The Galician Parallax (30 page)

John reassured his ambassador that the mood was quite different up in the north-west.

‘I doubt it, sir. My feeling is that you’ll be pleasantly surprised as I was…

The ambassador interrupted. ‘Yes, I know the historical links we have with the Celts, bagpipes and all but this damn rock down south keeps cropping up whenever the Spaniards have some beef with us.’

At that moment the commercial attaché, Alfredo San Cristobal, knocked, walked in carrying a file and handed it to the ambassador.

‘Here’s the list of the British companies and their representatives you requested, sir. Sorry for the delay but a few hadn’t given their go-ahead until this morning.’

‘OK, thanks Alfredo.’

He had already been briefed on the entire programme of meetings and ceremonies including lunch with the president of the autonomous region at the Santiago San Caetano Palace.

‘Sorry, John, you were saying?’

Captain Sedgwick thought for a second. ‘Nothing much to add, sir, just hope all goes well.’

During and after his drug rehabilitation at the centre in Santiago under the strict supervision of the professionals and monotonous yet effective programme inflicted on the patients, Paco Ramirez not only regained his health but also redeemed his dignity. Before he succumbed to cocaine sniffing that ruined his life, he was a prominent lawyer in Santiago dealing with high-level executives in the business world. His projects were in the commercial lawsuit areas and the constant wining and dining with all sorts of legal and sometimes illegal executives led him inadvertently during the leisurely afterhours into pot-smoking sessions followed by the white-liners. His breakdown was inevitable. Being a bachelor he was thrown out of his house by his parents, had spent all his earnings and more, began to walk the streets of Santiago and eventually ended up joining a gang of bagmen on the wharfs of Villagarcia where he met up with Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga during the latter’s disastrous undercover caper. Thanks to the incident with a bunch of hoodlums that nearly cost the life of a northern Irish sailor, Paco’s subconscious survival instinct kicked in. He decided to seek help.

At the centre, Paco learned about others in a similar situation with varying degrees of addiction, the resulting horror and destruction of their lives and those close to them. They came from all walks of life: sons and daughters of the wealthy elite to victims of the lower depths of scum surroundings in the Galician gutters. Many had been involved in criminal activity and Paco, as a qualified lawyer, had spent hours on behalf of the centre dealing with each individual case as it was brought before the courts. They ranged from minor theft to involuntary homicide. For a reasonable monthly salary, free board and lodging Paco was part of the centre’s household family. He also became an expert in the illegal drug trade, albeit on hearsay from his constant contact with the clients of the underworld of narcotics.

‘It must be difficult for you to keep your mouth shut,’ said Doctor Felipe Nogueira, head of the centre. He was relaxing with Paco during a morning coffee session. ‘We’ve got the dossiers on all our patients and are well familiar with their tragedy, but as you’re involved in their legal fights…’ he paused for a sip at his coffee.

‘Sure, I know the methods, names, addresses and even the corruption, but…’ as a good lawyer, Paco searched for the words, ‘… there’s a new menace on our soil.’

Doctor Nogueira, munching on a biscuit and speaking with his mouthful, said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know all about the different shit that’s out there and how the kids are moving about the campus trying whatever they can lay their hands on, but when it comes to the dealers…’

Doctor Nogueira interrupted, ‘We’ve got a fair scoop on the suppliers.’

Paco called the waiter and asked for another small coffee.

‘The Galician barons, the corrupt police and all that lot are one thing, it’s the terrorist links that haunt me.’

‘Yes Paco, we know ETA is up to their eyeballs for drug money…’

‘I’m talking about Islamic fundamentalists. Galicia is swarming with them.’

The doctor was taken aback. ‘Aren’t you exaggerating about the immigrants? There are a few out there, sure, but they’re not terrorists.’

Paco’s coffee arrived with a new supply of biscuits. He began unwrapping one of the packets.

‘You should prohibit these, Doctor; junk food.’

Paco leaned back against his chair. ‘Do you know what’s been going on recently? Groups of Arabs have infiltrated the purchasing chain in Galicia and are buying cocaine and sending it off to Morocco and Algiers. And do you know why? To finance al-Qaeda training camps; don’t ask me where… I don’t know, except that it’s happening right before our eyes.’

