The Galician Parallax (37 page)

It was not the only setback for the president regarding Iraq.

‘Move a bit more to the right, Louise,’ said Corporal Jan Beltram holding a photograph camera, ‘can’t see the bastard’s penis.’

She was pointing at the end one of four totally naked Iraqi prisoners that were all tied to a leash and held at arm’s length by Private Jibson. The Iraqis had been ordered to masturbate each other whilst the two women took pictures. If they refused they would face another whipping session by two other male guards waiting for them in their cells.

It wasn’t long before torture and other atrocities that were going on at the prison filtered through to the international press. Accounts were eventually reported of not only physical and psychological inflictions on prisoners but more horrid stories of rape, sodomy and other sexual abuse caused by the irresponsible prison guards, all members of the US Army. Actual pictures appeared in the press and although the military had begun internal checks as far back as 2003, the abuse that eventually surfaced in an internal report prompted a thorough criminal investigation that ended with the removal and eventual court martial of the culprits.

When the news hit the international press, more pressure from Western countries fell on the US Government to resolve the conflict: to begin a withdrawal from an ever-increasing quagmire in the Middle East that would only worsen world security and add fuel to the Islamic Fundamentalist cause; al-Qaeda in particular.

In the meantime, Spain’s new government ordered the return of their troops stationed in the south within one month, yet another blow for the coalition forces in Iraq.

Three weeks after the terrorist attack the police homed in on a suspected al-Qaeda cell in an apartment in Leganes, south of Madrid. At 9 p.m. on 3 April an assault team tried in vain to storm the premises but was surprised by yet another bomb blast. One policeman and three of the terrorists died from a suicide bomb whilst five other terrorists were able to escape. The authorities were still not able to link the suspects to the bombings. The investigations continued non-stop.

Since the fiasco the al-Qaeda network had to reconstruct their operation. They couldn’t afford another mishap, not only the loss of valuable members but the danger of the rest of their network being uncovered. One of their immediate tasks was to move headquarters. The other was the clean-up of the “leftovers” of the Madrid attack. Although their Spanish mission had been successful the mop-up work was important. The drug connection in Galicia needed eradication. Donald Simmons’ murder still left loose ends in the north-west.

‘Bin Laden’s wishes are way from complete,’ said Badi. ‘Our mission in Spain is not yet over. We must make sure that the authorities do not uncover any trace that may have been left behind.’

Habib asked, ‘What are the plans for Britain?’

‘Don’t worry about it, we have plenty of time.’

What Badi didn’t reveal was that although a decision on the actual target was still in the air the preparations were well under way in a remote part of the Far East. Bin Laden hadn’t given any specific orders on whether the hit should be carried out directly in the UK or on an offshore location similar to the Bali nightclub bombing that killed Australian tourists thus hurting the Australian Government. Nevertheless, the time bomb had already been set in motion.

Nearly four months had now gone by and although the pain was still very much on all the citizens’ minds, life continued. The new government was busy settling into the seat of power whilst the authorities were still trying to follow up on hundreds of leads in search of evidence left over by the aftermath.

Meanwhile, back in Galicia, the sinister drug trade continued as usual.

Two containers off the MV
Marieta
that had been docked in Vigo for the past week were unloaded and taken to one of Sr Perez’s numerous warehouses. They had been placed alongside half a dozen others that had been delivered during the previous week from other parts of the world. The courtyard was large enough, well concealed with high fences and discrete for the trucks to manoeuvre without any problems. For the next few days, different small vans distributed the goods within the north-west of Spain and as far afield as Gijon and Santander. One of the workers was busily preparing the invoices for each customer whilst four others were ensuring that the goods were placed in their respective bays ready for shipment.

