He ripped out the pages and balled them to create kindling. He was just about to ball his fifth sheet, when something caught his eye. He smoothed out the page and read the information slowly. He took it back to his desk, oblivious now to the cold, and placed it centrally on the large leather bound blotter. Pieces of the puzzle started flying in from left and right, like well rehearsed stagehands in a theatre production.
The first thing that had struck him upon finishing the Storm dossier had been the sheer scale of operation that would be required to house such an undertaking. This could not be hidden in attics and garden sheds. His keen intelligence had identified the intrinsic scale of the production process. That information had obviously stayed in his subconscious, and his brain had been picking at it like a sore. When he saw the article about the new pharmaceutical investment in Clonakilty, the dots had immediately connected themselves, especially as he already suspected who one of the main investors was.
He pulled his laptop from his desk drawer and flipped it open. A rudimentary web search on ADXR returned millions of hits. He would have expected nothing less. ADXR were a publicly traded company. All of their information was in the public domain, especially if you knew where to look.
One of Eoin’s hobbies was the stock market. When you had millions of Euro in the bank, you could afford to indulge yourself. Eoin clicked open his company search program. Pretty soon, he had a listing of the ADXR board, all of their curriculum vitae’s, and copies of their last three quarterly financial statements. It was not new information to him. He always did an in-depth analysis of any potential investment and coincidentally, ADXR were one of the stocks he held in quite large numbers. He smiled.
The other company mentioned in the news release; they were something different again. There were only a couple of dozen hits related to G&E Chemicals themselves, most of which were cached copies of the same media statement, just located on differing news media websites. This company was definitely worthy of investigation.
Eoin had long ago recognised the power of networking. His softly spoken manner and fearsome reputation combined to ensure he was never ignored when he wanted something, and his network extended to every sphere of local and central government. He also made sure his information sources were well looked after.
He flicked through the Rolodex on his desk. Even though he had all his numbers in his smart phone, he didn’t have one hundred percent confidence in them. Some things he just wouldn't trust to technology. He dialled the number.
‘Hey Graham, its Eoin,’ he said as the phone was answered. ‘Eoin Morrison. I need you to do me a favour and I need the information very quickly, do you understand?’
He smiled.
‘Good, now listen carefully....’
Ten minutes later, the phone on his desk rang, startling him out of his semi-slumber.
‘Morrison,’ he said.
He listened closely and waited for the pregnant pause to indicate the information had been delivered. He hung up without saying anything. There was nothing that needed to be said. He made a mental note. Graham would be a grand richer by the end of the day.
Eoin pulled his writing pad towards him and scribbled down everything the caller had told him. Eoin’s short-term memory was almost flawless, and for anything up to a page, he could recall it letter for letter.
Only when he had finished writing it all down, did he start trying to analyse and understand what it was he had been told.
He looked at the list of companies that his contact had given him. It never ceased to amaze him how governments made it so easy to facilitate the evasion of tax. Granted, you had to be a very good company lawyer, or at the very least, have a solid understanding of company law, but once you had that, your tax bill rapidly declined.
Eoin was the latter, self taught and sharp as a steel blade, and even without a degree, there were few in the country who understood company law as well as he did.
He started from the top, from G&E Chemicals, as he knew from experience that it was like playing a game of pass the parcel. For every layer you stripped away, the closer you got to the prize. And sure enough, by the time he was down to the last layer of the onion, he was not in the least bit surprised to find out who the company was and who controlled it.
West Cork Bull Investments Ltd, through a convoluted series of holding companies, held a thirty three percent stake in G&E Chemicals. The directors of the company were David McCabe and Ben Collins.
Black Swan dialled the number from memory. His desk mounted speakerphone echoed the ring tone and then as it turned to white noise, he started speaking. He didn't even give the other party the chance to introduce themselves.
‘Dave, I’m e-mailing you some details,’ he said curtly. ‘I want you to put all of our resources on this and let me know as soon as you can if there is anything further you can find out?’
Eoin had been about to hang up, when he heard the entreaty.
‘Boss?’
‘What is it?’ Eoin asked.
‘Maybe nothing,’ he said. ‘But I’m hearing a lot of noise from the Clonakilty area. I know West Cork wouldn’t be a major base for us, but just wanted you to be aware. Something is definitely afoot in the reeds down there.’
‘Thanks Dave,’ said Eoin.
It was all starting to hang together.
He hung up without saying goodbye. He busied himself with the process of typing and documenting, not sitting back until the small bundle of documentation he had created was winging its way across the ether.
He had a feeling somebody was playing games with him. After the cryptic conversation of the last day or so, he had been utterly certain he would find the Bullock somewhere in the paper trail, but knowing it and confirming it were two different things.
He was not sure how he felt about it now. It just made no sense to Eoin. Someone was using him for their own selfish reasons, and Eoin did not like it one little bit.
