The Galician Parallax (50 page)

‘If nothing comes from this guy’s investigation, well, that’s the end of that,’ said Gloria. Sergio hugged her from behind as she continued beating the eggs for an evening omelette.

Yolanda was more intrigued with Mr Billson’s knighthood.

‘How come?’

‘Have no idea.’

Badi, Habib and the two Filipino suicide bombers, Domingo Asunción and Jacinto Tejada had checked into the hotel a couple of weeks before the raid on the apartment in Madrid. Not to arouse any suspicion they had posed as members of an international multinational company seeking commercial opportunities in Galicia. When they heard about the break-in to their apartment they once again sought refuge in their prayers of thanks to Allah. The
Prince of Waves
was due in six days’ time. That evening, Badi called for a special prayer session.

‘Brothers, before prayers we shall review the plan once more.’ He looked at the Filipinos. ‘What time is she docking?’

‘Eight in the morning.’

‘Right.’

‘When will the two crew members disembark?’

‘Half an hour later.’

‘Good. Where are we all to meet?’

‘In the Hotel Bahia in Vigo.’

Badi got up from his kneeling position. ‘And when you go on board, what are you to do?’

‘Serve Allah the Almighty,’ they said in unison.

‘Bingo.’

Stan slammed the phone down on his desk and then rushed over to Yolanda who was now back at work frantically sorting out several customers’ holiday packages. He threw his notepad on her workstation with weird notes scribbled all over two of the pages. She smiled back at him and shrugged her shoulders. He picked her up out of her chair and swung her about. ‘That was Ms Flashman on the phone. We’ve hit lucky.’

An account had been opened in a Mesias Silvestre’s name with a deposit of one million dollars in a Swiss bank during the last month. Stan’s list showed him as a member of the crew on the
Prince of Waves
. Ms Flashman told Stan a Diya al Din Khouri was a co-signatory on the account.

An excited Stan had asked her, ‘Who the fuck is “He”?’

‘We checked him out; sounds like he’s the European al-Qaeda leader in Zurich. His name means “Brightness of Faith”. Apparently he also controls Bin Laden’s European finances.’

‘In other words, all their European drug money must pass through his hands.’

Ms Flashman was not amused at Stan’s assessment. ‘I hope that’s the end of it from us.’

Stan couldn’t care less.

‘Sure Ms Flashman. No problem.
Hasta luego
.’

For once, Yolanda shared her husband’s joy and was equally excited. She looked at the calendar on her desk. ‘She’s docking in four days.’ In all earnest, with a shiver down her spine she asked, ‘What now,
amor
?’

No sooner had he called up his chauffeur than Stan was careering up to Corunna. He’d called Sergio advising him about the phone call from Falmouth but agreed to discuss the message personally. Two hours later, Stan was entering the HQ and after being registered and admitted was escorted by a guard up to Sergio’s office. ‘We’ve got a small conference hall down the corridor,’ said Sergio. ‘It should be empty as everyone’s at lunch.’

Stan hardly realised it was already after three in the afternoon. He showed him his notepad. Although in cryptic format he’d rewritten the information in an orderly manner. Sergio read the notes, slowly registering the bombshell and at the same time working out, in his own mind, how to react to the implications. Stan couldn’t help it.

‘What the fuck do we do now?’

‘Let’s get out of here, Sr Consul.’

It had gone past lunchtime as they strolled down the seafront opposite the beautiful and typical Corunna balconied buildings overlooking the bay. Both men were too uptight to worry about food. Despite a trailing temperature with the remains of a drizzly winter tapering off, spring was in the air. It was a bright, sunny day. Whilst dozens of office workers unwrapped their lunch, young mothers with trailing kids paraded back and forth and the odd pensioner snoozed away on a park bench, Sergio and Stan continued mulling over the turn of events.

‘Where’s the
Prince
now, Sr Consul?’

‘She should be leaving Barcelona in a couple of hours’ time, next stop Lisbon.’

