He retrieved his car from the multi-storey car park and stopped at a coffee shop a couple of blocks from the office. As he waited for his normal order, a large black coffee, he smiled to himself. He knew it was a broad generalisation, but the place was filled with uniformed patrolmen. To a man, they were ordering coffee and doughnuts; different flavours of coffee and different shapes and styles of doughnuts maybe, but coffee and doughnuts nonetheless. Maybe there was something in that urban myth, after all?
Walking back to his car, he felt the first few drops of rain. It was not the normal drizzle, but an absolute thundering downpour; rain that could actually hurt when it hit you. And even though he sprinted for his car, a distance of twenty yards or less, he was completely soaked to the skin, when he finally wrestled his key into the lock. It was like someone had pushed him into a swimming pool, fully clothed. He pulled out onto the road, turning the heater up to full blast to try and stop the shivering.
As he slowly dried out in the warmth of the cabin, he strained to remember when he had last had a full night’s sleep. He counted back for seven or eight days, and then realised he didn’t even know what day of the week it was.
He really needed to get a life.
Pulling up outside the diner, he noticed with a vague kind of disinterest that the torrential downpour had stopped. It eased back as suddenly as it had begun, into a soft misty spray. He grabbed his jacket from the back seat and shrugged it on, struggling to pull the dry material over his wet clothes.
The old fashioned bell-push jangled loudly, as he turned the handle and pushed open the door. There were only a handful of customers in the diner. They looked up as one, as he entered. He brushed the sheen of drizzle from his jacket and returned their stares. All of them turned back to what they were doing; all that is, except one.
Ryan Howard was the caricature of a drug addict. He was impossibly thin, with an acne riddled complexion. His unkempt hair was long and unruly and it sprawled in a dank and tangled mess down the back of his neck. His teeth were black and irregularly spaced and his lips were thin and bloodless, giving him a permanently unimpressed look.
The surprising reality was that Ryan had never taken drugs in his life. His had been a tougher fall from grace. He had lived the American dream and lost. An investment banker by training and trade, he had gambled everything away by the early eighties. A few bad investments followed by a messy divorce had seen him completely wiped out. Consciously or unconsciously, he had opted out of society for a while. It was easier to drink his share of hard liquor and do his share of stupid and pointless things, than face the awful reality.
There were a myriad of broken promises behind him; debtors and creditors, countless things he was ashamed of. But in all his years of hard uncompromising living, he had never done drugs.
Opting out of life had enabled him to slip into a way of existing. He never again had the drive or ambition to drag himself back into so-called civilised society. He preferred to live on the outskirts; on the periphery, looking in, but not belonging. He was not judgemental; he made and kept good friendships. It made him sad to see so many of the people around him slowly try to kill themselves.
He hated drugs and those scumbags who dealt them, but he was not an idiot. He had developed a healthy sense of self preservation, living on the margins as he did, but he liked to think he had a small social conscience, too.
So, he became an informant; nothing too serious, nothing too big, nothing that could really come back to bite him in any painful way. In fact, he was never specific at all, which was why he liked working with Dale, who understood his conflict and co-operated with him. He didn’t try to make him feel guilty. It was enough for Ryan to know that he was doing his bit, without drawing undue attention to himself.
Dale slid into the booth and settled his rump onto the leather bench opposite Ryan.
‘Good to see you, man,’ said Dale. ‘You’re looking good.’
‘No I’m not, but thanks for the compliment anyway, Agent Foster.’
Dale picked up a menu and glanced over.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked. ‘It’s just that I haven't eaten in about twenty hours.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ said Ryan.
Dale scanned the menu, before beckoning the waitress over.
‘I'll have two helpings of the pancakes with bacon and maple syrup,’ he said. ‘Oh, and a large coffee too, if I can?’
He looked across at Ryan and raised an eyebrow.
‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Ryan.
The waitress nodded, and dropped the cheque on the table.
