The Galician Parallax (43 page)

‘Remember the parting words of Claude Rains in the film
Casablanca
?’ he said, ‘“Round up the usual suspects”. Well, that’s what we need to do right now.’ He pointed at the dossiers placed on the large table before each member of the forum. ‘We’ve got dozens of suspected al-Qaeda cells around Europe and Spain is riddled with them.’

Although there were no other security personnel from the rest of Europe, most countries’ authorities had supplied their own set of checks and balances and most pointed at Spain as the main Osama bin Laden hotbed of activity. It was no reflection on any weakness on the part of the Spaniards, just the most vulnerable country due to its geographical position with the constant flow of immigrants, especially from the north of Africa attracting the trained “warriors” of fundamentalist Islam from around the Muslim world.

‘I’ll start with the conclusion that has been reached and then work back to the details.’

He looked around the table receiving nods of agreement from all members of the group.

‘Al-Qaeda will attack the United Kingdom. There is no doubt about it and it will be aimed at transportation. Starting from the least possible target to the most likely it is our bet that airlines and airports are out and that ships and ports are in, despite strict security control at both.’

The American participants kept silent whilst the Spaniards raised some doubts, although they were unfounded.

‘If they’ve been collaborating with ETA as we all know why not go for a supermarket or a concert hall? It’s easier,’ said Suarez del Monte.

‘You see,’ added General Pelegrino, who had been involved over the past twenty years chasing the Basque terrorist movement, ‘trying to attack a ship can be divided into two parts; either it’s carried out in a port or at sea and then we still need to ask ourselves if the attack is aimed at the people on board or the ship itself, if you see what I mean.’

The American general butted in, ‘We’ve had the experience with
USS Cole
back in 2000; remember? The bastards hit both the ship and the crew using a suicide dinghy.’

Each team of experts had studied the methods used over the past decade by the Islamic terrorists to the n
^th
degree. They indulged in hundreds of “what-if” games by the splintered sub groups within each department and in each country yet they still had no idea what al-Qaeda would do next. The only real agreement was that Britain was first on the list as the next target. It was Francis Pastoni from the CIA, who had been silent for most of the two-hour meeting that politely raised his hand and then bluntly blasted away.

‘Our department raised the alarm two years ago about an attempt in Spain and suggested you check out a murder that occurred in Galicia of a bunch of ETA guys and work from there. Then what happened? Zilch. Eighteen months later the trains in Madrid go up in smoke and everyone wakes up in stupefied horror; right? You can bet your bottom dollar that there was a connection and nobody acted on it.’

Aaron followed up on his boss. ‘We’ve now got a red alert on Britain but it’s an island with pretty tightly controlled borders so the chances are that if they attack the mainland it will be within but, if they attack offshore, it may come from Spain.’

It was Pastoni again. ‘Our bet is the same lot could have been plotting the attack for months. Who gives a shit what the target is, what we’ve got to do is get to them before they act; it’s that simple.’

The Spaniards were apprehensive.

‘We’ve still got a major problem with ETA. You all know that,’ said General Pelegrino. ‘Christ. We’ve been after them for years. As for the Arabs…’ He just shook his head. The Madrid attack was still too vivid in his mind.

The RN minesweeper’s scheduled time of arrival was 10 a.m. Stan was down at the docks half an hour earlier having cleared the usual administrative paperwork for authority to dock the previous day. It was a cold and miserable day, thin rain clouding visibility down to a five-mile radius.

‘It’s like trying to spot an ant in a desert, isn’t it Sr Consul?’ said Chema as both he and Stan were on the wharf waiting for the warship.

‘If it was one of my regulars, we’d have no problem, right, Captain?’

