The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘Who are my former employers?’ I asked him.

  He smiled at the word former.

  ‘Guido and Ernesto Mancini,’ he answered, without pause.

  ‘So this question to all of you,’ I said, tapping the silencer to my temple and pointing to each of them in turn. ‘Where is your buddy, your colleague, the last member of the team?’

  I watched them closely as they exchanged quizzical glances. They were either extremely good at faking it, or they had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

  I transferred my attention back to the first captive.

  ‘Okay, let’s try a different tack,’ I said. ‘Give me your name and occupation.’

  ‘Detective Charles Roussel, badge number 6566,’ he answered immediately. ‘I work out of St James Parish CID in Louisiana.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ I said softly, to hide my surprise.

  I turned my attention away from Roussel to the second man.

  ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Same question.’

  ‘Special Agent Dale Foster, Drugs Enforcement Administration,’ he said, with emphasis on the Special. ‘I’m normally based out of Westchester, New York, but I’m currently task force liaison with NYPD, based on 10th avenue.’

  This time I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  ‘DEA?’ I inquired incredulously.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Although I’m not here in an official capacity,’ he added, his voice trailing away.

  I shook my head a couple of times, and then turned my attention to the last man.

  ‘Don't tell me,’ I said sarcastically. ‘FBI right?’

  ‘Almost,’ he said unsmilingly. ‘Let's just say it’s the other one and leave it at that, shall we?’

  I looked at him wordlessly for a few minutes. I then whipped out the small Swiss Army knife I always carried, and cut their bonds quickly and cleanly. As they sat there, rubbing their wrists and ankles to renew the circulation, I spoke up again.

  ‘Well gentlemen,’ I said. ‘This changes everything.’

  I showed them the weapon I held, and then slowly and deliberately laid it to one side. As fellow armed professionals, I hoped they would interpret it as a sign of trust.

  ‘You,’ I gestured at Roussel, as I spoke. ‘Can I call you Charles, by the way?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he nodded.

  ‘So, Charles,’ I continued. ‘I’m guessing that you eventually managed to find a paper trail; maybe a set of documents that attested to my ownership of a certain Plantation house, even though I tried to hide the transaction as best I could, by using a lawyer from well outside the normal parish boundaries? And because of that, you believe I'm implicated in at least one, but more probably, both murders that happened on that evening of May tenth, am I right?’

  ‘That just about covers it,’ he said.

  ‘You see, Charles,’ I said. ‘I get you. I understand why you are here. I thought it would take law enforcement longer to find me, but I do understand the logical route you travelled to get here, and the assumptions you made about my innocence or guilt.

  I gestured at Foster.

  ‘But you....’ I said.

  I gestured at the nameless CIA agent.

  ‘And especially you....’ I said.

  I paused to let it sink in.

  ‘I have no idea what possible interest you guys could have with me?’

  ‘If I may,’ responded Foster.

  I nodded at him.

  ‘Sure, go ahead,’ I said.

  ‘For me, it started about a week ago,’ said Foster. ‘All I got at first was a vague indication, then some more specific rumblings about something big about to go down. I started to take notice, especially when a particular duo of unrelated informants gave me roughly the same information, but from wildly differing standpoints and for wildly different reasons.’

  I inclined my head briefly, inviting him to go on.

  ‘We then got lucky with a bust; a man called Sam Rudino.’

  My eyebrows arched up in the middle.

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘He was always a meek and mild one. So what trouble has young Sammy got himself into?’

  ‘He was involved in a fight outside a nightclub,’ said Foster.

  ‘His ego was always grossly mismatched with his personality when he had a few drinks on board.’ I said. ‘But unfortunately for him, he didn’t have the fists or the fight to back up his mouth. Go on.’

  ‘When we brought him in, or rather when we interviewed him, it transpired that he was in a spot of bother.’

  Foster smiled at the memory.

  ‘Let’s just say, he misappropriated an amount of something that didn't belong to him.’

