Dale’s heart rate quickened; he didn’t know whether the man on the ground was alive or dead, but he knew he needed to involve the local authorities as soon as possible. He extracted his phone and started to dial, but then froze with shock, as the man got up quickly and spun towards the window.
Dale breathed a huge sigh of relief, as the curtain was roughly pulled across; looked like he’d got away with it. He continued with what he was doing. He hit the dial button and got a strange triad tone, each note higher than the last. He looked at the number he had dialled; it looked right.
He didn’t see the blur of silver-grey as he started turning; didn’t hear the swishing sound, as it moved through the air like a crack of lightning. He barely felt the impact before his eyes rolled up into his head, and he hit the path with a thud; knocked out cold.
In his unconscious state, he was oblivious to someone grabbing him around the ankles, and pulling him none too gently up the steps and into the hallway of the house. He was oblivious to being roughly manhandled into a prone position on the ground. He was unaware of the nylon washing line, as it was lashed around his arms and legs, binding another victim. He was oblivious to the gag, as it was securely fastened into place.
The sole conscious occupant of the room threw his gun onto an easy chair. He checked Dale’s phone; the guy had tried dialling the emergency services, but had added an extra digit in his haste.
One thing was certain, anyway. Street chuckled, before throwing the phone onto the chair next to the gun. Dale would have one hell of a headache when he woke up.
Chapter 28 – Convergence
17th May 2011 – Seven days after the Storm.
Thirty spokes converge on a hub. But it’s the emptiness that makes a wheel work. – Lao Tzu.
Roussel copied his companion and watched with interest as the cream coloured liquid slowly settled and separated; until the bottom of the pint was jet black, with a white unblemished head.
‘Slainte,’ said James, clinking glasses, before taking two big gulps.
‘Whatever you said,’ said Roussel, doing likewise.
‘It means cheers, good health,’ explained James.
‘They say cheers where I come from,’ said Roussel, with a hint of devilment.
‘And where is that exactly?’ asked James interestedly. ‘I mean I know America obviously, but whereabouts. Would you be a Yankee, for instance?’
Roussel smiled.
‘Definitely not a Yankee,’ he replied. ‘No, I’m from the south; I suppose you could call me a son of Dixie. I went north in search of my fortune, only to discover how deeply rooted in the south I really was.’
‘So, Lynyrd Skynyrd then,’ said James. ‘Sweet home Alabama, Dukes of Hazard and all that other stuff.’
‘Pretty close,’ said Roussel. ‘What about yourself?’
‘Oh, I’m from the south too,’ answered James. ‘But we’re talking different sides of the same city, rather than country; the other side of the Lee.’
‘Do you have the same divide?’ asked Roussel interestedly.
‘Not really,’ said James. ‘It’s a bit like America, only you call them states and we call them counties. Where I’m from, we regard ourselves as infinitely better than the Jackeens, the Dubs. Cork is the real capital of Ireland; don't believe any of that other crap you hear.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Roussel.
They paused to take another couple of swallows.
‘So, are you married?’ asked Roussel.
James shook his head.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Working on it,’ said James with a smile. ‘In fact, I’ve got a date next Saturday.’
‘Good luck,’ said Roussel, with a twinkle in his eye, taking another sip.
The Guinness was growing on him. It seemed he had a penchant for Irish alcohol.
‘What about yourself?’ asked James. ‘Do you have a wife or Girlfriend?’
Roussel shook his head.
‘Never seemed to happen for me,’ he said. ‘Too busy doing other things.’
‘Funny how that happens when you’re a policeman,’ said James.
This time he wasn’t smiling. Both of them knew why, and they could feel their collective spirits sinking a little.
‘What kind of music do you like?’
The question from James came suddenly from left field; a concerted effort to brighten the mood.
Roussel blinked. He’d been expecting another type of question.
‘Anything and everything really,’ he replied, thinking about it. ‘I’ve got pretty eclectic taste, as it happens.’
‘Give me a band,’ said James. ‘Think of your favourite one. I'd personally say you are a Black Crows, Doobie Brothers kind of guy.’
He smiled, to rob the statement of any perceived offence.
‘You’d think so wouldn’t you, me being a southern boy an all,’ said Roussel, heavily accentuating his accent.
James waited patiently.
‘Steely Dan, they would be the band for me.’
‘Reeling in the Years,’ said James, nodding appreciatively. ‘Good choice.’
They spent another few minutes drinking in the bitter black liquid and the early evening atmosphere.
‘So, how did you get into this game?’ asked Roussel.
It was more for something to say than genuine interest.
‘Family tradition,’ answered James. ‘My father was a Garda, my grandfather was a Garda. There were no choices in my house, only expectations.’
He paused for a second.
‘And yourself?’
‘I originally wanted to be a lawyer,’ said Roussel.
James grimaced.
‘I know, bloodsucking vampires,’ said Roussel. ‘But as I said before, when I realised that I was being treated as little more than an object of Yankee amusement, I decided to pursue other alternatives.’
‘Any regrets?’ asked James.