Fifteen minutes later,
HMS Piper
was manoeuvring to dock along the inside of the main port wharf. The British warship had made headlines in the Spanish media four years earlier. It had been involved in the rescue of the Galician crew of the
Maruxa
, a trawler operating off the Irish Box fishing area that mysteriously sank in March 1999. Stan Bullock was an officer at the Falmouth coastguard at the time. He took the Mayday call and handled the ship-to-shore coordination of the operation. Six months later,
HMS Piper
, during a visit to Villagarcia, was welcomed as a hero and offered the most lavish of hospitality given to an RN vessel in recent years. The fact that she was chasing the trawler under suspicion of drug trafficking was never revealed and the British Maritime Agency eventually wrote off the incident as another maritime mishap. This time round it was Vigo’s turn to host the crew and its officers during their rest and recreation stopover before returning to her base at Plymouth. The whole incident had been kept as a recorded memento in the ship’s historical log with Stan’s name, as well as Lieutenant Commander “Les” Sheppard, its captain at the time, amongst those vital people involved in the incident.

‘Good morning, Mr Bullock,’ said Lieutenant Commander Steve Hamilton, ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘Didn’t know I was that famous with you people?’

The lieutenant commander shook Stan’s hand. ‘Before you ask, I’m not related to Lady Hamilton.’

At that moment a ship’s steward knocked on the cabin door and entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits. Once they had both helped themselves to some coffee Stan began by going over the day’s programme of activities.

‘Just to confirm my message, our first interview is with the local Spanish Navy commander and then up to the town council for a meeting with the mayor.’

He handed the captain a folder containing the sporting events, timetables and arrangements with the local clubs for transportation, as well as a short list of invitees for the evening cocktail party.

‘One other point, the local police have assured me that if there’s any trouble, you know, drunken brawls or the like, provided no one gets hurt they’ll normally bring the lads back to the ship.’

‘Fine.’

The captain looked at the clock on the cabin wall. There was nearly another hour before their first appointment, time to kill with any other topics on the agenda.

‘Tell me, Mr Bullock.’

‘Stan, please.’

‘OK… Stan. We’re constantly on the lookout for drug smuggling off our coasts, seems to be our main task these days, but what about this end? We all know how involved Galician drug barons are. As consul, do you have to get involved in this sordid world of narcotics?’

Stan was taken by surprise. In all the planning and scheming that he and Sergio were now involved in Stan had not taken the British Navy into account. He’d worked out all possible angles should the British Government become aware of his “snooping” so far. He’d broken a few minor rules but had not yet overstepped his boundaries to the extent that he would be jeopardising his own position as HBC.

He was still deliberating on his answer when the lieutenant commander added, ‘Feel free to drop the Admiralty a note on anything you think can help us.’ He paused, ‘…Through the attachés office, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Just before going to lunch on board the ship, Stan stopped off at his office to pick up Yolanda who was also invited together with the wives of the other authorities.

‘This came this morning.’

She handed him a letter addressed to the British consul.

With glee she added, ‘Thought it may be urgent.’

The remit was from the A Lama prison. As Yolanda stood by with her arms crossed, still smiling, Stan hurriedly opened the envelope. It read:

Dear Sir
,

Not knowing when you would come again I thought you should know right away that I spoke to the persons you asked me to several times. They are bad. Told them police are looking for the murderer of the English yachtsman. You should have seen their faces Mr Consul. They muttered on between them about telling people in Madrid. The other day they caught me again and wanted to know about the IRA plans in London. Oh, I forgot, I told them we were going to bomb London and not to interfere with our own plans. They said that it didn’t matter. I’m not sure what it meant. They also said that Madrid didn’t care any more about the murdered Englishman and that it would be taken care of
.

Signed
,

Paddy Nolan

Stan was puzzled with the last statement in Paddy’s letter. What did he mean by the Madrid lot would take care of it?
Take care of what?
he thought.

‘Fan letter?’

Her husband was still deep in thought as she tugged at his sleeve. He paused for a moment and then looked up at her.

‘I suppose Lieutenant Quiroga will work it out.’

‘Men.’