The doctor didn’t answer. Paco got up to pay the bill.

‘Nothing much I can do about it, nor you for that matter.’

Stan was bottle-feeding a fragile Sonia Maria whilst Yolanda dressed baby Gabriel before a quick breakfast and the early morning family outing. It was Sunday and the last respite from the onslaught of dignitaries including HM’s Ambassador and the governor of the Falkland Islands that would descend upon the city the following week for the major event of the World Fishing Exhibition that was about to take off on the 17
^th
. The weather forecast gave a respite of sunshine for at least the first two days. It was anybody’s guess what would happen from Wednesday on as a fresh storm was brewing off the west coast of Ireland with menacing northerly winds pushing their way onto the north of Spain.

‘One more day before the onslaught,
mi amor
,’ said Yolanda as they made their way onto the promenade opposite the yacht club. It was almost eleven in the morning. Dozens of small single-sail mini-craft with the younger members of the club were setting sail for the last of the club’s junior sailing competitions. Stan, holding baby Gabriel in his arms, pointed out at the cramped “Armada” making its way into the bay.

‘You’ll be sailing one of those one day, my son; I’ll make a champion out of you in no time.’

Yolanda was busy shuffling a blanket around Sonia Maria who was fast asleep in her pram. It was too early in the morning for the teenage generation to appear for a stroll after their Saturday-night binge. Only young couples with offspring and elderly retirees exercising weary limbs invaded the decks as they all took in the fresh autumn breeze sweeping across the bay.

‘Still feel nervous about the exhibition? I mean, your family, the memories.’

For a moment, Stan didn’t answer. He let baby Gabriel loose to chase after a pack of seagulls mulling around looking for the usual crisps and other leftovers scattered all over the gardens.

‘It’s alright, I’m OK.’

The Bullocks had discussed the subject at length over the past few days. Yolanda recalled his outbursts when they were courting in Falmouth and Stan’s admitted hostility towards the Galician fishing fleet. So far, he’d blended into the local society with flying colours. He never showed his deep-rooted sentiments in public. The shipping trade was a far cry from the volatile fishing environment, yet there they all were, a stone’s throw away from his workplace docked and awaiting the beginning of the week to sail away and return in the evening with their daily catch. Stan knew that the Spanish deep-sea trawlers that “attacked” his coastal waters were elsewhere and had a different fishing pattern; nevertheless, in his mind they were all part of the same gang. And now a full-blown international exhibition that would bring together the fishing rogues from every nation around the world to present the latest state-of-the-art technology from electronic detection gadgetry to sophisticated lobster pots. Yet Stan had changed.

‘We’ve been over this before, Yolanda. I don’t think it matters any more.’

He caught baby Gabriel about to somersault into a bush.

‘I’ve been looking over the various companies represented. Didn’t realise how modern the whole industry has become. The poor old fish haven’t got a chance.’

He managed a half smile. His thoughts had moved onto his role as escort to the new British Ambassador and Governor Pearce from the Falklands who were about to arrive in a couple of days’ time.

‘Must be as cold as the Shetlands,’ he muttered under his breath as he collected his son and took Yolanda by the arm.

She didn’t quite catch the meaning.

Colonel Seone was busy reviewing Lieutenant Quiroga’s file when Sergio knocked and walked into his boss’ office. Every year, reports had to be sent to the Civil Guard Central Office on any outstanding or negative performance by civil guard officers. As far as his performance at the Corunna HQ over the past year was concerned Sergio felt he had a clean conscience and there was no reason for any “mentioned in dispatches” note to be sent away to Madrid. In the eyes of his superiors, Sergio felt he’d kept his nose clean.

‘Sit down, Lieutenant,’ said the colonel continuing to flip through the pages. Sergio looked for a chair a few feet away, brought it forward and sat down in front of the desk.

