The Galician Parallax (46 page)

‘We know they’re into drugs, Lieutenant Colonel, we’ve been working on the fundamentalist cells for months,’ said General Cardanza, head of the department.

At first, Lieutenant Colonel Saavedra felt ridiculous. He thought he had inside information that would not only help in the pursuit of the colonel’s murderers but would redeem him of the years that he had been collaborating with the drug lords in Galicia. There was no mention in the report of Badi’s or Habib’s names although Teixugo had insisted that there was a link. But as General Cardanza continued to brief him on the drug department’s latest information on the al-Qaeda movement, based on a joint effort with the Spanish Central Intelligence Agency and the Ministry of the Interior, he was way out of his depth.

‘Colonel Lobeira’s death had nothing to do with any Arabs and as far as this Brit supposedly murdered in Vigo, nothing more than a police department investigation.’

He moved on to the main topic. ‘Take a look at this, Lieutenant Colonel.’

He pulled up a screen on his PC showing a map of the central area of Madrid.

‘This is where the Leganes lot blew themselves up after the attack on the trains.’

He then scrolled over to another area. ‘And this is where the HQ of the Spanish cells was located until very recently. We now know that they’ve moved and we’re all working on it.’

He switched off the computer and got up from his workstation.

‘Leave this to the experts Lieutenant Colonel; we’ll soon home in on them.’

Lieutenant Colonel Saavedra tried one last effort. ‘Do the names Ghazi Mansouri and Marzuq Khelil mean anything?’

The general thought for a moment. ‘No, why?’

‘They’re a couple of Algerian drug peddlers in one of the Galician prisons. One of our lieutenants in Corunna, a Sergio Quiroga, says they could be connected.’

The general didn’t answer. He just ignored his colleague. An internal disciplinary memo was eventually sent to the Corunna Civil Guard HQ. The possible plan of a terrorist attack on Britain was not even mentioned.

Gloria had not forgotten her Catholic upbringing despite considering herself a modern, post-Franco, liberated female. She hardly ever attended mass, and although her extra-marital relationship with Sergio was beyond the preaching of the church, Gloria still felt a Christian at heart. Just as her mother had in the past, she once again proceeded to decorate her apartment with all the Christmas trimmings including a full-blown miniature adaptation of the birth of baby Jesus and the arrival of the “Three Wise Kings”. Sergio was helping her assemble the stable and the light fittings in between the odd run to the fridge for another beer. Two hours later, he plugged in the electrical connection and the scene became alive with moving figurines in different toiling positions, flashing lights and small water cascades.

‘Why don’t we add a railway track next time? I love trains.’

Gloria ignored him as she continued to review the display. Since his reprimand, Sergio had not uttered a word on their ordeal. He stared at a small carpenter monotonously chopping away at the same piece of wood.

‘Persistence.’

Before Gloria could even remark he cried out, ‘Still think they’re missing the point.’

‘Well, is that it?’ said Yolanda, ‘So what if the big shots in Madrid thought we were just on a wild goose chase. Are we to give up?’

Stan couldn’t help chuckling over his wife’s “we” implication. Sergio had called him full of woe and disappointment. Colonel Seone had received notification from Madrid not only to instruct the lieutenant to “drop the nonsensical pursuit of hypothetical Islamic terrorists in Galicia” but that Sergio could be up before a civil guard court martial for going well beyond the boundaries of his duties.

‘I suppose we should’ve realised that the top authorities were already onto the Arabs.’

‘I don’t believe it. Something just doesn’t click,
amor
. Don’t give up. Look, this Mr Billson didn’t come out of his “den” all the way from Manchester for nothing. He was shit scared. You guys hit a nerve.’

Stan thought it over.

‘It’s near Christmas time. Let’s give it a couple of weeks… at least until the New Year.’

Yolanda gave him a short kiss on his cheek.

‘OK,
amor
.’

‘Panic’s over,’ said Mr Billson.

He’d made a planned visit to the yachting agency’s Penzance office assembling all members of the team to inform them of the outcome.

