The Galician Parallax (45 page)

‘Since Ms Flashman’s call I did some checking of my own to help you out. I found out the name of one of the people involved in the investigation. He’s on the Galician drug squad of the civil guards.’

He waited for the message to sink in.

‘I can try and arrange a meeting if you wish and you can ask him directly?’

He then dropped Mr Billson off at the hotel, he said that he had to consult with Manchester and agreed to give Stan a call later on. Stan returned to his office and promptly told his wife.

‘Are you nuts,
amor
?’

Before Yolanda could carry on Stan was full of glee at the very thought of what he’d just done.

‘No way, Jose, we’re back on track, dear. It’s the lieutenant’s turn now. I think I know how we can turn this whole affair around and in our favour.’

Whilst Stan was leaping about busily trying to phone Sergio on his mobile, Yolanda ran up her own scenarios that were bound to follow on from her husband’s latest detective caper. Her initial reasoning saw them all being dragged into a very dangerous and sinister plot of the drug underworld. As she coupled her thoughts to the terrorist angle, she began to change. She saw through the fog and came to a single and obvious conclusion. Once Stan was off the phone she came out with it.

‘You crafty guys intend to set one lot up against the other?’

Stan didn’t answer her query; just grinned.

‘Mr Billson, here we come.’

Back in his hotel and apart from further discussions with Falmouth and his office in Manchester, Mr Billson made another call. It was local.

For the first time in his drug trafficking career, Teixugo was scared. He had, over the years, constantly evaded arrest thanks to his numerous “pay-off” channels within the Spanish authorities. Other than the recent meeting in Madrid with his colleagues, the Bermudez brothers and Mr Billson when they had discussed the possible threat of an al-Qaeda infiltration, he was not overtly concerned. That is, until the murder of Colonel Lobeira, and now the call from Mr Billson.

‘Mr Billson’s in town. He wants to check out the rumour of the dead yachtsman. Don’t like it. Did you know anything about this?’

Sr Perez, who’d been frantically called in to add some light, just shrugged his shoulders.

‘What about the police department? Maybe they’re the ones checking it out?’

‘I doubt it. Besides it would be all over the press if the local cops were involved.’

Teixugo began to reflect on the drug barons’ meeting three months ago. He recalled a sort of shouting match about al-Qaeda infiltrating into their network because of Don Simmons’ moonlighting on the side. When Sr Perez inadvertently opened up the channel into the Algerians, nobody thought about it being a possible link into the terrorist organisation. Drug peddling was good business whilst al-Qaeda bombings were on another plain, that is, until strange events began to occur in Galicia.

‘What exactly is Mr Billson going to do?’ asked Sr Perez.

Teixugo thought for a moment.

‘Let him get back to us once he finishes his snooping.’ He smiled. ‘Mr Billson is a smart man, Sr Perez, despite being an Englishman.’

Danny Wilton was checking through the latest passport applications sent in from around Spain making sure that they complied with all the requirements.

‘Here’s another we’ve got to send back,’ he said to his secretary, handing her the form and old passport. ‘Looks like the Christmas panic rush is on.’ The applicant had sent in a personal cheque instead of a proper banker’s order.

‘Why can’t they read the instructions, they’re not that complicated.’

Seconds later, ‘Oh hell.’ He held up yet another who had sent in the photograph in black and white instead of a colour one. At that moment, one of the staff walked into his office and handed him a copy of an e-mail. It was from the Spanish desk in the Foreign Office asking Madrid if there was any update on the death of a British citizen about nine months ago. Donald Simmons’ personal details were attached. The message was not urgent and was just another routine request for information.

‘Pass it on to the HBC down in Vigo. Tell him to reply direct to London.’

He continued working on the passport requests.

Mr Billson had no sooner spoken to Teixugo than he called Stan right away to arrange, as per his suggestion, a meeting with “this” lieutenant from the civil guards. Having selected the venue and confirmed Sergio’s assistance Stan called back.

‘We’ll use the yacht club down at the port of Villagarcia. I know the commodore, very pro British, no one else around during the winter.’

