The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  She thought about it for a second and giggled.

  ‘Maybe not so young anymore,’ she said, ‘but he’ll always be that naughty lad to me.’

  ‘Is he likely to be there now?’ asked James.

  ‘Well, his car’s not there, so I doubt it,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been a great help, Mrs umm....’ said James.

  ‘Walsh,’ she answered automatically. ‘Mrs Maeve Walsh.’

  ‘Well thanks very much Mrs Walsh, have yourself a good day now,’ said James.

  ‘You too officer,’ said Mrs Walsh.

  They rang the doorbell of number thirty and peered in the windows, but it seemed Mrs Walsh was right; there was no one at home. They looked at each other; they didn’t need to say anything.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you somewhere to stay,’ said James. ‘Thomas Eugene O’Neill doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere soon.’

  Chapter 27 – Genesis

  17th May 2011 – Seven days after the Storm.

  It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live. – Marcus Aurelius.

  I closed the door and leant back against it, my mind racing. I was fairly certain that he hadn't realised I’d spotted him, just as I was completely certain that I was being watched. There could only be one explanation.

  It wasn’t these amateurs I’d encountered locally. If it was, I wouldn’t even have made it to the front door; I would already be dead in a messy and wasteful hail of bullets. I knew this new breed of criminal; they weren’t subtle and they weren’t clever.

  No, this was different. This was watching, waiting, monitoring maybe. This was careful, calculated and professional. This had to be the Mancini's; I couldn't think of any other way the facts could possibly fit together.

  I’d known all along that I wouldn’t escape either their notice or their reach. They knew I was Irish after all, and it wouldn’t have been hard to put two and two together.

  Pity; I’d always thought that I’d have a little more time to play with.

  Still, at least I knew two things. One, this guy was no amateur, and two, I now had the element of surprise. I just had to be careful about when I made my move.

  If I considered all the angles, I knew the best policy was to sit tight and wait. I was on home turf; I knew where everything was and I knew the terrain, an advantage in any battle. Let them come, I was ready.

  I had to assume, given where he was parked, that he had some kind of surveillance technology. I was fairly certain that he hadn't gained access to the house. Apart from anything else, it was almost impossible to get past Mrs Walsh.

  My guess, then, was some kind of listening device. He would at least be able to hear what was going on; any phone calls I’d made, people I’d spoken to within the house. I thought back over the previous two days. I had made no calls, nor had I spoken to anybody, either inside or outside for that matter, other than Mrs Walsh.

  I looked down at my hand still holding the bag full of Chinese takeaway. I checked the foil packages for warmth. They didn’t need reheating, so I slopped them out onto a plate and then sat in front of the television, watching American cop show re-runs. NYPD Blue had always been a favourite, but the locations, the streets, the people made me home sick for a place that wasn’t even my home.

  I made a huge show of switching off the television. I then clattered into the kitchen, washed up the plates, put the waste into the bin, and clomped up the stairs, making sure the front door was closed and locked. I turned out the lights as I went, until the house was in complete darkness. I took off my shoes and socks and then reached under the mattress. I pulled it out silently; it was already fully loaded.

  I knew the darkness inside the house was impenetrable, so I had a curtain of black to assist me. I relaxed completely and made my breathing silent. I was wearing cotton, so there was no heavily starched material to rustle. I moved slowly and silently down the stairs and positioned myself behind the door in the front room.

  I stood there like a statue. On the face of it, you’d think it would be really boring, standing in one place. But when you are concentrating so hard on breathing silently, focusing every fibre of your body on keeping still, resisting the natural temptation to tense up, then boredom doesn't even come into it. Unfortunately fatigue does. It was tiredness more than anything else that was almost my undoing.

  Like a weary driver that has spent too long at the wheel, but refuses to admit it to themselves, my eyelids kept slowly drooping and then my eyes would suddenly snap open. I was forced to readjust my focus each time. This happened two or three times and then, on the fourth, I realised I was no longer alone.

  The merest click of the front door gave it away. I strained my senses, and could almost feel a gap in the air opening up. The gun was tucked into the waistband of my jeans, at the small of my back. There was no way I would be able to reach it, without giving myself away. I would have to do this the hard way.

  I strained my heightened senses still further. I could smell the faint odour of stale sweat; could hear the tiniest inhale and exhale of air. He was good, but not as practised as me. I felt the ripples again; the disturbance of air, as he advanced through the doorway. My eyes, now well adjusted to the gloom, made out an angular metallic shape. He was armed.

  The fact that he had a gun surprised me, and I made my second mistake of the last three days. My body tensed from the shock of the discovery, and a single intake of breath became barely audible. It was the only trigger he needed.

  He didn't even think; he just reacted. The gun swung around in a wicked glinting curve. I ducked, as it whistled harmlessly over my head, to hit the solid stone wall with a crash. I grabbed the wrist that held the gun, praying that his finger was trapped inside the trigger guard, and smacked it repeatedly off the exposed stone. He howled once and then I felt grasping fingers, nails long and sharp, as he scratched for my eye sockets. I bit down on the soft tissue between forefinger and thumb, at the same time dragging the heel of my shoe down his left instep, to stamp savagely on his foot.