‘It’ll be about five minutes, love,’ she said.
She looks tired, thought Dale to himself.
She looks like I feel.
‘Are you still living in that hotel?’ he asked, facing Ryan again.
‘No, I moved out of there about three months ago,’ answered Ryan. ‘I’ve got my own place now,’ he said, a little proudly.
‘That’s great,’ said Dale enthusiastically, finding that he actually meant it.
‘I got a job too,’ said Ryan. ‘Cleaning dishes in a place called Rudino’s. The pay’s not great, but it keeps me out of mischief, and gives me some spare cash after all the bills are paid; enough for a few beers at the weekend, anyway.’
Ryan sat back as the food was deposited. He watched with interest, as Dale dug into his pancakes with gusto.
‘Jesus, Agent Foster,’ Ryan exclaimed. ‘You weren’t kidding, were you? Slow down, you’ll give yourself heartburn!’
‘That was good,’ said Dale, about two minutes later, throwing his knife and fork onto the empty plate with a clatter.
He grabbed his coffee, took a sip, sat back and eyed Ryan levelly for a few seconds.
‘So Ryan,’ he stated again. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m hoping we can do something for each other,’ replied Ryan. ‘You know, a little bit of back scratching.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, you know I told you that I had a job,’ said Ryan.
‘Yep’
‘Well, it turns out the place is connected,’ said Ryan.
Dale looked blankly at him.
‘Made, connected, do I need to spell it out for you?’ said Ryan.
‘You mean Mob?’ asked Dale loudly, causing a few heads to swivel in his direction.
‘Christ, Agent Foster, I didn’t propose that you should actually shout the word out in a crowded diner, but yeah that’s what I mean,’ said Ryan exasperatedly, keeping his voice low. ‘For a clever guy, you can be awfully dumb sometimes.’
‘Sorry,’ said Dale, suitably chastised. ‘Anyway, go on.’
‘You know the way I always listen out for anything interesting; any little titbits. Well, there are a couple of waiters; general dogs-body types working in the place. They can’t keep their mouths shut. About a week ago, one of them told me that something big was about to go down.’
Dale’s heart sank. It was just what he needed; the next fucking big thing.
‘That's what I thought at first,’ said Ryan. ‘It’s okay Agent Foster; I saw that look on your face. You think, this guy is bullshitting me and to be honest, that’s what I thought too. I said to myself, these guys are trying too hard. They just want to impress me; to show me what big, connected men they are.’
Ryan paused for a few seconds.
‘But here’s the thing. They were adamant, both of them. Their stories never wavered. And then I started hearing little snippets all over the street. Some of my Junkie pals are nearly salivating at the prospect.’
‘Prospect of what?’ asked Dale.
‘Nothing concrete, Agent Foster, but the word is definitely getting out. In fact, there are two words getting out; it’s going to be big and it’s going to be new.’
‘I don't think there's much there I can use,’ said Dale.
He sighed.
‘There’s too much conjecture and nothing really
concrete of any description.’
He looked at Ryan.
‘But do you know what? It’s been good to see you.’
He drained the last of his coffee, and made to stand up.
‘That's a pity,’ said Ryan. ‘I thought it would give you some pointers. Especially when they said it was going to be so big; like a hurricane, they said.’
Dale was halfway out of his seat when he heard the word hurricane. He sat back down heavily.
‘What did you say?’ he asked slowly.
‘Which bit?’ asked Ryan. ‘That something big was going down.’
‘No, no; after that,’ replied Dale. ‘What did you say after that?’
Ryan thought about it for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and then his face cleared.
‘Now I remember. The words he used were there’s a storm coming. Both of them used that phrase. I remember, because I automatically associated it with Desert Storm. A lot of my street buddies are veterans of the first gulf war.’
‘Are you sure about the words?’ asked Dale. ‘This is important now.’
‘Yep, absolutely, they both used the word Storm. To be honest with you, it didn’t strike me as odd, until you mentioned it just now,’ answered Ryan.