  I whistled softly.

  ‘I was always telling them,’ I said. ‘That place was just far too relaxed. It was full of more holes than a Swiss cheese, but they never listened to me.’

  I clarified the statement.

  ‘Not on that, anyway,’ I finished abruptly.

  ‘Who didn’t listen?’ asked Foster interestedly.

  ‘It’s your story,’ I said. ‘But you know exactly who I mean; Guido and Ernesto, of course.’

  Foster acknowledged my remark with a flash of triumph; obviously some personal vindication of some sort.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Sam confirmed to us, or at least as far as he could corroborate, that this ghost we’d been chasing; this big one.’

  ‘Storm,’ I offered.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘As far as Sam could ascertain, Storm was a drug; a new drug that was going to be coming out of a place called Cork, in Ireland.’

  He stopped to scratch the side of his face absently.

  ‘Because he had decided to be so helpful,’ continued Foster, ‘we decided to cut him some slack. We went back to Rudino’s, and in an effort to cover Sam’s light fingered indiscretion, we interviewed two more individuals that he’d indicated might be able to provide us with a few more leads.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said, ‘Mario and Franco; more gossip between them than a couple of Neapolitan Nonna’s.’

  Foster laughed in spite of himself.

  ‘You know them?’ he asked, half a statement really. ‘So it wouldn't surprise you to know that it was them who gave us your name?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ I replied.

  ‘So....’

  Foster reddened slightly.

  ‘....here is where it gets slightly tricky. At the start of my career, I was desperate to be noticed and to get ahead.’

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ I commented.

  ‘Maybe so,’ he acknowledged. ‘But in this case I let it cloud my judgement. Due to some over exuberance and under investigation on my part, I may have inadvertently encouraged my superiors in an ultimately expensive and fruitless investigation.’

  I smiled at the description.

  ‘You were sold a pup,’ I stated flatly.

  He nodded.

  ‘So when I presented them my latest evidence; as circumstantial as it comes, I think you’ll agree; they were not overly enthusiastic, to put it mildly. Firstly, there was the linking of Storm, the new drug, with Ireland, and the rumours of its manufacturing base being established in Ireland too. Secondly, there was the name the Street, given to me during an interview, also linked with both Ireland and the Mancini’s. In their eyes, I’d added two and two and got a hundred. You can imagine their response. I was politely told that I really needed to take a break. So here I am.’

  ‘Okay, I can see how you got my nickname,’ I said. ‘But how did you find me, once you got here?’

  ‘The FBI reporting portal gave me your real name,’ he answered.

  ‘But how did you find the house, if you are here unofficially?’ I asked.

  ‘The register of marriages, births, and deaths,’ said Foster. ‘I drew a blank on you, but your mother’s death certificate lists this address.’

  ‘Very resourceful,’ I said, actually genuinely impressed.

  ‘W
hat about you?’ I asked Roussel, turning back to him. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Same method; slightly different route,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have to rely on the register of marriages, births, and deaths. I had a tip off and the local police did the rest of my digging for me.’

  ‘Very commendable,’ I said.

  The third man was watching me with a slightly superior smirk.

  ‘And what about you?’ I asked the anonymous agent. ‘You've kept very quiet; what's your story?’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ he said. ‘You, on the other hand....’

  He paused and closed his eyes. They flickered under the lids like computer hard drives seeking information.

  ‘July seventeenth, 1993,’ he said at last.

  I blinked in surprise.

  ‘An NYPD team closed in on an extremely large shipment; heroin I think, but that’s the only thing I’m hazy about. Just before the team received the order to go, a man strolled out into the middle of the deal. Even though there were five heavily armed gang members, they seemed afraid. Unfortunately, one of them panicked and they all ended up dead. But here’s the kicker....’

  The agent looked directly at me, as he spoke.

  I glanced at Foster and Roussel; they were mesmerised as to where the story was going.