‘Not yet,’ said Roussel. ‘Ask me in thirty years.’
A thought suddenly occurred to Roussel; something that had been nagging at the back of his mind.
‘Did you get anything on the number?’ he asked James, who looked at him questioningly. ‘The last one that we forwarded you; the cell phone that sent the text to Scott Mitchell's mobile; when the evidence clerks were bagging and tagging the phone.’
James face cleared.
‘Ah, the phone number,’ he said. ‘Well, we had mixed results on that one. I can tell you that it was definitely sent from Cork, but that's about all I can tell you. It’s a pay as you go; one of those unregistered to a specific individual. There is no billing system address database to tie back to.’
‘So, no way to tell definitively who owns it?’ asked Roussel.
‘We can only track it as part of an active high profile investigation,’ said James. ‘But I would need to get some serious sign off to do that. I don’t think we are anywhere near that stage yet, do you?’
Roussel shook his head.
‘I think you’re probably right.’
James drained the remainder of his pint.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we are going to check this guy out we had better move now.’
They drove in companionable silence, Roussel laughing inwardly as the local radio station played Ricki don’t lose that number.
‘That’s Steely Dan, right?’ asked James, with a chuckle.
They pulled into Grattan Hill. All lights were off at number thirty.
‘Looks like it will have to wait till the morning,’ said James, turning the car around.
As he pulled back out onto the road, he was unaware of his licence plate number being written down.
When they got back to the hotel, James declined Roussel's offer of a Guinness for the road. As he drove away, he shouted out.
‘Be ready at nine thirty tomorrow morning!’
Roussel looked at his own watch. There was just time for another pint of Guinness, before catc
hing up on some much needed sleep. He ordered his drink, and also a burger and fries; memories of home. He took them both up to his room on a brown tray.
When he had finished eating, which didn’t take very long, he was shocked to belatedly discover how hungry he’d been. He sat on the bed and started flicking through the hotel TV channels. Coming from the US, he was amazed to discover there were only six in the hotel. As he surfed, he didn’t register that his eyelids were getting heavier, and eventually his eyes finally closed altogether, and the remote control slipped from his unconscious fingers.
He awoke with a start; an explosion from an old rerun of the A team had jerked him awake. He shivered; he had literally slumped to the side of the bed in his clothes, and the hotel heating had long since switched off. He checked the bedside alarm clock and then his watch; according to both it was four am. He pulled down the bedspread and got into bed. After ten minutes of fruitless tossing and turning, he cast aside the quilt in frustration; he was wide awake now.
He swung his legs out of bed, re-laced his boots and shrugged himself into his leather jacket. He’d committed the address to memory, so it was the easiest thing in the world to type it into Google maps and hit get directions.
Before he left the hotel foyer, he phoned the captain.
‘Hey Charlie, what’s up?’ asked the captain.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Roussel. ‘I figured you'd still be up.’
‘The night is young, Charlie Boy, it’s only ten thirty here,’ said the captain.
‘That’s kinda what I figured,’ said Roussel.
‘Any developments?’ asked the captain.
‘Didn’t get as much on the cell phone as I’d have liked,’ said Roussel. ‘They have to jump through hoops, paperwork wise, to get a trace, apparently.’
‘Pity,’ sighed the captain.
‘But I have confirmed something; the address that both of us were given is where our boy is actually living,’ said Roussel.
‘So not a wasted journey,’ said the captain, in amusement.
‘Certainly not wasted,’ said Roussel. ‘I’ve started to get a taste for Guinness, among other things.’
‘Just be careful,’ responded the captain. ‘If you’re going to question this guy, don’t go it alone. Apart from anything else, you have no jurisdiction; you are their guest and observer, nothing more, you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ said Roussel. ‘Take care, Captain.’
He hung up and then walked straight out through the automatic door, whistling tunelessly, disobeying his superior’s direct order.
The navigation was a doddle; where would modern civilisation be without Google? He found himself at the entrance to Grattan Hill at approximately four thirty am.
Roussel was an accomplished detective. On his first pass, he strolled past the row of houses nonchalantly, behaving he hoped, like any pedestrian would. He paid no attention to any particular house, noting that the curtains were drawn and the lights were out at number thirty. He didn’t know for certain, but he was fairly sure that houses this old would have a back way in, and at the end of the street he was proven to be correct. He found an alleyway, which led around to a laneway behind the houses.
His first issue was the lack of numbering in the lane; he had to retrace his steps back along the street, and then count backwards to eventually arrive at number thirty. He tried the gate; it wasn’t locked and had a simple latch mechanism. He opened it gingerly, nodding with satisfaction, as it swung soundlessly inwards on well oiled hinges. Someone was definitely looking after the place.
He briefly contemplated heading back to the hotel, but at this stage he was as curious as a cat, and anyway, he was a trained law enforcement officer. There wasn't much he was afraid of.
