Chapter 9 DopeSnow?
“Dope or Snow?”
“We have to get back to the beach,” Roberto panted as he stood up. “This is dangerous.”
Diego’s chest was rising and falling like a bellows. “Yes. The beach, the beach.”
Although no longer in the water, they were far from safe. They were clinging to a rock, and the tide was coming in. If they stayed there much longer, the waves would cover it, and they would be in an even worse situation than the one they had just overcome.
Clinging to each other like a pair of war-wounded comrades, they made their way across the seaweed-covered rocks, helping each other at the most difficult points.
Roberto was amazed at Diego having made it out to the edge of the rocks.
He might not be the sharpest tool in the box, to use an unkind expression, and he wasn’t particularly strong, but he was as brave as a lion.
When they reached the spot where Roberto’s clothes lay in a pile on the sand, Diego collapsed in exhaustion. Only then did Roberto realize that Diego had had the good sense to wrap the rope from the buoy around his waist so that the bundle came ashore with them. Roberto’s respect for the boy grew.
Still shivering, Roberto got dressed. With each layer of clothing, he felt the life returning to his body.
“I told you it was dangerous!” The boy stabbed his bony finger into Roberto’s chest. “Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous! You didn’t listen to Diego!”
“You’re absolutely right.” Roberto’s teeth were chattering violently, and he struggled to pronounce each syllable. “I was a fool. I’m really sorry.”
The boy glared at him, still put out. The right sleeve of his soccer shirt had ripped and was flapping like a flag.
“You saved my life, Diego.” Roberto shook his head as he spoke, still shocked by how close he had come to drowning. “You’re a hero.”
“Like Iron Man and Thor?”
“Much better than Iron Man and Thor, believe me.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “They’re not fit to lick your boots.”
“I’m a superhero!” Diego jumped up and down. “A superhero!”
Watching as the boy proceeded to make a series of explosive noises to go with the imaginary lasers he was firing, Roberto was overwhelmed by a sense of affection and gratitude.
While Diego fought with hordes of invaders in another dimension, Roberto turned back and looked at the raging sea. He’d had a near miss. The waves had dragged the yellow bundle to the shoreline and left it half submerged in the sand. Grabbing the rope, he pulled it out of the reach of the sea.
It was very heavy and, seeing it up close for the first time, he wondered what the hell it was.
It was a rectangular package, measuring about five feet along the sides, and one foot high.
It had thick yellow plastic around it, enclosed with a pair of stout chains for good measure.
At the point where the chains crossed was a huge padlock, and tied to this junction was the rope with the orange buoy at the other end.
Fixed to the sides was a pair of sturdy plastic fenders, like scaled-down versions of the ones he’d seen on the national park boat earlier that morning.
The fenders were no doubt there to ensure that the whole arrangement stayed afloat.
Roberto gave the bundle a shove and guessed it must weigh at least one hundred pounds.
Underneath, attached to the chains, was another rope, the one that had wrapped itself around his ankle, but this was only six feet long and hung loose.
It must originally have been attached to a weight, which would have kept the bundle underwater, far from the coast. The buoy would float on the surface while the bundle moved along a few feet below, supported by its fenders, safe from becoming snagged on the seabed but also hidden from prying eyes.
It was a simple but ingenious system. And given where they were, he thought with a shudder, the puzzle was not difficult to solve.
The bundle must have been dropped by drug smugglers or narcos to be picked up by their partners in crime, but the sea had torn it free from its weight, and the waves had then washed it ashore, where he had spotted it by pure chance.
If it hadn’t been for that coincidence, the bundle would have been smashed against the rocks until the air-filled fenders had been torn to pieces, and then it would have sunk to the bottom of the sea, with only the fish to witness its demise.
Instead, there it was, at his feet.
He smelled trouble, and the temptation to throw the thing back into the sea was almost irresistible, but his curiosity got the better of him—that and the fact that he’d almost died retrieving it from the waves.
“What’s inside?” asked Diego, who had been watching him inspect the bundle.
“I don’t have a clue, but that’s not our problem.” Roberto could feel another, harder layer below the plastic. “We have to take it to the village. Then we can call the Guardia Civil to take care of it.”
“Will they come in a hillycopter?” Diego’s eyes opened wide in excitement. “Last summer one came for a sick tourist. It was cool!”
“It’s called a ‘helicopter’—and I don’t have a clue how they’ll come.” He patted the boy on the shoulder and stared out toward the horizon. “But looking at the state of the sea, I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re going to need help, Diego.”
“I’ll go!” The boy jumped up, scattering sand as he did so, and before Roberto could say another word, he ran off, leaving a trail of indignant seagulls in his wake.
Roberto lay back down on the sand. The heat was gradually returning to his extremities as he overcame the shock. His hands trembling, he took out a cigarette and eventually managed to light it.
He exhaled, lost in thought. No doubt he’d be able to use the experience for a good scene in his novel. Or at least for a good anecdote. Did I ever tell you about the time I almost drowned rescuing a hundred-pound bundle of cocaine?
But right now, he didn’t feel like laughing. He’d just realized he would be buried by an avalanche of tiresome bureaucracy as soon as the authorities arrived. Statements, hearings, and the rest of it.
But that wasn’t the worst thing. The bundle no doubt had an owner. An angry owner who would be looking for it.
Who possibly already was.
Stay out of trouble, the skipper of the Punta Suido had told him.
For Christ’s sake, Lobeira! It didn’t take you long.
A while later, a shout roused him from his thoughts. Fifty yards away, walking along the beach, was Diego, jumping with excitement, accompanied by two people pushing a wheelbarrow.
He was surprised to see that one of them was Diego’s sister Helena, the girl who had been at Rosalía Freire’s side, and that the other was Tristán Docampo, the son of Luis.
