The Galician Parallax (5 page)

‘Has my request for a transfer come through, Sonia?’ Sonia said nothing. ‘Has anybody seen any papers from HQ about me?’ he shouted across the office.

‘You only sent it a couple of months ago! You know how long these things take,’ said Sonia who continued with her PC. ‘You’ve got a hope!’ she mumbled to herself.

At that moment, Colonel Pedro Lobeira walked out of his office, saw that Sergio was standing opposite his secretary and quickly asked, ‘Sergio, can you dig into that toy of yours and see if you can find this name. They’re a British diving outfit snooping off our coast.’

His boss handed him a scribbled note and walked back into his office. Once again Sergio’s inquisitive mind took over.

Percy Robertson and Nigel McNeill were in the shed next to their bungalow, a couple of miles inland from the coastal town of Muros, busily washing down all the diving gear after another unsuccessful dive off the coast of Galicia. They were part of a team from the deep-sea diving company, St Edmond Explorers Ltd, in search of a World War II German U-boat scuttled in November 1944 and supposedly still in an intact condition. The company had been given an eight-month contract by a German firm that in turn had obtained all the permits from the Spanish Navy to find the submarine. The permits expired at the end of October.

The records given to the divers had traced the loss thanks to personal exerts and documents from an historical institution in Dusseldorf that supposedly confirmed the wreck of U-532 “within a few miles off the coast of north-west Spain”. According to the Germans no cross reference was ever found from any British equivalent records at the Admiralty’s wartime archives, suggesting that no battle engagement or enemy casualties had been reported on that specific date of the war. The Germans were interested in salvaging a unique maritime relic in apparent “mint” condition to be restored as a museum piece; another historical reminder of World War II. The suspected coordinates of the location extended along approximately fifty miles of coastline.

‘Like looking for mackerel in a sea full of cod!’ Nigel had muttered when all parties in Madrid signed the deal. ‘But the money’s good.’

Eric Fuller, another member of the team, was inside the bungalow preparing the evening meal when Percy walked in and placed a small piece of broken crockery on the kitchen table.

‘Eric, take a look at this. I found it just before we surfaced. What do you think?’

Eric turned the gas cooker down and placed the lid back on the pot full of boiling cabbage. He wiped his hands with a paper towel and without a word walked over to the table. Nigel had also finished with the daily equipment mop-up and was standing alongside the other end of the table. Eric picked up the relic, looked it over for a few seconds and said, ‘About eighteenth century I’d say. Definitely Spanish.’

He smiled, placed it back on the table and went back to his culinary chores. Eric looked at his watch. It was just past eight o’clock. ‘Bernie should be back soon.’ He once again picked up the relic, placed it to his lips and gently kissed it. ‘I guess he was right after all!’

They all burst out laughing.

One of the Germans had handed the British team a sealed envelope in Madrid that contained another map of the area. It had “extra” information with more exact coordinates.

Apart from the fishing industry, Falmouth is also famous for its artistic community. The Falmouth College of Arts attracts young budding artists from around Britain and the world. Active and retired painters, writers and music lovers added to the college teaching staff help pave the way for future illustrious and famous personages. Over 1,500 students pass through the college each year and although the main curriculum is based on the arts, there are other sideline courses for mature students wishing to improve on their own particular professional skills.

Stan was about to leave the pub when he caught sight of a new amateur singer having a go at hollering rock noises at the crowd as the karaoke session was gaining momentum. She had a unique and mellow voice, just the right tone and level. ‘Abba,’ Stan muttered to himself. He walked back to the counter and raising his voice above the cacophony, called across at the barman, ‘Who’s that, Bernie? Haven’t seen her around?’

Bernie continued to pour another pint for a customer and then looked across at the stage. The female singer was a tall, long-haired blonde in her late twenties, dressed in loose light-blue slacks, flat black sneakers and a white T-shirt with an imprint of a large early-century steam vessel with SOS written below and above the liner.