He agreed to pick Mr Billson up at his hotel at around nine the following morning. That evening, just before the Bullocks retired to bed, Sergio called. It was well passed midnight.

‘Sr Consul, are you sure you wish to go through with this?’

‘More than ever.’

Yolanda was not so enthusiastic. Stan had told her about the e-mail from Madrid and that the FCO was doing a bit of snooping. He had brushed it off as insignificant although it could mean that they were back in the loop.

Sergio couldn’t help driving along the seafront on his motorbike prior to the meeting at the yacht club with Stan and “this” Mr Billson. His thoughts were still being rearranged, even at the last minute. He still wasn’t quite sure how to approach the supposed British drug baron. Even the venue was odd although coincidental with his past futile experience as a cover-up bagman in trying to track down drug lords whilst acting as one at the fish market. He had not been back to Villagarcia since his ordeal. As he neared the end of the avenue a scruffy youth stepped out in front ushering him into a parking lot. He drove past, chuckling to himself; “memories”. He slowed down before the market. Dozens of clients and storekeepers were haggling away at the height of the early-morning shopping spree. Most were restaurateurs stocking up for their daily intake of fresh fish. Sergio was still awed at the same scenario that he had experienced in the past; a complete contrast from dusk to dawn to what was presently going on before his eyes. His last drive was past the small hotel where he had set up his base.
Wonder if they’d recognise me
, he thought. The corner pharmacy clock displayed the time and present daily temperature. It was ten-thirty and eight degrees centigrade. The meeting was scheduled for eleven. Sergio propped his bike up on the sidewalk a block away and headed for the yacht club. This time round there was no bagman to welcome him asking for his daily parking tip.

Stan was showing Mr Billson around the main hall of the club when Sergio arrived. The Brits were standing in front of a portrait of
HMS Hood
, the famous warship that was blown out of the water in World War II by the German battleship
Bismarck
. It was a personally signed copy from the commanding officer during one of the many visits by the RN North Atlantic Fleet between the World Wars.

‘Good morning, Sr Consul.’

Stan turned and responded.

‘This is Mr Billson from Manchester, Lieutenant. By the way, he understands Spanish.’

Both men shook hands. Trying to keep the conversation going Stan pointed at the photograph.

‘I suppose you know your history, Lieutenant.’

‘Yes, Sr Consul. We’re quite proud of our historical links with Britain.’

The only other person on the premises was the barman. It was too early and the wrong time of year for any patrons to be indulging in the club’s social activities. The commodore had allowed Stan to use the private conference room. He had even arranged for coffee and doughnuts to be ready for them by mid-morning. Once the door was closed and the three gents were seated round the table, Sergio came straight to the point.

‘Mr Billson, the consul has told me that you want to know of any new research into this Mr Simmons’ death.’

Mr Billson cautiously agreed. Sergio knew that legally speaking and under normal circumstances he would be breaking the law if he revealed any information on any investigation that was underway by the authorities. He took a risk assuming that Mr Billson was not too familiar with Spanish law although similar legal procedures also applied in Britain. His main gamble therefore was that Mr Billson’s hunger for information on any further prising into Don Simmons’ past would override any suspicion of lawlessness by the two sleuths.

‘My department suspects that Mr Simmons was murdered because he was involved with drug traffickers.’

‘Go on.’

‘Not only drug traffickers, but possible Islamic terrorists.’

Stan immediately reacted as rehearsed. He got up from the table and gripped the back of his chair adding drama to the scene.

‘Terrorists?’

Sergio tried to hide a smile. Mr Billson kept calm. This was far from what he had prepared for, thinking that the drug authorities in Spain were inadvertently homing in on the Maiden Voyages’ drug runs. Sergio was now in his element; without hesitation his prepared dissertation took over. He camouflaged his theories into actual findings as if they were already recorded in the confidential files of the Spanish authorities and convinced Mr Billson to accept them as facts. He skimmed over the details of the murders at Ordes, the break-in at Gloria’s apartment and homed in on the raid on Sr Perez’s warehouse and the murder of his boss, Colonel Lobeira. At the mention of the raid, Mr Billson hardly flinched.

