The Galician Parallax (47 page)

Danny eventually obtained information from the Seychelles that the Pedro Mauro family was still alive, safe and sound although they were still unable to phone out as the lines were hardly working.

‘Are you sure? How did you find out, Danny?’ asked Juan Jose a few days after Christmas.

‘Got our London mob to do a search and they managed to persuade the BBC through their senior international rep to check on the Seychelles, as a special favour.’

Juan Jose couldn’t find the words of gratitude.

‘Lucky it was a small place, there were casualties all right and destruction but nothing like the rest of the area.’

Two days after the New Year, the Mauro family was on their way back to Europe having flown from Victoria on Mahé and then to Nairobi, connecting into Rome with a final touchdown in Madrid. During the ordeal, Juan Jose had stayed with the Bullocks at their apartment. Although Stan kept assuring him that, “no news is good news”, he couldn’t bear to face any tragic report if anything had happened to one of his sons. Eventually, once the Mauros had returned home, Pedro was on the phone giving the rest of the family a full account of how he and his wife survived from almost certain death. Thanks to a very able crew, the large diving vessel they were on kept away from the shore until the waves eventually subsided. Minutes seemed like hours and despite the fear of all on board the divers were able to see the battering going on along the coast. The skipper had to anchor offshore some yards away from the beach as the normal pier had been washed away.

‘Shitty weather,’ uttered General Ben Ventura as he and two of his aids were walking back to their office in the Pentagon after a quick lunch at McDonald’s. They were passing the wing where the al-Qaeda terrorist attack had blown a hole and killed a few hundred personnel back in September of 2001. Ben was a Californian.

‘Seems so long ago, General,’ said his adjutant, Major Frank Trundle, as he stopped to look at the repaired part of the building, ‘doesn’t it, sir?’ It was just beginning to snow again; temperature was down to minus six centigrade and still dropping. The general and his other aid, Sergeant Trish Chester, stood alongside and nodded in agreement.

‘This war is just as shitty and it ain’t over for a long shot.’

General Ventura was head of one of the large supply units for the armed forces in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Despite politicians and international gurus predicting a swift end to the conflicts based on a return to democracy within a reasonable time frame, the general felt differently.

‘I’ve sent food parcels back in the Vietnam days. I’ll tell you when it’s over. When the number of milk cartons begins to drop, then we’re into “come home” time boys.’

Elections for the Iraq National Assembly had finally been held on the 30
^th
. The new Transitional Law allowed it to be set up with over 200 members. This meant that the country was on the road to the design and write-up of a new constitution. Despite the optimism in Washington and Europe, suicide bomb attacks had taken place in many polling stations killing dozens of Iraqis and injuring hundreds more. The disparity between the small Sunni and major Shiite Arab factions still remained. The Kurdish community was relatively calm as they were strongly represented in the voting.

Reports from Afghanistan were just as positive. The newly-elected President Hamid Karzai said in his inaugural speech, ‘Thanks to the United States of America the life that the Afghans are living today is in peace, the children are going back to school and business is back to normal.’

General Ventura and all his staff were too far away to feel exuberant or confident of progress in the Middle East conflict zones. They still had to work out the yearly budgets and write the invoices for millions of tons of food for the troops. That’s all they really cared about.

‘The
Prince of Waves
docks in Vigo at 08:00 on 15 April in exactly two months’ time,’ said Badi. ‘Our two crew members will have joined about three weeks earlier.’ Looking at the Filipinos he added, ‘You know the infidels you’re to replace. No problem there, is there?’

They nodded agreement.

‘They’ll disembark half an hour later and you’ll meet them at the entrance to the Hotel Bahia a few yards outside the port gates. That’s exactly at 08:30.’ He couldn’t help sniggering as he recalled a previous visit to the same hotel. ‘Habib and I shall be in the lobby where we’ll all meet. They’ll hand over their boarding IDs. You’ll wait for another hour and then board the ship.’

Badi set out on the table the set of explosives to be hidden in linings inside their vests when they boarded the ship. ‘No need to tell you how to set these up.’ He then changed the subject.

‘We must soon break up my “brothers”, but not before the remaining tasks.’ Habib placed all the portables and mobile phones on the table.

