The Galician Parallax (10 page)

Both members of the other sections agreed in unison.

‘If we send an urgent request for search and arrest of a particular group, once the gendarmes appear on the scene the bastards have disappeared; most probably back into Spain,’ said General Pelegrino.

‘OK, let’s continue to push as hard as we can…’

Chief Inspector Gomez-Pelayo butted in, ‘Just one point: there are rumours that the government has problems with the nationalists and is being pressured to open up a dialogue with the terrorist group. Is that true?’

The Secretary General was quick to respond, ‘No way. Those murmurings are totally false, gentlemen. We’re not going to give in to any minority political groups.’ He reached for another set of documents. ‘Now, on to the next subject: drugs.’

He then produced a chart showing the recent set of statistics on drugs and their consequences. ‘There’s a notable increase in consumption leading to more addiction problems on all substances including alcohol.’ He pointed out a specific and alarming point. ‘The age threshold over the last few years is dropping, and in all groups. The minister is concerned that we’re losing the battle; comments, please?’

The chief of police was the first to open the dialogue, ‘One reason is we’ve got a new phenomenon sprouting out in some of the larger cities. The kids are taking to the streets and avoiding the nightclubs. The booze is too expensive. It’s all a question of money.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jose Pedroso.

‘A couple of shots of vodka plus fizzy in a pub sets you back about 1,500 of the old pesetas. For that amount, you can buy a couple of bottles of the stuff in the supermarket. It can’t be stopped, as we don’t have any jurisdiction to control it. What’s even worse… I suspect… is that there’s going to be an even greater explosion of younger drunks and addicts bursting out all over the country as more and more sprouting teenagers jump on the bandwagon.’

‘What about the hard stuff?’ asked General Pelegrino.

The chief inspector turned and addressed the general. ‘So far it’s marijuana puffing but if they start on the “sniffers” you can expect an upsurge in the movement of heroin and cocaine and you know what that means.’

The Secretary General unexpectedly reverted to detail. ‘Which reminds me, General, can you expand on this pilot scheme you’ve got going to track down one of the leading cartels, the
Castriños
? Project “Parkers” as you’ve coded it.’

The central intelligence director, who had been quiet for a while, butted in. Nodding at the general he said, ‘There’s one of Francisco’s men, a young lieutenant up in the region, that has been piecing together some parallel information on the whole drug scene up north and building up a unique database. At first the department thought it was useless until his boss, a Colonel Lobeira, sent us a few details. Apparently this youngster has kept a record over the years of every item of news in the national and international media concerning drug movement. Using some weird method of his he has managed to criss-cross the information with amazing results.’

Apart from the general the other two just looked bemused. Eventually the Secretary General enquired, ‘That’s all very well but… what’s that got to do with cracking down on the
Castriños
?’

There was a solemn silence for a few extra long seconds. The general finally said, ‘Because of his unique knowledge on the cartel, the lieutenant has been given approval to go undercover and chase them first hand. If the regular methods don’t work, maybe his will.’

The Secretary General was not convinced. ‘Are you saying that a junior civil guard has just been let loose out there and… that’s it?’

The central intelligence director came to his colleague’s rescue. ‘The scheme’s got our approval as well. The guy is not only a genius he’s also a nutcase.’ He looked at the general. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but he’s been stripped of all identity and is completely on his own.’

Another bout of silence descended around the table. The Secretary General continued, ‘How come then, that your reports always have the same statement, I quote: “Progress is continuing on project “Parkers’’?’

The director gave in. ‘We’re not quite sure what he’s up to but, if he catches up with Jose María “Teixugo” Castro he’ll be a hero. If he fucks it up, the project will end up in the dustbin.’

Nobody said another word, except for the general who nodded in agreement.

The Secretary General was not privy to any of the details on project “Parkers”. However, the reports supplied to the ministry on Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga’s mission, including his original CV, made no mention of his notorious involvement with the St Edmond Explorers diving expedition. It was conveniently omitted.

