The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

The problem was that Ray had let Foster get under his skin. Dale had a way of doing that with people.

  He glanced at the odometer on the bike. Nineteen km and his body really wanted to stop now; was literally screaming for mercy. No fucking way. He pushed harder and the units started counting down; nineteen point two, nineteen point four.

  So how had Dale got under his skin? Ray had given him every chance, and backed him to the hilt on his first big operation, but things hadn’t worked out as they should have. Everyone had told Ray, that as a boss, he hadn’t been unreasonable. Even Dale told him out straight. He would have expected nothing less than the severe reprimand and permanent mark on his record that he ultimately received.

  After the latest report; Ray had not surprisingly over-reacted, and when he’d told him to take a two week vacation, he’d been surprised at how easily Dale had surrendered. Instead of the normal histrionics, Dale had given him resigned acceptance; like a dog that has had the fight kicked out of it.

  So why would that bother him? Why had he found it so hard to sleep last night? Why was he awake at four am, with his hands tensing into fists involuntarily?

  It wasn’t that Dale was even a likeable guy. He had no social skills and got on people’s nerves. He rubbed them up the wrong way, and yet there was a small character trait that made you like him despite everything.

  Ray’s father used to tell him that the truth was the moral barometer of a man. If his father knew he had been lying or deliberately misleading, he always gave Ray the opportunity to redeem himself; the truth will always set you free. And that’s what it was with Dale; a single-minded, relentless pursuit of the truth.

  The exercise bike bleeped twice to tell him his assigned distance was complete. He pushed his legs harder for another kilometre, just to prove to himself that he could do it. He eased his tired limbs to a stop and grunted in satisfaction, as he checked his heart rate monitor.

  He slid off the bike, and as he did so, he took the plain white towel from around his neck and vigorously rubbed the sweat from his face and his torso. He always exercised in just a pair of shorts. He didn't see the point in adding to the burden of washing, especially in his home gym.

  Aside from the exercise bike, there were only two other pieces of equipment in the room. It was quiet and austere, with plain wooden floors and whitewashed walls. There were no TVs and no stereos; no distractions.

  The last couple of conversations about Dale had shaken him; he didn't mind admitting it to himself. To a certain extent, he had let his ego become a diversion. The truth had got lost and gone astray. He’d allowed the personal dressing-down he’d got from his own senior management to get in the way. He didn’t like that. Since when had Ray Fox let his ego get in front of earnest endeavour and truth?

  He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Dodds. Pairing them up had been a gamble. He couldn't imagine two agents less likely to strike up a partnership, but Dodds was approaching retirement and Dale had needed a bit of a toning down. They were both unassigned, so he’d brought them together. Even though all of his motivation had not been benign, he’d been pleased and surprised at how protective Dodds had become towards his partner.

  He punched the keypad on the rowing machine in front of him; the only piece of electronics in the room. The screen lit up, displaying a stylised icon of him in a canoe, next to two other boats. He always set it for the same speed; one below the maximum. He knew it was achievable and he never wanted to fail.

  As he rowed, he tried to clear his mind, but the images kept coming back. The questions were haunting him, because deep in the recesses of his mind, the eager field agent that he concealed under the special agent in charge veneer had the distinct feeling that something was not right.

  Dodds’ barbed words had hurt him too. He didn't think he was that far removed from the street. He glanced at the screen; he was halfway there and just ahead. The second half was always harder; a metaphor for life.

  Everything about the evidence as it had been presented to him was circumstantial. The informants, the name of the drug, the place, the link to the Mancini’s; not a shred of it would stand up to even a mild cross examination in court. But that wasn't what had pressed his hazard lights.

  He glanced at the screen again; the finish line was in sight and he was thinking too much. He had dropped way behind. He bunched his muscles and pulled with renewed vigour. He inched back into contention, but was beaten across the line by inches. He sat back and allowed his breathing to regularise. The problem must have been bothering him more than he’d thought; he had never lost before. He sprung up and roughly towelled himself down.

  Heading up the stairs from the basement, he was passing the front door on the way to the kitchen, when he was startled by the loud pealing of the Westminster chimes. Ray’s wife was a bit of an anglophile, but personally, he hated that particular ring.

  He threw open the door, to find Dodds standing on the doorstep, with his finger poised over the Bell.

  ‘Don't,’ said Ray.

  Dodds blinked, and then blushed and looked away.

  ‘Never seen a man in shorts before?’ asked Ray.

  ‘Seen plenty of them,’ answered Dodds.

  Ray glared at him for a second and Dodds muttered an apology.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Dodds nodded, and then realised his boss had already gone. Dodds was unsure if it had been an invitation or a statement. In his defence, he could argue that the boss had left the door open.

  He pushed it further ajar and stepped into the house. It was light, airy and modern; uncluttered was the brochure word, and exactly as he had imagined his boss’s house would look. He was just about to guess which door, when he heard the shout.

  ‘Are you coming or what?’

  He followed the sound, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The hall was strangely homely, but as he pushed open the door at the end, he was greeted by a sea of white, high-gloss kitchen cupboards and a huge white island unit, with built-in breakfast bar. It was stark and a bit too clinical for his taste.