  ‘Once the arrest team recovered from their shock and surprise, they shouted an order to surrender. The unknown assailant merely holstered his weapon, and slipped unseen into the dark. The thing is, while they were searching that wharf, the police officers got a bit jumpy. They were firing live rounds, in all directions, into the night. Even though he must have had officers in his sights during that time, he never once fired a shot. All they found were five dead bad guys and five shell casings.’

  ‘My beef is not with law enforcement; never has been,’ I responded, by way of explanation. ‘They are just doing their job. I'm doing mine, and no hard feelings, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Roussel and Foster exchanged a glance; from where I was sitting, I couldn't tell what it was about.

  ‘September eleventh, 2001,’ he continued. ‘The date will live long in the memory, for other more obvious reasons. But well outside the downtown area, shots were reported in a neighbourhood in Yonkers; officers were called to a boarded-up Food Lion. Six Colombian males were found dead, sprawled around twelve pallets of cocaine.’

  I inclined my head in brief acknowledgement.

  ‘There was a handwritten note on top of one of the pallets,’ said the agent. ‘It was written all in capitals. It said simply, just taking out the garbage.’

  ‘Computers are to blame for that,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost the ability to write joined up.’

  They looked at me in surprise, but I knew they understood what I meant.

  ‘Just a little freelance work,’ I said. ‘I used to do the odd job myself, especially if the Colombians were involved. Let’s just say, we didn’t necessarily see eye to eye.’

  ‘On June the first, 1988,’ said the agent, ‘a young Irish immigrant was beaten senseless and left for dead in an alley in Brooklyn. Unusually for the time, he was legal; came over from Ireland on a green card he won in a lottery. The perpetrators were a bored and restless gang of Colombian youths. The young Irish man just happened to stray into their path at the wrong time; he survived against all the odds.’

  ‘Approximately three months later,’ he continued, ‘a young Irish man ended up outside a particular bar. He walked inside, shouting and brandishing a gun. The eye witnesses in the lounge at the time all swore on oath that they didn’t believe he originally meant to kill; he just wanted to shake the gang up a little. It was indicative of his early naivety that he didn’t think they would be armed. They started pulling their weapons, leaving him with no choice. Five out of the six Colombian men were shot dead where they sat.’

  Foster and Roussel were watching me with intense interest.

  ‘The last one; the leader of the gang, was mortally wounded. He managed to crawl out from under the table. The young Irish man walked over to the stricken youth. As he readied his weapon for the coup de gras, he was heard to whisper, live by the Street, die by the Street, before a single shot rang out and a legend was born.’

  ‘Not so sure about legend,’ I said, with a wry smile.

  There was a period of intense silence, as the information was digested by all.

  ‘Do you mind if we turn the tables a bit; ask you some questions?’ asked Roussel.

  He cast an anxious glance at the pottery shards behind his shoulder.

  ‘If I can answer them, I will,’ I said in response.

  ‘On the evening of the tenth of May 2011, were you present at Augustine Mansion?’

  ‘I was,’ I replied with a smile.

  I couldn’t help it. He sounded so much like a policeman.

  ‘And did you kill Scott Mitchell and another as yet unknown person on that same night?’

  ‘I did,’ I answered, making him blink in surprise.

  I’m not sure if it was my honesty that put him off, but he shouldn’t have been shocked. If he was worth his salt as an investigator, then he should have already suspected the answer.

  ‘It was in self-defence,’ I stated, ‘if that makes a difference. At least I thought it was at the time.’

  I added the clarification, which sounded slightly lame, all things considered.

  ‘We didn't find any weapons,’ said Roussel.

  ‘Probably in the belly of a gator by now,’ I said. ‘I threw them straight into the middle of the river, both of them. You don't know how much I hated doing that. One of them was my favourite weapon; perfectly balanced.’

  ‘Who is the other guy? The one we weren’t able to ID?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘No idea,’ I said.