Badi carried on, ‘Our next step is to destroy all evidence here in Madrid. Habib will take care of bank accounts and credit cards. I’ll remove any links to our “confidants”.’ Pointing at the equipment he added, ‘Our files will no longer exist.’

There was a sombre silence in the room. Badi got up from the table and slowly began to hug each and every one of the remaining al-Qaeda members. They then embraced each other.

‘Once that is done Habib and I, with our Filipino “brothers”, will drive down to Galicia.’ He produced a small map with a ringed town outside Pontevedra. ‘And stay right here, in Puenteareas.’ Habib already knew the reason. ‘We have word that the Spanish intelligence are homing in on us but they’re still weeks away. Thus my “brothers” it’s time for all of us to leave Spain.’

Badi added, ‘That is, after our last missions have been accomplished. Praise be to Allah.’

The rest obediently recited, ‘Praise be to Allah.’

‘Do you want the good or the bad news first?’ asked “Spike” Saunders, head of the terrorism department, who was reviewing the latest information from across Europe with all his team. His senior members were Simon Grundy, responsible for Germany and France and Joe Fitzsimons, in charge of Spain.

‘The Spanish NIC is finally homing in on the al-Qaeda HQ. Ever since the attacks in Madrid they’ve been hard at work trying to smoke out the whole damn lot of them.’ The Leganes fiasco, whereby a large cell blew itself up killing a local Spanish policeman, left a gaping hole in the investigations.

‘Their drug financing hit a snag in Galicia. Two of their mob were caught red-handed and are presently serving a sentence in one of the penitentiaries.’

‘So?’ asked one of the Eastern-bloc officers.

Joe filled in the details not before elaborating on the background. ‘There was a note somewhere in one of the reports about a Brit committing suicide a few months ago because he may have been trading with these two goons now in prison.’

Simon chipped in, ‘Wasn’t one of our consulate guys involved or have I got the wrong story?’

“Spike” confirmed part of the argument but got on with the issue at hand. ‘The point is that the Spaniards, thanks to their phone surveillance team, have picked up the odd conversation between these prisoners and what they now assume is the al-Qaeda mob.’

‘They’ve traced the phone calls to an exchange in one of the posh areas in downtown Madrid,’ added Joe. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they pinpoint the location and hopefully snuff the lot out.’

‘So what’s the bad news then?’ asked the youngest officer, in charge of the Nordic region.

‘Our colleagues in Spain confirm without any doubt that the next target is the United Kingdom and that the plans are almost complete,’ answered “Spike”. There was a sombre silence. ‘Trouble is where and when.’

The head of the NIC, Sr Patricio Suarez del Monte had personally called “Spike” with the information that had been pieced together through the phone call analysis. Although not overjoyed Sr Suarez confirmed that the Madrid cell was the mastermind behind any future attack. He hoped that his forces would be able to arrest them before any plan was put in motion to attack mainland Britain.

There was no mention of any possible attacks in international waters involving British shipping.

‘I want to start a family,’ said Gloria out of the blue. ‘I’m passed thirty and think it’s time I had a baby.’

The couple had been partying all night at one of the local discos. They were walking back to their apartment as dawn was breaking when Gloria came out with her surprise statement. It was the first time during their relationship that they had actually spent a whole evening and early morning partying away, leaving their worries and cares at home. The timing was perfect. Gloria was smart enough to catch Sergio in a rare euphoric mood with just enough liquor in him to succumb and at the same time realise what she was proposing.

‘Sure, why not?’

He picked her up by the waist and swung her around on the pavement as they neared the end of the road that led to their apartment block. He slowly put her down, sobered up and looking straight into her eyes slowly whispered, ‘I suppose you mean marriage.’

A religious wedding was out. Thanks to Gloria’s “contacts” in the legal and political world the couple was able to arrange the civil one without delay in the main registry office of the Corunna town council. Mayor Armando Quesada officiated at the ceremony at just after 11 a.m. on 15 February. Colonel Seone and most of Sergio’s civil guard colleagues attended as did his mother, and Stan and Yolanda who had driven up the day before to spend the rest of the week touring the northern shores of Galicia. Gloria’s office staff were also there with their respective partners as well as Judges Elisa Soria and Pedro Carvallo.

