The Galician Parallax (48 page)

‘I still say your country is too cold, Mr Billson, but I like your English beer,’ said one of the Bermudez brothers as they were all seated round one of the wooden tables.

‘You’re
loco, hermano
,’ replied the other. ‘Give me Club Colombia any day.’

‘Cheers, anyway,’ said Mr Billson.

The rest of the mob held up their glasses and reciprocated. The pub was not yet full as it was still early in the evening. The business meeting was not due until the following morning so most of the group’s conversation was non-committal nor controversial until Teixugo suddenly said, ‘What makes you all so sure there ain’t going to be any check-ups or investigations by the cops?’

Nobody said a word.

‘This is a small place. Just look around; everybody seems to know everybody. Don’t you think questions may be asked if you suddenly changed everything overnight?’

It was Ms Flashman who replied, ‘You’re right, Sr Castro, everybody does, as you say, know each other and may snoop into other people’s business. But then so what? This is a typical British yachting world and yachtsmen change their ways all the time. I wouldn’t worry about it.’ She then added sarcastically, ‘I’d worry more about your end, Sr Castro. That’s where all the shit is hitting the fan.’

Teixugo burst out laughing. ‘Mr Billson, where did you get this gem?’ He addressed Ms Flashman directly. ‘I must confess I know nothing about the sea; in fact, I hate it although I’ve lived by it all my life.’ He turned serious. ‘You’re right, Ms Flashman, we’ve got far more problems than you have here; people who murder innocents in the name of “freedom”, so let’s change the subject, shall we?’

The rest of the evening’s dialogues returned to a more congenial atmosphere.

The subject of drugs was not brought up again until the next day’s meeting.

Ever since his first encounter with the two Algerians, Paddy had, over the past few months, drummed up a camaraderie that grew on a daily basis. He expanded on his supposed contacts with the IRA that extended from Belfast to Dublin and apart from exact dates he told them he was certain that a strike in the heart of London, probably one of the airports, was imminent within the New Year. Paddy felt he had nothing to lose in lying through his teeth as long is it helped uncover whatever plots were in mind as hinted by Stan and Sergio during their last visit. He even went as far as to tell Ghazi and Marzuq that his hatred was so strong against the English that he was going to become a Muslim. That did it. Little did he know that his meddling was being fed back to the Madrid al-Qaeda HQ with more than the odd confused connotation; and now the added message of a new “brother” promising allegiance to the Jihad cause.

The prisoners in the Galician penitentiaries were allowed amongst other perks one phone call per week that was usually monitored by the authorities. Paddy’s cooked up stories of Irish vengeance against the Brits began to excite the Arabs. Badi and Habib were overjoyed. He was almost accepted as one of the gang.

‘It not only fits into our own plans,’ said Badi during one of the planning sessions, ‘but think of the extra havoc if it could overlap with our attacks.’ Hence, on one of the prisoner’s calls Habib inadvertently dropped the hint of a planned attack on a cruise ship without giving any further details.

‘Tell the Irishman that we’ll leave the mainland to them.’

That day, during the routine daily stroll through the compound, Ghazi approached him and after a few paces, making sure no others were within hearing distance and with more than a glint in his eye said, ‘Guess what?’ Paddy smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Our Filipino brothers are going to blow up a British ship full of passengers.’

Just as Paddy’s brow began to ooze with sweat, the prison guard whistles were blown indicating that the break was over. It was wash-up and lunchtime. It didn’t take long for Paddy, with the prison’s permission, to be on the phone to the only person that could be receptive and not panic.

‘This is Hombre Centre, can I help?’ asked the receptionist.

‘I need to talk to Sr Paco,’ he said frantically; he couldn’t recall Paco’s surname.

‘Who?’

Paddy thought for a second. ‘My lawyer friend.’

‘Who’s this calling please?’ Paddy replied accordingly. Within minutes Doctor Felipe Nogueira was on the phone.

‘He’s not in.’

‘Please, Doctor, it’s very urgent.’

Paco got the message. He soon called back and asked to speak to the director of the penitentiary. Thanks to the good working relationship with the drug rehabilitation centre, Paddy was on the phone and spilling the beans of a possible attack.

