The Galician Parallax (36 page)

The dumbfounded personnel kept quiet. He picked up his helmet and left the office.

For over an hour he just rode up and down the Corunna seafront uttering blasphemies at no one in particular, weaving in and out of the stream of morning commuters.
I wonder how many know what’s happened
, he thought as he finally drove past the end of the promenade and up the winding streets that led to the Military Museum. He stopped for a moment, checked his bearings and looked across the road. He was opposite the San Carlos Gardens. Sergio parked his bike and walked into the small, hidden park at the top of the hill. It was empty; still too early for any visitors. In the centre was a small mausoleum housing the remains of Sir John Moore, the British general that died fighting Napoleon’s troops at the turn of the nineteenth century. Sergio stood before it for a moment. He knew the history; the famous 1809 battle of Elviña a few miles away, the French troops driving the retreating British Army towards the Royal Navy ships waiting to take the soldiers back home; the cannon shot that blew off Sir John’s arm and the final legacy, the battle that had changed the course of history. Napoleon finally lost the Peninsula Wars at Waterloo six years later. Sergio wondered what he was doing here; an omen perhaps?

It was nearly eleven when Sergio returned to his desk. He had calmed down considerably. His colleagues were still recoiling at the continued news broadcasts of the Madrid attacks. The Spanish Government kept emitting mixed information on the attempt as the police reports kept filtering through. Eager to appease the public and because of the magnitude of the attack, they constantly issued conflicting statements. Confusion still reigned as the hospitals’ emergency wards and the morgues filled up with more and more casualties. There was still no claim from any terrorist group, yet Sergio was hell-bent in proving his theory.

‘ETA was involved all right,’ he kept muttering, eagerly waiting for his boss to return, but they didn’t pull the trigger.’ He continued to mumble, ‘They now better listen…’

At that moment, Colonel “Tito” Seone walked into the main hall.

Yolanda and Stan had gone to work as usual. When they arrived, the two early birds that normally opened the office were glued to the television. The Bullocks had already heard the news. As the rest of the office staff turned up for work, they all began to gather round to watch the ongoing saga. Comments of all sorts floated through the atmosphere.

‘Bunch of bastards.’

‘Why us? They should keep the bombs for their own people.’

Another chipped in, ‘We should chuck the Basques out of Spain. Who needs them?’

‘Yeah,’ said another young clerk, ‘then we’ll start the show here in Galicia, or do you think the local independence group won’t start his or her own firework show?’

Three hours had gone by since the massacre had taken place. Details of the aftermath continued to trickle through the news channels. At least one hundred dead and over a thousand wounded were the first estimates.

Shock and horror turned into a mood of helplessness.

Sergio had started off on the wrong foot by blurting out his theories of Islamist involvement and that the whole plot originated in Galicia. His colonel had tried to calm him down but Sergio insisted on checking it out.

‘Are you out of your mind, Lieutenant? I’m not going to interfere with our Madrid HQ investigations. We’ve got strict orders to look out for any suspicious activity in our own region.’

It took another ten minutes of tense arguments until Sergio could take it no more. ‘When I was with Colonel Lobeira last October…’

‘What?’

He told his superior about his escapade down to the Santiago HQ to meet up with his old boss. The colonel didn’t hesitate. He kicked Sergio out of his office.

Sergio returned to his desk. This time he did switch on his computer. Doodling through the Internet in order to distract from the convulsive mess in his mind he began checking out the government’s statistics on immigration. He made note of the number of Muslims in Spain. He then looked at the percentages, just under ten per cent of the total in Galicia.
Wonder how they work all these figures out?
he thought. His browsing moved on to searches of Islamic attacks throughout the world.

‘Over a million pages of information,’ he muttered, ‘got all this already.’ He had calmed down, lost in thoughts that had nothing to do with the continuing saga in Madrid, stroking away at the mouse searching nowhere in particular whilst the rest of the office staff were in a tense mode as more casualties were reported from the Atocha massacre.

