The Galician Parallax (13 page)

‘What happened to him, Doctor? Why weren’t we advised earlier?’

The doctor explained that he had no papers and that when he was interned his condition was extremely serious. ‘It’s taken us a couple of weeks to nurture him back, Sr Consul. He’s also been through a traumatic situation.’ The doctor saw the quizzical look on Juan Jose’s face.

‘He was attacked.’

‘You say he has no papers; is there any other information, Doctor?’

‘He’s been able to give us his name, Patrick Nolan, says he comes from Belfast.’

Juan Jose asked to see the Brit and the doctor immediately obliged.

‘He’s still heavily sedated. You know the rules, Sr Consul.’

Juan Jose saw that the patient was in good hands; for the moment, nothing more could be done. On his way out he said to the doctor, ‘By the way, this is my new assistant, Mr Stanley Bullock.’ Stan and the doctor shook hands. ‘He’s also my son-in-law.’ It was another gesture of Galician paternal fraternity added to Stan’s list. He then asked the doctor for any other details.

‘You’ll have to check with the police in Villagarcia. They’re the ones that are handling the case.’

Back at the office, Juan Jose was on the phone to Madrid.

‘He claims to be British. Name: Patrick Nolan, seaman, born in Belfast, date of birth: 10 June 1970, can’t give any more details as he has no passport or anything. He’s been badly burnt on both hands and face and was apparently attacked.’

Danny interrupted him. ‘How about family: any wife, sister or parents?’

‘Has a brother Nigel, hasn’t seen him for years.’

‘OK. I’ll get back to you.’

It wasn’t long before Danny was back with the confirmation.

‘He’s a Brit alright. Also on the police wanted list suspected of attempted manslaughter.’

Having completed a successful season of yachting runs down to Portugal and back, Donald Simmons and the other two partners, Jerry Fulton and Glen Richards, were reviewing next year’s itinerary.

‘You know,’ said Glen, ‘I was reluctant at first to venture down to Portugal, had never been further than Santander.’

Jerry gave a thumb’s up.

‘
Pollyanna
has been a gem, hasn’t she?’

They were sitting at the bar of one of the oldest yacht clubs in the West Country, formed during the second half of the nineteenth century. ‘This used to be an old hotel, you know? Called the Greenback,’ said Glen. ‘The club was given a blessing by Prince Edward back in 1872 and Lord Wodehouse was elected its first commodore.’ Glen had repeated this story over and over again ever since the group had started their small yachting tourist business.

Halfway through his monotonous dissertation Donald interrupted and winking at Jerry said, ‘Think we need to change the fenders. They’re not strong enough.’ Ignoring Glen’s quizzical look he went on, ‘I’ll take care of it.’

All small craft has several fenders that hang over the sides of the hull to protect the vessel when tying up alongside a pier or another craft. They vary in number and shape depending on the structure and size of the yacht. The idea of using this method of transporting the several kilo packets of cocaine when they eventually started the drug runs was Donald’s idea. Several kits of hollow fenders had to be designed that could be filled with polystyrene blocks during the outward voyage and then replaced by another set of similar fenders but filled with cocaine “bricks” for the return run. The scheme needed coordination at both ends and a team of “insiders” to carry out the swaps.

‘This is how it should work,’ Donald told Mr Billson when he first came up with the idea. ‘We sail from Falmouth with the empty ones for the whole of the voyage all the way down to Portugal. On the last leg back, we anchor off the Cíes Islands at the entrance to the Vigo Bay and whilst Glen takes the tourists and visits the islands an “insider” in a powerboat from the Bayona port area, which is only a couple of miles away, is waiting to bring us the merchandise. We swap all fenders and proceed as usual into the Vigo yacht club as if nothing happened.’

Mr Billson mulled over the suggestion. ‘It needs a great deal of coordination, Donald. Buying off “insiders” at both ends, making sure you’re carrying out normal yachting movements, you know what I mean.’

‘Agreed, I also need your help. Can your Colombian contacts sort out the “insiders” in Vigo? The Falmouth end is your problem anyway, right?’

