The Galician Parallax (22 page)

‘Joan, I’m concerned about our safety,’ said Mr Billson. ‘Our Galician suppliers have warned me that there is a possible link between ETA and al-Qaeda in Spain that could have an impact on our business.’ He saw the quizzical look on her face. ‘They’ve warned me that our books could be scrutinised from a different source and… after all these years… shit. I haven’t got the right contacts.’

Cold as ice, Joan said, ‘We’ll just have to look for them, right?’

‘This note, Colin; you’re still doubtful about Saddam’s arsenal.’

General Colin Powell had finally stuck his neck out with President George Bush and sent him a private “one liner” that read:
We are off beam, Mr President. Saddam Hussein has got rid of the evidence. Need to talk
. Ever since the invasion of Afghanistan, the Pentagon and the CIA advised the president of the need to focus on the regime in Iraq as a possible terrorist link between the al-Qaeda group and the Ba’ath party in Baghdad. They had a hunch that Hussein had started a programme of developing lethal weapons, better known as WMD, weapons of mass destruction, to use against Israel. The destruction of the World Trade Centre and part of the Pentagon the previous year had every sector of American intelligence on edge. President Bush was in receipt of constant reports on terrorist plots, not to mention the general rumour mongering amongst the people. The United Nations had appointed Hans Blix as Head of the Atomic Energy Inspectorate in 2000 but it wasn’t until late into 2002 that he began checking out Iraq’s nuclear programme in earnest. However, his constant disillusioned reports that concluded with the lack of evidence were not convincing enough for George Bush to drop any illusions of appeasement with the Ba’ath Government.

He did, however, trust his secretary of state who said, ‘It’s this report from Atomic Inspector Scott Ritter who claims Saddam destroyed nearly ninety per cent of dangerous weaponry.’

Ignoring the general the president retorted, ‘Colin, I want you to convince the UN that Saddam is a maniac ready to attack us. I don’t care how you do it; just do it.’

As General Powell was leaving, George Bush said, ‘Don’t forget that those oil fields out there need protection. We don’t want another Kuwait, man.’

The general was at half minds as to what the president was driving at.
Kurds, Iranians, Syrians or who?
he thought.

The beach was a stone’s throw away from Juan Jose’s chalet. Nobody knew why it was called America Beach although some historians say that Captain Alonso Pinzon had his first meal in a Galician inn just up the road and not in Baiona which is nearer the mouth of the Vigo Bay. The captain, aboard one of Christopher Columbus’ ships, the
Pinta
, had arrived at Baiona on 1 March 1493 and was the first person in Europe to announce the discovery of America. Juan Jose and the Bullocks were at one of the beachside bars, better known as Chiringitos, enjoying a Sunday morning aperitif consisting of white wine, a ration of octopus and a plateful of Galician croquettes. Yolanda, with one eye on baby Gabriel who was busy learning to run in all directions at once, half-heartedly listened to her father who was giving his views on the family and the business’ future.

‘I’ll be sixty-eight next birthday,’ said Juan Jose as he took another sip of
Terras Gaudas Alvariño
white. He paused for a moment and looked out across the beach where the holidaymakers were in full swing. At first he ignored baby Gabriel who was now tugging on his trouser leg. Seconds later he picked the child up and sat him on his lap. He turned and again addressed his children.

‘Almost fifteen years since your mother died, never really got over losing her.’

He then began rubbing his head against his grandson’s, who immediately started giggling. Yolanda knew that her mother’s anniversary was coming up in a week’s time. She had already told Stan how she had died of breast cancer at the early age of forty-three. Juan Jose lowered baby Gabriel back onto the pavement. The child toddled on all fours until he reached a nearby dustbin. Yolanda immediately sprung up from her chair and chased after him.

Juan Jose looked at Stan. ‘Stan, do you miss your old home town?’

During the past two years his father-in law had never asked him about his personal feelings other than those surrounding his present life.

‘It was hard at first. Yolanda and Gabriel have made up for it though.’

Juan Jose again fell silent. Yolanda came back with a wriggling Gabriel in her arms.