He also felt seriously conflicted. If the Bullock had thought enough about Storm to invest, then it was adding to his own growing confidence in Storm as a commercial opportunity.
Regardless of how David McCabe felt about him as a person, Eoin trusted his professional judgement implicitly. You didn’t get as big as David; grow the business as fast as he had, without having a keen sense of what made money and what didn’t. But more galling even than that, was that David had got in ahead of him. If it was the last thing he did, Eoin would make sure the Bullock did not profit a single penny from the investment.
The strident ringing of his mobile made him jump. This time though, when he checked the number, he recognised immediately who it was. He always added them to his phone, and he couldn’t help but smile at the Tandoori stranger that was flashing back at him from the LCD display.
‘Hello Eoin,’ said the familiar voice.
‘I had a feeling it wouldn't be long before I heard from you again,’ said Black Swan.
‘So what's your verdict?’ asked the stranger.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Eoin in return. ‘I thought you didn’t care what I did, one way or the other?’
‘Well, it turns out that I do,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m interested to find out what your answer is?’
‘I’m afraid the answer is none of your business,’ answered Eoin.
‘You gave me the impression that it most definitely was your business last night,’ said the stranger.
‘I don’t like playing second fiddle to anyone. I won't play second fiddle to one particular party, and you know exactly who I’m talking about. I also intensely resent being played for an idiot.’
‘That’s what you think I am doing, is it?’ asked the stranger.
‘You definitely are,’ replied Eoin. ‘I do have above average intelligence, so give me some credit.’
‘And nothing I can say will convince you to get involved?’
‘Who said I’m not going to get involved. It’s merely your motivation for providing me with the informat
ion that I’m beginning to doubt.’
‘I told you my motivation. I’m not playing games here. What makes you think I am?’ asked the stranger.
‘I refer to the aforementioned above-average intelligence,’ said Eoin.
It was then that he realised the call had been terminated. He smiled; he didn't care. If someone wanted to play games with him, he was an exceptionally good player and he didn’t like losing.
Chapter 45 – Hypothesis
22nd May 2011 – Twelve days after the Storm.
The great tragedy of science: the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact. – Thomas Henry Huxley.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without the smart phone at this stage,’ said Dale. ‘You can get your e-mail and internet, literally at the touch of a button.’
‘Yeah, it’s great,’ echoed Roussel. ‘Everything is pretty much instant these days, isn’t it?’
He had barely got the words out, when there was an almost simultaneous symphony of e-mail alert tones.
‘You go first,’ said Dale. ‘Given that your contact is local, they're much more likely to have found out something relevant.’
I watched Dale watching Roussel in the rear view mirror, his face a study in concentration. Roussel was shaking his head slightly and frowning, and as he glanced up at me, I could tell he was disappointed.
‘James had another scan through all their manual files and also took one last trawl through all of their online systems,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, he didn't manage to unearth anything new. As far as the records are concerned, Richard O'Neill doesn't exist and never existed; certainly the one that was purported to be married to your mother, anyway. To the extent that he can confirm it, James has not managed to unearth any known surviving relatives on your mother’s side of the family. However, the department have a genealogical investigator on a retainer. They have offered to engage them if I think it is sufficiently relevant to the case. I told them that I thought it was.’
‘That’s positive then, isn’t it?’ I stated hopefully.
Roussel smiled grimly.
‘The investigators are not quick, according to James. Most of the relevant records, especially in Ireland, are manual and generally geographically disparate; nothing really useable there.’
He sighed.
‘It was a long shot,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
I turned to Foster.
‘So that leaves you, Dale. Did you get anything interesting?’
Foster was so engrossed in what he was reading, that he didn't hear the question.
‘What about you, Dale?’ I asked again, this time a little louder.
He looked up in surprise.
‘Did you get anything?’
His expression clouded a little.
‘I got something,’ he said distractedly, as he tried to focus on the information.
‘So what did you get?’ I asked, my excitement slowly starting to build.
‘Come on man, spit it out,’ said Roussel eagerly.
‘Not so fast,’ he said. ‘Let me go through this methodically. I think it will make a lot more sense to everybody if I understand it myself first. I’m not saying any of this information is relevant to our search, but at least it’s another potential avenue to explore.’
He composed himself and scrolled back to the start of the e-mail.
‘So you remember my partner and my boss had a conversation with the director of the CIA? Well....’
He paused for effect.
‘....because of the importance the CIA has attached to this investigation, they’ve given my partner access to the restricted federal databases; the ones that were previously off-line to both me and Roussel.’
He looked up at me then, with a smile on his face.
‘Apparently, in your early days, they were none too sure about your political leanings. They knew the Mancini's were apolitical, but this was the early nineties and Northern Ireland was heading towards the first IRA ceasefire. All federal agencies had been put on heightened alert for any suspected Irish republican involvement or activity.’
