The Galician Parallax (34 page)

An evening meal for all the participants in
HQS Wellington’
s restaurant on the River Thames completed the week’s consular course.

Gloria had finally persuaded Sergio to relax, switch off his hyperactive brain and take a break somewhere away from the bowels of his daily struggle against criminal activity. He had been ranting and raving on how Colonel Lobeira had warned him just before Christmas that his meddling had upset the higher-ups in Madrid. The colonel had also been cautioned not to “stick his neck out” for subordinates who were not even under his control. The result of the colonel’s personal enquiries was that Colonel Seone in Corunna was given strict orders to ensure that Sergio continue on routine, low-key criminal activity until further notice; in other words “keep an eye on him”. A favour backfired into a reprisal. Knowing full well that he’d continue to try to outsmart the system, he still succumbed to Gloria’s wishes, especially when she waved before his eyes a couple of package-tour vouchers for an all-inclusive few days on one of the Canary Islands. After a hefty buffet breakfast, Sergio and Gloria were strolling along the beach just outside their hotel.

‘You know, apart from my years at the academy in Aranjuez and a few runs down to Portugal, I’ve never been out of Galicia.’

Sergio stopped and picked up a handful of sand. For a second he just stared at the greyish grains eventually letting them dribble through his cupped hand on to the ground.

‘In fact, I’ve hardly been to any of our beaches back home. Crazy, isn’t it?’

Gloria was by his side just staring at him. She felt strange as if a new insight into her lover’s soul was about to unravel. She’d known him for just under three years, had succumbed to his passionate love making, tolerated his moods and his frustrations, sympathised with his suffering, especially at the recent misunderstanding by his superiors. Yet, here he was, different, as if on the threshold of opening up a new page or a new chapter of his inner being.

‘Tell me more about you, your school days, your father, friends… again, why did you join the guards?’

Sergio resumed his stroll. At first he just said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her. He looked out across the ocean. Dozens of sailboats were out and about, so were the waterskiing snobbery towed by their respective speedboats.

‘Not even on any of them,’ he said pointing towards the small navy of tourist crafts. He smoothed a patch of beach with his bare feet and sat down, beckoning Gloria to join him. He looked up at Gloria. ‘What a bloody bore I’ve been.’

She sat down beside him, took hold of his hand. ‘You mixed-up nut.’

For a moment, Sergio just stared out to sea. He began to unwind. He started with his early days at school; how with the odd exception he had hardly made any friends but neither did he have any enemies. With the advent of democracy in Spain came educational freedom and with it the usual loss of discipline and authority, the birth of school gangs with bullying included. Sergio was like a square peg in a round hole; he belonged nowhere but kept out of trouble, in other words a complete loner. That was until one day his maths teacher kept him in class after hours.

‘He showed me his Toshiba laptop and began teaching me the secrets of computing. I was thirteen years old.’

‘You still haven’t told me about the guards.’

Sergio at last began to smile. ‘Remember I told you about how my father was killed by a drunken driver when I was only fourteen?’

Gloria nodded.

‘Well, that wasn’t the reason.’

He again picked up some sand and repeated his previous act. ‘I wonder who invented the sandglass.’

Gloria burst out, ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘My father was also on the bottle; he was a bloody wino.’

He looked at her with tears in his eyes. ‘It was that maths teacher…’ He got up and walked towards the water. Gloria hesitated for a moment then soon joined him, placing her arm around his waist.

‘He was shot in the back by a freaked-out student and has been in a wheelchair ever since. The bastard was not convicted because… Shit. He was a minor.’

Gloria shook her head slightly.

‘Yet he never lost his spirit and kept on teaching as if nothing had ever happened.’ Sergio moved away from her. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’ His soul-searching session was over.

Three days later, and after beach sessions intermingled with tapas bars and sightseeing, their holiday soon ended. On their departure date, after paying the “extras” bill, signed off on the hotel registry and were about to board an awaiting taxi to the airport, Gloria said, ‘You’re still going to check it out, aren’t you?’

