The Galician Parallax (35 page)

‘Wait a minute, wasn’t he visiting some relative, I don’t know… a sick aunt or something?’

‘That’s what he told us months ago. He took off once a month for two or three days. Don’t know any more, sir.’

‘Shit.’

There was a pause on the phone. Joan just listened. Mr Billson finally came back on the line. ‘Better get down to Vigo as soon as possible…’

Before he could continue she butted in, ‘The FCO has already asked us if we could take care of the body.’

‘So what are you waiting for, woman? We’ve got too much at stake and God knows what he’s been up to.’

‘The FCO said he’d committed suicide. They didn’t give us any more information.’

Mr Billson told Joan to coordinate with all the others at Maiden Voyages in case of any extra information about Don.

‘Also check the press, local and national; we’ve got to be very careful the next few days, Joan. Don’t need to tell you, do I?’

Teixugo was fuming. Normally cool and calm, this time he could not contain his temper. A subdued Sr Perez was leaning against the wall of the drug baron’s office next to the main large window overlooking the hills. He’d just told him about the suicide of one of his couriers and the disappearance of the drugs as well as the money.

‘What the fuck happened to the batch?’

Drug hauls were common. It was part of the “losses” in the trade. Capture and imprisonment of couriers and all others connected in the distribution was all included in the annual accounts as normal “expenditures”. This was different. It involved a dead body and a disappearing act of forbidden merchandise. But the extra news was even more shattering.

Sr Perez sheepishly added, ‘The dead man was Donald Simmons, one of the Maiden yacht owners.’

In all his years in drug trafficking Teixugo had never been more concerned. The violent outcome of anyone involved in his empire was never taken into account. Even his “collaborators” in the local authorities would shy away from a compromise of this nature. He was scared.

The two local Algerians had booked into the Bahia Hotel in the morning of the same day that Donald Simmons was due in Vigo. They had used false IDs at the registration desk and asked for a room on the same floor as Simmons’ 359. Knowing the approximate time Don would arrive they were waiting inconspicuously in the lobby for him to check in and carry on up to his room before they made their move to call Badi and Habib standing by on the seafront opposite the hotel. An hour later, Donald was hanging from the ceiling lamp whilst the al-Qaeda members were sorting out the room as planned.

Badi and Habib boarded the night-sleeper train back to Madrid that same evening due to arrive at Chamartin Station around seven-thirty the following day. They parted company with their other two assistants after paying them off with a kilo pack of cocaine for their collaboration. On the way to the station, Badi tossed the remainder of the drugs into the nearest dustbin.

‘We can’t afford to be caught with the shit,’ he had warned the group in Madrid before travelling to Vigo. ‘Our task is too vital to the cause.’

The plan worked to perfection. After the body was discovered, early in the morning the following day, the Algerians were busy having breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, oblivious to the continuing rumpus at the hotel and after having denied any contact or sighting of the deceased during the routine police interrogatory. The al-Qaeda leaders were now back in Madrid, finalising the plans for the terrorist attack.

‘As the infidel Bush would say, ‘Mission “nearly” accomplished,’ said Badi.

A-52 Motorway, La Cañiza, 2 March

A civil guard routine checkpoint had been set up south of the steep incline on the Vigo-Madrid motorway a couple of miles from the town of La Cañiza. They were carrying out the usual alcoholic tests for drunken drivers as well as checking for irresponsible motorists who continued to defy the police by driving without a proper licence or lacking any type of car insurance. Sergeant Chus Corbeira had just cleared a young mother whose papers were well within the law when she noticed an old Ford Fiesta about to overtake another one being checked by a colleague a few feet away. She stepped out in front of the vehicle waving her luminous baton directing the driver to slow down and stop. The vehicle began to accelerate passed her. Another civil guard further up the road, prepared for any sudden tactics, threw a spiked carpet in front of the car as it passed a few feet in front of him. All four tyres burst simultaneously and the car spun sideways onto the verge of the motorway. Within seconds, four guards had surrounded the vehicle ready for any other spontaneous irregular move by the occupants.

Later that evening, two Algerians were before the judge charged with possession of false documentation, stolen credit cards and dozens of packets of several grams of cocaine; almost one kilo in total.

President Jose María Aznar was already at his presidential desk as word came through of the first set of bombs to go off. He was reviewing his final statement for the Spanish media preparing for the general elections to be held in three days’ time when his interior minister, Angel Acebes, called on his personal mobile breaking the initial news of the attempt. It was near 8 a.m. and as they spoke, the rest of the bombs were destroying more railway coaches along the rail tracks a few yards from the Atocha station. He switched off his phone, stunned and speechless. A small tear appeared from nowhere as it trickled down his cheek.

Tony Blair replaced the receiver on his bedside-table telephone. London was one hour behind and although he was about to get up, the tragic news caught him still in bed. His wife, Cherie, was already in the shower.

As she walked out into the bedroom still dripping wet she asked, ‘Who’s calling you at this hour?’

The prime minister didn’t answer.

She went up to the bed, sat down and began drying her hair. ‘Well?’

He just stared into space.

‘Our ambassador… from Spain,’ he looked up at her. ‘There’s been an attack in Madrid.’

President Bush received a personal call from General Colin Powell minutes after the news had come through from Europe.

‘There’s been a terrorist attempt in Europe, sir; in Madrid, Spain.’

George Bush looked at his bedside alarm clock. ‘When?’

‘About an hour ago, the ambassador called straight into the Pentagon as a precaution.’

‘Good thinking.’ Bush was now wide awake.

‘Any suspects, Colin?’