Mr Billson thought for a moment. ‘OK. Just start the test runs.’ He was being cautious. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

On the last voyage Donald contacted Sr Perez in Vigo as per Mr Billson’s instructions. He gave him an outline of the plan that included the design details of the camouflaged fenders.

‘We’ll take care of the manufacturing side back in England. You need to secure a small warehouse near the shore for storage and swap. You understand?’ Sr Perez nodded.

During the winter months both men agreed to keep in touch and streamline the details for the first yachting run in May 2001. Donald didn’t know who Sr Perez was or how he had been recruited, nor did he care.

Danny Wilton shut down his computer at his office after checking the morning e-mails. Before picking up his briefcase to leave the office, he checked his mobile. ‘Shit,’ he murmured. It hardly had any battery left. He went back to his desk and looked for the charger. Two hours later he was at the Madrid airport boarding the Spanair midday flight to Vigo.

When he had called the Spanish desk at the Foreign Office in London to check and verify Patrick Nolan’s identity including asking for his passport number, the “red alert” signal had come up on the database.

‘This guy’s wanted for attempted manslaughter,’ said Jenny, ‘in your own territory, Danny.’

It didn’t take long for Danny to react, ‘Just confirming identity, love. Will keep you informed.’

After he hung up Danny searched for and looked through the “wanted” file and sure enough, a copy of a search warrant had been sent to the consulate from the civil guards’ main office in Bilbao. It was dated 12 December 1998. The British Consulate in Bilbao was well aware of the details as they were the first to be contacted on the incident. Patrick Nolan had been ashore drinking with several others off the
Asian Pearl
, a large container vessel, when a fight broke out in one of the local pubs near the port area. He had hit another sailor over the head with a bar stool and cracked the man’s skull. Paddy ran off into the night and disappeared. The man was in one of the local hospitals. He was in a coma for more than four months with severe brain damage. He survived.

Juan Jose was waiting for Danny as he exited the Peinador airport gates in Vigo. As Juan Jose rushed forward to greet him, Danny noticed that he had an unusual smile on his face.

‘Yolanda is in hospital. Today’s the day, Danny.’

‘Of course, your daughter. Hope all goes well.’

Once in the agency’s limousine, Danny reverted to business and began to fill Juan Jose in with the missing pieces to the jigsaw puzzle. ‘We’ve got a real problem here, Juan Jose. This Brit has been on the national police’s wanted list for the past two years. For obvious reasons he’s never been found. That’s until now.’

Danny went on to explain that although the consulate had finally uncovered Patrick’s whereabouts he was reluctant to give the information to the authorities until he found out what happened in Galicia.

‘Need to know what the score is from your end.’

‘You won’t believe this, but Patrick is one of the witnesses to a criminal offence in Villagarcia. It’s a real weird case. It was in the local press at the time but I didn’t relate it until I visited the hospital.’

Juan Jose then went on to explain how two of the hooligans had attacked Patrick and set him on fire whilst the others were kicking another bagman.

‘It’s still a bit confusing but according to the youths, one of the “homeless” sprung up and covered Patrick with his blanket and then without warning turned on them hitting one with his fist and another with a baseball bat the kids had brought.’

Danny confessed he had never been confronted with such a difficult situation. Patrick was both a criminal and a victim.

‘You haven’t heard the end of it. One of the unharmed bagmen said in his declaration that he thought he saw their “friend”, who called himself Sergio, with a mobile phone in his hand; odd for a layabout.’

With only a couple of hours in labour and as per Mother Nature’s handbook, at 8.30 p.m. on 23 October, Yolanda gave birth to a baby boy. Gabriel Jose Bullock Mauro weighed in at just over three kilos, 200 grams.

‘Don’t know how I’m going to justify the overnight stay but congratulations and thanks for the honour, Juan Jose,’ said Danny.

Father Stan, Grandfather Juan Jose and Godfather Danny Wilton were all present at the hospital when the happy event occurred.

It was pouring with rain as Sergio stood at the window of Dr Parada’s waiting room on the second floor of the hospital. He was looking down at the courtyard below whilst his mind was subconsciously figuring out the exact height needed between death and survival for a suicidal attempt.
Too low
, he thought as the nurse ushered him into the doctor’s consultancy. No sooner had he reported to the Corunna HQ than he was sent for a full medical check-up that included a final visit to the mental department. Blood and urine tests, X-rays and electrocardiograms had all given him a clean bill of health although he had lost ten kilos.