  A mug already sat steaming above a comfortable leather-finished bar stool. He sat and sipped, as his boss banged around in some large open drawers, eventually holding the can opener triumphantly aloft. Dodds peered at the label on the can, as Ray opened the tin with practised ease.

  ‘Baked beans,’ stated Dodds, squinting hard.

  ‘Not just any baked beans,’ said Ray. ‘These are Heinz baked beans. Got a taste for them as a student in London; been hooked ever since.’

  He pushed a fork over to Dodds.

  ‘You wanna try some?’

  ‘Yeah, not bad,’ said Dodds. ‘But you do know Heinz is an American corporation?’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ said Ray.

  ‘I jest not,’ said Dodds, in amusement.

  ‘So, how did you find out where I lived?’ asked Ray eventually, through a mouthful of beans.

  ‘I’m an investigator boss, what can I say,’ replied Dodds.

  Ray looked at him gravely and then his face cracked into a smile.

  ‘Good answer,’ he said.

  Behind Dodds, a clock chimed and a cuckoo leapt out, making him jump in his seat. Seven thirty in the morning. He glanced at his boss and his state of undress. It probably was a little bit early to make a house call.

  He looked behind him and studied the clock. It was incongruous against the swish, stylishly modern interiors in the rest of the kitchen. It didn't belong.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Ray, following the direction of his gaze, and the unspoken question. ‘People wonder why I put that up. Well, it was given to me by my grandfather. He brought it back from Switzerland, or maybe it was Austria; a parting gift to himself when he left Europe at the end of the hostilities. I loved that clock as a kid; never missed a day winding it and it's incredibly accurate, as you can see.’

  Dodds compared the time on his BlackBerry. The boss was right.

  ‘So, I’ve been doing a lot of
thinking about this,’ stated Ray.

  He walked over to the clock and fiddled underneath it. Dodds could see that there was a key hanging beneath it on a hook.

  ‘You and me both then,’ responded Dodds.

  ‘The one thing that doesn't ring true for me,’ said Ray, as he turned the key methodically. ‘The one thing that switched my radar from circumstantial to clear and present danger....’

  ‘The call from the CIA,’ finished Dodds.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Ray.

  ‘Cause I’ve been wrestling with the same conundrum,’ said Dodds. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he can make some howling mistakes, and when he makes an error, he can get it seriously fucking wrong. But in this case, I think he got it right.’

  ‘I think so too,’ said Ray. ‘And by the way, that comment stung. I’m not that far removed from the street you know?’

  ‘Just trying to get your attention,’ replied Dodds. ‘No offense.’

  ‘Well, you got my attention,’ said Ray, ‘and incidentally, so did Dale. But the question remains, what do we do?’

  ‘He rang me yesterday,’ answered Dodds, expecting a backlash.

  The answer he got surprised him.

  ‘Yeah, we need to have something for him,’ said Ray. ‘Hopefully, he’ll work with us and give us anything he has too.’

  Ray threw his plate and mug into the sink.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to grab a shower now. I’ll meet you back in the office. If there are any developments in the meantime, give me a shout.’

  Dodds realised he was being dismissed.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Anytime,’ said Ray distractedly.

  #

  Afternoon; Dodds was finding it very difficult to focus. If someone had asked him whether Dale had made any difference to his professional life, he would have said no, but it appeared that Dale had more influence on him than he’d realised.

  Thinking back, it was always Dale that did the organising. It wasn’t that Dodds was lazy or stupid; he was more than capable, it was just that Dale preferred to do it. He had a methodology, a system, and in fairness to Dale, it had worked well for both of them.

  Dodds opened his top drawer and the packet of cigarettes stared back at him. He was trying to quit, or cut back at the very least. He was debating the relative merits of will power, when the red light blinked on his phone and the buzzer sounded. He picked it up.

  ‘Hey Sandy,’ he said.

  ‘Boss wants you in the office now,’ she said. ‘He sounds quite flustered.’

  Dodds glanced up to see the boss beckoning him energetically. He walked briskly across.

  ‘You are not going to believe this,’ said Ray under his breath. He had his headset on and un-muted the microphone.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting sir, I’m just heading back to my office now.’

  He motioned for Dodds to step in and close the door.

  He moved back around behind his desk. He switched his conference phone into speaker mode, but kept the microphone audio routed through his headset, so that Dodds could listen but could not say anything. Ray scribbled something on his pad, and passed it across to Dodds. It said Director of the CIA. Dodds raised his eyebrows and then scribbled back, you’re kidding me. Ray shook his head.

  ‘Okay, I'm back at my desk now, sir, and the doors are closed; sorry for keeping you.’

  ‘So no chance of anyone overhearing?’ asked the director.

  Ray placed a finger to his lips, and then brought it across his neck with a slashing motion. Dodds understood exactly what he meant.

  ‘No chance at all, sir,’ said Ray.

  ‘What do you know about Storm?’ asked the director.

  Ray instantly liked him. He didn’t beat around the bush. Not a man to mince his words.

  ‘We are not sure that we know anything,’ answered Ray. ‘Most of what we have heard is rumour and conjecture. But from what we've been able to ascertain, Storm is a drug of some kind.’

