The Galician Parallax (8 page)

Similar to Juan Jose, Peter was an old veteran in an honorary capacity of consular responsibility. They had met and bid farewell to many full-time diplomatic service people that passed through Madrid, many with new ideas on how to reform the overall system but far removed from local or individual problems.

Spain is not a country. It is several countries all tied together under a common constitution yet divided by autonomous identities. The British residents as well as the tourists that visit this historical vacation paradise are similar. The consular network is well aware of the different slots of British behaviour and requirements when it comes to service responsibility as per the Foreign Office rules. But theory and practice do not always form a viable partnership. The needs of most Brits living along the Mediterranean coast are well known to the consular staff and range from passport renewal to registering complaints about Spain, the Spaniards and particularly Spanish legislation on housing. Should they get into trouble with the police, the rulebook is fully detailed on how to proceed. As for tourists, these are more vulnerable and depending on age, can be a blessing to deal with or a pain in the neck. Nevertheless, the old codgers in the service, particularly the honorary consuls, have enough experience to deal with all eventualities. They also have a tremendous asset. They know the locals and the local scene better than anyone.

‘You know the routine… “we have to cut costs”… “do you have any particular needs?”… then din-dins with the ambassador and back to face the music at home.’

Juan Jose didn’t answer.

‘Hey, what’s the matter?’

There was another long pause before Juan Jose placed his arm over Peter’s shoulder and led him towards the bar. Once he had ordered his gin and tonic and another for Peter he faced his colleague and said, ‘My daughter’s getting married. To an
inglés
.’

Peter grinned. ‘Congratulations. That’s great.’

‘Not so fast, friend. I know nothing about the affair or this guy. Yolanda just sprung it on us.’

Peter thought for a moment before responding. ‘Want to talk about it, Juan Jose?’ They went over to a small table out of reach of the other hotel guests and Juan Jose opened up. Despite having met up over the past twenty years, Juan Jose had never spoken about his personal life. Most of the network knew that he was a shipping agent and many had exchanged consular anecdotes with him during their annual meetings. They knew he was a widower, condolences from over Spain poured in when his wife died, with supposedly three grown-up and educated children, but that was it.

‘To start with, she’s in England: Falmouth to be precise. I sent her there because she got into trouble with a bastard back home.’

Peter sipped at his drink and said nothing.

‘You know that my two boys are well established in their own professions and the only one I had left to take over was Yolanda.’ Again there was a long pause. Juan Jose grasped his head with both hands. ‘She’s a good girl, Peter… and smart…’

Peter finally broke his silence. Trying to console his friend and colleague he said, ‘Why don’t you try to find out more about… hate to say it, but… your new son-in-law. You may find he’s OK. You know the saying “there’s no evil that doesn’t come from goodness”.’

Juan Jose finally gave in. ‘I guess you’re right, Peter.’

They both gulped down their drinks and got up from the small table. Juan Jose took hold of Peter’s arm. ‘Let’s eat, shall we?’

The British Consul General had unfortunately caught the flu and had to delegate the chairing of the Annual General Consular Meeting to his vice-consul, Danny Wilton. After a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast, all the delegates had arrived sharp at nine ready to review the previous year’s records and discuss any future changes or major events that could affect any one of the represented areas.

‘Morning all, as you know the boss is in bed with a high fever and he’s asked yours truly to take care of matters, so… you’ve got me for the whole session.’

After handing each a copy of the agenda he switched on the consular laptop and opened up the session. ‘OK, first things first… budgets.’ The first slide appeared on the screen.

By lunch break they had covered all the routine topics that either confirmed “business as usual” or needed “beefing up”. Agreements had been reached on the following year’s expenditures, minor changes to the financial reports and a confirmation that the support from HQ, Madrid was adequate. The afternoon session kicked off with a series of headings that ranged from lost passports to incidents involving the police. Hospitalisation to accidents, especially road ones, followed and what to do in case of drug crimes.

‘I know you’re all very familiar with all the problems but we still need to review them, no different to routine lifeboat drill on a cruise ship.’ Danny touched a nerve.

