The Galician Parallax (31 page)

‘Not at all, sir…’

‘Call me Ralph.’

‘Ralph. It’s a real pleasure to be able to help.’

Totally unexpectedly the ambassador then suggested, ‘How about a cold beer; somewhere we can talk?’

Stan had checked with the office to make sure there were no immediate problems to be resolved. A quick “I love you” message to his wife on his mobile had closed his routine agenda for the day. At the Irish Harp just around the corner from the hotel a relaxed ambassador and a not-so-calm honorary consul were in to their first Heinekens of the evening. Despite being well briefed beforehand Sir Ralph broke the ice with a few obvious formalities.

‘I understand your main concern has been the welfare of sick passengers off the cruise ships. I’ve read your reports and the unnecessary problems caused by the insurance companies. Have I got it right?’

Stan was still munching a couple of peanuts. ‘Trouble is that most hospital staff here don’t speak English and these poor old dears feel abandoned. Trying to sort their repatriation and insurance coverage is a real hassle. I try to do my bit.’

The ambassador changed the subject; this time he caught Stan by surprise. ‘Is it true that this part of Spain is the gateway for cocaine traffic from South America? At least, that is what the Madrid press is always on about. How do the locals feel about this accusation?’

It was the first time that Stan had given the drug business any thought. Every week, the police or the civil guards were arresting somebody caught red-handed with a haul of cocaine or other illegal substances and the news became no different to a standard weather report.

Before he could answer, the ambassador continued, ‘Does anyone have any idea of the amounts that are handled on a daily or monthly basis? All we hear about is the arrest of couriers but never a conviction of the real criminals.’

Having a gut feel for what the ambassador was driving at Stan ended the topic to move on to more trivial matters.

‘I’ve never had any Brit arrested for drugs since I’ve been consul. I suppose there could always be a first time though.’

Stan got back home just in time to put baby Gabriel to bed.

‘Got your message,’ said Yolanda, ‘I liked it.’

By ten-thirty, Stan was fast asleep on the sofa. The ten o’clock television movie had lost its thrill.

Sir Ralph spent the next day in Santiago at a private lunch with the president of the Galician Government with all the normal diplomatic formalities that amounted to nothing. Stan agreed to meet up with him and the commercial attaché at the hotel on the Wednesday so that all could drive up to the exhibition centre prior to attending the opening ceremony of the forthcoming world event. Fortunately, the governor of the Falkland Islands had been taken care of by one of the sponsors. The real show was about to kick off.

Sr Perez, through his stooge informers, had been requested a few months back to open up a new supply line to a group of supposedly North African clients. Although he knew that the going rate in Algiers and Morocco for a few grams was nearly ten times that of most European capitals and could therefore up the wholesale price, being a cautious Galician, he was wary at first of any direct dealings with an unknown number of non-Western nationals. Most transactions were with Europe. When Donald Simmons had asked him for a larger cut in the drug-running pie, Sr Perez seized at the opportunity. Having a foreigner act as intermediary was ideal. Should any mishap occur on the final delivery, it would be almost impossible to trace back to the source.

After several meetings, the amounts and commission were agreed whereby Donald would receive ten per cent of the going price to be deposited direct into an offshore bank account. Sr Perez had worked out a delivery plan including exact locations and timings of each transfer. Donald would travel by air to Galicia, rent a car and drive down to Vigo. After booking into a predetermined hotel, he would return the car to the rental agency and wait until the following day to meet with the Arab customers in the hotel lounge and carry out a drug-for-money swap. His next step was to hand over the money to Sr Perez at his mansion in Cangas and return to the UK acting as another normal tourist. The way the arrangement had been set up was straightforward, swift but above all fail-safe for Sr Perez should Donald be caught red-handed. The link to Maiden Voyages would probably be investigated, but then that was the Brits’ problem thought Sr Perez, who knew that the Galician side was well protected thanks to informers and paid-off corrupt officials. The yacht fender connection could never be proven as a cover-up plan was always at the ready for any suspicious investigation should the main supply chain be jeopardised.