‘We can all look forward to a good Christmas and forget about the cock-up in Vigo.’

No sooner had Lieutenant Colonel Saavedra passed on the news to Teixugo than the Galician drug baron was advising his partners the “heat” was off, and that the whole thing had been set up by an impulsive civil guard with the help of an idiotic British honorary consul.

‘No need to report this to the FCO for obvious reasons. The point is that as far as the authorities are concerned Don Simmons committed suicide. Let’s just leave it at that.’

‘What about the Maiden Voyages’ drug runs?’ asked Joan Flashman.

‘It’s the end of the game. We take our winnings and shut off the slot machine.’

He made no mention of the main reason for Stan and Sergio’s concern, the planning of a possible terrorist attack against the United Kingdom. He didn’t care.

‘It’s been years since I’ve enjoyed this,’ said Pedro Mauro as he and his family had just surfaced and ended an hour of snorkelling off one of the reefs around the Seychelles. They were about ten miles offshore just southeast of the islands.

His wife, sprawled out on the foredeck, murmured, ‘Christmas, far away from cold Madrid.’

Suddenly they felt as if the chartered boat was sinking. The sea on the starboard side seemed to rise. The rest of the tourists, about a dozen, began to panic. Seconds later heavy swells began to batter the vessel in evenly synchronised intervals from the same direction. The skipper reacted immediately.

‘Everybody below; now.’

He frantically began to start up the engine as one after another of the divers scrambled down the main hatch. Inside the main cabin, holding on to whatever they could, no one uttered a word. They just stared into space as the large launch began to sway, twist and turn, the skipper trying his hardest to outsmart the fifteen-foot waves.

If land shakes because of an earthquake, every being, human or other within hundreds of miles of the epicentre will feel the shock waves and will either be buried under rubble or run for their lives looking for cover. If a similar disaster occurs miles below the surface of an ocean only the fish will be stunned out of their wits or any vessel that happens to be in the vicinity. However, the sudden suck-in of trillions of gallons of seawater as the immediate aftermath will cause a strange effect at the surface that will eventually gather momentum and turn into a circular spread of high waves heading towards land and in all directions.

Such an event took place in the Indian Ocean the day after Christmas. Waves thirty-feet high and travelling at over five-hundred miles per hour battered the shores of Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka, India, Bangladesh, Burma, Malaysia, Maldives Islands, Somalia, Kenya, Tanzania and the Seychelles. The aftermath was devastating destruction, the disappearance of hundreds of small islands and beaches and over three hundred thousand bodies sloshing amongst the debris and the mud along the whole of the coastline.

International aid was soon on the move not only to recover and attend those that were still alive but also to continue the search both on land and at sea for other human beings that were unaccounted for. Amongst the victims were locals and foreign holidaymakers of all nationalities. Consular services in the affected areas were stretched to the limit. The British consulates were no exception.

Whilst the odd member was seated in the small smoking room flipping through the Sunday papers ignoring the sporadic first-hand images of an apparent hurricane that were being silently flashed on the club’s large television, others were arriving for the midday roast and heading straight for the dining room. The Bullocks had already arrived and were propping up the main bar in another sector of the club.

‘Your father’s late,’ said Stan as he poured another glass of wine and slipped another olive into his mouth. ‘Not normal.’

Yolanda was too busy trying to feed the children. ‘You’ve become a real
machista
,’ she said jokingly as Stan nonchalantly watched her wrestle with a pot of indescribable kid’s food.

At that moment, Juan Jose arrived. The look on his face was enough. ‘It’s Pedro,’ he said without even a greeting or a kiss for his grandchildren, ‘they’re out there.’

The Bullocks hadn’t yet seen the news, neither had any of the other members until someone hollered from the smoking room, ‘Christ. It’s unbelievable.’ Juan Jose had already received a call from his other son telling him about the tsunami in the Indian Ocean and that so far he had no news about his brother or his sister-in-law who were on holiday in the area. They were staying at the Banyan Tree Hotel on the southern island of the Seychelles.

