The Galician Parallax (24 page)

The Bullocks decided to spend the New Year celebrations away from the madding crowd, so they thought. They had booked an all-inclusive package at one of the many natural spring resorts bordering the provinces of Pontevedra and Orense that sprout from the River Miño, close to Arnoia, some thirty-five miles from Vigo. The town is famous for its unique green sweet peppers that are renowned throughout Spain. During the first week in August, the townsfolk celebrate a holiday bash by throwing a large nationally-recognised party with wine and grilled peppers for locals and tourists alike. Rumours say that the Galician emigrants that returned from “Gaucho” land of the faraway Pampas introduced the art of grilling them over a hot charcoal fire.

Stan and Yolanda plus baby Gabriel arrived and registered at the hotel at 11 a.m. and once they were taken to their room and luggage was sorted out, without hesitation, the three Bullocks made a beeline for the pools. They spent the whole day frolicking in the different artistically designed hot baths with underwater fire hoses at all levels alternatively caressing or lambasting their bodies, whilst baby Gabriel was taken care of by the hotel nursery staff in his own pool well in sight of his parents. In between the dowsing, they took combined trips to the jacuzzi and sauna installations. A mud massage and final dip ended the day before the evening bash. Whilst Gloria prepared young Gabriel for bed, Stan joined some guests at the bar for a quick evening beer. As he was being served, the barman pointed at a middle-aged couple sitting at one of the tables sipping
Ribeiro
white wine. A dish full of olives and potato chips accompanied their drink.

‘They’re also English,
señor
.’

Strange place for Brits to spend New Year
, he thought. With a beer in his hand he walked over to their table. ‘Evening, I understand you’re British. I’m Stan Bullock, from Falmouth.’

The man, in his late fifties, stood up and shook Stan’s hand. ‘Glad to meet you. I’m Brian Foster and this is my wife Jane, we’re from Richmond, Surrey. Please join us.’

Although he and his wife had holidayed on the many sandy beaches of the coast, they had never ventured inland to visit the interior of Galicia.

‘But why this time of the year? It’s just as bloody cold here as it is back in the UK.’

Brian told him that they were tired of the invading crowds during the tourist season and that he and his wife had thought about combining a “different” New Year’s treat to the old champagne and mistletoe party back home. It was when Stan told them who he was and what he did that the Fosters’ eyes lit up like spotlights. It turned out that Brian was a recently retired cable-ship captain who had spent many years in and out of Vigo when the marine section of Cable & Wireless ran the company’s cable depot on the port docks.

‘So you’re Juan Jose’s son-in-law. Well, I’ll be damned. I suppose you knew that your agency was our ship chandler in the old heydays.’

‘Before my time, but yes. I suppose you’re also aware that there are a couple of other captains retired in the Nigran area?’

It was Jane that butted in. ‘In fact one of them, Paddy Wilkinson, is a great friend of ours. He’s probably why we’re here.’

Both Brits continued exchanging nostalgias especially as Stan was from Cornwall and knew that Porthcurno, near Land’s End, was the home of the old cable company’s beachhead and training school. The famous cable station built into the rocky cliffs known as the “Tunnel” was now a national telegraph museum.

Later that evening, the Bullocks and Fosters joined forces to welcome the New Year whilst they fought their way through another massive Galician dinner with gallons of wine and champagne. Stan and Yolanda exhausted their remaining energy on the dance floor until the early hours of the morning, eventually bidding goodnight to the Fosters and making their way to their bedroom. Making sure baby Gabriel was well and truly asleep, Yolanda, already in her nightgown, went over to her husband and put her arms around him. Stan was still struggling with his pyjama top.

With one hand gently caressing his member and the other stroking his ear lobe she whispered, ‘I’m two months overdue.’

At first half asleep, Stan just let his erection take over until it struck him. He broke apart, looked at his wife and said smilingly, ‘You crafty bitch; always full of surprises.’

The couple continued their lovemaking until baby Gabriel announced it was time for his breakfast.