  ‘You have a quality for understatement, Agent Fox,’ said the director. ‘What I’m about to tell you is on a strictly need to know basis, do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Ray.

  ‘About two months ago, a folder went missing from a secure government facility. There are only four of these folders in existence. They should have been kept under constant lock and key, within a secure restricted area, but in this particular case, all the procedures were not followed.’

  ‘And this has something to do with Storm?’ asked Ray.

  ‘That folder is Storm,’ said the director. ‘History, background, protocol, chemical compounds, manufacturing process, clinical trials, testing results, everything.’

  ‘So, if someone were to get their hands on that folder?’ ventured Ray.

  ‘They would be potentially an extremely rich man or woman,’ finished the director. ‘Make no mistake; this has the potential to be bigger than heroin, cocaine, ecstasy, all of those. If you went out of your way to design the perfect drug, you couldn't come up with a better one.’

  ‘So, where is this folder now?’ asked Ray. ‘Do we know?’

  ‘All the intelligence we have points to the document being in the possession of the Mancini brothers.’

  Ray and Dodds looked at each other.

  ‘So Dale was right,’ said Ray, almost to himself.

  ‘If you're referring to Agent Foster,’ said the Director, ‘then yes he was. But if you can contact him, you need to get a message to him. He is in quite a bit of danger.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Ray, with the beginnings of concern.

  ‘I mentioned the existence of four folders,’ said the director. ‘I have one of them and certain key individuals within the Storm Project group have the other three. One of those individuals has become a ghost and their folder, and thus Storm itself, has vanished with them.’

  ‘Rebelled you mean?’ asked Ray. ‘Gone rogue?’

  ‘Actually yes, rogue would be a much better way to put it,’ said the director. ‘I'm not at liberty to discuss who the individual is. To be honest, that information is way above your pay grade. Suffice to say, they are eminently aware of the value of what they have. I believe they are selling the drug to the highest bidder. Why they engineered two folders to be removed; one in such a clumsy and haphazard way, I don't yet know or understand? Maybe they did it, so they could compare the two and make sure there were no anomalies from folder to folder; we do that sometimes to protect ourselves.’

  He laughed briefly and sourly.

  ‘Unfortunately, that is not the case here. Each folder contains an identical and full disclosure.’

  ‘So, where does the danger come from?’ asked Ray.

  ‘Given the vast sums of money potentially involved, I have to believe they are prepared to kill anyone with any knowledge of this project; certainly anyone isolated and vulnerable.’

  ‘Does that include me, sir?’ asked Ray.

  ‘No, they would have no knowledge of you.’

  ‘So, how did you find out about Agent Foster?’ asked Ray, reading the scribbled question that Dodds had thrust across the desk. ‘And more to the point, how did the rogue agent find out about him?’

  ‘We pulled the last few records accessed by our rogue agent from the CIA database,’ said the director. ‘The second to last record he accessed was that of one Agent Dale Foster.’

  ‘What was the last one?’ asked Ray curiously.

  ‘A man called Thomas Eugene O'Neill.’

  Ray and Dodds looked at each other as they realised the call had been terminated.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Dodds.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Ray. ‘I can’t tell you why, but I have a feeling we are being played. We need to proceed with the utmost caution.’

  Chapter 33 – Alliance

  19th May 2011 – Nine days after the Storm.

  War makes fright, fright makes alliances, all
iances make war. – Anon.

  Our journey together, especially after the destruction of the house, had been a little surreal. The other two hadn’t spoken at all. I had just mumbled half remembered directions. All of us were lost in our individual musings.

  More by accident than design, my aimless recollections brought us back to Roussel’s hotel. It transpired by complete coincidence, that both he and Foster were staying in the same place.

  We agreed to meet in Foster’s room; he handed me one of his pass keys, and we entered via the back door at five minute intervals, so we didn't arouse any suspicions.

  I was last in and headed straight for Dale’s room, glad that the number was printed on the card; I had forgotten to ask him where it was. When the lock opened with a green light and a click, the other two were together inside. Roussel had gathered all his things and had already cleared out his room.

  There were three beds, so we collectively decided to get a little bit of sleep. I set my alarm for seven am. For my line of work, I had perfected the art of the deep catnap and it appeared my new colleagues had too. When the bell jangled on my iPhone, and brought us all back to the living, both of them appeared as refreshed and wide awake as I felt.

  Roussel went down first to pay his bill. I went down next, as I had no account to settle, and the two of us waited outside in comparative silence for Foster to join us.

  ‘What now?’ asked Roussel.

  His breath was condensing, as his words broke the peace and stillness of the dawn.

  ‘I have just the thing,’ I said.

  An hour later, I pushed the plate away from me. The all-day breakfast rarely defeated me, but this time it had.

  ‘I told you that you’d both feel better after that,’ I said.

  They both sat back and smiled; neither of them had been defeated the way I had, and their plates were almost forensically clean.

  ‘So, what now?’ asked Roussel, echoing his earlier comment.

  We sipped at our coffees, as we studied each other.

  ‘First things first,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get this out of the way up front, because you guys are tiptoeing around it.’