Juan Jose immediately put up his hand. ‘Cruise ship passengers. I’ve been harping on for some time now about the lack of care afforded to these people when they’re taken ill and I’m not talking about medical care.’

Before Danny could answer, Jason Romney from Alicante butted in. ‘In my area the local shipping agents take care of any problems.’

There was a sudden burst of laughter all round as Juan Jose, also showing a large smile answered, ‘I am the bloody shipping agent!’

Once they had all calmed down, Juan Jose explained that the problem was mainly due to lack of agility and excess bureaucracy by the respective insurance agencies whenever they were informed of a hospitalised passenger.

‘I’ve written a full report on how to deal with these Brits, especially if they’re elderly and can’t speak a word of Spanish. A couple of phone calls from me as HBC can sort a problem out and above all, reduce the anxiety of these poor sods that are taken ill.’ Danny knew what Juan Jose was talking about.

‘Most of you honoraries don’t have these ships on your patch, and Juan Jose is right.’ Looking at Juan Jose, ‘… You may be pleased to know that our Spanish desk at the FCO is actually holding a general meeting with the British Insurance Association back in the UK to tackle the problem. Hopefully, we’ll see some action taking place in the near future.’ Jason just nodded.

Danny changed the image on the screen and was about to continue when Juan Jose once again butted in. ‘Will you be addressing British cemeteries? I’ve got three up in Galicia and I keep hearing murmurs about getting rid of them.’

Danny held up his hand. ‘We’ll deal with that privately, Juan Jose. OK?’

The next slide was titled: “Terrorism”.

Yolanda had moved in with Stan at his one-bedroom flat in Vernon Place overlooking Falmouth harbour a couple of months before she knew she was pregnant. The short span of their romance was intense both in the physical discovery of their bodies and the oddly accepted incompatibility of their characters. Yolanda had spoken openly of her life in Vigo and how she had constantly rebelled against the “nouveau riche” and snobbish lifestyle that she was plunged into by birth.

‘Tennis clubs, yachting and BMWs are the “in” thing,’ she said to Stan one day. ‘Then on to all-night swinging at dozens of clubs until your feet are bleeding, your butt is stiff and sore and your eyeballs no longer focus. That was “me” over the last few years until… well, you know the rest.’

Her affair with Gerardo had ended in tragedy, she admitted but at least she was able to break away from the drug scene before it was too late. ‘“Mixed up kid” is what you Anglo-Saxons call us, right?’

They were walking along the boat jetty, wrapped up in their winter woollies. Stan just hugged her. ‘Well, you know all about me, in fact there isn’t much, really.’

‘Don’t say that!’

Yolanda looked quizzical for a moment. ‘Let’s see now, what do we have in common?’ She tried to compare what she had been accustomed to with Stan’s easy-going but open-air Cornish life when she just threw her arms up in the air and with a broad smile said, ‘I don’t know, you tell me? All I know is that I’m madly in love with you and enjoying every minute of it.’

Stan and Yolanda were eventually married in a civil wedding at the town hall. It was a small ceremony followed by a not so small party laid on by Stan’s friends and coastguard colleagues at the Cheshire Cat. As the afternoon lagged on, and Stan was enjoying an unusual overdose of bitter, Bernie, the pub’s barman, said to him, ‘Now that you’ve joined the enemy, what now lover boy?’ For a second Stan just stared at an old friend.

He then reacted. ‘She’s not… the enemy, Bern. She’s…’ At that moment Yolanda walked over and took Stan by the arm, then looked at Bernie.

‘I’m taking him home with me. He’s mine now!’

Stan was too over the top to realise what Yolanda was saying. Bernie went back to washing the glasses. Yolanda never told Stan about the details of her drug rehabilitation programme that she underwent just before she travelled to Falmouth. All she said was that she was under severe medical prescription for several months to cure her “depression”. The details had been kept a family secret on purpose.

Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga loaded his laptop with the details of the Castro drug cartel. He was also given a new mobile phone with an unlisted number and instructions on how and when to contact the department. He sped back on his motorbike to pack his things and bid his mother a brief farewell, ready to move into the Villagarcia area. It was early in the afternoon, around four. He parked his bike in the shed and went over to the house. He opened the front door to the cottage and was about to holler his usual welcome when he heard unusual sounds coming from one of the bedrooms. Instinctively he lowered his equipment onto the floor and grasped his 9mm pistol. Slowly he crossed the lounge and crept towards the bedroom door. Releasing the safety catch and raising his gun into a firing position he gently opened the door. His mother was crouched faced down on the bed, completely naked whilst a man in his late fifties, also naked, was making love to her.

Without a word, Sergio replaced his gun, walked over as silently as possible to his own room and after closing the door, went over to the wardrobe, took out a large rucksack and began to pack his clothes. Once he had finished, he left the room and after ascertaining that he had not been heard, returned to the entrance, picked up his office things and left the cottage. The middle-aged couple were still at it.

Since that infamous evening and registering into a modest boarding house in the Galician seaport, Sergio spent the next couple of weeks checking out the town. It didn’t take him long to change tactics. The normal folk were non-starters.
Bugger the job seeking bit
, he thought. He worked on a plan to go for the jugular and hopefully work his way into the underworld of drug addicts, pushers and peddlers; bagmen and homeless. Why not join them? There’s always a link.

Although he was in a small hotel he had to change his physical appearance before he could even attempt to make contact. He decided to grow a beard and let his black hair grow almost level to his shoulders. Next move was to not wash for weeks until his body stank. He needed to outfit himself “for the occasion”. He checked on their whereabouts and found that many slept under the archway of the port fish market. All he needed was to make the right moves.

Sergio’s mother was heartbroken. She’d desperately tried to find out the whereabouts of her son only to be told by his superiors that he was away on a mission. She never knew that her son had caught her in her menopause delight, or did she realise that in a strange way it helped him adapt to his new assignment. He’d switched off all his human feelings to concentrate on going after the Galician drug trade.

‘Are you sure these two guys are “fit”?’ asked Mr Billson. ‘Yachts have been used before!’ Three other younger men were in the accounting firm’s private conference room.

‘Simmons knows the ropes,’ said one of them. ‘He was on our payroll until the Panama affair.’

Another had a report in his hand. He read from it. ‘Transfer of drugs at sea is carried out well offshore from the bulk carrier split into smaller craft; a large percentage is transported by fishing boats with the occasional use of a large yacht although other merchant-type ships have been known to be involved. There is an increase of faster, specially constructed speedboats able to travel at 200 or more knots that venture into the “fiords” of Galicia that are hardly ever detected.’

‘Really, you don’t say? Where did you get the info?’ asked Mr Billson.

‘From the Internet, sir.’

The others burst out laughing.

After wrapping up the session, Mr Billson took one of the accountants to one side. ‘Advise Medellin we may have a new route next year… that we’ll send the details later.’ The accountant had taken note.

As he was leaving, he added, ‘By the way, top priority, check… banking links. Don’t want this to clash with the other Galician accounts.’

It was their fourth and last meeting at the Portsmouth pub, before proceeding with their initial plan of starting a commercial yachting enterprise to carry passengers across to France and then on to Spain. The idea was to test the waters before venturing into a full-scale drug run. It meant seeking out the yachting partner, purchasing a suitable yacht and starting their first crossing within four months. Jerry Fulton had given in his notice a month after their first meeting and travelled down to Cornwall, whilst Donald Simmons had moved temporarily up north.

‘As agreed, I’ve signed the purchase deal for that 40-foot Blue Water ketch down in Falmouth,
Pollyanna
; she’s a beauty! Thirty years old, totally renovated, for a bargain at fifty thousand quid. Good for three passengers plus crew.’

‘Great,’ said Donald. ‘I’ve got the go-ahead from my contacts in Manchester. They’re ready to pick up the threads about this time next year if the scheme works.’

‘OK, how about the end of May as a starter?’

‘Sounds fine, but we’d better get our skids on.’