Donald Simmons was checking over the recent statement on the value of his portfolio of investments sent in by his financial consultant. Mr Billson had arranged for Donald and the rest of the gang to sit on the board of six of his offshore companies, all registered in Gibraltar. Thus, the percentage of drug money due was paid regularly via dividends to all board members in equal ratios. Each had a separate outlet of investment. Donald chose the Cayman Islands. Not only was he analysing his earnings but was working out a plan for his future.

It all began with a conversation he’d had with his colleague, Jerry Fulton, when they’d completed last year’s runs. They had met up in London during the autumn sales. Jerry’s wife was on her yearly shopping spree whilst the two men searched for the nearest pub. Once again, all voyages had gone smoothly with no danger or interference from either innocent passengers or local authorities in Spain and the UK despite the warnings of terrorist involvement by the British baron.

Donald was in an apprehensive mood. ‘This’ll be our third year, Jerry, and hopefully just as “juicy” as the last two… but… it can’t go on for ever.’

‘Don’t dig you, Don, you were the one that was all keen in the first place, remember? Get rich and live the life of Riley.’

‘That’s it, man. All that money offshore, can’t use it here, so what the fuck do I do with it? Besides, it’s still not enough to make a dash and get lost somewhere out in the “boonies” of no-man’s-land.’

The two had been pub-crawling around the Holborn area. They had arranged to meet up with Jerry’s wife at a McDonald’s in Oxford St. It was still too early. They were now opposite The Royal George near Tottenham Court Road underground station.

‘Got another hour, Jerry, it’s your round this time.’

As they managed to settle in a tight corner of the pub, steaming with Londoners and a mixed bag of tourists, Donald’s next statement stunned his partner. ‘When you were up in Santiago with the last bunch kissing the apostle I was invited by Sr Perez up to his mansion across the bay. You ought to see how these guys live.’

‘I thought Mr Billson had made it clear that other than the fender transfer with the “beach boys”, contact with anyone of the Galician cartel, especially one of the barons, was strictly a “no go” area; for our own security.’

‘Hey mate, I couldn’t refuse a friendly offer, could I?’

What Donald didn’t expand on was that it was not the first time that he had spent a few hours with Sr Perez whilst his partner was entertaining the passengers during the last stop on the run before heading for home.

‘The CIA has been in Iraq since July last year, brothers. As you know, they have been paving the way for an invasion. Our master was right. The Afghanistan attack was not enough.’

Badi was reviewing the cell’s programme for the next year taking into account the developing events in the Middle East that would eventually have an effect on the European cells.

‘The infidel Bush has already issued an ultimatum to oust Saddam. This is good news as war will begin and the corrupt regime in Iraq will fall. It will then be our turn to strike… one step at a time.’

Osama bin Laden’s reasoning was on track. He foresaw that, after frightening the American people with the “September 11” attacks, the US Government and many other allies would be drawn into a military offensive that could turn into a quagmire thus draining the economic resources of the West.

‘On to another matter, brothers; I’ve recently found out that a young civil guard and a woman from the magistrate returned to the bungalow in Ordes last year. How come we didn’t know about it? It worries me.’

The two other members, Habib and Jalal, looked puzzled.

‘Why, brother?’ asked Habib.

‘They had no search warrant.’

Jose Couso, cameraman from Spanish Channel 5 television, and his colleague, Jon Sistiaga, were jostling for position on the fourteenth floor of the hotel overlooking the River Tigris at the edge of the eastern part of the city. The hotel was packed with war correspondents from around the world. The allied forces had been bombarding the city at the start of the invasion on 20March. Three weeks later the land troops supported by continued air power began to penetrate amongst fierce fighting with sectors of Saddam Hussein’s revolutionary guards.

‘Look,’ said Jon, ‘there they come.’

At that moment an M1 Abrahams tank from the 3
^rd
Infantry Division of the US Army aimed its 120mm cannon at the hotel and fired a single shot. It hit the fifteenth floor killing Taras Protsyuk, a Ukrainian journalist, outright and seriously injuring Jose on the floor below. He died in hospital a few hours later. News of one of the first casualties of the international press rebounded around the world. From Kosovo to Macedonia Jose had covered many conflicting assignments around the world including the sinking of the oil tanker
Prestige
. Galicia was in mourning. He was born in the northern port of Ferrol, left a widow and two small children.