Dale held out his hand as he got back up and shook Ryan’s warmly.
‘Take care of yourself man,’ he said.
He dropped a fifty dollar note on the table.
‘And have yourself a beer on me at the weekend, you hear me?’
‘Thanks, Agent Foster,’ said Ryan. ‘And you look after yourself too. These connected people; these made guys. They are not nice fellas, if you get my drift.’
Dale left the bar quickly. He walked over to his car, his mind in turmoil. James and his story of big things; he would have discounted it without hesitation, but Ryan's corroboration changed the game completely. And the use of the word Storm; it was way too much of a co-incidence to be a co-incidence. Something big was definitely being planned. Now he just had to work out what it was.
He looked at his watch. It was six am. Who needs sleep at all? He jumped into his car and headed back across town.
When he got back to the office, he changed into his emergency shirt; the new one he always kept in the bottom drawer. He pulled all the records related to drug misdemeanours for the previous two weeks.
Within five minutes, he had a stack about a foot high on his desk. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or even if he was looking for the right thing. As the minutes ticked past, the stack of processed files grew bigger, but he was none the wiser.
Then, just as he was about to throw in the towel, he saw the single lonely word he was looking for, scrawled in barely legible handwriting; Storm.
Chapter 11 – Adversaries
12th May 2011 – Two days after the Storm.
No prudent antagonist thinks light of his adversaries. – Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.
Dave Keegan was an exceptionally observant man. He had joined the Irish defence forces when he was just eighteen years old. His adventurous spirit had refused to contemplate a life stacking shelves in the local supermarket; much more of a wild goose, than a contented farmyard rooster.
The Irish were amongst the most well-known and well respected of the UN peacekeeping forces and Dave had learnt very quickly that being observant saves your life. He had spent twenty years as a peacekeeper; twenty years wearing the light blue beret in war-torn dictatorships; twenty years of slow boring routines, punctuated by intense periods of adrenaline fuelled action.
He was decommissioned out of the army at thirty eight years old; an exceptionally young age to be drawing a pension. When he’d moved back to Cork, he couldn't settle. The army had given him a purpose. Boring though it was most of the time, the army had given him a routine; a reason to get up in the morning. Most of all though, he missed the camaraderie, and strangely enough, he missed the action too. Even though it had been hazardous at best and downright dangerous at worst, he had to admit it to himself; he missed the thrills.
He wasn't religious and he was pretty ambivalent when it came to morality, so as the legitimate employment opportunities dried up, and he ended up on the social, he found himself increasingly drawn to the seedier side of Cork city; the distasteful and disturbing underbelly.
He had been standing alone in the line for the nightclub, when his life had changed forever. An indiscriminate punch, thrown by a drunk in the general direction of his not particularly attractive girlfriend, had inadvertently hit Dave on the side of the head. It had not particularly hurt; more of a sting really, but it had triggered a deeply buried and suppressed reaction. Without him even realising it was happening, twenty years of rigorous self defence training kicked in.
Before Dave knew it, the guy was on his back on the floor and Dave’s fist was raised to strike. He blinked and smiled; it had been a year since he had felt so invigorated. The bouncers quickly intervened and as he was led away, he heard an affronted scream.
‘That guy’s a fucking nut job!’
Dave didn't object or put up any resistance; he had learned years ago to never needlessly provoke. And anyway, he thought wryly, at least he was getting into the club for free.
He was led down a darkened corridor and up two flights of stairs, and that was when he found himself face-to-face with his destiny; the man they called Black Swan.
The office was dark. The two bouncers brought him to the centre of the room. One kept a grip on his arm, while the other leaned across the expanse of mahogany and whispered something into the shadows. Both men then assumed positions on either side of the room. The man seated at the desk leaned forward. He was dressed head to toe in black Armani. Dave guessed his age at around forty five; slightly older than himself.