The general told him as much as he knew so far; that no one had claimed responsibility but the methodology pointed in the direction of the Basque separatists. As the news continued to filter through Bush became more and more apprehensive. He’d held an emergency meeting only a month earlier with his main allies in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, President Jose María Aznar and Prime Minister Tony Blair. The never-ending search for the infamous weapons of mass destruction continued to elude the Iraqi Coalition and as General Powell had warned, the longer they took to find them the greater would be the threat of mass rejection of the invasion by the Western powers and their electorate. It was now a threat to the political stability of the coalition. Within half an hour, Bush was showered and dressed. He again called his secretary of state.

‘What are the updates?’

The general confirmed that news was still confusing but added a new dimension to the problem.

‘Remember, sir, that Spain’s up for general elections in three days’ time.’

‘So?’

‘Well, if the Socialists get in, there’ll be a 180 degree turn in Spain’s support for our cause and we’ve got to be prepared for it.’

George Bush kept silent.

‘Sir?’

Bush came back on the line. ‘It’s that Zapatero guy, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he the one who didn’t stand up when our boys paraded in front of the presidential stand during the Madrid military parade last year?’

‘That’s him.’

The president hung up after calling for a rushed meeting with all the heads of the US security agencies. His vice president would take care of the press. To add to the woes of the US Government’s “fight on terror” rumours were trickling in from Baghdad that the US military was overstepping its authority and not necessarily on the battlefield.

The Abu Ghraib prison tortures had leaked out into the open.

Danny Walton was about to buy his daily newspapers at his usual newsstand when the vendor raised a finger to his lips. ‘One moment, Sr Walton.’ A radio station commentator was blabbing away from the back of the sidewalk shack. Danny wasn’t listening.

‘ETA has struck again, Señor,’ said the old man as he handed him his paper. Danny again didn’t react as he gave the man a 5-Euro note. The vendor ignored him for a moment as he reached around for the portable radio, seconds later placing it on the counter. “… dead and wounded are all over the place…” came blaring through the small loudspeaker. This time Danny listened. He forgot about the change and ran off down the road towards the consulate.

It was eight-fifteen.

The rest of the embassy and consular staff began to arrive for duty, already aware of the horror unravelling a couple of miles away. An obvious aura of confusion prevailed through the corridors of the British diplomatic establishment whilst the hierarchy set in motion the corresponding plans of action to handle the situation. The ambassador and his staff were busy setting up direct lines of communication into 10 and 11 Downing Street to keep the prime minister and the foreign secretary abreast with instant information as events unfolded. Despite the confusion, the ambassador was able to speak briefly with the Spanish Prime Minister to express his condolences and offer any assistance possible on behalf of the British Government.

The consul general and his vice consul were more concerned with the possibility that a number of British citizens could be amongst the casualties.

‘Hate to say it but there’s not much we can check out at the moment,’ said Danny during their initial briefing. ‘We’ll have to wait until the havoc has rescinded and the Spaniards have got the situation under control; might even take a couple of days.’

Nevertheless, they agreed on an immediate plan of action.

‘You know the routine better than anybody, Danny,’ said the consul general.

Danny kept silent. In all his years he had never experienced such an atrocious disaster. ‘We’ll try to get the listings from the hospitals or police stations as soon as possible,’ he said, ‘regardless of the difficulties.’

Over the next hour, Danny prepared a set of “crisis management” procedures and allocated each member of his team with a specific task to work.

‘Trying to make contact won’t be easy to start with folks, but sooner or later we’ll find out if any Brits are amongst the injured. If so let me know at once.’

A direct channel with personal points of contact was established with the FCO Spanish desk. The London staff knew how to handle the imminent bombardment from the British media for information as well as hundreds of citizens that would be calling up to find out about their relatives in Spain. All other British consulates in Spain including the honoraries were briefed on the action plans and Madrid would handle all problems, queries or discrepancies direct.

‘Any questions?’ There was no answer.

‘OK, let’s get on with it.’

“… the first indications from well-informed sources are that the bombings are yet another terrorist attempt by the Basque… “

Sergio continued to rant and rave as news of the attack continued on all the stations of their portable radio in the kitchen. A mere hour had transpired since the trains were blown up and already the authorities were speculating on the perpetrators.

‘I knew it… they’re wrong… they’ve got it all wrong.’

He was so upset that he didn’t notice that Gloria was now in the living room watching the whole horror on the television. Torn up carriages, ambulances and police cars everywhere, masses of people, some wounded, others just ambulating aimlessly amongst the rubble were the scenes being flashed on a continued basis as the studio switched from one camera to another; the commentators stumbling over their words as they described the aftermath. Sergio walked back into the room repeating the same statement over and over again.

‘They’re wrong… I tell you. Haven’t a clue.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Remember the timetables? I was right, Goddamn it. It’s not ETA… no… no… no…’

Gloria had tried to calm him down but it was no use. All she managed to utter was, ‘Drive carefully,’ and then, ‘wherever the hell you’re going,’ as he stormed out of her apartment without even finishing his breakfast. She’d never seen him in such a mood. A few minutes later he drove into his office car park, parked his bike and ran up the stairs and into the main office.

‘Is the Colonel in?’

Looking around at a bemused group of clerks he continued to mumble, ‘Wrong.’

He wondered about from desk to desk shaking like a leaf. Although the staff were trying to carry on with their work, the news was still being broadcast over the office loudspeaker, too shattering for anyone to concentrate on what they were doing.

A secretary stood up and walked towards Sergio. ‘He’s gone to the town council, Lieutenant.’

Sergio just stared into space; then went over to his own desk, sat down and didn’t utter another word; didn’t even bother to switch on his computer. He looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. The news bulletins continued to speculate on an ETA attempt. Whilst the government and all the security agencies were frantically trying to check every possible lead, the mayhem in Madrid continued.

Raising his voice for all to hear he said, ‘He’s at the town council. OK. Anybody have any idea how long he’ll be gone.’