‘You know; I’ve been thinking of slowing down, twelve hours a day plus the consulate is wearing me out.’ Juan Jose took another sip of wine. ‘I’d like to begin handing over more work to you two.’ He purposefully addressed Stan. ‘Think you could handle the consular side, son?’

Danny Wilton was rereading a personal letter from the honorary British consul in Galicia. It was short and to the point. Juan Jose Mauro had presented his resignation. In the letter he had suggested Stanley Bullock, son-in-law and British citizen, as his future replacement. Attached to the letter was a copy of Stan’s curriculum. In those days, honorary consuls were usually chosen from recommendations made by the outgoing consul who was well informed on the local community. As per protocol, Juan Jose had included two other possible candidates and their CVs and the ultimate decision was up to the consul general with a final interview and approval by Her Majesty’s Ambassador.

‘You’ve sent me the names of two Brits and one Galician,’ said Danny on the phone. ‘Your son-in-law has only been in Galicia for the last couple of years; not in his favour, Juan Jose.’

The other Brit was a retired businessman who, like Stan, had married into a Galician family and had lived in the area for the past twenty years. The third was a Galician lawyer who had very strong business ties with the United Kingdom.

‘However, being a lawyer could have conflicting interests and as for your other Brit, according to his background he’s been completely out of touch with Britain and lives in the countryside.’

Juan Jose was smiling as he put the phone down. Like all astute Galicians he knew how to get round the system.

Two weeks later, Stan was attending a final interview by HMA in Madrid.

Sergio was at his PC checking through and retrieving data from one of the thousands of confidential reports on ETA attacks over the last ten years. He had designed a new program that cross-checked the vital evidence against a complicated matrix of comparisons. Percentages of accuracy, similarity and a plethora of other statistics such as place and time were allotted to each in relation to the rest. Most of this information was already available to all the secret service authorities in Europe but Sergio felt that there was always something that went missing or was overlooked by the specialists. It was well known that ETA had had links with many other organisations in the past, especially the Baader-Meinhof Group in Germany and more recently the IRA in Ireland. However, analysis was always triggered off by political similarities, independence reasons or that of extreme unrelated radicalism. Religion was down on the list of priorities whilst drugs kept a high profile in the accounting sector of the financial balance sheet. Sergio was also integrating all his earlier analytical drug information into his new system.

He was about to pack it in for the day when word came through that another civil guard had been blown up by ETA. Juan Carlos Beiro tried to take down a banner-bomb in Leiza, a town in the province of Navarra.

It read: “Long live ETA. Civil Guard. Die here.”

The civil guard was killed instantly whilst four of his companions were badly injured.

Tears of anger were streaming down his eyes as Sergio sped off on his motorbike searching for Gloria.

The music was ear blasting. The melodic accompanying lights dazzled the swingers whilst the boozers floated airlessly across the dance floor, glass in one hand, partner in the other. Yanks, Canadians, Brits and the odd German bumped their way amongst the hundreds of Aussies of all sexes enjoying yet another evening of high-living fun in one of the Far East’s holiday paradises.

‘Where you from?’ shouted Maggie, a young student from Melbourne at her newly acquired dance freak. The thirty-something, recently divorced Scot was oblivious to any human sounds other than the gurgling rumbles emitted by a million-watt set of loudspeakers. He suddenly smiled as he saw some lip movement from his partner.

Maggie yelled, ‘I said…’

A new noise took over as the car bomb exploded just outside the club. Maggie and over 200 others were blown to bits. Indonesia had been hit several times in the past by terrorist attempts from the local brand of Islamic radicals known as the Jemaah Islamiyah. But this time the casualties were far too many for the experts to suspect a more sinister lot of bombers.

The link between the World Trade Centre attack in New York and this new one was obvious. Al-Qaeda, once again, claimed responsibility.

‘Place is a bit close to home, wouldn’t you say?’ said Mr Billson.