‘No names, no dates, Paco, except that there’s a Philippines connection.’

Paco, although confused, promised to call Sergio and pass on the message. ‘In the meantime, for Christ’s sake, try and keep your nose clean. You’re dealing with dangerous people.’ Paddy was too excited to be worried about any possible reprisals.

‘You’re joking,
amigo
. Paddy got all that info?’

Sergio was back in his office after a short marital break. He was in the middle of a call to the local police precinct discussing a new case of domestic violence when Paco from the drug centre came through on another line. A woman had been found with her throat cut on a secondary road near the town of Oleiros, east of the city of Corunna. Her Peruvian lover had disappeared. The nearby villagers had reported that the couple, who lived in a cottage not far from where the body was found, were always arguing and shouting. Whilst still jotting down the details in cryptic form he snapped his fingers at one of his assistants to pick up the call on the murder case. Sergio couldn’t wait. He rushed out of the HQ and headed for the local courts.

‘Lover boy is here, Mrs Quiroga,’ said one of the administrative clerks over the intercom. Gloria was busy with a backlog of work, trying to catch up after a week’s sick leave. She had missed a period and her analytical confirmed the beginning of a pregnancy. At least two dozen court cases needed appraisals before being given to the judge.

‘Calm down,
amor
,’ she said as Sergio made his way to her office and began firing in all directions. He had forgotten about his wife’s physical condition. The doctor had told her that she should avoid any unnecessary stress. When he told her about Paddy’s recent breakthrough at the penitentiary, Gloria had wisely suggested he plug away at his criss-cross program and see what results appeared before he went down another dead-end alley.

‘It’s not another wild goose chase; besides, I haven’t been updating my PC for months.’ Gloria also suggested discussing it with his bosses.

‘What for? Look what happened the last time.’

‘Precisely.’ She insisted he tried again with his program.

‘You convinced me the last time, I’m sure you’ll come up with something.’

He ignored her. ‘Philippines.’ They were alone in her office. He pulled up one of the office stools and pushed her to one side. Within seconds he was punching away at her PC. Gloria succumbed and said nothing. Once into the Internet search engine he entered, “Philippine terrorism”. For the next couple of minutes he kept reading sporadically through the whole history of terrorist activity in the Far East.

‘Bingo. Here it is.’

He pressed the print button. He handed a bewildered wife four pages of printout.

‘Take a look at this.’

Part of it read:

On the 27
^th
of February, 2004 the ten-thousand-ton SuperFerry 14 was en route from Manila to Cagayan de Oro City with just under 900 passengers and crew on board. One hour after departure, at around 11 p.m. an explosion ripped through the vessel causing an enormous fire. It spread rapidly throughout the vessel that eventually sank. People of all ages panicked and jumped into the sea. The number of deaths and missing persons rose to almost 180 people including women and young children. Months after the enquiry the investigators concluded that the explosion had been caused by a bomb in the tourist section. An Islamic terrorist organisation Abu Sayyaf was named as responsible for the tragedy
.

‘Well?’ said Sergio as he leaned back on the stool. It was now almost a year since the tragic event.

‘So? Now what?’

‘Question is; how did they do it?’

He pointed at a paragraph of the report. ‘It says here that only two of the crew died. Odd, wouldn’t you say?’

Gloria began to tune in to Sergio’s reasoning. They were smiling at each other just as Judge Elisa Soria walked in.

‘Having a party?’ she asked as she handed Gloria another set of court cases to be dealt with.

Stan had been busy checking out the year’s cruise-ship activity, more than eighty vessels with about 120,000 passengers passing through the city as from the following week. Spring and autumn brought old and rich pensioners whilst Britain’s summer school holidays opened up the family season. Yolanda’s scheduled workload was no leaner. Several extra tour operators had sent her their new offers that she had to add to her database before the season started.

‘We’ve now got the Eastern bloc pushing their goodies,’ she said as Stan was reminding her it was lunchtime.

‘Look at this offer for Croatia; seems ideal.’

‘I wonder what the hospitals are like?’

Yolanda ignored him.