‘Anto says you were causing a disturbance outside,’ said the man distinctly.
Dave couldn’t place the accent; not yet at least.
‘I was just minding my own business, when some idiot in front of me started swinging his fists,’ responded Dave indignantly. ‘He tried to hit a girl.’
He highlighted the word girl in his distinctive Cork lilt.
‘I don’t like fighting outside my club,’ said the man, ignoring the remark. ‘It brings down the tone of the place. I’m trying to cultivate a high class clientele. I don’t need this kind of shit.’
With that, the man imperceptibly nodded and sat back in his seat; like he was an observer or part of an audience.
Dave had been waiting for them to make a move on him; since he had been escorted into the office, in fact. As the roundhouse came at him, he blocked it high and countered with a palm strike to the man’s temple. He managed to get a huge amount of rotation and speed into the hit, and it dropped the bouncer like a sack of potatoes.
He whirled to face the other man, who was watching open mouthed. He held his hands up as he had been taught, and kept unblinking eye contact with the second bodyguard. As he suspected, the confused and bewildered bouncer looked toward the man behind the desk for some direction; he was ushered out with an impatient wave of a beautifully manicured hand.
The man behind the desk leaned forward again and regarded Dave with a kind of bemused indifference.
‘So, you know how to look after yourself, anyway,’ he said quietly, and with a slight tinge of annoyance.
‘In fairness, he did attack me,’ replied Dave with a smile. ‘And anyway, wasn’t that the point of this charade; see how the local gombeen reacts to some aggression?’
A groaning sound started to emanate from the prone bodyguard. Dave was secretly relieved; it had been a long time since his skills had been called into use, and a palm strike to the temple could kill. He helped the bouncer up and sat him in one of the chairs, as he started to come around.
‘You’re a cool customer, I’ll give you that,’ said the man behind the desk, ignoring the previous comment.
‘Thank you,’ said Dave. ‘I'll take that as a compliment.’
&nbs
p; ‘Can you drive?’ asked the man suddenly, the turn in the conversation taking Dave completely by surprise.
‘That's an unusual question in this day and age,’ said Dave. ‘I thought everyone could drive?’
‘How would you like to come and work for me?’ asked the man, ignoring his response.
He was the sort of man who drove a conversation. He was not part of the talk, he controlled it.
‘I’m looking for a driver; someone who can ferry me around, but also somebody who can take care of himself....’
He stopped for a minute or so.
‘....and also take care of me, should the need arise. Are you interested?’
He placed huge emphasis on the word me.
Dave considered the question for a second.
‘What kind of work are you in?’ he asked.
The man smiled.
‘Let’s just say, it pays for me to be discrete in all my business dealings,’ he said.
‘Is it illegal?’ asked Dave.
‘Would that bother you?’ asked the man.
Dave thought about his response for a couple of minutes. He thought about the adrenaline that was coursing through his body, the slightly raised pulse caused by the release of the endorphins, the natural high that combat and danger always released. He hadn’t felt as alive in months.
‘No, I don't believe it would,’ he said, a slow smile spreading over his face.
Dave dragged his attention back to the present. His eyes scanned the road, taking everything in. He hated this place and what it stood for.
With the army, he had visited many war-torn countries; the Lebanon, Liberia, Chad, Somalia. He had witnessed the devastation of war; buildings levelled by high explosives, half destroyed houses, vandalism and looting on a widespread scale. He had seen the destruction that war could wage on innocent civilian populations; poor dirt farmers and fishermen. He had seen at first-hand the annihilation of communities to further the selfish aims of despotic dictators. But those had been developing economies; so called third world countries. This was first world. This was the supposedly developed and civilised west.
He looked at the row upon row of burnt out houses. Homes boarded up against vandalism and arson, some with half inch steel plate to protect the windows. The scorched and twisted wreckage of cars littered every intersection, and rubble and garbage were strewn across the streets like confetti at a wedding.
The Storm Protocol Page 11
