The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  It was easy to see how the boss made money; how his business flourished. These communities were decimated; where hope was nothing more than a different name for drugs, and the worst of it was, he had no sympathy for them. The kids were out of control; parents caring more for how much booze their social welfare would buy on a Thursday night, than where their children were and what they were doing.

  Society had well and truly broken down, apparently because there was nothing for the kids to do. Dave spat forcefully out of the window. Try growing up on a farm in West Cork, scratching a living from a few meagre acres. Bring back National service; that would give them something to do. He hadn’t done so badly out of the army life, and if there was anything he was afraid of, it certainly wasn’t hard work.

  He looked around the interior of the car; his opulent surroundings couldn’t have been in starker contrast to the devastation outside. He was in a black Mercedes CLK 500, an extremely luxurious car even at the base model. But this one wasn't exactly as it had left the factory. A month in Saudi Arabia getting some bespoke modifications meant it could withstand an assault from anything up to and including anti-tank rounds. His boss had shrugged at the added expense.

  ‘Goes with the territory,’ he’d said levelly.

  The first time he'd heard it, Dave thought Black Swan was a very odd name for a drug boss, or for any crime boss. Surely, your nickname was supposed to strike terror into the hearts of your opponents, not conjure up images of Hans Christian Andersson fairy tales. But the more he worked with his boss, the more he realised what an apt description it really was. For a start, his boss wore only black. Not just any old dark colours, but always Armani black, nothing else. His shoes were handmade Italian leather, imported from Turin, again only black.

  In almost two years of working closely with him, Dave had never seen his boss lose his temper. Even in the most stressful of situations, he exuded a calm professionalism. He had a deep serenity like a swan, combined with an exceptional work ethic; peaceful and composed above the water, with legs going like the clappers under the surface.

  The part that no one ever saw was the internal conflict. The only signs that gave him away to people who really knew him were his eyes. The Japanese called them the windows to the soul. Whatever they were called, if you caught sight of the glint, you didn’t argue. They became empty and expressionless; showing no emotions of any kind really, just a black nothingness.

  He glanced up at the rear view mirror. His boss was engrossed in paperwork. Meticulous and fastidious were the only words you could use to describe his attitude to book keeping and accounting.

  ‘Dave,’ he’d said once. ‘Just because what we do is illegal, it doesn’t mean we don’t treat it like any other business. I’ve got suppliers, I’ve got demand, I’ve got profit and loss and I’ve got staff cost. In fact, I’ve got the same challenges as any other business. But do you want to know the difference between me and all the little get rich quick gangsters? Those disrespectful punks, who think they can make a few bob? I’ll tell you; the difference is that I can account for every penny I make, every single red cent. That is the differentiator and that is why I am top dog.’

  Dave’s phone rang. It was the ride of the valkyries.

  Da dan da da da da dan da da da da dan da da da da dan da da da.

  He smiled secretly to himself; he’d always loved Apocalypse Now, especially the Robert Duvall character.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered.

  ‘The eagle has landed,’ said a tinny, disembodied voice.

  Chapter 12 – Enforcement

  12th May 2011 – Two days after the Storm.

  All that makes existence valuable to anyone depends on the enforcement of restraints upon the actions of other people. – John Stuart Mill.

  Dave smiled at the code word as he hung up, quickly becoming serious again as he cleared his throat.

  ‘They’ve secured the package, boss,’ said Dave. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Yea, great, let’s head over there,’ answered Black Swan, ‘and don’t forget to stop at Mocha-Mocha and pick me up a skinny latte on the way. Oh, and whatever you’re having yourself of course,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  Twenty minutes later, and with coffees safely procured, they pulled up outside an abandoned warehouse, deep in the countryside above Cobh. As he got out of the car and held open the rear door, Dave could smell the sea; could detect the faint aroma of salt in the air. He could almost feel the sand being blown onto his face, as he listened to the harsh shrieks of the seagulls competing for the tastiest scraps of garbage.

  The warehouse itself was a small industrial unit. It had been built at the height of the Celtic Tiger and had never actually been used for storage or gainful productivity; it was utilised now for rather more unseemly activities.

  At first, the violence required from him in the course of his work had shocked and appalled Dave. Even when no violence was involved, the levels of threat and menace required to get anything done had been incredibly unsettling.

  It was never nice to observe humanity at its most base level.

  But as the months passed and blurred into years, he was shocked to discover that he was becoming used to it; no, had become used to it. He was numbed to the brutality and terror, almost unfeeling in some respects. It was a safety device; he knew that all too well. You couldn't think about it that much; there but for the grace of God....

  The Warehouse was completely empty, apart from a cheap IKEA desk that sat in the middle of the floor, two chairs facing each other across the expanse of cheap oak veneer. The muscle duo, Anto and Kevin, stood at either end of the table. Dave’s friends of old from his first encounter with his new employer, now colleagues rather than adversaries.