He moved as silently as he could through the gate. The rear of the property was in darkness, but the moon was full and bright. It was a typical old terraced house with a single storey return. The back door was set into the side of a small extension that looked much younger than the rest of the house. He tried the handle; he hadn't expected it to be anything other than locked and he wasn't disappointed.
He extracted his small Mag light and selected the slimmest beam that he could. Luckily for him, the rear door was half glass, so he could see straight into the kitchen. The internal doors at both ends were closed; presumably one was to the downstairs bathroom and one connected the kitchen to the front room. He flicked the thin beam around the interior briefly, noting how smart and pristine everything was; it was maintained to a very high standard.
He turned his attention to the back door. There was a large glass panel set into the top half; clear single glazed, rather than the double glazed opaque you would expect. There was also a small animal flap set into the panel in the bottom half.
He clamped the torch between his teeth, knelt backwards with his elbows supporting his body, and just about managed to squeeze his head through the flap. By moving his jaw from side to side, he could illuminate the area above his head. He could see at least two deadbolts, a chain and two Yale locks. He extracted himself gingerly.
He could break a window. In fact, breaking a window was the only way he would be able to get in, but he had to think of a way to deaden the noise. He glanced around the small yard, his eye taking in the clothes on the line. The pencil thin beam continued its circumnavigation, picking out a small lawn bordered with very large earthenware plant pots.
An idea suddenly came to him. He had probably seen it on MacGyver, but it was worth a try. He took all of the clothes off the line and stuffed them through the flap. He spread them out underneath the door onto the cold stone floor of the kitchen, trying to create a small area of sound deadening padding.
He walked over to one of the plant pots. He put his finger in and sampled the soil. It wasn’t too peaty; nice and sticky, the perfect consistency. He proceeded to dig out the material, packing the window area with the clay-like soil, until he could no longer see through the glass, and the earth was level with the wooden frame-edge of the door. He wrapped his arm a couple of times with a woollen jumper. Standing with his back to the door, he said a couple of hail Mary’s, and then jabbed his elbow backwards into the soil packed pane as hard and as fast as he could.
He heard a soft crump, as he drew in his breath, waiting for all hell to break loose. Miraculously, nothing happened. He made the sign of the cross, and then spent the next ten minutes painstakingly removing the individual shards of glass, until he had a space large enough to fit his head and shoulders through.
Stretching his arm to the limit, he managed to undo all three deadbolts, and slide off the chain. It was then just a matter of turning the keys in the two Yale locks.
He was careful to open the door gingerly. He moved inside and closed it slowly behind him; there was still a chance that some shards could fall.
When he was safely inside, he checked out the kitchen. As he had seen before, there was a door directly in front of him, and one directly behind. At the far end, to his rear, there was a small rudimentary bathroom, just as he had suspected. He peered inside briefly. It was immaculately presented and very sparsely furnished. No feminine touches of any kind.
He moved to the door at the other end of the kitchen. He pressed his ear to the panelling; he could hear nothing. He opened the door soundlessly and stepped through. He flicked the Mag light quickly around the room and took a further step.
He didn't see the obstruction on the ground, until it was too late; his knees buckled, and he fell on top of the object with a dull thud. It was soft and warm and he recoiled in horror. His torch was rolling in a circular motion, weirdly illuminating the two prone bodies on the floor.
He grabbed the light and examined both quickly. One was groaning and semiconscious, but breathing steadily and with a strong pulse. The other man regarded him with wary eyes, but did not seem overly scared, which surprised him. Both men were hogtied; it was the only way they would have described it, back home in Louisiana.
There was a muffled sound from the conscious man. Roussel flicked his light back to the man’s eyes; he was motioning them to the right and then up. Roussel turned milliseconds before the onrushing kick would have connected. He managed to parry it with a wildly flailing arm, but his assailant spun through three hundred and sixty degrees, and caught him square in the stomach with another kick. Roussel doubled up, as the air was forced out of his lungs. He never saw the coup de gras coming.
His assailant sighed for a third time, as Roussel slumped to the floor. Luckily, it had been a very long washing line. After seeing to Roussel, he dragged the three men to the couch and sat them upright, making them as comfortable as their bindings would allow. He waited till they were all conscious, seemingly mesmerised as he rhythmically waved his weapon backwards and forwards. The gags were all still securely in place, so he could tell he had their full and complete attention; their expressions were all he needed to see.
‘So gentleman,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Who wants to go first?’
Chapter 29 – Diffusion
10th January 2011 – Four months before the Storm.
The advancement and diffusion of knowledge is the only guardian of true liberty. – James Madison.
He sat outside the office on a cheap plastic chair. The admin complex was located in a prefab in the middle of a combat zone, so he couldn’t really complain. At least he had something to sit on.
He tried to concentrate on not looking conspicuous and only managed to look more so. He wondered for the hundredth time what the general had in mind for him, as he received ever more suspicious looks from comrades walking past. Discipline was the normal reason for being static on a chair, waiting for the commanding officer.
He prayed for the door to open and end his misery, and yet in another way, he wanted to stay outside; he was a little apprehensive of what awaited him.
The Storm Protocol Page 27