It was a miserable, drizzly day when Donald’s Iberia flight from Heathrow landed at Santiago. Fog that nearly threatened a return to London caused an overall delay of nearly an hour. Being his first new run, Donald was apprehensive and nervous. He tried to control his emotions as he exited the aircraft and walked down the finger towards the awaiting checkpoints.
You’re just another tourist
, he kept muttering to himself,
no big deal
.

Once through customs and immigration he made his way to the car rental desk and signed off for the smallest Citroën Picasso, inconspicuous enough to avoid any possible suspicion. Dressed in jeans and a winter duffel coat his only luggage was a small rucksack and briefcase with his HP laptop. Thirty minutes later, he was driving south along the AP-9 heading towards an industrial estate in Porriño, not far from the Portuguese border and within an hour was at the agreed warehouse inside the compound meeting up with two of Sr Perez’s trusted employees. Once the large doors were shut there was no wasting of any time. Donald was handed a small suitcase containing twelve one-kilo packets of the best grade Colombian cocaine. It looked just like another piece of luggage. Within minutes, and making sure that there was no one near the compound, he bid a short and sharp farewell and was again driving off towards the city. Although Donald was now extremely nervous he managed to control himself.
Keep calm
, he kept repeating as he approached the Madrid Avenue, the last leg of the motorway. The next couple of miles were almost nightmarish as he weaved his way through the sporadic traffic jams in the congested streets that led to the seafront.

He parked the Citroën in the Bahia Hotel car park and with the help of a bellboy was soon at the front desk checking in. His next instruction was to dispose of the hired car at the Hertz rental desk a few blocks from the hotel, spend the rest of the evening enjoying a beer or a glass of wine with a selection of tapas and await the ordeal of the following day.

Donald didn’t sleep a wink. He tossed and turned the whole night. At 5.30 a.m. he couldn’t take it any longer. Minutes seemed like hours as he uselessly checked all his personal belongings over and over again making sure his passport or his laptop had not taken a sabbatical.
As if they would
, he thought. He kept well away from the suitcase with the drugs that were concealed in the room’s closet. Donald was already showered and dressed when the room phone rang. It was gone eight-thirty.

‘Sr Simmons?’ said the voice at the other end.

Donald confirmed.

Using old spook-style vocabulary, an agreed password was exchanged to confirm identity. Minutes later, seated round one of the lounge business tables on the ground floor, Donald and two Algerians were nonchalantly discussing a simulated business transaction with faked exchange of documents no different to other hotel customers around the room. They even ordered a round of coffee and
churros
.

The real transaction was a swap; the suitcase for an envelope full of five-hundred-Euro bills to the tune of three hundred and forty thousand, twenty-eight thousand per kilo. Thanks to the underground drug intelligence network, Sr Perez knew that the Algerian groups were desperate for the drugs and that it was in everyone’s interest to rely on honesty on both sides by a direct, innocent-looking exchange in public rather than the cross-checking of cash against goods in a secret rendezvous location. The system worked. An hour later, Donald was waiting in line with other passengers to take the ferry across the bay to Cangas to meet up with Sr Perez on the other side of the bay. They’d agreed at a well-known haunt, the Alondras, frequented by many of Sr Perez’s yachting contacts.

‘Here you are,’ said Donald as he handed Sr Perez the envelope that he immediately placed into the inside pocket of his jacket. In exchange, Sr Perez gave Donald a card with the number of a bank account.

‘Forty thousand will be waiting for you the day after tomorrow; till next time, Mr Simmons.’

A large makeshift podium had been erected alongside one of the side walls of the building right opposite part of the car park to accommodate the hundred or so dignitaries that were to attend the World Fishing Exhibition. A small stand at one end with a microphone was at the ready for the numerous speeches that were scheduled prior to the inauguration of the main event. An approximately twenty-foot passageway separated the elevated platform from the two to three thousand guests that had seating arrangements on the opposite side. Stan with Commercial Attaché Alfredo San Cristobal were in the front row opposite the speakers whilst HMA was seated next to the minister of the Falkland Islands, together with the other VIPs ten spaces from the left side of the elevated platform. It had just turned 12 p.m. when a troop of Galician dancers and pipers made their triumphant entry and invaded the open space amidst the roar and applause of all those present. The show had begun.