It didn’t take long for the Iraqi regime to collapse and George Bush, the President of the United States, to make the famous statement on board the
USS Abraham Lincoln
on 1 May.

‘Mission accomplished.’

Spring was in the air despite the unusual cold-weather breeze that had been filtering through for the past week from the north-west, spreading its usual sheet of sporadic drizzle across the city. The college students, among them the hundred or so mixture of foreigners enrolled in various programmes offered by the Galician education board, had just ended another set of gruelling exams. Come Friday evening, hundreds of notes, books and laptops would be left strewn throughout the bedrooms, the odd half-eaten pizza lying in the unwashed sink in the kitchen as most of the young academics switched off their brains and made for the hot spots. They’d start with the beer shops and end up in the discos pumping out the latest hip-hop or modern punk rock noise.

Julie Adamson, a student from Durham University studying European geography, was one of the exchange students on the Erasmus programme and had been on a similar course since the beginning of the academic year in September. She had another two weeks to go before returning to her native England.

It was gone 2.30 a.m. yet the thumping sound of rock and roll was in full swing as Julie bounced from one end of the dance floor to the other of the disco, occasionally pounced upon by two equally inebriated partners. It took another hour, two more drinks and an extra snort of “weed” before she was spreadeagle on a park bench a stone’s throw away from the Corunna town hall being systematically raped for the second time.

Gloria was busily preparing breakfast when Sergio crept up, hugged her from behind and whispered, ‘Better than ever, last night. Have you been up to no good behind my back?’

She reacted by nearly dropping the hot coffee pot.

‘Idiot,’ she responded sheepishly.

As they settled down at the kitchen table, Sergio asked her, ‘So what’s new back at the ranch?’

Still munching on her toast, Gloria replied ‘Young girl was raped last night outside the Beach Club. Cops got a couple of suspects; they’re still checking them out.’

Sergio helped himself to another cup of coffee. ‘Sounds routine.’

‘Except that they’re all foreigners, mostly Brits.’

Gloria had been called out as duty secretary at the magistrate to prepare for the case. The police had already briefed her. Stan received the call from the main Corunna police station later that morning. The report was scanty except to confirm that a British citizen was taken to the Juan Canalejo Hospital after being brutally assaulted. Apart from Julie’s name, passport details and ward number, no other information was given due to the confidentiality of the case.

‘Got the details, Stan,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll take care of the UK end; you’d better get up to Corunna right away.’

Three hours later, Stan was in the ward with Julie. She was still heavily sedated.

‘She’s OK,’ said Dr Braulio. ‘Take another few hours before we’ll bring her back to life.’ The doctor knew what was coming. ‘Sorry, but you’ll have to talk to the police, Sr Consul.’

The continued drizzle added to the sombre scene in Corunna as Stan made his way to the police headquarters. Chief Inspector Raul Benavente was waiting for him.

Gloria had half an hour left before breaking for lunch when one of her secretaries advised her of an “insistent” visitor.

‘Who is it?’ The secretary handed Gloria a card. ‘OK, send him in.’

As Stan walked into her office and towards her desk, Gloria got up and ushered him to a pair of small armchairs surrounding her coffee table.

Once both were seated and introductions exchanged, he went straight to the point. ‘It’s about this case of assault ma’am, the young English student, Julia Adamson. I’ve been to the hospital as well as the police station. As consul I’d appreciate any further information on the case as the accused are also Brits.’

‘Very sorry about the victim, Sr Consul, I hope that she recovers soon.’

She confirmed the procedures as briefly summarised as possible.

‘As you know, her statements will be taken as soon as she is able to do so. In the meantime, the supposed culprits, once they have made their full statements to the police, will have to await a decision from the judge. In the meantime, they’ll remain under arrest.’