Ron and Mavis Stanton had taken a break for lunch after sorting out the agency’s accounts for the yearly tax returns coming up in a few weeks’ time. They couldn’t help chuckling over the so-called “small profit” they had managed to incur in their successful and growing yachting business knowing full well that their own offshore bank accounts bore no relation to the profit and loss accounts of Maiden Voyages’ Penzance agency.

‘Nasty business in Madrid,’ said Mavis as she sipped her wine. ‘This ETA lot haven’t learned yet, have they?’

‘Trouble is most people here think of the Basque country as the whole of the north,’ said Ron.

‘Don’t follow you.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we had some cancellations. Vigo, Corunna, Bilbao; it’s all the same to us Brits. All Spanish if you know what I mean.’

Mavis still wasn’t tuned into her husband’s thoughts.

‘I think we should stop calling into Galicia altogether, at least for this year, until things cool down.’

Details of the bombings were now well established. The Madrid commuter train system had been attacked. Rucksacks packed with explosives were detonated by remote control through mobile phone messaging. Thirteen devices in total exploded on four trains. Another rucksack was later discovered that had miraculously failed to explode. A total of 191 people were killed and 2,050 injured. All trains were travelling on the same line into Madrid.

Paco Ramirez was reviewing the newspaper with the gruesome details and the various journalistic reports and commentaries plus dozens of speculations as to the cause and reason for such a horrendous attack when Doctor Nogueira called him from his consulting room.
Back to mundane business
, he thought. One of the centre’s patients appeared to have suffered an overdose and had just been brought in. He was lying on the couch in a coma.

‘Better find out what happened to Jose,’ said the doctor. ‘The two out in the hall brought him in.’

The doctor gave him an antidote that managed to stabilise his pulse rate and control his breathing. Fifteen minutes later Paco walked back into the surgery.

‘They say he may have had a bad shot, Doctor.’

‘Thought so. Should be OK and out of danger now. Better get him to the hospital.’

One of the helpers called for an ambulance.

Again thumbing through the newspaper Paco said, ‘I can’t believe ETA could’ve carried out this kind of massacre; too many casualties.’

The ambulance had arrived and taken care of Jose whilst Paco, the doctor and a couple of helpers were in the canteen during the mid-morning break.

‘Still looks like their methodology though,’ said the doctor. ‘I wouldn’t put it past those bastards… and just before the bloody elections.’

Paco suddenly reacted, ‘Elections.’

He put the paper down and thought for a moment, got up from the table, walked towards the exit into the centre’s main hallway and called on his mobile.

‘It’s me, Paco.’ Sergio was still in a trance. ‘Hey, remember me?’ Still silence. Paco insisted. ‘Lieutenant Quiroga, it’s me; the man from under. Are you still there?’

‘Yes, my friend, I’m still here.’

He continued to stare at his PC screen. Cybernetic goldfish were swimming towards and away at rhythmic intervals, a flow of fictitious bubbles would appear now and then.

‘The attack; on the news… Madrid… are you with me?’

‘What about it?’

Paco was slightly taken aback. He didn’t expect such a placid answer from someone he knew as hyperactive. Nevertheless, he didn’t give up. ‘It was an al-Qaeda cell that pulled the triggers, Sergio. I know it.’

Sergio continued to watch his fish.

‘Don’t you see? Iraq, Bush, the Brits. They’re after the governments.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Tomorrow’s elections. They planned the whole thing. Make it look like ETA to start with and let the dumb security forces do the rest just before the polls open.’

It was now Sergio’s turn to push for answers. He turned his PC off. Before Paco could continue, he butted in with a succinct question. ‘How come you figured all this out?’

‘I’ve been dealing with many drug addicts, especially those who need some legal help. They know about the “guts” of the business better than anybody.’

‘So?’

‘Al-Qaeda has been crawling about Spain and Galicia for months if not years. Why? They’re well into the drug racket to finance their activities.’