Perhaps the two clans set aside their differences when there was an emergency.
Or maybe they distrusted each other so much that if something unexpected happened, they sent a joint delegation.
Whatever the explanation, he was delighted to see them.
Even in peak condition, he would barely be able to move the bundle on his own, and after his near-death experience, it was out of the question.
When they reached him, they stared at him open mouthed. Their gaze flitted from the yellow bundle to Roberto and back to the bundle, as if they were faced with an impossible mathematical problem.
“Hi, guys.” He raised a hand. “Diego and I found this. Can you help us?”
“Where was it?” Tristán asked when he finally recovered the power of speech.
“Floating close to the shore. We dragged it in.”
He omitted the part where they had almost drowned. The last thing he needed was to be told off for putting the boy’s life at risk. There would be time to explain properly later.
“This could be a problem,” Helena mumbled.
“These things are always a problem,” Tristán agreed, in a way that suggested this wasn’t a first. “A massive pain in the ass.”
“What do you think it is?” the girl asked. “Dope or snow?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Roberto interrupted, keen to get off the beach as quickly as possible. “It’s obviously a bad business. Let’s take it to the village and call the Guardia Civil to come get it.”
The two youngsters looked at each other but said nothing.
“We have to hand it in,” Roberto repeated. “There’s no alternative. Help me get it into the barrow.”
Between the four of them, they lifted it up. With its heavy load, the wheelbarrow sank into the soft sand, and it took them more than ten minutes of pushing, shoving, and cursing to get to the foot of the ramp.
When they reached the village, a small crowd was already waiting for them in front of the church.
Both the Freires and Docampos waited expectantly, the two clans forming distinct groups.
The tension was palpable when, sweating, they finally unloaded the barrow.
Helena and Tristán gravitated automatically toward their family groups, but Diego stayed by Roberto’s side, oblivious to everything.
“Where was it?” Rosalía Freire asked. “Who took it out of the water?”
Roberto considered his answer carefully. There was something in the atmosphere that he couldn’t put his finger on but worried him.
“I found it.” He placed his hand on the yellow plastic. “On the beach at Area dos Cans.”
“What’s inside?” Ramón Docampo spoke. The old man looked from the bundle to his grandson Tristán with an impenetrable expression on his face, as if the boy had something to do with the bundle’s unexpected appearance.
“I don’t have a clue, but it doesn’t matter,” replied Roberto, exasperated. “We have to notify the authorities. Let them deal with it.”
A heavy silence greeted his words, more eloquent than any reply.
“On the island, we like to resolve our problems in our own way.” Ramón Docampo clicked his tongue. “Let’s take a look inside.”
“Come on!” Roberto protested. “We can’t open it. It could be evidence of a crime. We can’t handle it without permission. Don’t you see?”
“There might be nothing illegal about it,” said another Docampo, a short, stocky man. “It could just be a float or some equipment.”
“That’s true,” Rosalía Freire chipped in, to his surprise. “What if it’s just some floating garbage? We’d have made the Guardia Civil come all the way out here for nothing, and with this weather, that would probably mean a helicopter trip. That doesn’t come cheap.”
“They wouldn’t be at all happy about that.” A strange smile had spread across Ramón Docampo’s face. “They’d be furious.”
“Absolutely raging.”
Roberto looked around for someone to back him up, but they all seemed to be in agreement.
He had to admit that they weren’t completely wrong.
He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they called the authorities to open up a bundle of old clothes.
The recrimination, the jokes. What people would say about the islanders panicking for no reason.
Only Antía, standing beside her mother, seemed to share his doubts, but she remained silent, a worried look on her face. Roberto exchanged a glance with her. My hands are tied, she seemed to say.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s open the damn thing and see what’s inside.”
“That’s the spirit!” Luis Docampo clapped him on the back, so hard that he almost choked. “We need tools.”
Someone ran off and returned with a hammer, an axe, and a chisel. They presented the tools to Luis, but he shook his head and pointed to Roberto.
“The one that finds it opens it,” he said with a twisted smile. “Come on, writer. Go ahead.”
Roberto picked up the hammer and the chisel and squatted down beside the bundle. He rested the end of the chisel against a link of the chain and struck it with the hammer. There was a loud clang, and the chisel almost jumped out of his hand.
“Harder, man!” Luis urged him. “We don’t have all day.”
Roberto gritted his teeth and struck another blow.
He quickly got into a rhythm and hammered away at the chain with gusto.
At each blow, small shavings of iron flew off, and the dent in the link gradually grew larger.
He was soon sweating from the effort. His hands were burning and his arms were heavy, but that didn’t stop him.
A sharp clink brought him back to reality. The link had split in two, and the chain hung loose.
“Here.” He passed the hammer to Diego without looking at him. “Hold this for me.”
He pulled the chains off and, with the tip of the chisel, slashed the yellow plastic.
Underneath was another layer of plastic, transparent and much thicker—someone had gone to a great deal of trouble waterproofing whatever was inside.
There was layer upon layer of cellophane, which he gradually cut his way through.
Finally, when he had opened up a hole large enough for his fingers, he put down the chisel and pulled hard with both hands. The plastic ripped, exposing a gap about eight inches long.
There was just one final layer of black plastic. Holding his breath, Roberto tore it off, and his eyes almost popped out.
For all his speculation about what might be inside, he hadn’t expected this.
“So?” asked Luis Docampo, impatiently. “What is it?”
By way of reply, Roberto thrust his hand inside and gingerly turned around, as if he were handling dynamite.
A faint murmur of surprise rippled through the onlookers.
In his hand was a wad of five-hundred-euro notes, held together with a rubber band. And under that was more. Much more.
The yellow bundle that had almost cost him his life was full of money.
More money than he could even imagine.