One of the containers was of special interest to Sr Perez. Two-dozen boxes of tinned pineapples from Costa Rica were separated from the rest of the goods and taken to a partially concealed room behind the administrative offices within the warehouse. Once inside and behind closed doors, two of the workers, supervised by the warehouse manager, Sr Rodriguez, proceeded to open each box in turn, remove the tins and carefully stack them in specially designated shelves. Sr Rodriguez opened one of them. It contained two one-kilo packs of the latest “best” brand cocaine from Ecuador. One of his workers broke open a pack, with a small spoon removed a sample of the white powder and handed it to the boss. Sr Rodriguez tested it. The expression on his face gave the sign of approval. Sixteen-million-Euros worth of cocaine had been delivered. As he handed the opened can back to the worker there was a knock on the storeroom door. Sr Rodriguez opened it.

Another petrified worker stood in front of four heavily-armed civil guards. Sr Perez was nowhere to be found.

The news was all over the Galician and national press. “New blow for the Galician drug racket”, was one of the headlines. “Authorities uncover large cocaine shipment”, read another. The detailed reports gave credit to the superb intelligence work of the Galician civil guards with compliments and praises in some of the leading articles such as, “… yet another blow to the infamous movement of dangerous drugs that are constantly corrupting our youngsters…” or “… direct praise to our drug enforcement officers as they pursue the vicious criminals damaging our younger generation…” The civil guard units in Galicia had been working on the raid of the warehouse thanks to a recent tip-off they had received from their Central Intelligence HQ. A short but precise message at the end of May gave them Sr Perez’s warehouse address and the name of a vessel that could be involved as per information obtained from Interpol.

The operation had been planned from the Santiago HQ with direct supervision by Colonel Lobeira. A twenty-four-hour surveillance team was set up to record and log all movements in and out of the warehouse. Meanwhile, contacts were made and information obtained from underground sources such as pushers and informers. Once the
Marieta
docked in Vigo and the two containers delivered to the suspected warehouse, the assault team made their move.

‘Here’s the final count, sir,’ said one of the sergeants that handled the inventory of the warehouse stock as he gave the colonel the list. ‘We’re checking out the pineapple tins against the container invoices. No other items appear “infected”.’ Before he left, the sergeant said, ‘All items on the list are brand new sir, except for a batch of yacht “fenders” that appeared tucked away behind some shelving.’

The colonel began flipping through the inventory. Spare bicycle parts, hundreds of boxes of imported dolls and vacuum cleaners made in China were amongst the goods all destined for different parts of the country.
No yachting goods
, he thought.

That evening, as he began walking back home, he had second thoughts and decided to visit the old part of town. He phoned his wife and told her he’d be late, said he had too much work on hand. Something was still puzzling him about the raid. Something didn’t quite gel. He reached the cathedral. The square was swarming with tourists. It was the height of the pilgrim season. Without realising it he was wandering through the gardens of the prestigious Santiago University. Both his children had graduated here and were now elsewhere in the world. As he continued reminiscing on the days when they were still students his mind wandered onto another youngster who was still around, was also dear to his heart and had given him just as hard a time as his offspring.

They’d be about the same age
, he thought, rubbing his chin and smiling as he left the small park maze. He paused. The raid came back to mind.
Lieutenant Quiroga, why not?

Sergio arrived at the library early, just in case. The call from the colonel was very vague, almost intriguing.

‘Strange place to meet,’ Gloria had said the evening before. ‘Even got me jumping with excitement.’

‘He actually spoke to the Führer who gave me the time off.’

Like all libraries, it was quiet and peaceful, far removed from traffic and other mundane noises, frequently used by the university students and other academics. It was in the heart of the university campus. Sergio had never been here and felt he was trespassing into an area alien to his own upbringing. His military training was far removed from those of future doctors and historians. As he walked through the central cluster housing the library gardens just taking in the academic atmosphere surrounding the whole place, a smiling colonel approached him from one end of the corridor. Face to face, they shook hands without uttering a word. Still silent, the colonel took the lieutenant by the arm and ushered him to one of the many stone benches in the compound. It was ten-thirty in the morning. Most of the students were busy inside the library rooms that led onto the interior square.