‘So what does all that mean exactly?’ I asked. ‘I have a file in Langley?’
‘It means that both you and your background were subjected to a much more rigorous security check than they might otherwise have been, purely because you were Irish. There’s a catalogue of all your suspected crimes, as there is in the regular FBI database. The information is much more detailed however, and you'll be pleased to learn that you were deemed neutral in respect to possible republican terrorist activity or involvement.’
‘Good to know,’ I said with a grin.
‘They also focused on any major ties you had or would have had with folks back in Ireland. For you, that was limited to just two people.’
I hazarded a guess.
‘My mum and Kathleen Murphy.’
Dale nodded.
‘They zeroed in on Kathleen first,’ he said. ‘I think primarily because she was a contemporary of yours. You met when you were both very young, so more likely to be radical and revolutionary. She was around the same age as you, and from the same generation, so much more likely to have and hold the same political ideals. But she was very quickly disregarded.’
‘How so?’ I asked.
‘She seems to have got married very quickly after you left for America,’ said Dale. ‘About six months to be precise.’
Funny that she never mentioned the timeframe to me, I thought. And then I realised she had been hinting at it, especially towards the end of our conversation.
‘She had two kids in very quick succession, too.’
The first sentence had thrown me slightly, but this one really hit me with a jolt. She’d definitely never mentioned that. I didn’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did.
‘Two boys; both of them would be in their twenties by now. Her husband is a schoolteacher, maths if you're interested, plays Gaelic football, fanatical GAA supporter.’
The way he pronounced GAA sounded funny, maybe because he wasn’t Irish; he was reading the text straight from the screen without any context.
‘They were deemed to be very patriotic, but not republican; certainly not in the standard security risk interpretation of republican that is.’
I nodded.
‘So that leaves my mother,’ I said.
‘So that leaves your mother,’ echoed Dale. ‘You’ll know most of this already, but bear with me. It gets better.’
He read steadily down the page.
‘She was born in Cork City, the oldest of five children.’
I looked at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Don’t you mean four?’ I said.
‘The eldest of five,’ he repeated. ‘There were two girls and two boys, plus your mother of course.’
‘One girl and two boys,’ I said, getting annoyed.
‘James O’Neill, the eldest boy,’ continued Dale, ‘died as a result of injuries sustained in a dockyard accident when your mother was about twenty two.’
I nodded.
‘Yep, I remember that story well,’ I said.
‘John, the youngest boy, died about ten years ago. He was a heavy smoker, who finally succumbed to lung cancer after years of battling with emphysema.’
‘I sent a mass card,’ I said, and then noticed both their expressions. ‘I was busy. Give me a break, I barely knew the guy.’
I paused, affronted.
‘Go on,’ I said eventually.
‘Catherine died about five years ago. She’d permanently moved to Australia in the Sixties, around the time her brother died. She’d already married her late husband in Ireland, and they’d gone off to make a new life for themselves.’
‘A lot of people did in the Sixties,’ I responded. ‘I sent a mass card for that funeral too.’
I said it as though I had to justify myself. I ignored their expressions.
‘Which just leaves Joan unaccounted for,’ said Dale.<
br />
‘Who the hell is Joan?’ I asked.
‘Joan is your aunt. The one that is currently alive and well and living in Rosscarbery,’ said Dale.
#
‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ asked Roussel.
I’d spun the car savagely around, and was busy setting the Sat Nav for Rosscarbery.
‘I haven’t gone soft in the head, if that’s what you mean,’ I said, concentrating on the road. ‘But this could give us some answers.’
‘And it might not,’ said Roussel. ‘They may have been estranged; they may not have been in contact for years.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ I said. ‘But at this stage, aside from everything else, I just have to know.’
Roussel shrugged. There was nothing more he could say.
‘The one thing we do have in our favour, or we should have if we’re lucky, is that she never married,’ stated Dale. ‘So unless she changed her surname for other reasons, she should be easy enough to find.’
‘What other reasons?’ I asked.
‘I don't know,’ snapped Dale. ‘It’s your country, you tell me. Seems a lot of strange things happened in the past when it came to families. I’m just trying to be upbeat about it.’
‘You’re right, there is only one,’ interrupted Roussel.
He’d looked her up in the online phone book as Dale and I had been talking. He extended his phone forward and I typed the address with one eye on the Sat Nav, while trying to keep the other eye on the road in front. It was a hairy few minutes.
As it recalibrated the journey; one which would lead us straight to the Aunt that I never knew existed, it prompted a new train of thought. If I was not aware of her, did she know anything about me? Roussel had raised a valid point; they could have been estranged for years, in which case I would be a stranger. At least it would put us on an equal footing. We would be equitable; both equally lost.
‘So was she the older or younger of my mother’s sisters?’ I asked Dale, more for something to say than through genuine interest.
The Storm Protocol Page 43
