The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  What she hadn’t mentioned was the inevitability of it all. How the principles and passion seeped slowly away, and the full extent of the constant and never ending battle with the ugly underbelly of society became abundantly clear. The dealers they removed from the street corners of the estates were like Russian soldiers at Stalingrad; for every one gone, two more stepped up to take their place.

  But in the constant battle for control of both the streets and neighbourhoods of the south, he held onto something that some of his more jaded colleagues had long since lost. The inspector had seen it, but had not commented on it; he didn’t have to, it shone out of everything that James did. He had pride; personal care and attention to whatever he did, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it seemed to others.

  He glanced down at his watch; after half a day, he’d had enough of this. Sufficient evidence had been collected over the past few hours. As usual, he had painstakingly catalogued and noted every transaction, accompanying each full handwritten page of text with at least three photographs. His reports were normally detailed and accurate novellas. When he made an arrest, it always stuck. All he needed now was to execute the bust. He saw another customer approaching.

  ‘May as well bust the two of them at the same time,’ he said quietly to himself, under his breath.

  His hand was on the door handle, when the radio sprang into life in a burst of static.

  ‘Six-six come in, this is control,’ said a disembodied male voice; almost impossible to place out of the half dozen radio operators.

  James thumbed the microphone.

  ‘Hey control, this is six-six,’ he responded quietly.

  ‘Six-six, you are requested to return to base immediately.’

  ‘Control, can it wait?’ asked James. ‘I’m in the middle of a bust.’

  He heard a couple of short bursts of static and then the bellow.

  ‘Murray, get your arse back here now!’

  The first voice had been unrecognisable, but he knew the second one immediately.

  He let go of the door handle, settled back in the seat and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He hated leaving a job unfinished. Switching the ignition on, he watched with interest as the new transaction continued. Unfortunately, it seemed that demand was as high as ever.

  He drove back towards base through the post apocalyptic streets of the large sprawling estate. When he’d started working this particular beat, the socialist liberal in him had been outraged. As far as he’d been concerned, the state had a duty of care to these people. And yet the powers that be seemed to have abandoned these housing estates to lawlessness and mob rule.

  The more he worked amongst the people though, the more he started realising that it wasn’t necessarily the fault of the state. Yes, the social welfare system both encouraged and fostered a lack of work ethic and ambition in people, most of whom accepted their cheques with a weary fatalism. But the urban decay; buildings set alight and cars burned out. That was all down to the populace; these people were doing it to themselves. And they weren’t doing it for high ideals, views and principles. They weren’t trashing their community because of a cause that they believed in. No, this was just mindless vandalism and intimidation.

  The young men and women were accepting the social in one hand, while they smashed their own homes and their community with the other, and for what? As far as he could see, it was for no reason other than boredom. He just couldn't understand that type of mentality.

  He pulled into his assigned parking space, noting with interest the increased number of cars in the car park. The drug squad was based in Anglesea Road Garda Station; not the most salubrious area of Cork, and he idly wondered where the extra vehicles had come from.

  He smiled at Janice on the way in. They had been flirting on and off for a few months; since the last Christmas party, in fact. They were both afraid to take it further. They were reaching that age; not yet desperate, but not wanting to cast off potential relationships as casual and carefree either.

  ‘Hey Janice,’ he said. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Boardroom, third floor, they’re waiting for you,’ she said curtly, without looking up.

  He walked past the desk, wondering what he had done to offend her, when he heard an exclamation.

  ‘You can't go upstairs looking like that,’ she gasped, as she tore off her headset and ran around the desk.

  To his chagrin and horror, she proceeded to style his hair with her fingers; smoothing down his locks the way his mother had done, when he was a child.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, standing on tiptoes, before kissing him on the tip of his nose.

  She winked.

  ‘Knock them dead, tiger!’ she added with a smile.

  As the lift ascended to the third floor, he thought about what had just transpired and realised there was still a huge amount about women that he didn't understand. Maybe he needed to start finding out. He made a mental note to ask Janice out on a date as soon as was reasonably possible, and then parked the information in the non-work recesses of his brain; he had other things he needed to concentrate on right now.

  He didn't know what to expect, but boardroom sounded unsettling at best and ominous at worst. He had the feeling that he would need to be alert and switched on.

  As he walked, a slow measured plod like a condemned man toward the gallows, the carpet on the third floor deadened the sound of his heavy workman’s boots. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. Raising his hand to rap his knuckles on the heavy hardwood door, he was startled to find it fly open in his face.

  ‘Ah, Detective Murray, there you are,’ said Inspector Ryan. ‘At last we can get this show on the road.’

  The only thing that had changed about Inspector Ryan in the three years that James had been working in the drug squad was his lack of hair. He had lost none of the drive, passion or determination to make a difference. He was a whirlwind; a man whom it was genuinely hard to keep up with, even if he was precisely double your age.

  James followed Inspector Ryan into the room; nobody ever got ahead of him. His eyes scanned the outer reaches of the large boardroom table. He could see all his colleagues; members of both the Cork County and Southern Region drug squads.