‘My two children studied in this place,’ said Colonel Lobeira, finally breaking some ice. ‘My daughter is in the USA, in Philadelphia, and my son in Barcelona.’

Sergio said nothing, not quite sure how to take this strange encounter.

‘They’re about your age, Lieutenant.’

Again the two officers fell into a silent mode. The colonel looked up towards the ceiling. ‘This city is full of beauty, don’t you think?’ Sergio nodded.

‘Wondered why I called for you, right Lieutenant?’

‘Yes, sir. I suppose I am.’

Colonel Lobeira at first smiled and then turned serious. ‘Remember how we sent you down to Villagarcia four years ago to work on the Castriño clan?’

Sergio cringed.

‘Did you know that the approval had come from the top brass in Madrid?’

The colonel went on about how the need to crack down on Teixugo had been on the top list of priorities for years and that the head of the drug cartel continued to be as elusive as his nickname’s sake.

‘This warehouse that we raided is a major step, Lieutenant…’

Sergio butted in. ‘Congratulations, sir.’

The colonel ignored the compliment. ‘But… something didn’t click; one was a whole bunch of old yachting material tucked away in the corner of an otherwise spotless warehouse. The other…’ he paused for a second searching for words, ‘it was the timing.’

For once, Sergio did not follow the argument. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

The colonel got up and stretched his legs. He looked around to check. The courtyard was still empty. He looked at Sergio. ‘It’s as if somebody or another set-up actually wanted us to discover the shipment of drugs. Why were we able to home in at such short notice? These operations take months if not years. There was a sudden tip-off. Who’s behind it?’

The colonel took a gamble. ‘Lieutenant, I want you to check into it as only you know how.’ Sergio was lost for words.

‘But this time you’d better not go nuts and turn the whole system upside down. Let’s say you’re back to an undercover mode just like when you were cavorting with those buddy bagmen a few years back but this time reporting any findings direct to me first.’

Before Sergio could comment, Colonel Lobeira added, ‘By the way, I’ve cleared it with Colonel Seone. He won’t interfere.’

When Gloria returned in the evening she found Sergio snoozing on the couch. The television set was on. Three empty cans of beer were on the small table opposite. She squeezed his cheek.

A drowsy lieutenant looked up at her and smiled.

‘They still love me, baby.’

Teixugo was used to the sporadic crack-down by the authorities on Galician drug trafficking. Over the years he had seen ships being intercepted, high-speed craft landing on the beaches of Galicia to a welcoming posse of civil guards but had always managed to avoid any arrest or connection. He was too high up in the hills and sufficiently isolated from the courier system so as to have escaped the law time and time again. This was no different, although the loss was very heavy. Sr Perez was more vulnerable. He managed a variety of agency and company set-ups that alternated in housing the wholesale shipments of cocaine and was therefore closer to the firing line.

‘We’ve taken a large hit this time, Sr Perez, a whole warehouse to write off. What happened?’

Both men were out in the gardens of Teixugo’s estate.

‘A tip-off from Madrid? It’s never happened so quickly before. We’ve usually had wind of any possible police checks. This one was unexpected.’

As a safeguard, the warehouse was in the name of a locally registered agency of an import/export company in Ecuador with an offshore board of directors based in Quito. Neither of the two drug barons figured on any of the agency’s listings. Nevertheless, Teixugo was upset and worried.

‘Guess our insurance policies will handle the crew, the loss will be written off as usual.’

‘There’s another thing: one of the batches of yacht fenders was in the warehouse; the other two are housed in Baiona and Cangas.’ Teixugo said nothing.

Then; seconds later, ‘No problem, Sr Perez; there aren’t any new Brit runs until next year. The Simmons affair is still oozing and the fragrance continues to pollute the air.’

Both men agreed that Sr Perez should take a sabbatical until further notice. ‘Think I’ll go down to the Algarve for the rest of the summer,’ he said as they parted company.