The
Ocean Princess
had set sail two days earlier en route to Southampton thus ending the year’s cruise activity. The overload due to the port stevedore strike at the Vigo docks had been resolved and business at the Mauro Shipping Agency was back to normal as the end of the year approached. Stan took advantage of the lull to travel up to Corunna taking Yolanda with him on a “mini-break” as he phrased it. It was also a chance for her to meet up with Sergio and Gloria as the “sleuths” had agreed to exchange notes and finalise any last-minute details of their investigation to date before Sergio’s meeting with Colonel Lobeira. They arranged to meet at the British cemetery.

During the latter part of the nineteenth century and early part of the twentieth, Galicia had a thriving British community. In 1929, the British Government purchased a plot of land in the heart of the city and built the present cemetery as a burial ground for its citizens. However, as the community began to dwindle and those remaining preferred to bury their next of kin back in the UK, by the end of World War II the cemetery fell into disuse. The last Brit buried there was in 1982 and was that of a youngster who committed suicide and had no next of kin. Nevertheless, the British Government held on to the ownership and had come to an agreement with the town council for its upkeep and maintenance. The local community still considered it as part of the heritage of the city. Stan had never visited it whilst Yolanda was more familiar with the site as her father had taken her there on a couple of occasions during his reign as consul.

‘Many strange characters are buried here, including the German consul who died in 1914, just before World War I,’ said Yolanda as she pointed at a magnificent stone grave in the northern corner of the cemetery.

Stan was still perplexed at the sanctity of the place. Thanks to its isolated walled surrounding, the peace and quiet atmosphere seemed at odds with the bustling traffic careering down the streets at either side only a few feet away. They checked out another grave that belonged to an unknown sailor off
HMS Essex
. There was no date or name, just a piece of a headstone with the name of the RN supply vessel that had been a regular visitor during the 1870s.

‘Appropriate place for a meeting, Sr Consul,’ said Sergio as he and Gloria entered the premises through the main gate.

Stan and Yolanda were in the middle of the grounds overlooking yet another ancient grave. After the usual shaking of hands and introductions, Gloria remembered meeting Stan during the rape case of the young British Erasmus student.

‘I suppose it was quite a shock for you, Sr Consul.’ Addressing Yolanda she said, ‘I’ve dealt with many similar cases and they still make me sick.’

Yolanda didn’t answer. Her own ordeal years ago came to mind.

Meanwhile, Sergio was busy walking around the grounds inspecting each and all the tombstones. Stan left the two women to continue with their chit-chat to join him. As he reached the lieutenant overlooking one of graves he said, ‘I bet none of these were drug runners or terrorists.’

Quick off the mark Sergio answered, ‘They were non-existent in those days, Sr Consul; if so, the authorities would’ve just shot them.’

‘Didn’t know you were a fascist?’

Minutes later, both men began to walk back to the women who were still immersed in an exchange of “getting to know you” conversation. Just before they reached them Sergio grabbed hold of Stan’s arm.

‘How much does your wife know about the situation?’

‘Everything.’

‘You’re certain the Irish recluse is on the level, Lieutenant? The IRA connection was a fake and not a possibility?’

Sergio was in Colonel Lobeira’s office briefing him as much as he could on the findings to date and had stressed that an imminent strike was on the cards.

‘We’re convinced that it’s an al-Qaeda cell, or several back in Madrid, sir.’

The colonel’s arms were loosely dangling down his side as his hands tapped away at the side of his chair. It was a habit he’d developed during his student days, especially during examinations when his nerves were on edge.

‘OK, Lieutenant, I’ll pass this on to Madrid.’

He got up from his chair and faced his subordinate. ‘If your hunches are right, you’ve done a good job, son.’ He began to laugh. ‘I’d love to see the faces of some of those boffins back in HQ when the shit hits the fan at top level and they have to call back on us for help.’

As Sergio was about to leave, the colonel reminded Sergio of the continuing drug problem.

‘Don’t for one moment drop your guard, Lieutenant. The bastards are no different to the others.’

When Stan returned to his office in the afternoon after his visit to the British cemetery, he was confronted with another mishap. Justino Padilla was waiting for him with the news.