Sergio said nothing. He handed their luggage to the driver who promptly opened the boot, pushed some blankets to one side and neatly made room for it. Once settled down in the back seats and the taxi began to drive off, Gloria insisted.

‘Well?’

As he clipped the buckle of his seat belt, he answered, ‘The break-in was real, wasn’t it? Somebody was after something.’

On 13 December, Saddam Hussein had been located and captured in Tikrit, Iraq. One of the three objectives of the invasion of the Middle Eastern country by the coalition forces that had ousted Hussein’s Ba’ath regime had been fulfilled. The search for the supposed weapons of mass destruction that had caused the hostilities continued and the setting up of a democratic system of government was still on the back burner. In the meantime, George Bush had called for an emergency meeting of the main allies, Britain and Spain, to review the repercussions and possible aftermath of the imprisonment of the Iraqi dictator. He was concerned about possible reprisals as the US intelligence services had been warning the government of suspected plans by al-Qaeda to attack on European soil. These were later confirmed by their contacts with members of Mossad, the Israeli secret service.

‘Your English is coming along fine,
amigo
,’ said Bush.

He was having a quiet chat with Jose María Aznar, the Spanish Prime Minister as they waited for Tony Blair, flying in from New York, whose plane had been delayed due to fog at Ronald Reagan airport.

‘I’ve been at it for six years now. At least I can now understand what is being cooked by you Anglo-Saxons,’ he said jokingly. At that moment, an orderly interrupted them ushering a tired British Prime Minister into the Oval Office.

‘Call the “troops” please, Josh,’ he said as he shook Tony’s hand. It wasn’t long before Powell, Cheney and Rumsfeld and two other high-rankers from the FBI and CIA joined them respectively.

George Bush didn’t mince his words. ‘We’ve nailed him, but the job is far from over. Still waiting to see if my boys have squeezed him enough to know where he’s hidden his bloody arsenal; bastard. However…’ He picked up a file and waved it slightly in the air. ‘This brief is bad news.’

Looking at his intelligence agents he asked, ‘MI6 and the Spanish CNI are in agreement, right?’ Both nodded.

Tony Blair was more cautious. ‘George, it was bloody obvious that al-Qaeda wasn’t going to give up, and sooner or later they’d try another big bang.’

Aznar chipped in, ‘They’ve killed in the US, and Australians in Bali, the report only confirms that it’s either the UK or Spain that they’ll have a go at next.’

General Powell switched course. ‘If there’s another blow-up before we find Hussein’s arsenal, gentlemen, we’ve lost the battle.’

He stopped short of predicting a massive build-up of violence over the next few months if proper support from the United Nations was not obtained immediately. Only proof of nuclear or other weapons of mass destruction would avoid a complete coalition fiasco. As the suicide bombers began their campaign of terror against the coalition forces, the anti-war movements in Europe expanded across the continent. The Azores trio was more isolated than ever.

Afghanistan had long been forgotten.

‘Three more weeks, brothers, three more weeks,’ said Badi as he was going over the final details for the umpteenth time of the proposed terrorist attack in Madrid. Years of detailed planning, recruitment and training of attackers, establishment of finance channels, purchase of explosives and “greasing” of informers were coming to a head. A large map of the area around the Atocha railway station in the heart of Madrid was laid out on the table, with perfectly distinguishable red markings along the railway track leading up to Alcala de Henares, a suburban town just outside the capital.

The plan was for several members of the group to board four separate early-morning rush hour commuter trains, at five-minute intervals, leaving the Alcala station at seven. A dozen rucksacks packed with explosives, nails, nuts and bolts and equipped with a mobile phone were to be placed inconspicuously in the carriages. Precisely half an hour later, once the terrorists had left the trains, an SIM message would be sent to each phone by the mastermind and another al-Qaeda massacre would hit the international press around the world.

Badi’s group had studied many of the ETA attacks perpetrated in Spain over the last ten years. They had eventually contacted a splinter group of anarchists in Galicia and although it backfired unexpectedly with the Ordes murders they had, by then, obtained sufficient information on the methodology used for them to carry out their own felony when the time was right. Whatever Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga and his girlfriend Gloria had uncovered was now unimportant. The time frame of action was too close for Badi and his team to worry about.