Sergio was deep in thought; his police intuition was at work. He went on to speculate that if the terrorist was intending to carry out his attack it would have to be nearing the end of the voyage. The question and answer session took over.
Why hasn’t anything happened yet? Because he’s waiting for the ship to arrive back in Spain, Southampton or even in between. What would he do? How about holding passengers or officers as hostages and rerouting ship? Blow himself up… where and when?

Stan surprised Sergio. ‘What makes you think that this Filipino is a terrorist anyway? Couldn’t there be others involved, offshore maybe? What about the Arabs?’

He stopped walking, took hold of Stan’s arm causing him to turn round and halt a few steps ahead. ‘I forgot to tell you. Their group, about a year ago, blew up a ferry in the Philippines.’

‘Stands to reason.’

Smiling he let go of Stan’s arm. ‘You British… so cool.’

As they reached the end of the promenade, just opposite the entrance to Maria Pita Square, Sergio suggested a quiet beer. ‘We’ve still got four days.’

They settled down at one of the bars’ outside tables and ordered two
cañas
plus some olives, at Stan’s insistence. Once the waiter had gone, Stan fired off a set of possible alternatives based on one assumption.

‘Let’s say he’s going to use explosives. That means suicide bombing, right?’

Sergio agreed. The waiter came back with their orders and whilst he placed the beer-filled glasses, olives and basket of potato chips on the table, the two “sleuths” kept quiet. Once he’d gone Stan continued.

‘As I was saying… suicide bomb. He’s already got the stuff on board. We agreed that it would be nearer the UK.’ Once again Sergio nodded affirmatively. But before Stan continued, Sergio had second thoughts.

‘Hold it; why the al-Qaeda co-signatory on his bank account?’

Stan was munching on an olive, still picturing the “bad guy” strapping explosives round his body as he went up to the bridge in mid-ocean.

‘This guy’s not a terrorist,’ said Sergio suddenly. ‘He must be a stooge. The Arabs are using him.’ Stan hadn’t thought of it

‘That blows all our attack theories out of the window.’

He then suggested that they either advise the Portuguese authorities right away, before she docked in Lisbon, or once again, just pass everything over to Sergio’s boss and to hell with everything. Sergio was not listening. His mind was once again turning over all the events from day one; the Ordes crimes, the break-in to his apartment, Don Simmons’ and then Colonel Lobeira’s murder, the Madrid bombings, the Galician drug connection, Paddy and Paco’s revelations.

‘I think that one last call on the Maiden Voyages lot wouldn’t be out of place.’

Sergio saw the puzzled look on Stan’s face and smiled.

‘Maybe they’ll give us a few names here in Galicia. We also need to backtrack with Paddy in A Lama.’

Sergio suddenly stood up. ‘Shit. We’re running out of time.’

‘Looks as if that’s all you can say these days, Lieutenant.’

Before they parted company they agreed that Stan would take care of the Brits whilst Sergio would contact his friend, Paco.

‘I’ll have to put him in the picture, but what the hell… it’s now or never as the saying goes.’

Sergio was still concerned about the break-in fiasco of al-Qaeda’s apartment that was hushed up by the Madrid police department.
The bastards have disappeared. Where the hell are they now?
he thought.

Sergio had called on Paco at the drug rehabilitation centre the day after his meeting with Stan. It took Paco a while to digest all the information that he was bombarding him with. Once he had assimilated most of it he suggested he visit the prison the following day. The “Hombre” programme was in full swing and Paco always had direct access to prisoners for whatever reason the centre thought necessary.

‘You’re out of time, though. So Paddy gets more info out of them, what can you do?’

‘Have no idea.’

The following day, Paddy called up Paco from the prison and in turn immediately passed on the message to Sergio.

‘There are several terrorists involved. That’s all Paddy could get out of the Algerians. No names though.’

Sergio knew what to do.

Ms Flashman was reluctant to bother Sir Adrian yet again on Stan’s plea for help. He was in two minds whether to use the threat of drug disclosure thus causing havoc in another direction, or lay the cards out with the latest information. He chose the latter. He ended his plea, ‘… and the ship docks in three days’ time. Any information on the Arab connection would help.’ The next day, Sir Adrian’s message came through. He gave Stan Teixugo’s mobile phone number.