  They were seated along one side of the table. There were no free spots in their ranks, except for the place at the far end, which was obviously reserved for Inspector Ryan. He glanced to the other side; two seats free among the unrecognisable suits.

  Maybe it was not obvious to outsiders, but to James it was as plain as day that they were Gardai. They exuded that slightly imperious confidence and presence so common in police officers; possibly visitors from another jurisdiction?

  This could get interesting.

  James took his seat, nodding politely in turn to the sharp suited gentlemen that were sitting either side of him. He waited with interest, as Inspector Ryan resumed his place at the top of the table. The man next to James passed him a marker pen and a thin cardboard strip that was pre-folded in the middle. He glanced around, realising that names and ranks had been written and placed as nametags in front of each person. He dutifully scribbled down his own and was just placing it in front of him, when the lights dimmed slightly and the projector came on.

  All the heads in the room swivelled toward the bright square of light. James fervently hoped it wouldn't be death by PowerPoint. In fairness to the inspector though, he generally used the projector only for items of criticality. James hoped the visitors were of the same vein.

  ‘Ok, I think we have everybody we need,’ said Inspector Ryan. ‘Before we kick off and for the benefit of everyone involved, I’d like to give all of you the background as to why we are here. Then I will hand over to Chief Inspector Brown from Dublin to see if he has anything to add.’

  He indicated the man sitting to his right.

  ‘Just in case there is anything I’ve missed,’ he finished.

  He paused and then clapped his hands once. He then h
it a button on his laptop and the first slide appeared. Welcome to Cork, it said simply, in large letters.

  ‘Is everyone happy with that?’ he asked, into the body of the room.

  ‘Inspector Ryan, if I may just say a brief word?’ inquired a plumy voice, halfway down the right hand side.

  James leaned forward and peered at the nametag; Fergal Lynch, secretary at the Department of Justice. He remained hunched forward, immediately interested. It was not often they had a representative from the Department of Justice. It would be intriguing to see what he had to say.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the secretary loftily, as he stood to address the assembled throng. ‘As you are all well aware, there is a distinct separation between the Gardai and the Department of Justice.’

  He surveyed the room quickly.

  ‘And rightly so,’ he added hastily, noticing some of the expressions.

  ‘But as you also know, the Department of Justice holds the budget for the Gardai, and as such, I would like to think we have even a minor influence over some of the policies and operations,’ he finished briskly.

  Assuming a much more sombre expression, he continued speaking, as the politician lurking just below the urbane surface slowly emerged.

  ‘Drugs are a scourge, eating into and undermining the very backbone of our state. Nowhere in the country is this highlighted more starkly than Cork.’

  He said this with added emphasis on the last word.

  ‘I don't think I need to remind anyone in this room, that the current minister for Justice was elected from Cork South-Central.’

  He had their full attention now.

  ‘I'm not saying it's critical that this operation should succeed, but I think it would be politically expedient to make this a triumph of co-operation.’

  He paused and you could have heard a pin drop in the room.

  ‘Make no mistake,’ he said emphatically. ‘In the current climate, our budget is being ruthlessly and forensically analysed; the minister needs to see results.’

  He looked around with a slightly amused smile for a few seconds, almost daring a response.

  ‘Thank you, Secretary Lynch,’ said Inspector Ryan, inviting Lynch to sit down.

  He looked steadily at each of the assembled men before continuing.

  ‘I think that has put things nicely into perspective for us,’ he finished evenly, and with no trace of humour.

  James smiled inwardly; Inspector Ryan was no mug. He knew exactly what the secretary had been saying.

  ‘Get results, or I'll get somebody who can,’ would have been a much less subtle way to put it.

  The silence was deafening.

  Chapter 14 – Rivals

  12th May 2011 – Two days after the Storm.

  I embrace my rival, but only to strangle him. – Jean-Baptiste Racine.

  The inspector allowed the tension to ratchet up a couple of degrees, before cutting through the silence.

  ‘Let’s crack on,’ he said. ‘As Secretary Lynch alluded to, I don't need to tell anybody here in this room what a problem drugs are in Irish society. Unfortunately, we live it and we live with it every day.’

  He indicated the man sitting to his right, who nodded an acknowledgement.

  ‘When Chief Inspector Brown was appointed, he decided almost immediately that the best way to tackle the issue was by setting up regional taskforces.’

  He glanced at his own men then.

  ‘And that is why you are all here. There are a lot of reasons why drugs are so prevalent; there are yet more reasons why they are so prevalent in urban areas. A significant number of state agencies are focused currently on the demand side of the drugs problem. What do I mean by that? Well....’

  He paused.

  ‘....there is an inordinate amount of time and money put into things like social services, education, drop-in centres and addiction clinics. All these are absolutely required; don’t for a second think that I’m saying they are not worth the money and resources put into them, but....’

  He heavily emphasised the word.

  ‘....they could easily be seen as after the fact; cures if you will.’

  He stopped to let that sink in.

  ‘I have always been an advocate of do what you can do, not what you would like to do. That is why I am in complete agreement with Chief Inspector Brown. In his first public speech after his appointment, he stated that we are in the business of prevention, not cure.’