  Sitting at the table, on the cheap plastic chair that faced the entrance, was a terrified young man. He was trying to look hard and nonchalant and failing miserably. He was dressed in the regulation Adidas three stripe top, G-Star Raw jeans and Nike high tops. His hair was shaved at the sides, spiked on the top and dyed a heavy shade of peroxide blonde. But any trace of bravado that may have existed on the street; the shape throwing for the benefit of his customers and his mates, was gone. At that moment, he looked exactly what he was; a small frightened teenager.

  Black Swan ambled in behind Dave. He pulled out the remaining free chair and sat down opposite the callow youth.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, evenly.

  The youth gulped twice, but contented himself to just a single nod of understanding.

  ‘So, you can probably guess why you are here?’ said Black Swan.

  The youth nodded again, this time with a guilty flick of the tongue onto his lips.

  Black Swan clicked his fingers towards Dave, a signal to bring his things over to the table. He unzipped his bag and extracted a laptop. Opening the cover and hitting the power button, he waiting patiently as the machine executed all of its start-up routines. He clicked a few random buttons and then started typing; surprisingly fast and accurate for a man with such large fingers.

  ‘Do know how much you owe me?’ he asked.

  The youth shook his head and dropped his eyes down, the universal acknowledgement of a guilty conscience.

  ‘Well I do,’ said Black Swan.

  He pointed to his laptop.

  ‘Do you know what? You should really get yourself one of these,’ he said conversationally. ‘That way, you’ll never be in this position again.’

  He stared at the youth unblinkingly for a minute or so, before shaking his head sadly.

  ‘You guys never learn. Don’t they teach you anything at school?’

  The youth looked at him blankly. Black Swan remembered the schools he passed everyday; crumbling edifices rife with graffiti and decay; gangs of children in uniform, hanging around on street corners, smoking and drinking when they should be learning.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ he said, answering his own question.

  He shook his h
ead sadly.

  ‘Anyway, so here's the story,’ he continued. ‘You owe me two thousand, one hundred and seventy six euro and twenty three cent. You've got until Friday at three pm to deliver that money to me personally, do you understand?’

  The youth nodded vigorously, like an ornamental dog on a parcel shelf in the back window of a car.

  ‘Ok, you’re free to go,’ said Black Swan. ‘Remember, Friday at three pm.’

  He extracted something from his pocket, as the young man got up to leave. It was a black leather glove. He slipped it on deliberately, making sure all the fingers were fully inserted and comfortable. The youth saw none of this; his attention was firmly fixed on the two bouncers, and on how quickly he could traverse the ground between the table and the exit. As the teenager came around the side of the desk, Black Swan flexed his fingers, regarding the moving digits thoughtfully.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ he added, as the youth drew level.

  Black Swan got up and waited; he could sense the hesitation and the fear, as the young man slowly turned towards him. He saw the angry blobs of acne; the immature flecks of hair on the upper lip. Christ, this guy was only a kid.

  The punch, when it came, was so fast that the young man barely saw it, catching him full in the centre of the face. It lifted him clean off the ground, to land with a thud on the solid concrete floor. Black Swan walked over, and as the teenager writhed in pain, measured a savage and accurate kick into one of the boy’s kidneys for good measure.

  The youth contracted into a moaning foetal position on the floor. The blood from his broken nose pooled out onto the dark green painted concrete surface, reminding Dave obscurely of traffic lights.

  Black Swan leaned over and lifted the boy’s chin. He stared into the bloodshot and tear-stained eyes.

  ‘Nobody steals from me,’ he stated softly.

  He said each word slowly and distinctly, emphasising the pause after each one. He took off the glove, put it carefully into a zip lock plastic bag and slid it back into his pocket. He then indicated for Dave to follow him.

  ‘Anto, dump this crap where you found it,’ he said, ‘and make sure it doesn't get any more damaged than it is now. I want to make sure I actually get my money back.’

  #

  They had been driving for a while in companionable silence, when Black Swan looked up from his newspaper. Dave could see he was forming his thoughts, and it was no surprise when the relative tranquillity was broken.

  ‘Dave, do you think I’m too hard on them?’

  ‘Not my place to say, boss,’ said Dave.

  ‘But do you?’ he asked. ‘I know it may not seem like it at times, but I do value your opinion.’

  ‘I think you'll do what you wanna do, regardless of what I think,’ answered Dave with a smile, hoping to rob the statement of any offence. ‘But to be brutally honest with you, boss, if you do want my opinion then, no, I don't think you’re too hard on them. Without you, the snivelling little pricks would have to work for a living. If they want to try and steal from you, then they know what’s coming.’

  Black Swan nodded, as if satisfied by the response.

  ‘What is the date today?’ he asked, completely changing the tack of the conversation.

  ‘Twelfth of May,’ said Dave.

  ‘I knew it was,’ said Black Swan. ‘When were we supposed to get an update from the Louisiana operation?’

  Dave considered his answer.

  ‘That would be yesterday, boss,’ he responded at last.

  He had forgotten all about Scott; shit.

  ‘That's what I thought. You said he was reliable and you said he was good. That little cock sucker better not be holding out on me. Your neck is on the line on this one, Dave,’ said Black Swan.

