells and the rest of the active as well as non-active terrorist groups in Europe. Spain’s main concern was obviously the Basque separatists ETA and separate meetings had taken place with the French authorities that ended in a similar manner; full-blown reports that summed up months of daily work between all concerned.

‘Glad to see that we’re all on the same wavelength, gentlemen,’ said the minister. ‘I’ve spent hours reading your departments’ detailed information, assessment and recommendations.’

The minister was due to meet with his main counterparts in Britain and France in a week’s time and had called for a briefing session with Ruben Cardoso and General Pelegrino of the NIC and civil guards respectively before travelling to Paris.

‘There’s a point I’m still puzzled about. These ETA terrorist that were murdered up in Galicia a year ago.’

The civil guards had finally released the identification of the bodies but had carefully worded the press releases to sound like they were also drug pushers. The culprits were still at large and the reasons continued to be a mystery.

‘We’ve known all along whom they were, Minister,’ said Ruben Cardoso nodding at his counterpart, the general. ‘The problem was… the embarrassment…’

General Pelegrino stepped in. ‘The public now thinks that they were part of a drug cartel; this allows us to continue the process of investigation into their murders, Minister.’

The minister got up from behind his desk, went over to a small fridge and helped himself to a large bottle of cool mineral water. ‘Care to join me?’ There were affirmative nods from the attendants. He reached into a glass cabinet and took out three glasses.

‘Can’t stand plastic ones.’ He sat down again. ‘As I see it, according to the reason for your original surveillance of these supposed terrorists, they could’ve been planning an attempt in “quiet” Galicia and you knew who they were all along; right?’

‘Correct,’ said Ruben Cardoso.

‘Suddenly, and this is where I’m still confused, someone or some bodies secretly enter the bungalow, bump off all three and disappear into the night and nobody has a clue who they were or why. They even ran off with all possible evidence.’

The minister had already been fully informed months ago yet purposefully reminded his subordinates of the incident.

‘We’ve already had one attempt, God only knows if this could trigger off more ETA murders throughout the country. I suppose you’ve already taken this into account.’

Again the attendants agreed to the minister’s reasoning.

‘Look, I just don’t buy this. Is there something missing or strange? ETA, drug dealers, it all stinks to high heaven. Are you holding something back? I need to know.’ The minister was now on edge.

Ruben Cardoso looked at General Pelegrino as if seeking support. It was the general that eventually broke the ice. ‘There’s a young officer of ours up in Galicia who has his own ideas…’

The minister, still angry, interrupted. ‘Is this the loose cannon that nearly brought about an international incident with the Brits over some bloody wreck three years ago?’

‘Lieutenant Quiroga, sir.’

‘So?’

Again a blushing high-ranking officer was unable to answer.

‘Well, you better find out before he upsets the apple cart yet again.’

When the press released the names of the suspected terrorists murdered in Ordes back in May of last year and as per the full reports presented to the Ministry of the Interior there was a natural outcry from all corners of the Spanish society. The question on everybody’s mind was, why so long? The political spectrum was boiling. The left blamed the right-wing government of botching up a plan to uncover yet another suspected ETA nest. The civil guards came under severe criticism especially by the “Terrorist Victims Associations” let alone the press itself.

One sector of the community was not only silent but also rejoicing. ‘Congratulations,’ said Badi, the head of the al-Qaeda movement in Spain. ‘It’s taken its time but our planted seeds have blossomed and borne the fruits of discontent amongst the infidels. It should make our task in the future much easier. A blessing from Allah in disguise, wouldn’t you say? ETA infidels have already carried out one attack in the Basque country. It’s only a matter of time before we shall see more “executions”, just a matter of time.’

Habib and Jalal, two of the Madrid cell, posing as “another” European movement, seeking exchange of tactics had been secretly working with the three separatists up north. Their ultimate aim was to learn more about ETA’s methods and in particular, their use of explosives. The Islamic fundamentalists had purposefully chosen the Galician extremists in order not to cause suspicion. For several months they travelled back and forth between Madrid and Galicia. However, when they found out that the civil guards had organised a surveillance team to monitor the bungalow they immediately decided to cut their losses and “dispose” of the human evidence. They changed tactics, turning a mishap into an advantage.

After taking note of all possible incriminating items on the premises, especially any of their own belongings that might have been left lying around the house, they decided to act. Habib, Jalal and two others turned up one evening, when only one civil guard was on duty at the front door. They knocked on the back entrance, entered and were immediately welcomed by the innocent terrorists. Within minutes, using silencers, they annihilated all three. They then took their time collecting all the listed items on their “inventory”.