  I smashed his hand against the wall one more time, and as I pulled it back, the gun flicked out of his grasp to land with a clatter on the coffee table. I reacted milliseconds before him, and dived for where I thought the gun had landed. The coffee table splintered like matchwood, as I fell heavily through the middle of it. He’d guessed my intent from the second I’d launched myself; he jumped after me, but not to go for the gun. He made no attempt to brace himself for landing. His elbows were down, and they hit me square in the kidneys, knocking the breath out of me.

  He rolled upright, as I fought to get my breath. I felt another disturbance in the air, and then sensed the toe of his shoe coming toward me at speed, as I frantically jerked my head out of the way. The foot whistled harmlessly past; I wouldn’t be so lucky again. I turned sideways, and spun my legs towards him as fast as I could propel them, like a gymnast on a pommel horse. I caught him at the end of the rapidly accelerating swing, hitting him just behind and below the knee, sending him flying backwards. He fell awkwardly against a chair, the solid wooden arm catching him square in the back. He cried out and dropped to the floor, as I laboured to bring my breathing back under control.

  I scrambled up and grabbed for my gun. It was not there; it must have slipped out of my waistband, as I’d smashed through the table. Changing tack, I leapt for the main light switch. He used the noise of me traversing the room to disguise a pincer movement. As the light came on, I felt a vicious impact to the kidneys. I whirled around, just in time to awkwardly block the second punch.

  I could see he was in pain too. We stood away from each other for a second, inhabiting that safe area where you're not completely invading your opponents personal space. He spoke for the first time.

  ‘It appears I underestimated you,’ he said, as we circled wearily.

  Both sets of eyes kept flicking toward the two weapons, almost casually discarded amongst the wreckage.

  �
��Even though I read all about you, I was hypnotised by the words describing what you did. Mob enforcer; I was expecting some unskilled thug.’

  I nodded in acknowledgement, refusing to break the stare. I suddenly threw a sidekick which he blocked, following up with a roundhouse kick of his own. We traded techniques, each of us looking to exploit the weaknesses in the other. He was reasonably skilled, but he wasn't as good as me. His stance was too narrow for a fighting stance, leaving him open. I went for the kill.

  I feigned a front kick, turning it at the last second into a vicious foot sweep. He’d stepped back to block the kick; too late, he saw the change in direction, the speed and the trajectory of the sweep literally lifting him off his feet. I winced as he hit the floor. His head had connected with the edge of the hearth.

  At first, I thought I had killed him; that kind of impact would dispatch many a lesser man. I knelt beside him. He was out cold, but he had a pulse; strong and steady. I searched the house. The only thing I could find was a nylon clothes line; not ideal for restraining prisoners, but in this case it would have to do.

  I tied him up as securely as the nylon would allow; it wasn’t great, but it would be good enough, I hoped.

  Retrieving both his gun and mine from the devastated floor of the front sitting room, I made sure his gag was secured, and then sat down to wait. I had a feeling it would be a very interesting conversation.

  #

  Dale looked at the tourist clothes that he had carelessly discarded on the floor of his hotel room. He didn't have the greatest taste in the world, but he hoped that within his own wardrobe, he would never stoop to the fashion faux pas of checks and stripes together. He glanced at the recently delivered gleaming silver tray with renewed interest; it was only when he’d got back to his hotel room that he’d realised how hungry he was.

  Five minutes later, he’d dispatched a very large club sandwich and a large portion of chips. Amazing how a full stomach could make you feel so much better. He studied the two addresses that Margaret had written down for him. He was mildly anxious that he’d had to use his private detective story. He was positive that Margaret was the kind of employee who would have noted date, time and name. There was probably even CC TV footage of him. He knew it had been worth it to get the information he wanted, but he couldn't dodge that uneasy feeling. It could come back to haunt him.

  A thought occurred to Dale, as he sipped on a cup of tea; he hadn't checked in with Dodds since he’d arrived. He rang the number from memory and got the number unobtainable tone. He kept forgetting that the international dialling code was different from everywhere other than the USA; the arrogance of America, maybe? He dialled the number again, this time getting the unmistakable US ringtone.

  ‘Detective Dodds,’ said a voice.

  ‘Hey Dodds, how’s it going?’ asked Dale, quickly realising that for some inexplicable reason he was whispering.

  ‘Who is this?’ asked Dodds.

  ‘Hey Dodds, it’s me, Dale,’ he replied, this time in his normal voice.

  ‘Hold on a second,’ said Dodds softly.

  Dale realised with amusement that Dodds was now the one whispering. He heard a couple of clicks and then the sound of movement and doors opening and closing. The next thing he heard was the flare of a match. Dale smiled; Dodds was in the smoking area. It was then that it occurred to him. During all the activity over the past few days, the times when he had been in serious stress, not once had he even thought about smoking. Go figure.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Dodds, and then quickly added. ‘No, don’t tell me; not yet anyway. I’ll feel impelled to tell the boss otherwise.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Boss got a phone call earlier,’ said Dodds. ‘Apparently you’re stumbling around like an idiot, unwittingly stepping on all sorts of federal toes.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Dale, sitting up with interest.