‘Sorry, never seen her before, must be another student from the college.’

Stan continued to stare and listen. After the usual clapping died down, the young woman stepped down and walked over to a corner of the pub, joining another bunch of students that were all seated round a large wooden table laden with beer mugs. A young woman jumped up and hugged the singer whilst the three lads just smiled and continued clapping. Stan couldn’t resist the temptation. He walked over to the group and introduced himself, eyes fixed on the young blonde.

‘I’m Stan Bullock from the local coastguard station. I presume you’re all from the college.’

There were smiling nods from most of them. The blonde woman said nothing.

‘I give a lecture on maritime safety once a week. I don’t think I’ve come across your class yet?’ He suddenly realised he was jumping the gun. ‘What are you all studying by the way?’

‘We’re all doing an MA in creative advertising,’ said one of the lads.

‘It’s the future. Oh! I’m Jim Stanbrook,’ said another offering a handshake.

Stan, still trying to attract the young singer’s attention continued, ‘Sounds fascinating. Mind if I join you?’ He suddenly realised that he didn’t have a drink.

‘Anybody for a refill?’

The young singer spoke out. Her accent was foreign.

‘I’d like a tomato juice, please.’

Stan recognised it immediately. ‘You’re Spanish, aren’t you? And what were you christened as?’

She just stared; didn’t understand the verbal twist.

‘Sorry. What is your name?’

She finally smiled, ‘I’m Yolanda Mauro. Yes, I’m Spanish and come from a city called Vigo. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.’

Stan froze. His mind wandered back to the months and years of struggle involving the Spanish fishing fleets. Most came from Yolanda’s home area. He stared at her, and then slowly answered, ‘Yes… I know of Vigo, and all the other bloody ports around the area.’

Without saying another word, he turned and left the pub.

St Edmond Explorers Ltd was not on Lieutenant Quiroga’s list. After searching through all known companies and vessels with criminal records or links with drugs that Sergio had registered over the last twelve months, this particular and assumed British company drew blanks. A proud character, and not wishing to appear ignorant before his boss, Sergio continued to rack his brains knowing that he was running out of time.
If this were a legit company, it wouldn’t be on the list, would it
, he thought,
but then why would the boss want info on it
?

Colonel Lobeira was hard on his staff including the brilliant ones. He disliked “yes” people but never took no for an answer. Sergio took the plunge. He walked straight into the colonel’s office.

‘Sir, do you have more information on the English outfit that I should know about?’

It worked. The colonel looked up at Sergio from his desk and picked a folder out of a drawer and handed it to him. The cover had the crest of the Spanish Navy. It was stamped with the word “Confidential” right across the middle.

‘I’m glad you asked, Lieutenant; shows initiative. You wouldn’t have found anything because there’s no drug connection.’ The colonel went on, ‘They’ve got some sort of a diving contract that involves our navy; rented a local fishing boat at Carnota village. Captain Soto down in Villagarcia asked me to check them out just in case. Keep it low key. No need to arouse any suspicion. They could be as clean as a whistle. That’s all, Lieutenant!’

Sergio walked out of the room. ‘Big deal.’

He spent the next two hours studying the details of St Edmond Explorers’ diving contract, its penalty clauses included. It was all there and above board: the time period, the price tag, the weekly dive details back to Captain Sotos’s offices. He then pulled out the location coordinates where they were meant to be working and walked over to a map of Galicia that hung in the main office. He took a pencil and pinpointed the forty or so miles of coastline where the U-boat was supposed to be sunk. It was the area across the entrance to the bay of Muros and Noia less than eighty miles away from Santiago. The more he mulled over the project the more he became discouraged. Sergio’s natural suspicion began to wane; drug trafficking seemed out of the question.

What a waste of bloody time
, he thought. Still intrigued, he tried another hunch. Sergio called one of his contacts in the
Voz de Galicia
newspaper based in Corunna. He used his personal mobile where he kept his confidential numbers.