  It was a promise not a question. Dave knew that from old.

  Dave glanced at his boss in the rear view mirror and held his gaze for a couple of seconds; long enough for Black Swan to break the connection first.

  ‘You can hold me accountable all you want, boss,’ he said. ‘But the simple answer is that if he hasn't checked in, there must be a good reason for it. This guy is good, and I’m not just saying that. He knows what side his bread is buttered, if you get my drift. He’s looking for a long term contract.’

  ‘So, where the fuck is he?’ asked Black Swan. ‘Send him a text or ring him. I need an update by tonight. I’ve been waiting for this for twenty five years, I shouldn’t have to baby sit these fuckers; or you, for that matter.’

  Ten minutes later, Dave pulled into the garage of Black Swan's townhouse in Montenotte. It was part of an old Georgian terrace; four storeys over a basement, massive high rooms, classically proportioned and decorated to the absolute highest specification. No expense had been spared in the renovation of the house, or the mews property at the back, which had been converted into a four car garage. Dave parked the Mercedes next to the Ferrari F430 and Porsche 911 Turbo; boy’s toys that were rarely taken out and used. They were status symbols of wealth and success; just there for show really.

  Dave held the rear door open like he always did. Black Swan got out and walked over to the corner of the garage. Pressing the recessed button on the wall, a subtly hidden down-arrow illuminated above what suddenly became recognisable as a set of lift doors.

  When Black Swan had bought it, one of the major modifications to the house had been the installation of an underground passageway between the mews and the main living area.

  The lift arrived with the traditional ping. The stainless steel doors glided noiselessly open and Black Swan got in. Dave waited until the lift was on the subterranean floor. He could picture his boss ambling along the stark and brightly lit passageway, like the baddie out of a James Bond movie. All he needed was the white cat.

  Dave smiled to himself, as he walked across to the small kitchen area in the corner of the garage. He filled the kettle and switched it on. Then, extricating his phone from his pocket, he got down to the business in hand.

  He thought about texting, okay you little cock sucker, where are you? Then he thought, no, that is probably taking the boss just a little bit too literally. He eventually decided on where are you, we need a sit rep?

  When he felt stressed, Dave tended to resort to army speak. He hit the send button, put the phone down on the kitchen counter and started making a cup of tea.

  While he crushed the teabag against the side of the cup, he was oblivious to what was happening to his message, as it silently streaked across the mighty Atlantic Ocean; borne on celestial motorways of copper and fibre. As he threw the used tea bag into the sink, and extracted the milk from the fridge, he had no idea that the message was nearing its destination; zipping from cell to cell, as it triangulated the position of its target device. And as he poured the milk into the golden liquid, he was unaware that the message had reached its final destination.

  The two evidence clerks looked at each other in surprise; the received message was making the smart phone buzz liked a trapped wasp in the bottom of the sealed evidence bag.

  Chapter 13 – Collective

  12th May 2011 – Two days after the Storm.

  I'd like to believe that we've learned something from our collective past and that, at the end of the day, good will always outweigh evil. – Anon.

  James Murray was an eternal optimist, but on days like these, the pessimistic side of him returned with a vengeance, and he wondered why he bothered. He was hunched down low in his seat; not that it really mattered, these idiots would never be able to spot him. They were about as observant and aware as a group of primary school children.

  As he watched, another exchange took place; surreptitiously hand-to-hand, money one way, small packet the other. That was the problem really, the sheer quantity. He had been sitting there for about four hours and in that time he had seen thirty four transactions. Thirty four packets of misery, disguised as temporary release. Thirty four families exposed to heartbreak and potential bereavement, and all in the name o
f profit.

  It was around this time in an operation, generally about half way through, that the activist in him became awakened. He always wondered to himself; what was the point in eliminating supply? That was just treating the symptoms. You needed to eliminate the demand; that was the cure.

  He smiled fondly, as he remembered back to the time when his rampant optimism could barely be contained; before the drab and squalid reality threatened to drain his spirit away. His first interview for the drug squad, after two years in uniformed patrol, had been a good case in point.

  ‘So just for my benefit, how precisely do you propose to eliminate demand?’ the inspector had asked, dangerously softly.

  James had stumbled from one badly thought out scenario to another, his face reddening by the minute. The inspector had allowed his embarrassment to build and continue, giving him no quarter under a relentless gaze, until at last he held up his hand decisively, stopping James in mid sentence.

  ‘We are the Gardai,’ he’d said. ‘We deal in facts and not in conjecture. We deal in cold hard reality, not in supposition. We focus on what we can do, not what we'd like to do, or what we can’t do. So, we go onto the streets and we eliminate the supply, because that is all we can do by law.’

  After his ineffectual performance, James had been convinced that his interview had been a wash out, and that his drug squad career had effectively ended before it had begun. So, it had been with shock and some small measure of surprise, that he’d been notified of his new assignment.

  ‘He very much admired your principles and your passion,’ the female drug squad officer had said. ‘He said he wished his other operatives had more of both.’