  ‘Yep, apparently the top floor got a call directly from the Medusa’s head; that nest of snakes over in Langley. The Boss made it very clear to me that I needed to let him know, the second you made contact.’

  ‘I got an address,’ said Dale.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Dodds. ‘But whatever you’re going to do, I would do it quick. I’m on a tightrope here. I’ll give you as long as I can, but I’m going to have to tell the boss in the next twenty four hours.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Dale. ‘And thanks Dodds; thanks for everything.’

  ‘Good luck,’ added Dodds seriously. ‘And Dale; don’t do anything stupid.’

  Dale thought about that last statement, as Dodds hung up. Stupid wasn’t the word he’d have used. He’d certainly been impulsive; impetuous even, but not stupid.

  Dale dropped his tray outside the door of his room and headed out. He’d been told that it rained all the time in Ireland, but he hadn’t experienced rain once since he’d arrived.

  It was a glorious evening; no clouds and actually quite hot too. As he walked, basking in the still warm sunshine, he studied his surroundings with interest. He realised as he walked, that he’d answered the nagging question that had inhabited his head since he’d arrived in Cork. The houses, the streets, the architecture; it was all untidy and old. It wasn’t laid out in neat rows and intersections like the US. It was chaotic and muddled.

  He kept walking, occasionally asking directions to his first address. Some people looked at him quizzically, some with an amused indifference. It was only when he neared his destination that he could understand the reactions.

  The first address he’d been given, the birthplace of the man he was looking for, had been turned into a shopping mall.

  ‘This is more like it,’ he said to himself. ‘This is what I remember. This is the American legacy abroad; shopping centres.’

  He walked slowly back the way he had come. He paused halfway across the bridge that spanned the river; the Lee they called it. He watched as the silvery blackness of water roared through the arches of the bridge. It was like a metaphor for his job, the river. You could stand in it with your hands out in front of you and push with all your might, but it would find a way to flow around you. Drugs, like water, would always find a way.

  So engrossed was he in his thoughts, that he almost tripped over a couple of homeless guys, pathetically jangling empty coffee cups full of coppers. He caught sight of the familiar paraphernalia. One of the men was watching the direction of his gaze, and flicked it out of sight under a blanket. He nudged his companion and whispered something. Dale shrugged and moved on.

  He often wondered, in idle moments, where the huge demand had come from. The liberals would have you believe it was all down to the marginalisation of society; the evils of capitalism creating a multi-layered and multi-tiered society, where the poor were forced into ghettos. Boredom and unemployment made willing bedfellows with experimentation and addiction. It certainly wasn't a new problem; it might have been a different substance in the modern era, but there was still the same desire for escape. Before the widespread availability of drugs, how many previous generations had succumbed to the relative evils of alcohol?

  The problem that Dale had with all the theories was not from a liberal bias, not socio-economic, not even socialist. Communism, more so even than capitalism, had shown what a flawed dogma it really was. The issue Dale had was down to pure and simple economics. Drugs, like alcohol before, were not cheap. He couldn’t help but think, naively maybe, that people would have far fewer problems, if they used their money to actually escape the bonds of poverty, rather than fund some kind of temporary artificial escape. He was too black and white; that was his problem and he knew it.

  On impulse, he turned and strode back to the two startled men.

  ‘They don’t work you know,’ he said, throwing a Euro coin into their cup. ‘My advice; buy yourself a coffee instead. Make this the start of the rest of your life.’

  He felt strangely elated on the way back to the hotel, but he couldn't understand
why. He asked directions at the hotel reception to the second address. When he realised it was literally up the road, he decided to go into the bar for a quick drink, and then put his head down for ten minutes.

  After a slow pint of Guinness, the waves of tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. He thanked the barman, put it on his tab, and headed for the room. The last thing he remembered thinking was that he must remember to set the alarm. His internal body clock was scrambled.

  He woke up with a guilty start. It took a couple of minutes for full consciousness to return; before he realised, with rising panic, that he’d forgotten to set his alarm. He looked at the clock radio. It was ten minutes past three in the morning. He glanced down at himself; he didn’t even have to get dressed, he’d fallen asleep fully clothed.

  He saluted the night watchman, as he walked out the front door. The man looked at him with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Can't sleep,’ said Dale, feeling he had to justify himself.

  The city streets were eerily silent. The only cars on the roads were taxis, most of them with their signs illuminated; obviously a slow night tonight. As he headed off the main road towards Grattan Hill, the predominant sound was the click of his heels on the pavement. He had memorised the address, and as he walked, he repeated it like a mantra. He didn’t know why; maybe to convince himself that he wasn't alone.

  He turned in to Grattan Hill, cursing his shoes, as the sound of his footsteps echoed off the solid stone walls. As he neared number thirty, he realised lights were blazing in the front room. At least someone was home.

  He approached as cautiously as his shoes would allow, cursing his decision not to change into his trainers. As he got closer to the house, he noticed movement and shrank back beside the frame of the window. He peered around slowly; a body was lying amongst splintered shards of wood. There was a man with his back to the window. Dale couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but he was bent over the prostrate body.