Face to face with one of the most important Galician drug barons and in his own vineyard-cum-HQ, Stan couldn’t help feeling that he was completely out of his depth and absolutely mad. He never told Yolanda what he was up to this time round and for obvious reasons drove up the valley in his own car. But, after a brief introduction, he found himself at ease with someone who was not only pleasant but cultured and extremely well educated. Teixugo had already spoken to Sir Adrian before the meeting was arranged. He was therefore prepared and knew that Stan was in no position to jeopardise or hurt the organisation. In fact, he was more inclined to assist because of the nature of the request. Spain had its belly full of terrorism and although a criminal in his own right, Teixugo was no murderer.

‘This is very serious, Sr Consul, if what you say is correct. But how come the authorities haven’t taken more action?’

‘Sr Castro, we are talking about Arab Fundamentalists, al-Qaeda to be precise, who blew up the Madrid trains. In fact, the Spanish authorities still don’t know who exactly was behind the terrible attack. These same people have been in Galicia and I think that…’ he again paused, ‘… this deceased yachtsman, Donald Simmons… he was dealing with them.’

Teixugo admitted Stan’s reasoning.

‘How can I help then, Mr Bullock?’

‘Any clue… a name perhaps?’

Teixugo took his time.

‘Try Badi and Habib.’

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this,
amor
?’ asked Gloria.

Without hesitation, Sergio answered, ‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this,
amor?
’ asked Yolanda.

Without hesitation, Stan answered, ‘Yes.’

The “sleuths” were going to meet the
Prince of Waves
when it docked the following day.

He set his alarm clock for 5 a.m. but by four he was wide awake. Sergio had spent the previous evening in complete silence retracing over and over all the different reactions depending on their approach that could take place when he and Stan boarded the cruise ship. He had prepared a note on “official” civil guard headed paper requesting the Mauro Shipping Agency for authorisation to access the vessel on the grounds of a criminal investigation. Although he was an officer he needed to make sure that he had direct access through the port gates and onto the vessel. As the shipping agent, Stan would take care of the ship security angle.

Once on board, the plan was that Sergio would discretely request the captain to interview Mesias Silvestre for information on an undefined criminal investigation underway in Spain. Hopefully no extra leads would have to be brought to light until the “sleuths” were face to face with the Filipino sailor. If there was any reluctance on the captain’s part, plan “B” would be triggered off. “The man is suspected of terrorism,” would be the next statement coupled to a spiel about secrecy and undercover work. Hopefully the captain would agree and the “sleuths” would obtain what they were after. They didn’t envisage a plan “C”.

He’d prepared all his clean clothes, neatly laid out on the bedroom chair, as well as the documents to take with him down to Vigo the following day. He took extra care with his 9mm pistol and made sure of at least three extra recharges.

After showering and a short coffee, Sergio came back into the bedroom and slowly dressed as soundlessly as possible. He strapped his shoulder holster across his chest and was about to tiptoe back to the kitchen when Gloria switched on the night-table lamp. He’d briefed her the previous evening on as much as he could and although she was in agreement, Gloria still had reservations.

‘Promise me you’ll call the local cops if anything goes wrong.’

He bent over and kissed her gently.

‘Promise.’

He was on his bike and down the A-9 motorway thirty minutes later. He’d planned to meet Stan outside the dock gates at seven-thirty, a good half-hour before the
Prince
docked alongside.

‘I’ve spoken to the guards and they’ve got your authority. There’ll be no problem with the lieutenant,’ Chema Cervera had told Stan the day before. He was duty pilot the following day in charge of bringing in the
Prince
once she passed the Cíes Islands and was inside the Vigo Bay.

‘Sounds important.’

Stan didn’t elaborate, almost pleading ignorance.

Thin drizzle lingered on from the previous two days as Stan stood by the Cangas Ferry jetty waiting for Sergio to turn up. Although mild for the time of year, ten degrees centigrade still added a nip in the air for anyone standing around the wharf without moving about. A couple of delivery vans were approaching the entrance to the gates when Stan spotted a lonely figure just alongside one of them walking up towards him.