As it was Teixugo’s turn to choose a venue for their annual reunion, he thought it would be a safe bet to stay at one of the exclusive and out of the way hostels in northern Portugal. Ignoring his opening remark as they sat around a small table in the almost empty lounge of the inn he answered, ‘I haven’t been here for years. One of my daughters spent her honeymoon here and has always pestered me to visit the place. Great scenery, don’t you think, Sr Bermudez?’

The Colombian was too busy trying to study the cocktail list as a waiter had arrived to take their orders for a morning aperitif.

‘OK, Mr Billson, your call on the figures,’ said Teixugo.

Before he took out the calculator, Mr Billson reconfirmed his fears of the new terrorist scenario in Europe, especially the infiltration of al-Qaeda cells and how it could have repercussions on their so far safeguarded laundering of drug money.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Sr Bermudez, ‘we don’t have any problem in Columbia, we work closely with the FARC accountants and between us we are able to “sidestep”, I believe it is an English expression, the Federal Drug Administration snoopers from up north.’

Teixugo, the lynchpin in the system, knew why Mr Billson was concerned. He bent over to whisper in Sr Bermudez’s ear. ‘Luis, here in Europe we have the advantage that many of the “snoopers” as you call them are spread throughout the Union. They’re smart. Oh yes, they’re smart, but not always coordinated.’ He looked at Mr Billson. ‘Right?’ He continued, ‘We in Spain, also suffer from terrorism yet this new threat from the Middle East could jam up the works.’ Teixugo expanded on what he had already advised Mr Billson back in August.

The Galician drug barons for years had been working with the local banks with well-organised transfer of moneys into Mr Billson’s and other European drug barons’ various “legal” companies spread throughout the world. Accounts in tax havens were two a penny on the international financial market and most smart criminal accountants were able to bypass the system if the right contacts were kept well oiled within the banking world. The main law enforcement agencies constantly tracking and cracking down on the drug criminals were usually one step behind but never able to catch up. Raids on couriers were fairly successful with thousands of kilos of cocaine and other drugs decommissioned on a routine basis. It was considered as an “added” cost, but uncovering the fountain of payments was another matter.

‘You see, Luis,’ said Teixugo, ‘nobody in Europe is being murdered because of our business, other than the odd courier and pusher in a usual gang bust-up, but we now have the Arab terrorists spreading their networks across the continent. They will also need money. So, where do they get it? By encroaching on our business.’

‘What about their relationship with ETA as you mentioned the other month?’ asked Mr Billson.

Teixugo was uncertain himself. He chose his words carefully, ‘There was a strange murder case up in Galicia over a year ago; three supposed ETA terrorists.’

At that moment the waiter came over with their refreshments.

‘The police report mentioned something about remains of a cocaine party. It was not very clear. I got one of my “informers” to check it out.’ Teixugo picked up his coke and took a swig. ‘He said that they thought that the drug had been planted.’

The two partners looked slightly bewildered.

‘My informer also said that an Islamic prayer mat and a set of “worry beads” were amongst the articles found around the bungalow but went missing. The case is still open but kept in a low-key mode.’

‘So what’s that got to do with our business?’

Teixugo raised his voice, ‘It means that new sectors of law enforcement stooges that we don’t know about will begin to snoop around and may one day come after us.’

The successful runs of Maiden Voyages plus the sound yearly profit results took backstage.

Stan Bullock and the British Naval Attaché, Captain John Sedgwick, on board one of the French minesweepers were trying their hardest not to fall on the deck as the vessel made its final approach beneath the bridge. Gale-force winds were blowing and despite being sheltered thirty miles inland from the entrance to the Vigo Bay, treacherous undercurrents motivated the shallow waters to play havoc with the two fragile vessels. Although it was Stan’s first official act as honorary British consul, he felt at ease dealing with a Royal Navy captain thanks to years of contact with the navy during his Falmouth coastguard days. However, two days before the pompous ceremonies now taking place Captain Sedgwick had called Stan to advise him of the RN’s cancellation.

‘
Tripod
can’t make it, Stan,’ he’d said. ‘Bloody firemens’ strike in London. All navy ships in the area have been called back in case of emergency. Anyway, congratulations on your appointment, looking forward to working with you.’