Once the Galician act was over, it was the Welsh Guards’ turn to steal the limelight. This group of military musicians, formed way back in 1915, together with the regiment of the same name turned out in full redcoat regalia and despite the mid-September mild temperatures, the band of nearly fifty assorted players ranging from flutes and piccolos to trombones and tubas at the command of Director Major Philip Shannon kicked off their own concert. Their repertoire was a multicoloured cocktail of rhythms ranging from classical to reggae without forgetting to honour their hosts with their own contribution of some of the well-known folkloric Galician ballads.

By one-thirty the party of invitees led by Don Alfonso, the president of the exhibition proceeded towards the entrance where a plethora of stands eagerly awaited the guests to show off the pride of their products. Dozens of waiters and waitresses mingled through the crowd with an assortment of delicacies to be sipped with an equal number of offered beverages at various checkpoints inside the hall. Stan accompanied Alfonso whilst Sir Ralph was busy doing his own diplomatic thing with the higher-ups.

‘Heard a lot about you,’ said Alfonso as he swallowed yet another slice of octopus from one of the tapas posts. Pointing nonchalantly around the stands he continued, ‘Coming from Cornwall you must be very familiar with this atmosphere.’

A short burst of angst was soon overcome. ‘It’s amazing how technology has progressed. In my family’s days they had to fight for their living. It’s all satellite controlled today. Poor fish.’

Stan realised what he had said and soon corrected himself. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m in favour of the fishing industry but…’ nodding his head in the direction of one of the Japanese stands, ‘then there’s the dark side.’

At that moment, Stan’s mobile rang.

Two hours later, after a brief sandwich, he was on his way speeding towards Santiago airport. A British middle-aged woman had lost her passport and was due to fly back to Heathrow on the 5 p.m. flight. She had to be given an emergency one otherwise the Galician authorities would not allow her to board the aircraft.

Stan’s contribution to the British participation in the fishing exhibition jamboree had ended.

Osama bin Laden was satisfied. He had achieved his goal. Since the late 1990s the spreading al-Qaeda cells throughout the world began to work independently and plan their own terrorist attacking strategies without assistance from the masterminding HQ in the Taliban hills of Kandahar. The attacks on the World Trade Centre in the USA were a masterpiece of planning. To confirm the uniqueness of the network Osama would offer a simple video at timely intervals with universal threats at the infidels. They would immediately activate the panic buttons around the world and despite increasing security measures at areas where masses of innocent public citizens could gather the Western world was no longer a safe place to live or work. From the Caucuses to the Philippines, Mauritania to Somalia, Paris to Madrid, secret meetings were being held continually ready to set off a series of suicide bombers wherever the particular cell thought it would hurt the West most. They had even set up a fantastic network of financing, especially in Europe. Drugs were at the heart of the matter. Hundreds of lower-echelon members stole passports and credit cards later used by the criminals to obtain money through false sale transactions that were later used to buy drugs for eventual resale to the drug-addiction world thus increasing their capital even further. Their illicit finances were overflowing with money to carry out the most outrageous attacks anywhere in the world. Despite the ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan against terrorism, Osama bin Laden was still at large. His menacing messages continued to influence the entire international community.

It didn’t take long before another sensational attack at Western democracy took place in the Middle East.

The small press team from Reuters had just finished breakfast when the news came through of a series of bomb attacks in the city. All they knew was that apart from several police stations, one had been targeted at the Red Cross HQ and that there could be hundreds of casualties. Jeff Reynolds and Joshua Bell, both reporters, and Jaime Falcon, cameraman, had been working together since the end of the “declared” war back in May.