He put the file back on the desk, leaned back and said, ‘Let’s see now, where shall we begin. Graduated 1996 with brilliant marks in IT, seconded immediately to Santiago HQ; spent three years on the anti-drug programme developing some sort of unique computer tracking system…’

The colonel continued to go through Sergio’s whole convulsive history from the uncovering of the diving scam back in 1999 to his ordeal with the bagmen in Villagarcia and finally the break-in of the Ordes bungalow without permission.

‘Tell me, Lieutenant, how do you develop the ability to walk along the edge of the law without breaking it?’

Sergio was taken aback as he had purposefully tried for the past twelve months to go by the book and although he was still reeling over the mystery of the apartment intruders there was no reason for the sudden inquisition by his boss into his past adventures. He was in two minds whether to confide completely in the system including his suspicions of a link between different factions of terrorism when the colonel beat him to it.

‘All the extra work I suspect you’ve been doing to uncover a hidden plot of we’re not sure what, is being taken care of by the experts in Madrid. There are mechanisms galore set up by a whole army of investigators that keep track of every shit-hole in the country. No need for your extra spit in the ocean.’

Sergio was confused, but it was the next statement that shook him.

‘You may’ve been Colonel Lobeira’s blue-eyed boy back in Santiago, but here in the Corunna HQ you’re just another officer under my control. Keep within the boundaries of the framework of the Galician judicial system. No stepping out of line. Is that clear?’

That evening, when Gloria arrived back at the flat she found her lover sitting on the sofa, still in his uniform but without his tie watching an imported South American soap opera on one of the trashy television channels. His shoes were over in the corner of the room. Three empty beer cans were on the side table. She immediately picked up the controller and switched it off.

‘What the hell? What’s happened?’

Without answering, Sergio got up, walked over to the kitchen and helped himself to another beer from the fridge. After taking a large swig he walked back into the living room to confront a perplexed Gloria.

‘Stupid bastard hasn’t a clue.’

For once he didn’t hesitate to elaborate on his short reprisal session with his superior. Without mincing any words he explained, and in calm detail, the whole of the one-sided conversation he’d had with Colonel Seone.

Her response was succinct, ‘What about the break-in? Didn’t you tell him about it?’

‘No. Thank God. Can’t help feeling that someone or more is very much aware of our little exploit in Ordes but this time it’s not the intruders I’m worried about.’

Since the beginning of her rollercoaster relationship with Sergio she’d been on edge more than once and for good reasons but this time he was hinting at a more serious scenario.

Sheepishly she asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s an insider.’

Although Sergio was now more concerned than ever, it was Gloria that suggested a possible alternative.

‘Why don’t you talk to your old boss, Colonel Lobeira?’

The ambassador had driven down from Madrid on the Monday morning and had arranged to call Stan the moment he arrived in Vigo. After a brief lunch in Puebla de Sanabria, he arrived at the NH Hotel just after five in the afternoon. Fifteen minutes later, Stan was waiting patiently in the lobby whilst Sir Ralph finished checking in and unpacking his clothes in his room. A few minutes to spare, he browsed through the daily newspapers flipping over page after page of adverts and historical information on the up-and-coming event. The journalists were having a field day. Articles on the art of aquaculture were interspersed with details of the latest fishing machinery that would be on show for the thousands of expected national and international visitors including a large proportion of professionals of the industry. Hundreds of stands had been erected at the exhibition centre near the airport eagerly awaiting the onslaught. An international Minister of Fisheries Conference was scheduled during the week with more than two dozen officials confirmed to attend. The organisers had even arranged the attendance of the Band of the Welsh Guards to kick off the opening ceremony.

Stan’s thoughts began to wander; a Cornish coastguard turned into a Spanish shipping magnate and now entertaining the elite of Her Majesty’s Government. Still chuckling, and halfway through an article about the Falkland Island’s fishing rights he spotted a tall, well-built and immaculately dressed male walking out of the elevator.
Must be
, thought Stan. In true diplomatic form the ambassador greeted his subordinate with a broad smile and a firm handshake.

‘Really pleased to meet you, Stan.’

He followed with yet another standard phrase out of the Foreign Office manual. ‘Hope Madrid hasn’t put too much of a burden on you.’