Paco was only confirming Sergio’s own suspicions but had never thought about the ulterior motive of toppling the government. Lieutenant Quiroga was never interested in politics.

‘There’s not much we can do about it, Paco, regardless of the outcome.’ Colonel “Tito” Seone’s speeches were still fresh in his mind.

But Paco insisted. ‘Look, my friend, it’s obvious that their next step is a go at the British Government. I’m sure it’s on their agenda.’

It was too much. Sergio switched on his PC and returned to the fish observation program.

‘You’re burnt out my friend, aren’t you?’

They bid farewell.

Every national and international news broadcast was homing in on the Madrid bombings. Every government, especially from the West, called for emergency meetings. Condemnation statements were issued from all over the world. The United Nations Security Council promptly dropped all other issues on the punitive agenda as a new major terrorist attack had taken place.

ETA had rebutted their responsibility as al-Qaeda’s involvement in the massacre was all but officially confirmed. The Spanish Government, on the eve of the general elections, was extremely nervous.

Banners, posters, loudspeaker vans and other electoral paraphernalia of all political parties throughout the country had been out for weeks; each was after electorate votes as they pontificated on the merits of their programmes.

‘They’re like seagulls around a fishing boat,’ commented Stan. He was looking at a large poster of one of the parties that appeared one morning pasted on the walls outside the agency building.

‘That’s our democracy,’ replied Yolanda.

The scene in Madrid was very different.

It was now certain that ETA had not carried out the terrorist attack and that the Spanish intelligence services with full cooperation of the international agencies all but confirmed yet another Islamic Fundamentalist attack in the world.

Whilst the governing Conservative Party was nervous and almost speechless, the main opposing Socialists were having a field day. They had mobilised the whole of their party plus all members of the trade unions, the ecologists, the anti-Iraq war organisations and masses of left-wing media to go to the country condemning the present government as irresponsible and guilty of the Madrid massacre. They went one step further and accused them of “hiding” information on the real culprits by blaming the horror on ETA, “the usual suspects” thus trying to cover up their gigantic mistake of having joined forces with the USA and Britain in the invasion of Iraq.

As the citizens went to the polls, spontaneous and massive demonstrations were taking place throughout the country against the government. The opposition leader had vowed that if he were voted into office his first action would be to immediately remove the Spanish military contingent in Iraq.

‘This is an unjust war,’ he had pontificated. ‘Our country has no reason to be involved in the attacks on another nation.’

It worked.

When the votes were counted, the People’s Party had been ousted from the presidency and the People’s Socialist Workers’ Party had been once again voted into power. Amidst a country in heavy mourning a new era in Spanish politics had begun.

The prayer sessions throughout the following day of the Spanish election were special. Badi, Habib and the rest of the terrorists were rejoicing with mixed feelings. They had achieved their objective by toppling the infidel Spanish Government but because none of them had blown themselves up they had given up the ultimate and supreme sacrifice of death for the Jihad cause. They had been deprived of the martyrdom awarded to all Muslim warriors. Heaven had to wait.

Tony Blair had just been on the phone to Jose María Aznar offering him condolences at having lost the elections. Although the British PM was of the opposite side of the political fence, he knew full well what the repercussions would be, not only in Spain and Britain but throughout the rest of Europe regarding the Iraq war. The tide against the invasion was increasing as the violence began to escalate in Baghdad and the rest of the country. The weapons of mass destruction were nowhere to be found. The press had lost hope and the turn of the tide to unfavourable media coverage was evident. Meanwhile, 9/11 in the USA and the conflict in Afghanistan had almost been forgotten. World opinion moved on.

After sending a message of “congratulations” to the newly elected Spanish President, Rodriguez Zapatero, a brief talk with George Bush ended the working day of a sad British Prime Minister.

‘That son-of-a-bitch has made it,’ said George Bush as he was speaking to Dick Cheney, his vice president. ‘Better warn the guys in Iraq to expect the worst from the Spaniards.’