The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  He cursed loudly as his foot slipped on a wet rock, but then silently admonished himself; a slightly turned ankle was a small sacrifice for the return he would get from this mission.

  Eventually, just as he thought he would have to revert to the night vision glasses for walking, the outline of the small village emerged from the gloom. He tracked along the main street till he came to the pub. Sure enough, his car was still there, along with a significant number of others; it certainly would have aroused no suspicion. He threw his back pack into the boot and removed a small package from the glove compartment. It was another ready to go phone, nestling in there with three others.

  He powered it up.

  He was secure in the knowledge that he was outside the triangle they had used to locate him from his last co-ordinates. Even though he had destroyed the old phone, if he’d powered the new one straight away, they would have seen it immediately. He fully reclined the seat and dialled another number from memory. It was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Yes!’

  A one word response, curt and to the point.

  ‘Hello, Antonio, it’s me.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked sharply.

  Antonio’s opinions on acquaintances of the Mancini's tended to reflect Guido and Ernesto’s own reactions to those self same acquaintances. Consequently, Antonio did not think much of the stranger.

  ‘I'd like to speak to Guido please?’ stated the stranger.

  ‘And what if he doesn’t want to speak to you?’ asked Antonio.

  ‘He will,’ said the stranger, ‘so I would advise you to give him the option, not make the choice for him.’

  He heard a couple of guttural curses in Italian and then the sound of footsteps and whispering.

  ‘It’s a dangerous game you're playing with me,’ said a voice.

  It was Guido, and he wasn’t happy.

  ‘Just want to make sure my money is all ready,’ said the stranger.

  ‘You'll get your money. As soon as we’ve verified the protocol is complete, the transfer will be made.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ asked the stranger.

  ‘Probably tomorrow,’ said Guido.

  ‘So can I be there?’ asked the stranger. ‘I’d like to witness the contracts and signatures. It would be a fitting end to my involvement.’

  ‘Have you been spying on us?’ asked Guido incredulously.

  ‘Number one, I think you're forgetting my background,’ said the stranger, ‘and number two, in the CIA we don't look upon it as spying. I'm merely keeping my best interests at heart and looking out for my investment, as you would too.’

  ‘Five pm,’ said Guido curtly. ‘You obviously know where.’

  The stranger smiled. Another hang-up, but it wasn’t about making friends and influencing people. Good job really.

  His payday inched ever closer.

  Chapter 51 – Clarification

  23rd May 2011 – Thirteen days after the Storm.

  Clarity is the counterbalance of profound thoughts. – Luc de Clapiers.

  I lay there staring up at the ceiling. It was one of those polytex ceilings; not smooth, but rough and knobbly, the kind that decorators curse. It looked like the surface of the moon, photographed from a long way away. I had been staring at it for a long time.

  The light from the dawn was streaming through the dagger shaped gap in the full length curtains, casting weird shadows on the far wall. As I lay there, I started to create images in my mind, ostensibly playing a mental game to while away the time; connecting the raised areas of the ceiling together to form pictures. Like a bizarre form of join the dots.

  All the while, my mind was in turmoil.

  I’d always had a father, I knew that, but now I really did know who he was. Every time I tried to focus on a particular fact or statement, it fractured into a million tiny fragments, each screaming for priority. I just could not focus on anything. I’d wanted answers, now I had them. Now I had to learn to live with the consequences of that information.

  I had a half brother who was trying to kill me. In a country like Ireland, where family was sacrosanct, I found that one fact, above all others, hard to assimilate and reconcile. It prompted a myriad of other questions that I also didn't want to face.

  My mother must have known of my half brothers existence, and yet she had let me lead my life in blissful ignorance; why? And what had I personally done to cause such offense to someone I didn’t even know?

  It was the ultimate irony really. In my line of work, there were people who really should have wanted me dead that just didn't, and yet here was a direct relation, literally a blood brother, who wanted me killed. It just didn't compute.

  Eventually I could stand it no longer; the voices were driving me mad. I threw off the covers, and threw on a T-shirt and trousers.

  In just my bare feet, I padded down into the reception area. The night porter was dozing fitfully, but like all seasoned hospitality workers, he jerked awake and slipped seamlessly into urbane professionalism. He looked at his watch and smiled.

  ‘You’re up and about very early this morning,’ he said, adding, ‘sir.’

  ‘Couldn't sleep,’ I said simply. ‘Anywhere I can get a cup of coffee at this time in the morning?’

  ‘Sit yourself down over there,’ he said, indicating the lounge area, ‘and I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He hopped up and disappeared through a door marked private. He was back, true to his word, a couple of minutes later with a tray. There were two mugs of steaming liquid, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and a plate of digestive biscuits.

  Yes, it was instant, but as I added the milk and the sugar, I didn't care. It was delicious and just what I needed. We toasted each other silently, and then I fished in my pocket for some loose change.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s on the house, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s only instant after all. Not really in keeping with our gastronomic surroundings.’

  He indicated the lobby area of the small boutique hotel we had booked into last night. My iPhone trip advisor search had called it a food lover’s paradise.