‘Sit down, Lieutenant,’ said Dr Parada without raising his head, reviewing Sergio’s medical results. Sergio continued to stand, nonchalantly looking around the doctor’s room. It was certainly different from all the others he had just been through. No white walls or strange-looking apparatus; not even a couch as in the movies, but a couple of standard household sofas and three chairs with an enormous bookshelf along both side walls that reached right up to the ceiling. The doctor looked up and saw that Sergio had picked out a book and was flipping through the pages.

He smiled and said, ‘Interesting, Lieutenant?’

‘Books; why so many?’

‘I’m an avid reader.’

Sergio said nothing, skimming through the book in his hand.

It was part of the institutional protocol of the civil guards that if any officer was subjected to a traumatic experience he or she was to undergo a thorough psychological examination to ensure that the individual was fit for service or required a period of “leave of absence”. The civil guards, like any other law enforcement agents, dealt with criminal offences, accidents and many other types of unrest almost on a daily basis. They seldom suffered extreme violence themselves but often witnessed human horror inflicted on others. When the patient was sent to the prescribed psychiatrist the report never included any confidential details of the incident. The information was reduced to one of four categories of seriousness, low, medium, high and very high, all previously agreed between the law enforcement agencies and the medical institutions. If the guard had been injured it was automatically treated as category 4, very high. Sergio’s was an odd case. The civil guards’ HQ had sent in a peculiar request ignoring the procedures. All it said was, “Unknown cause of trauma. Categorisation not applicable. Complete examination required.” It was signed by the head of the civil guards in Galicia, General Eugenio Prado de Sotomayor.

With over thirty-five years of experience, Dr Parada had treated many guards during his time, from the latter days of the Franco dictatorship when the guards had almost carte blanche in dealing with criminals to the early days of democracy that introduced new civil and human rights legislation. His conclusions often caused some guards to leave the service, others suspended requiring months of treatment but the majority were given a week’s leave and returned to duty as normal. He was a thorough examiner and never gave up no matter how difficult the case, if necessary bypassing protocol to help restore a patient back to normality. Dr Parada realised that Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga had been subjected to an unexpected ordeal that was not written in the rulebook. He also suspected that his superiors knew about it but wanted it kept secret.
This boy’s been through hell
, he thought as he tried one of many mental jerk effects to trigger off a response.

‘You’re physically fit. So you should be for your age. Unmarried, live with your mother… nothing wrong there.’ He looked up at the officer. ‘Want to tell me why you’ve been sent here, Lieutenant?’

Ignoring the doctor, Sergio continued to browse through the book.

A couple of minutes of silence went by until broken by the doctor. ‘What a relaxed life for he…’

Sergio continued, ‘… that escapes the earthly noise and follows the hidden path taken by those few wise men the world has known.’ He closed the book and put it back in its place on the shelf.

‘How profound is the soul of a sixteenth-century monk to have written such beauty?’

The doctor picked up on the lead. ‘Fray Luis de León was a real man of God, Lieutenant. Are you?’

Sergio went back to the bookshelf to search for another book.

Dr Parada decided to break the rules. ‘What happened to you, son? There’s no one else out there that understands, right? Only you and I know that. Tell me.’

Sergio went back to one of the sofas and sat down. Another couple of minutes went by. ‘What do you do Doctor, when you see through all the “shit” out there…’ Sergio wiped his eyes, ‘… I really mean see through it and realise that there are people, real evil people who are pulling the strings… and you just can’t do anything about it?’

Donald Simmons had spread out on the double bed, five drawings depicting each section of the fender design needed for the drug run. A sketch of the
Pollyanna
indicating their location on the yacht, two cross sections of the fender itself, a kilo packet of cocaine and an identical-sized polystyrene block made up the pack. Each included all the necessary dimensional information. He also had a set of rough but detailed notes describing the runs, who was involved and how many parts were needed to coordinate it.