‘Very popular lass our lieutenant’s new wife,’ said Stan.

‘Pretty normal,’ retorted Yolanda. ‘She’s a smart girl.’ Stan didn’t see the connection.

A full-blown lunch with all the Galician cuisine delights available was later held at the posh hall of the Pazo de Santa Cruz in Oza dos Rios, a small town a few miles from the city of Corunna. A Galician bagpipe band blared away until well into the afternoon-cum-evening. The honeymoon turned into a lost weekend in Graña Da Acea, a typical rural country inn built in the seventeenth century and tucked away in the Fragas do Eume Natural Park.

‘The bad guys can wait,’ said a passionate Sergio as he nibbled at Gloria’s ear whilst the rest of his body was, literally, hard at work. Apart from the owners and their children, they were the only guests.

Meanwhile, Stan and Yolanda had driven up to Ferrol. They’d left the kids with their nanny at Juan Jose’s villa.

‘Let Granddad worry about them for a change,’ Yolanda had said.

As they were booking in to the Parador next to the Ferrol naval base and Stan was fiddling with their documents and credit cards he nonchalantly handed Yolanda a Christmas card he’d picked up from the consulate PO box several weeks earlier, ‘Thought we’d give this old boy a call.’ It was from a Mr John Langford and the card was a photograph of a group of school children taken back in 1928.

Yolanda immediately reacted. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it? Mr Langford is one of the remaining stalwarts of the British community.’ Stan felt embarrassed.

Two hours later, they were seated comfortably in the lounge of the home of an eighty-eight-year-old Yorkshire man, who was a kid at the time when the Brits in Ferrol, thanks to the shipbuilding industry, were a thriving community.

‘Our engineers taught them all they know today. My father was one of them,’ he said as he showed the Bullocks some old photos taken years ago. He was proud of the Christmas card he’d sent them. Pointing at a young boy all dressed in white he said, ‘I’m the third from the left in the front row.’

They continued viewing more photos whilst Mr Langford prepared some tea. When he returned, almost dragging his feet along the carpet, he sighed and asked, ‘Why don’t we celebrate the Queen’s birthday any more, sir?’

Stan felt a lump in his throat. He was speechless. Yolanda put the old man at ease. ‘Mr Langford, times have changed but we still toast the Queen at our home. When we raise our glasses we think of you and all the others still here in Galicia. There’s not much more we can do, sir.’

Mr Langford poured out the tea. ‘I know, I know.’ He sat down. ‘It’s still a great shame.’

Despite feeling humble as Stan’s experience as HBC was still very “green”, he was certainly going to have a go at Madrid.
All the other consulates in Vigo celebrate their national day; why can’t we?
he thought.

‘I’m looking forward to visiting your beautiful Cornwall, Mr Billson. My countrymen keep insisting that it is just like my Galicia. We’ll see.’

Teixugo arrived at the Falmouth railway station late in the evening after having travelled down from London. Mr Billson and Joan Flashman greeted him. The Bermundez brothers had already booked in to the Lerryn Hotel the day before.

‘Thought we might get some real pleasure out of our meeting for a change,’ said Mr Billson. ‘Besides, thought you might like to meet with the gang now that the show is over from this neck of the woods.’

As they drove to the hotel, Mr Billson confirmed that Maiden Voyages would revert back to normal yachting activities. ‘Our people may change the name as they intend to try a new set of runs up into the fjords of Scandinavia.’

Teixugo sarcastically remarked, ‘You may find too much competition from the Amsterdam lot.’

Mr Billson managed a smile. Joan Flashman ignored the remark and said, ‘We’ve also dismantled the warehouse and got rid of the fenders. All evidence has been removed.’

‘Great,’ replied Teixugo who was not really interested in the end result. All he cared for was that the rest of the UK business was still intact and Cornwall could be written off completely without any future implications or hopefully any snooping by the law. However, he was still not very convinced. Although he had never ventured out towards the south-west, Teixugo had visited Britain on many occasions. Mr Billson had entertained him in Manchester and had driven him around the Midlands on more than one trip. The Bermudez brothers were also regulars although they spent their visits within the boundaries of the city of London. Ms Flashman had arranged a pub dinner at the Chain Locker for that evening where they were to meet up with Jerry, Glen and the Stantons.