  ‘I’m going to head back upstairs if that’s okay?’ I said.

  ‘You’re the customer, you don’t need my approval,’ he said, winking. ‘Take care of yourself, sir.’

  The advice echoed in my head as I walked carefully back up the stairs, step-by-step. It was good advice; a creed that I’d lived my life by. Taking care of myself was a professional necessity, but now I'd learnt that it wasn't just about me anymore. There was another that shared my bloodline; another delicately joined by the twisting invisible strands of DNA. It was all very confusing.

  Back in the room, I fluffed up the pillows behind me and sat upright on the bed. As I took another sip of the coffee, I realised that I wasn't alone in consciousness any more.

  ‘You had a bad night,’ Dale stated simply.

  He pulled himself upright and rubbed his hands backwards and forwards over his skull vigorously.

  ‘I had many a similar sleepless night,’ continued Dale. ‘Wondering about what could have been and what might have been. At the end of the day, Street, you and I are the same. We deal in absolutes, we deal in reality, we deal in positives and negatives, not ifs, buts and maybes. My family are my family. If my birth parents decided to come and find me, I’d deal with it there and then and move on. You can’t go back.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ I said.

  ‘Easy and true,’ he said with a smile. ‘You need to focus on the here and now. We know Black Swan is your brother, we know he wants to kill you, so now we just need to figure out why?’

  Dale had hardly finished the words, when the phone next to his bed rang loudly. Roussel jerked awake and wiped the sleep from his eyes as Dale listened. Wordlessly he beckoned me and Roussel closer. He flicked the phone into speaker mode and set it down on the bed between the three of us.

  ‘Okay, you’re on speaker,’ said Da
le.

  ‘This is Special Agent Ray Fox of the DEA,’ squawked the phone. ‘I have with me Special Agent Dodds, also of the DEA.’

  There was an acknowledging grunt in the background.

  ‘I run the field office that Dale is attached to, and that's how I managed to get mixed up in all this mess,’ he continued ruefully.

  ‘Now Dale,’ he said. ‘I know you've managed to acquire some....’

  He searched for a word.

  ‘....colleagues. Can I ask them to introduce themselves, so at least I know who and what we're dealing with here?’

  Dale winked at me. Roussel saw the wink and indicated himself. I nodded my understanding.

  ‘Detective Charles Roussel, badge number 6566, St James Parish CID,’ he answered.

  ‘And exactly whereabouts would that be, Detective Roussel?’ asked Ray.

  ‘Louisiana,’ said Roussel.

  ‘Louisiana,’ repeated Ray slowly.

  We could all hear the puzzlement in his voice.

  ‘Thomas Eugene O'Neill,’ I said. ‘Private Citizen.’

  This time, there was a strangled cough.

  ‘The Thomas Eugene O'Neill,’ said another voice, obviously Agent Dodds. ‘The same man who is wanted in the state of New York for extortion, protection, prostitution, drugs, and multiple assassinations and murders.’

  ‘None of it proven,’ I answered, ‘but yes, one and the same.’

  ‘We can go into all of that later,’ suggested Dale into the deafening silence on the other end of the phone. ‘The most important thing at the moment is that I would trust both of these guys with my life, and in point of fact have done so on more than one occasion in the last forty eight hours. Anything you can tell me, you can tell them.’

  We heard the sound of a hand being placed over a microphone and some forceful whispering.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ray eventually. ‘I’m going to take that at face value. But if any of this makes it into the public domain, I can’t guarantee your lives let alone your jobs, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Dale.

  ‘As a bell,’ added Roussel.

  ‘No argument from me,’ I replied.

  ‘Okay, first thing to let you in on is that myself and Dodds are in Virginia; Langley to be precise.’

  We all looked at each other. We didn’t need to vocalise our question, we all knew exactly what those two words meant.

  ‘We are currently speaking to you from a secure line in the CIA director’s private meeting room.’

  This time, none of us could hide our surprise.

  ‘The director is fully aware that we are speaking to you. Unfortunately, he can’t be here himself. He had an important engagement that he had to take care of otherwise he would have related these facts to you himself.’

  There was a temporary silence as this was digested.

  ‘The other thing I will say before we start,’ continued Ray, ‘is that myself and Dodds had to sign an additional NDA on top of our standard federal government one, so it goes without saying that this information is highly classified.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Dale.

  ‘Okay, straight to it,’ said Ray. ‘I'm presuming you all know about Storm. I’m not going to rehash old information if I don’t have to.’

  ‘We have a copy of the Protocol folder,’ said Dale helpfully.

  ‘Okay, so you know about as much as we did up until about seven hours ago.’

  There was a longish pause.

  ‘What you don't know,’ stated Ray, ‘is that in Iraq and Afghanistan they have been running trials using Storm against the Taliban and Iraqi insurgents.’

  ‘Using Storm how?’ asked Dale. ‘Making addicts of the population?’