‘Are you implying, Lieutenant, that Don stumbled on an Arab Fundamentalist terrorist plot to attack the United Kingdom just because he was selling them drugs?’

‘Not exactly. Mr Simmons served a purpose; drug money for al-Qaeda. They then got rid of him. They also had to destroy the other evidence which was the warehouse link, hence the raid. Unfortunately, my colonel became suspicious. He was murdered by this cell because he got too close to them. But there is something else you should know.’

Suddenly, silence took over and no one spoke. Sergio got up and walked round the table. He stood before Mr Billson. He had a wry smile on his face.

‘Mr Billson, we know that your yachting organisation was smuggling cocaine into Falmouth and that Don Simmons was part of the set-up.’

Even Stan raised his eyebrows.

‘We found some strange objects in the warehouse that was raided.’

He looked at Stan. ‘You’re a yachtsman, right? Since when are “fenders” hollow with removable tops, Sr Consul?’

Again, Stan had to contain himself. By this time Mr Billson was a bundle of nerves. Realising that he had managed to push the drug baron into a corner, Sergio hit home.

‘We’re not concerned with your past drug activity Mr Billson. We’re now talking about European security.’

He went back to his chair and pondered for a while.

‘There is a possibility that you could help us unravel the details of this new threat from al-Qaeda, that is, if you’re willing to cooperate.’

Mr Billson looked for a hint or a nod of approval from Stan who just shrugged his shoulders. Again there was a pause in the discussion.

‘Think about it, Mr Billson, we’re talking about bomb threats; massive destruction; human lives.’ There was still no reaction. ‘Tell you what,’ Sergio got up once again, this time with the intention of leaving. ‘Should you agree, the consul could act as your point of contact.’ There was no further discussion. Before they parted company Sergio emphasised the need for absolute secrecy.

‘Nobody knows about this except us, and my new boss. Let’s keep it that way.’

Back at his hotel, Mr Billson was immediately on the phone to Teixugo. He bypassed all security and fired off in plain language the gist of his meeting with the two “sleuths”.

‘Don’t think the rest of our business is in jeopardy but we’d better bury all evidence on our yachting caper. I’m flying back to London tomorrow to work a few things out.’

Teixugo just listened without uttering anything significant except for a final comment.

‘OK Mr Billson, we’ll keep it cool.’

Lieutenant Colonel Armando Saavedra placed the receiver back on its hook. He pondered for a few seconds then got up from his desk and walked over to the shelf on the opposite side of the room. He picked up a family photo. It had been taken at their home during the previous year’s Christmas celebration. His wife, two sons, their wives, his three grandchildren and his widowed father were seated round the dinner table. They were holding up their glasses filled with champagne in the usual festive manner. The photo had been taken by one of his servants. It had been a good year.

‘One year to go before Melinda and I retire down south,’ he had said during the toast. ‘Thirty-five years chasing criminals is long enough.’

He placed the photo back on the shelf. He went back to his desk and sat down.
Two months left and now this
, he thought as he thumbed through a report he’d been checking. He began to smile. After his meeting in August with Teixugo and although he’d agreed to check out any Arab infiltration in the drug racket in Galicia, he purposefully did nothing. He wasn’t going to risk his future life of luxury a few months away by checking out some wild hunch of al-Qaeda terrorism in the north-west.
Let the heavy mob deal with it
, he had thought. But the call from the drug baron changed everything.

‘I’ve got the names of the Arabs that were dealing with Don Simmons before he was murdered,’ Teixugo had said over the phone. ‘My “distributor”, you know, Sr Perez, overheard the names of Badi and Habib being mentioned by Simmons on one of the occasions when he dealt with him.’

For a moment, the lieutenant colonel didn’t reply. He’d already heard of them.

‘Lieutenant Colonel?’

‘Got it, Teixugo,’ he said eventually, ‘leave it to me.’

After calling up his official car, he put on his overcoat and headed for the car park. The report on Colonel Lobeira’s assassination was in his briefcase.