Back in the afternoon, Danny was on the phone from Madrid. ‘We’ve had a call from a hospital in Orense, the Santo Cristo de Piñor. It’s a geriatric one.’ He told Stan that a very old, widowed Welsh lady called Ann Jenkins wished to return to her native Pontypool. She was eighty-two and although still healthy was very frail. Alzheimer symptoms were beginning to appear.

‘The hospital will sort out her repatriation and the British National Insurance lot has agreed to take care of her once she arrives back in the UK. A Doctor Filgueiro is responsible for the patient.’

All Stan had to do was issue her with an emergency passport, advise the FCO of flight details once they had been arranged and the Spanish health authorities would take care of the rest. Danny agreed to e-mail Stan with her personal details.

‘Nice to know we all work in harmony for a change.’

He looked at the calendar. The
Blue Ocean
was due in a week’s time. ‘OK, I’ll call the doctor and arrange a visit. Make sure they take her mug shot. Anything else?’

Danny hesitated at first. ‘We’ve got new fun and games going on in London.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Ever since the tsunami several MPs in the British Government had asked for a formal enquiry into the disaster and why the British diplomatic service in the area didn’t act more promptly and diligently.

‘Are they nuts?’ asked Stan. ‘Do they have any idea of what really goes on at a consular post?’

‘Take it easy, Stan. We still don’t know what the outcome will be. Just have to wait, I’m afraid.’

As he hung up on his mobile another call came through almost immediately. It was Sergio who started blasting away about Paco, Paddy and the A Lama prisoners’ information. Stan had almost forgotten about the whole affair and had reverted back to his normal workload of shipping activities. He was still turning over in his mind the conversation with his vice consul. His initial reaction was “not again” yet Sergio’s insistence that he was right all along about the planning of a new attack prompted Stan to switch wavelengths and listen.

Having hit him with a new Philippine terrorist scenario, Sergio concluded, ‘How did they pull it off, Sr Consul? Who could get away with blowing up a ship?’ Although he registered Sergio’s implications, Stan took time to answer. He was working on his consular schedule.

‘Ever been to a geriatric hospital?’

Tucked away in the hills of Orense on the outskirts of the town of Piñor is one of the leading hospitals that cater, among other patients, for those that have passed the threshold of useful life and have entered the phase of retirement. It was opened back in 1949 by Generalissimo Franco and was originally used as a centre for patients suffering from tuberculosis and other chronic aliments. By 1984 a new director took over, rebuilt and reorganised the establishment to its present state. Under the wing of the Galician National Health Service today’s team of doctors and nurses are not only specialised in geriatrics but accept sick people from all walks of life, including foreigners.

At the reception desk, an administrative clerk greeted Stan and Sergio and within minutes Nurse Margarita Sorensen turned up to take care of them. Stan had advised the hospital staff that a lieutenant from the Corunna Civil Guard HQ would be accompanying him but that he was not on official business. There was reluctance at first but as Stan explained that he had other matters to deal with and that Sergio was part of them the director agreed to his visit.

‘Good morning, Mrs Jenkins, I’m the British Consul.’

A perky old lady hardly over five feet, sitting in a wheelchair, managed a weak smile. Pointing at Sergio, who was in civvies he added, ‘This is Sergio Quiroga, a friend.’ They were in a large ward, accompanied by the nurse and Doctor Filgueiro.

‘You’ll be going home soon, Mrs Jenkins, back to Wales. Are you happy?’

Again all Stan could muster up was a brief smile from a very old lady. Before they checked in on her, the hospital’s social services manager, Ms Pacheco, briefed Stan on the patient’s medical and local history. Mr and Mrs Jenkins emigrated from Pontypool during the mid 60s and had settled in Moreiras, a small town in the Orense province. For nearly forty years they ran a small and unique food store, and were well known and loved by the local community. Just over a month ago Mr Jenkins passed away at the age of eighty-five and was buried in the local parish cemetery. The whole town attended the funeral. Mrs Jenkins was too frail to manage on her own and had eventually been interned in the hospital a couple of weeks later. They never had any children. Ms Pacheco went on to explain that the couple had been given residence papers years ago yet had never bothered to renew them, even during the transition period after the end of the dictatorship. Stan was stunned. Danny had never told him about this.