When Sergio began his ordeal and entered the strange world of the “bagmen”, he hoped he could make contact with some of them who had been or were the odd drug addict. He felt somehow that they could point him in the different directions that lead to the points of contact of the major cocaine transaction areas eventually uncovering the main drug baron he was looking for. His idea was to cross-check with the information registered in his own database. He spent the first two weeks wandering around the area surrounding the fish market, observing the movement of people in and out of the building until it was closing time and the area began to switch off for the day. He wore the same pair of old jeans, T-shirt and purposefully torn sweater together with an old pair of sneakers until he stank to high heaven. On the third week he changed tactics and altered his schedule. Despite almost being thrown out of the late-night supermarket, he managed to purchase a litre bottle of
“Estrella Galicia’
” beer and a loaf of bread before venturing back to the market; this time after dark. He reached the park opposite the building and sat down on a bench across from the main entrance that was now shut. The scene was no longer that of a bustling array of screaming fishmongers arguing with clients and clogged traffic lanes with unruly trucks constantly unloading fresh merchandise. It was that of an eerie stillness with murmurings of human activity in the background.

He opened his beer and took a swig. A few minutes later he took a bite out of his loaf of bread and in a nonchalant manner kept a watch on the goings-on across the road. There were four men wrapped up in overcoats sitting alongside each other, seemingly talking amongst themselves, each with something in their hands that looked like a carton of liquid. Every now and then, one would slowly rise and walk towards a large section of cardboard laid out across the pavement and lie down.

Poor sods; textbook cases
, he thought. Sergio had brushed up on the behaviour of these poor individuals before he started his plan. Despite late spring, the temperature was dropping and Sergio began to feel the cool night breeze entering his system. He took note of his first mistakes. The next night he stole a blanket from the hotel, and bought a carton of cheap wine. The loaf of bread was within the rules.

It took another week, sitting and sleeping on the same bench before one of the bagmen eventually crossed the road and walked slowly up to him. ‘It’s going to rain. You’ll be better off over where we are.’

Sergio nodded, picked up his carton and walked across the road.

Travelling north-west along the motorway between the provinces of Pontevedra and Orense, bypassing the city of the same name and then heading north along a secondary road, one reaches the incredible natural gorge known as the Sil Canyon where the crystal clear rivers Sil and Miño meet. It is hidden in the
Ribeira Sacra
region or “Sacred Shore” because of its religious history. Back in the first century, the Romans discovered this idyllic region and found that it was protected from the northerly winds by a temperate but humid climate, caressed by sufficient sunshine to cultivate and manufacture one of Caesar’s greatest delights; red wine. Centuries later, between the eighth and twelfth, a constant flow of monks built many monasteries for their religious folk and with the help of local and cheap labour, carved out dozens of tricky plots along the shore and up against the tall hillside, constructing new and renovating many original vineyards thus producing a never-ending supply of red wine. However, as time went by the monks eventually left Galicia and the vineyards soon fell into disuse. It was not until the last couple of decades of the twentieth century when wine consumption began to prosper in the whole western world that many entrepreneurial people in Galicia began to once again exploit the vineyards abandoned centuries ago by the Romans. One of the major producers belonged to the “Castro” clan of drug dealers. The present and elusive head, Jose María Castro, alias “Teixugo” not only presided over the huge tanks, barrels and bottling plants as part of his drug trading cover up; he had also built a large and exclusive villa on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the fantastic scenery at the sharp bend of the river below, fully equipped with the mod cons of communications and security.

Teixugo had sent a note back to the Bermudez brothers in Medellin stating that he would look into the matter and get back to them. Three months had gone by. He was once again reviewing the request with two of his confidants.

‘This new one puzzles me, guys. These Brits that wish to use yachts into the clubs in Vigo as their pick-up point; what do you think?’

One of the confidants, who had also checked over the skimpy details said, ‘Aren’t we overdue with Columbia? According to this, these guys should already be sailing around the coast as a trial.’