  The Chief Inspector nodded unconsciously at another name check.

  ‘This task force is going to target the supply,’ said Inspector Ryan. ‘Our aim is to coordinate everything into a single country-wide operation. To do that, we need an enormous amount of intelligence. We need to coordinate and cooperate in a way that we've never done before.’

  He stopped briefly, picked up the bottle of sparkling water, twisted the top and drank deeply.

  ‘Anything you’d like to add, Chief Inspector Brown?’ he asked.

  ‘Only that I am fully behind this operation, and will provide all the resources that are necessary to get the job done,’ said the chief inspector.

  James was amused and secretly pleased to discover that he spoke with a broad inner city Dublin accent; a huge contrast to the secretary who had gone before him. He didn’t like the secretary; didn’t trust him at all. Conversely, he immediately liked the chief inspector; a man of the people? Go figure.

  ‘At this point,’ Inspector Ryan said, ‘and especially for the benefit of the Dublin contingent, I’d like to handover to Detective James Murray, to give us a briefing on one half of the Cork supply line. James?’ he asked.

  James blinked; he had not been expecting to be personally targeted to speak. He had nothing prepared. Not that it mattered; after three years, he was bordering on obsessive. He lived and breathed his subject; he didn't need a presentation.

  James stood up. Unlike the inspector, he couldn't talk sitting down. He started pacing slowly around the room, assembling his thoughts as he went.

  ‘You can basically divide the supply and sale of drugs in Cork the same way as the city itself is divided; with the River Lee. One side is controlled by one organisation and one side is controlled by another. There are no other smaller groups or bit players; they have all been ruthlessly and systematically stamped out.’

  He paused for emphasis.

  ‘There are only two gangs, but as in most hotly contested and profitable markets, they are bitter rivals and interestingly for us, intense enemies.’

  He paused again.

  ‘Personally, I’m going to focus on the north side of the city, because that's the one I know,’ said James. ‘The man at the top is a guy called Eoin Morrison, but everybody knows him as Black Swan.’

  ‘Why Black Swan?’ asked one of the Dublin detectives, before James could continue.

  ‘There are a lot of rumours,’ said James. ‘I personally believe it's because of his educational background and his fashion sense.’

  There was a chuckle around the room. James held up his hand with a smile.

  ‘Let me explain,’ he said. ‘Eoin came from a very well-to-do family. His father Michael was a successful solicitor; managing partner of one of the biggest firms in Cork. Young Eoin was an only child; he never wanted for anything, except maybe attention from his parents. Dad was always working and Mum was a society girl; more likely to be seen in the social diary pages than on the school run. Eoin was sent away to Clongowes boarding school after he finished his private prep, and that’s where he completed his secondary education. He then did accountancy and business at UCD. When he graduated with a first class honours degree, he headed straight back to Cork.’

  ‘So, how did a qualified accountant become a drug lord?’ asked one of the other Dublin detectives. ‘Or more importantly, why would he want to?

  ‘That's two very good questions,’ said James, ‘and no one is really sure. What we do know, is that he initially went to work for Pat The Bull McCabe. Pat ran a string of
bookies shops on the north side, and used them as a very effective cover for the distribution and supply of drugs. Eoin was employed initially as the accountant for the legitimate bookmakers businesses, but he had a keen forensic auditor’s eye, and it soon became apparent to him that out-of-the-ordinary activities were taking place.’

  He stopped to select a Coke from the trolley in the corner, before resuming his slow measured pace. The small explosion of the escaping gases as he lifted the ring pull, made the room jump. He smiled to himself; at least he had their full attention anyway.

  ‘It is only conjecture at this point,’ he said, ‘but it does give us a glimpse into the type of character he is. Anyone I have interviewed, who has been on either side of Eoin, will tell you that he is completely amoral. He seems to have no scruples whatsoever, but yet he lives by a rigid code of behaviour. He surrounds himself with very faithful lieutenants, whom he rewards handsomely for advising and protecting him. They reciprocate with fierce and undivided loyalty.’

  He paused briefly.

  ‘Make no mistake, gentleman,’ he said. ‘Eoin is not a common street thug. He is cold when he needs to be, he is brutal when he needs to be, but he is always calculating. He will do whatever he needs to do to stay where he is; top of the pile.’

  ‘Is he married?’ asked the same Dublin detective.

  ‘Never married, no children,’ said James. ‘He is completely self-centred and I don't say that in a blithe way either. His only focus is on himself and his ambitions.’

  ‘Does he have any weaknesses?’ asked another detective.

  ‘None that we have been able to ascertain,’ said James. ‘Financially, he is rock solid, as you would expect from an accountant. Physically, he is fit and healthy, goes to the gym and believes his body is his temple. Emotionally; as I said, no wife, no kids, both his parents are dead. No brothers or sisters, no significant other. His house in Montenotte is a fortress, his lieutenants loyal and virtually incorruptible.’

  James nodded at Inspector Ryan, who pressed a button on the laptop in front of him. A blurry black-and-white photograph replaced the welcome on the screen.