  ‘You did say you would answer all the questions,’ said Roussel.

  ‘I also said that if I knew the answer I would,’ I replied. ‘This time I don’t.’

  He tried a different tack.

  ‘Well if you don’t know who he is,’ he asked, ‘any guesses as to why his criminal records are classified?’

  I thought about it for a second.

  ‘Guido and Ernesto decided that I was no longer on the payroll,’ I said. ‘They asked me to do one last job, then sent a cleanup squad to tidy up after me and take out the trash, me included. I hadn't suspected at all, but they had decreed that I too was destined for the dumpster. Luckily for me, the team they sent were just slightly too green and I managed to neutralise them all. Unfortunately, the gentleman I was meeting wasn't so lucky; even though I tried my best to protect him, they managed to kill him. Don’t ask me how they tracked me to Louisiana, but track me they did, have no doubt about that. In answer to your question....’

  I thought about it for a second.

  ‘He was an assassin; a mercenary, plain and simple. Probably freelance, but angling to get on their books. What better way to make a name for yourself than eliminating your predecessor.’

  ‘But why classified?’ asked Roussel. ‘I get everything else you’re saying, but I just don't understand why his identity would be considered secret?’

  ‘His connection with the Mancini’s, I would guess. Anyway, does it matter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Roussel. ‘I have a feeling it does.’

  ‘Why did they want to get rid of you?’ asked Foster suddenly, switching the direction of the conversation.

  ‘I’d developed a conscience,’ I said. ‘No, in fairness, I already had a conscience. More correctly, I rediscovered my conscience. That would be a better way to state it.’

  I laughed at their expressions.

  ‘I know, it sounds pathetic doesn’t it, coming from the mouth of a professional killer. But I came to a realisation; something that should have struck me years ago really. In those warehouses, all I normally saw were stacks of merchandise, pallets of square bricks wrapped in polythene. It only occurred to me recently that it wasn't just the scumbags wh
o were dying. Those polythene bricks were killing innocent people. Don't get me wrong, I take full responsibility for every time I’ve pulled the trigger, it just came to the point where I couldn't deal with the unseen casualties, and the Mancini’s knew it too.’

  ‘But they have always dealt in drugs,’ said Foster. ‘They are one of our biggest targets.’

  ‘Oh I know that,’ I said. ‘Call it self-delusion, call it self-denial, call it what you like. To be honest, all the other stuff I did, I was fine with. The prostitution, the protection, the racketeering; all of the guys that I killed during those times, would have done the same to me at the drop of a hat. It was dog eat dog. The drugs were different. No matter how I tried to rationalise it, at the end of the day I was culpable; as guilty as if I was injecting the gear into the addicts myself.’

  ‘So, would you describe yourself as anti-drugs?’ asked Foster.

  ‘Strangely enough, I think I would,’ I said.

  ‘So, what is Storm?’ he asked.

  I thought of the white folder and the myriad open loops it would close for him.

  But it was too soon.

  ‘It’s a drug,’ I said. ‘It was originally developed in the 1920’s as a pharmaceutical tool to enforce human compliance with communist ideals, and was later developed into a biological weapon.’

  ‘So, what is the modern significance?’ asked Foster.

  ‘I’m no expert,’ I said, ‘but from what I understand, it removes the power of free will. You will do whatever you are directed to do without question. However, there are also unforeseen side-effects. Apart from making the user compliant, it gives them a glorious and almost unimaginable high, without any of the nasty physical side effects normally associated with addiction.’

  I nodded at their expressions.

  ‘Yes, imagine it,’ I said. ‘No cold turkey, no withdrawal symptoms, nothing to complicate the enjoyment. The addiction is purely mental, which makes it all the more difficult to resist.’

  Foster sat back and drummed his fingers on his chin.

  ‘Can you imagine what would happen if a drug like that was to hit the street?’ I stated flatly.

  ‘Something big, something huge,’ muttered Foster, under his breath.