Teixugo got up from behind his desk, stretched his legs and walked over to the window that overlooked his plantations. It was hot, the sun was shining and the window was wide open. Although his office was fully outfitted with air-conditioning for the summer weeks, he never once switched the system on.

‘Beautiful Galicia, your breeze is always welcome.’

He turned and moved back to his desk. He once again addressed his men.

‘Sure we’re overdue, but so what? They don’t intend to start until next year.’

No one spoke. He slammed his right fist against the palm of his left hand and in a loud voice said, ‘Well? Speak up. Ideas, men, I want ideas.’

The second confidant eventually spoke, ‘I think it’s OK, Teixugo. Sure; a direct pick-up by supposedly “honest” club yachtsmen is a new method, but risk is minimal.’

‘Thanks gentlemen, you’ve answered my question.’

Teixugo knew full well that there was no danger in this new route. The drugs would be leaving Spain rather than entering, no different to all the other European transactions dealt with by the clan. All he had to do was arrange for the contact or contacts for the Bermudez brothers as usual, taken care of by one of his many paid and corrupt collaborators. After dismissing his confidants, Teixugo picked up his mobile and dialled an unlisted civil guard number.

Yolanda was just under two months away from giving birth as the Bullocks boarded one of the daily Iberia flights from Heathrow to Santiago de Compostela en route to their new and uncertain life in Galicia. Two hours later, at 6 p.m. the DC 10 was landing at the Galician airport.

Stan had been given a sincere farewell by his colleagues at the Coastguard Station in Falmouth, followed in the evening by a formal dinner at the Prescott with the rest of his close Cornish friends. Many toasted the couple with whimsical and superficial speeches wishing them well and all the luck in the world looking towards a future full of joy. It was Gerard Phillips, his commanding officer at the station that ended the evening with a strange and conciliatory yet poignant note in the final speech of the evening.

‘Stan… you’ve done a good job over the years as a safety officer here in Falmouth. We’re all going to miss you. Many mariners of all nationalities that have sailed through our waters in moments of danger should be eternally grateful for all the hours you spent attempting to save their lives.’

He then looked at Yolanda.

‘Your new husband is a good man but has had a raw deal in the past, especially his own family who suffered years of hardship during the battles with your country’s fishermen. Do not misunderstand me,’ he smiled, ‘but thank God that’s now all over and hopefully this new century we are beginning will bring benefit for both our seafaring people as they work together in peace and harmony.’

He raised his arms as if delivering a blessing.

‘I hope that Stan will receive the warm welcome in your land as we have welcomed you here in this small and remote part of England.’

Cheers, tears and a few extra bottles of champagne ended the evening.

Juan Jose was waiting at the airport, not quite knowing what to expect.
I wonder what the hell he looks like
, he thought, as some of the passengers were going through immigration whilst others were already appearing through the exit doors. For the first time in years he felt oddly nervous. It wasn’t long before Yolanda exited the arrival section followed by Stan pushing a trolley laden with luggage. Juan Jose stood motionless as she approached him holding out her arms obviously searching for an embrace. It was nearly a year and a half since he’d said farewell to her at the same airport, hoping that somehow her stay in Cornwall would help her overcome her past ordeal. Suddenly, here she was, married and well and truly pregnant. They hugged for what seemed like an eternity.

Yolanda finally released her father and with a broad smile, looking at her husband, said, ‘This is Stan, Dad.’

Stan stepped aside from the trolley and walked up to his father-in-law and shook his hand.

‘Please to meet you, sir.’

Juan Jose smiled but said nothing, not at all as he’d imagined.
But then what did I expect?
he thought. Somehow the ice had been broken. As they approached Juan Jose’s awaiting limousine, his mobile rang. It was a call from his office.

‘Afternoon, sir. The Taboada police station called. A British lady, Ms Jennifer Stanford has had her handbag stolen; says that her passport is also missing. She’s desperate as has to travel tomorrow back to England. I’ve taken down her personal details.’