‘Berto? Hi.’ There was a pause. They greeted each other. ‘No, I’m not in the office.’ Alberto, an old-time school buddy of Sergio’s was always nervous whenever his friend called for information.

‘I can’t tell you over the phone… No, it’s not dangerous. No drugs involved.’ Sergio asked him to check in the archives of the newspaper for any historical news on U-boat movements during World War II off the coast of Galicia. ‘The number is U-532, date November 1944.’

Two hours later, Alberto was back to Sergio on his mobile. ‘Sorry, nothing in our archives,
amigo
.’

‘Thanks
amigo
, I owe you one.’ They hung up.

Sergio went back to his office muttering, ‘This whole project stinks!’ In his mind, the basic information, despite the skimpy historical records in the contract, was flawed. They didn’t coincide with anything that dealt with the war in the North Atlantic. He couldn’t research further into the actual U-boat without going back to the navy and that would mean going above his boss’ head.
Who’s really behind this anyway
? he thought. A shiver trickled down his spine as he made another phone call, this time to the autonomous government’s department of culture.

During the many skirmishes between the British, French, Dutch and Spanish navies in the early eighteenth century along the coast of Europe, hundreds of ships on either side were either sunk by gunfire or by gale-force winds and heavy seas. Some were eventually found and accurately recorded and others were in the “still missing” sections of the history books. Those along the coast of Spain were under the protection of the Spanish heritage laws and any exploration activity to discover or to salvage a historical wreck required specific permission from the government.

Sergio spent the next couple of days going through the government records in Santiago studying the fate of dozens of wrecks in the vicinity of the southern coast of Galicia. Most of those involved in the famous Battle of Rande in the Vigo Bay were well recorded although never actually found. The magnitude of the search and the endless hours prodding through volumes of information were beginning to wear him down. He was also neglecting his main task of keeping up the records of the constant drug activity in the region.

Colonel Lobeira eventually called him into his office. ‘Should’ve called you off the job some time ago, Lieutenant. No use wasting any more time on those divers.’

‘Yes sir.’ Sergio closed the office door behind him.

Taken off the job, he asked for a week’s holiday.

Stan looked around the lecture room. There were thirty-four students in total from three different groups; two were postgraduate courses and the other a full-time bachelor’s degree course.

‘Good morning; my name is Stan Bullock and I’m from the Coastguard Agency. You’ll see from your programme that I’m here to bore you for a couple of hours on the great world of ocean safety and other shipping niceties.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I know it may seem odd and may in some cases be totally irrelevant, but I must emphasise…’ he picked up some notes on his desk, ‘… in a small town like this, and with the number of students passing through each year, many of whom come from the interior of their respective countries, the local authorities are keen that you are all aware of the dangers of any sport or activity related to the sea.’

Once he delivered his introductory warning, Stan swung into a personally prepared short seminar that not only covered the entire subject matter with eloquence but flowed with the ease of a professional television programme including image projection, sound and verbal commentary. He started with a short reference to the history of Cornish shipwrecks and salvages, followed with two similar presentations of his work as a coastguard. He ended the first session before the coffee break with a synopsis of modern day communication amenities that helped reduce the danger in today’s shipping world.

‘When you return, I’ll introduce you to a colleague who is a volunteer in the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. He’ll explain about our coastal safety codes as well as shore discipline, particularly during stormy weather.’

As he was replacing all his papers into a briefcase, one of the students approached the desk. ‘Remember me?’

Yolanda Mauro, her long hair tied in a bun, was dressed in a green frock that displayed small arrays of printed white flowers, held together by a tight white belt around her waist. She was wearing dark glasses. Stan just smiled, acknowledging her presence as yet another student. As he turned off his portable and his mind switched off the remnants of his lecture, the sound of her voice slowly sank in. Yolanda took off her glasses and stared at him.

Stan purposefully wiped his eyes. ‘The Cheshire Cat; the singing and hollering Spaniard!’