‘My brothers, it is with sadness that we will not be martyrs of our cause. If we were we would have failed in our ultimate purpose, to rid Spain of the infidels in the present regime.’

They were all well aware that the killing of innocent civilians was not the issue. Toppling the Aznar Government using a “make-believe” ETA attack method was more important for their cause hence suicide bombing was out of the question.

‘One last mission, brothers, we must wipe out our Galician tracks.’

The group was well aware of Badi’s intentions when he held up a rucksack similar to the ones that were to be used in the attempt on the trains.

‘Habib and I will help our two brothers in Orense to deliver the final payment of our dues.’ He began to smile. Slowly the others followed suit. Within minutes they were all laughing their heads off.

The agency clerk handed Donald Simmons a set of airline tickets. ‘Here you are, Mr Simmons. I’ve checked and you won’t need a visa for the Dominican Republic.’

Donald handed her his Visa credit card and signed off on the receipt.

‘Out of curiosity, sir, how come you didn’t use your own agency?’

Donald was about to tell her that it was none of her business but kept cool and instead answered, ‘You people have more experience; we’re strictly yachting and other charters.’

Liar
, he thought.

He walked out onto Market Strand Street; looked at his watch. It was four-thirty.
Got till tomorrow morning
, he thought,
bite the bullet. Eh, Don
? His drug runs with Sr Perez’s goons had gone well so far; no suspicion from the police nor hint of foul play; all smooth riding. His bank balance in Switzerland was well into the black with nearly a quarter of a million Euros. His other accounts on the Cayman Islands were equally buoyant. His Spanish was well up to speed to fulfil his retirement plan in Santo Domingo. He looked into a shop window that reflected his image;
Hey Don, smile, you’re on candid camera
. He returned to his apartment to complete packing his large suitcase when his mobile phone rang. He looked at the calling number on the screen. It was Joan Flashman.
Shit
. He didn’t answer.

Twenty-four-hours later Don was checking into the Bahia Hotel in Vigo. He’d gone through the same routine as usual, renting a medium-sized car at Santiago airport and rendezvousing at one of Sr Perez’s warehouses to pick up the drugs. As the reception clerk handed him his keys a bellboy approached him to take care of his luggage.

‘No,’ he said in a heavy overtone, ‘I’ll manage.’

With a suitcase full of drugs, another with his “going away” clothes, his laptop and briefcase, Don made it to the elevator. Minutes later he was kicking off his shoes and flopping onto the hotel bed. Although at first he was shaking nervously like a leaf he eventually calmed down, took a shower and decided on an evening stroll through the oyster district just behind the hotel. Still with a towel around his waist and about to dress there was a knock on his door. ‘Letter for you, sir,’ said the person on the other side.

Don’s eyes were open. He was lying on the bed; numb and paralysed. He couldn’t move a muscle. His brain was functioning although incoherent, issuing strange messages. He remembered opening the door and within seconds blacked out. He was in his underpants.
Somebody has dressed me. Where am I
? The ceiling looked familiar; a light shade of cream and an overhanging lamp with three bulbs shining brightly. He could hear people talking rapidly and in a foreign language, so he thought. A familiar face was now smiling at him. Another human was propping him up with the bed pillows. Two other unknown men were facing him at the end of the bed. Four. He tried to speak but his vocal cords wouldn’t react. He began to choke. He thought he felt his saliva trying to reach his lips. It was another illusion. There was no pain. Don just stared into space until the lights began to fade.

How strange
, he thought.

‘I’ve just had someone from the Foreign Office call, sir. Donald Simmons has been found dead in a hotel room in Vigo.’ Joan Flashman was on the phone to Mr Billson.

‘What? What the hell was he doing in Vigo? Did you know about it?’

Still stunned she answered, ‘No sir.’

Mr Billson then wanted to know how he had been traced back to the agency.

‘They managed to contact his sister, Sarah, somewhere up north but they’ve been estranged for years. She didn’t want to know.’