Stan was on the phone to Danny who once again was back in the office with part of his staff despite it being a Sunday. Yolanda, in the meantime, was consoling her father who had tried frantically to call the Spanish Foreign Ministry for information on his son. The lines were constantly engaged.

‘Don’t ask for the impossible, Stan,’ said Danny although sympathising with Juan Jose’s plight. He was a knowledgeable veteran in consular catastrophes and knew that disasters of this magnitude would take weeks to unravel, especially in trying to locate survivors let alone identifying bodies.

‘Half the world is going mad at the moment; we’ll just have to wait.’

‘But can’t you at least find out about the Seychelles and how badly they were hit? After all, they’re part of the Commonwealth.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll have a go at their diplomatic reps here in Spain.’ He thought for a moment, ‘Better still, I’ll try my press contacts.’ Before Stan could answer he added, ‘But I can’t promise as it may take a few days.’ Danny didn’t tell Stan that dozens of other Brits were calling in to the embassy and the consulate to find out about their own possible loss of relatives in the area.

British citizens had priority.

The tsunami had little effect on the Philippines other than a possible high number of Filipino casualties living and working in the neighbouring countries. Indonesia had acted as a sort of geographical barrier and took the major brunt of the impact. Nevertheless, the seafaring population couldn’t avoid a feeling of sorrow for lost colleagues and fear of future attacks by one of Mother Nature’s most feared weapons.

Desiderio Bello and his wife were doing their weekly shopping at the open market, weaving their way through the massive array of food stalls. He was due to fly to London in six weeks to join his cruise ship, the
Prince of Waves
presently undergoing a refit at Southampton. They paused before a fruit store whilst his wife sampled and then chose a couple of small melons. Their normal routine was meat or poultry first, followed by vegetables and finally a search for a suitable stopover for fruit. After paying the storekeeper, his wife, who had hardly said a word since the tragedy, finally admitted her fear for his safety.

‘I can’t help it, Desi. The sea, it’s treacherous.’

He took hold of the paper bag with the melons. ‘I know, but this trip is different. Think of the money. Our kids, we’ll be able to send them to a private school. We’ll be rich.’

In another part of the city, Mesias Silvestre and a few friends were celebrating his birthday in a downtown bar near the waterfront. A bachelor with no strings attached, he had been lavishly spreading his newly-acquired wealth ever since he’d ended the cruise-ship training sessions, had been given his papers and a new bank account opened in his name in Switzerland.

‘Look at me, I’m the new captain,’ he said half drunk. ‘When I leave this shit hole it will be for good.’

Miles away two Muslim Filipinos were preparing for their “last rights” as true martyrs of the faith. They had already been to Manila and introduced themselves to both Desiderio and Mesias as planned by al-Qaeda and they would not meet again until 15 April in Vigo.

‘This is most honourable to our cause,’ said the head of the Abu Sayyaf group, ‘Al-Qaeda has chosen us and we must obey.’

They spent the next week in deep prayer together with the few hundred followers envious of such a majestic task ahead by two of their “brothers”. Two weeks later, after a short stopover in Rome, they were on a flight into Madrid where Badi and Habib met them. The final planning and review were now underway.

Seated on his favourite rock, hugging his Kalashnikov and overlooking the barren yet beautiful hills along the Khyber Pass, Bin Laden was listening silently to the last briefing of the planned attacks on the United Kingdom. He began to pluck at his long toenails, a habit he’d picked up when in deep concentration. One by one, the “brothers” expanded on each component of the plots until they hit the bank account section.

‘Two million dollars is exposure money.’

His accountant assured the leader that all angles had been covered; the risk was zero. Bin Laden got up to stretch his legs. ‘Make sure Badi and Habib cover their tracks.’ The followers kept silent waiting for the leader’s authority to proceed. ‘The West will crumble. Two million is crumbs…’ He sat down again.

‘Proceed.’

A week later, Osama bin Laden once again threatened the West in another video with the usual rhetoric of demanding the withdrawal of infidels and troops from all Islamic territories.