  He was genuinely puzzled, as we all were, and then his face cleared.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’ve been focussing on its potential modern use as a recreational narcotic, but we have to remember, Storm was originally developed to create compliancy in a populace. They're tapping into that, and using it for its original intention.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Ray. ‘Yes, as you say, it was first developed as a biological weapon. You’ve read the file, same as us. It was originally envisaged that it would be possible to enslave a population, albeit temporarily. This is what drew the CIA to the drug in the first place. But there is a much more sinister twist in the tail.’

  His voice became grave and serious.

  ‘It has a use case that was not in your Protocol folder.’

  ‘Go on,’ prompted Dale. ‘We’re listening.’

  ‘When you attain a certain quantity of this drug in your bloodstream, it does not make you compliant, it turns you into a mindless killing machine whose only thought is to acquire more of the drug, and who regards every other human being as competition to be eliminated. Once you attain this mindless state there is no going back; you will remain that way until you die, which will be very soon after.’

  There was a stunned silence this time.

  ‘That sounds a little far-fetched,’ I said. ‘That’s pretty strong language isn’t it; mindless killing machines?’

  ‘That's what we said, Thomas,’ replied Ray.

  Both of us were startled as to how my name sounded coming from his mouth.

  ‘But the director was adamant. This drug is very much a double-edged sword. If it gets out there into wider distribution, it will cause havoc among the drug taking population, but if people start taking it in the wrong quantities, which inevitably they will....’

  He left the rest of the sentence unfinished. He didn't need to spell it out.

  Dale suddenly snapped his fingers.

  ‘So there were always two purposes to it.’ he said. ‘An overt one and a covert one; think about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘The director sanctioned this drug in spite of knowing what the side effects were for the simple reason that the intent was to develop a drug with two purposes. The first purpose, the overt purpose, was as an effective and harmless biological weapon.’

  ‘Still a weapon though,’ I said.

  Dale agreed.

  ‘Yes, you could argue a lot of things against it. Contravenes peoples human rights, takes away freedom of choice, but in a legitimate conflict situation, you can see something like Storm being used in preference to traditional weapons; something that makes people compliant for a finite period of time till you have them disarmed and locked up as required.’

  ‘I can see the value in that,’ I said.

  ‘But the second use, the covert and possibly primary use, certainly the one they would have been testing in Afghanistan and Iraq, does ostensibly the same thing, only this time there is no need for messy and expensive prisoners. But imagine the public outcry about a drug developed specifically to turn a whole populous into mindless zombies. The political and international outcry would be enormous; governments would literally fall.’

  ‘Well the CIA director described it in a slightly different way,’ interjected Ray, ‘and from a slightly different perspective, but yeah the upshot is pretty much the same, whichever way you cut it. He needs to get those folders back and eliminate any trace that they ever existed.’

  ‘We’d love to help, boss, really we would,’ said Dale. ‘The thought of this drug getting onto the open market, even without knowing all of these nasty side-effects, was enough for us to want to try and stop it, but we are making headway very slowly. Roussel is the only one with jurisdiction, but even that is very limited and his influence only goes so far; they have other priorities in the drug squad.’

  ‘Believe me, that’s the least of your worries,’ said Ray. ‘Jurisdiction simply does not come into it. I’m going to state this as simply and as bluntly as I can. You will be contacted shortly by a CIA operative who will identify himself as Agent B. He has some details to share with you, including who is involved and where they are located. I hate doing this to you Dale, but you are the only man I hav
e down there.

  Ray corrected himself.

  ‘No, in fact you are the only men I have down there. I’ll leave it up to you. I can’t order you to do it, but I think each of you have a conscience, even the contract killer.’

  I ignored the implicit statement in his last remark.

  ‘When is this guy going to contact us?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s where the director is at the moment,’ said Ray. ‘He’s talking to his agent on the ground, giving him a full briefing about you, Dale. The agent seems to know about your friends already.’

  I looked at the other two. There didn't seem to be much more to say to that.

  ‘Okay boss,’ said Dale. ‘Talk to you later.’

  ‘Good luck,’ responded Ray.

  He paused.

  ‘Good luck to all of you.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘So what do you make of that?’ asked Roussel into the silence.

  ‘Be a nice change to work on the right side of the law,’ I said with a smile.

  Before Roussel had a chance to answer, Dale’s phone went off again. He switched it to Speaker mode before he hit the green button.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Dale Foster?’ asked a voice.

  ‘That's me,’ answered Dale. ‘Agent B?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Okay, here's the deal. Meet me in the Armada Bar at one pm sharp. Sit at the bar in a line of three, with a Guinness in front of each one of you.’

  ‘What if there’s no room at the bar?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Use your imagination,’ said the voice grimly. ‘See you in two hours.’

  Chapter 52 – Revelation

  23rd May 2011 – Thirteen days after the Storm.

  The revelation of thought takes men out of servitude and into freedom. – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  I sat looking at my pint. As the dark liquid settled, I turned the glass slowly on the beer mat, using my fingers to clear the condensation from the outside. I smiled as my two companions copied what I was doing. They must have thought it was part of the Guinness drinking ritual. Three cheers for cultural differences.