The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘Slainte,’ I said, picking up my glass suddenly and drinking deep.

  ‘Cheers,’ responded Roussel.

  ‘Good health,’ replied Dale.

  All you could hear were multiple swallows.

  ‘It’s like a game of chess isn’t it,’ said Roussel, into the companionable aftermath.

  ‘So why do I feel like I'm the one being setup for check mate?’ I asked.

  They both laughed.

  ‘All the pieces are starting to come together though,’ said Dale.

  ‘And maybe I can add the missing piece to that,’ said a voice behind us.

  We whirled around and then stopped.

  ‘Not who you were expecting, am I?’ he asked, smiling, before turning his attention to the barman. ‘Pint of Guinness please, when you’re ready.’

  He indicated a free table in the corner.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s head over there. I know you have a lot of questions.’

  We did as he asked, and moved across to the empty section he’d pointed out. He waited until we had all stopped shuffling and fidgeting our way in, and we in turn waited until the young lounge girl had delivered his pint to the table, gleefully pocketing the almost fifty percent tip he offered her.

  ‘You’re not the agent we hooked up with in Street’s house,’ stated Roussel.

  ‘No I am not,’ he acknowledged.

  He held up his hand as we all started talking at once.

  ‘Let me give you a bit of background first,’ he said. ‘If that doesn't answer all your questions, then I’ll gladly field any that you have after my explanation. Fair?’

  I picked up my pint and took another sip.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I prompted. ‘We’re all ears.’

  The others nodded their affirmation.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said formally. ‘My name is Agent David Bruce. I was recruited directly into the CIA from college; UNC if you’re interested. I spent five long and happy years in the field, but was invalided out of active fieldwork.’

  We exchanged a quick glance, the three of us. I had noticed a slight limp as he’d brought us across to the table and the others had obviously noticed the same thing. He interpreted the shared glance correctly.

  ‘I was shot in the foot,’ he said, ‘and before you even think of making a joke, believe me I've heard them all before.’

  He waited until we had all assumed serious expressions again.

  ‘Anyway, after I recovered, I wasn't even sure that I wanted to stay in the CIA. I was completely undecided and at a loose end, so one day, my boss took me aside. He knew I was a good agent and wanted to retain me. There was an opening in Langley he’d heard about that was right up my street.’

  ‘He managed to tempt you to stay then?’ stated Roussel.

  ‘That he did,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘Information Technology was one of my passions and he knew that.’

  ‘So it was a computer project?’ I ventured.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘Basically the CIA information department were a huge way down the road with computerisation; so far in fact, that they had started looking at their older paper files. There were approximately twenty rooms, stacked floor to ceiling with yellowing folders and documents, some of them dating back even before the Second World War. My job was firstly to recruit a small team of like-minded agents to help me. Then we had the onerous task of going through those paper files, indexing and archiving anything relevant until everything was done.’

  ‘And that's how you found Storm.’ stated Dale.

  ‘And that’s how I found Storm,’ repeated Agent Bruce. ‘I distinctly remember the day. My foot had been playing up; it was very rainy and wet outside and the damp seems to adversely affect it. I had propped it up on a stool in my office. One of my colleagues came in and handed me an innocuous dusty looking file. We used to batch them together every morning and give ourselves a quota to get through during the day. It was the last left in his pile, but it was quite late in the evening and he was running late. He wanted to get off to see his girlfriend, so I said, yep, no problem, go-ahead, I'll take a look. In that one action, gentleman, I literally changed the course of my life.’

  ‘So, how soon did you recognise its potential?’ asked Dale.

  ‘It was pretty much instant,’ replied Agent Bruce. ‘Believe it or not, I’d majored in Pharmacology at UNC. The North Carolina colleges specialise in medicine. I knew the CIA was also keeping tabs on certain chemical formulas and I liked to keep my hand in and stay current with modern developments. When I saw the main pivotal research was around acetylcholine, my interest was immediately piqued. I also knew how significant some of the derivates were from that family of compounds. We’re all aware of Rohypnol for instance, but reading on through the file, I knew that with modern methods, there was a chance we could eliminate the fatal flaw.’

  ‘So it was never intended to be a double-edged sword?’ asked Dale.

  ‘That's where it gets a bit complicated,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘I knew I had something on my hands worth developing, but I couldn't do it full-time because of the role I was in. Also, I felt that it was only my pharmacological background that had enabled me to see through a lot of the jargon in the original file. If I'd presented it as is to any senior official, I’d have been laughed at. Now, I'm sure it wouldn't shock you to learn that there is a rather large lab complex in the basement of the Langley building. I knew a couple of the guys down there. I was always bugging them to get a loan of their latest industry periodicals. A few of them knew my background; one particularly, James White, I got to know very well.’

  ‘How did you know you could trust him?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘At the time I didn't,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘I took a gamble. He read the file through and had the same concerns as me, but we both believed that with more modern methods of synthesis and isolation, we’d be able to eliminate the flaw. We worked in secret for almost two years, both of us working between fourteen and sixteen hour days; synthesising, isolating and re-testing in an endless cycle.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Dale.

  ‘You know what happened,’ said Agent Bruce.

  ‘We know what the outcome was,’ argued Dale, ‘but we don't know what actually happened.’

  Agent Bruce glanced at him.

  ‘We sat down together, James and me, and took stock of the situation. We sat there despondently, slowly convincing ourselves that our two years of hard work had been wasted. But an offhand remark he made triggered something in my head. Rather than try to eliminate the fatal flaw, I saw it as an additional bargaining tool; a double selling point for the product. So we tried a different approach. This time, we endeavoured to hone, enhance and control it. Identify the concentration limit required, identify the time limit; in other words, make the flaw work in our favour.’

  ‘And did it work?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘And then some,’ agreed Agent Bruce vehemently. ‘In the course of his work, James experimented a lot with laboratory animals. Over the years he’d constructed a maze for lab rats, to ease diagnosis of stimulus and response conditions. He didn't like it, but we took that maze as the basis for the labyrinth we constructed for our first test with the director.’

  ‘The one that’s detailed in the Protocol folder,’ I said.

  ‘One and the same,’ he replied.

  ‘James is the lab technician that was killed?’ ventured Roussel hesitantly.

  ‘How did you know about that?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘The CIA director,’ confirmed Roussel.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Agent Bruce. ‘It was actually that very same night; a very sad business.’

  ‘Do you have any theories?’ I asked.

  Agent Bruce scoffed and then laughed sourly.

  ‘I don't need theories, Mr O'Neill,’ he said. ‘I know exactly who did it.’

  ‘So, what did you do about it?’ I asked.

  ‘No
thing I could do,’ said Agent Bruce flatly. ‘By that stage, the project had been formally acquired by the deputy director. I was excluded, pushed to the sides. It was no longer my project, so I stuck with it and bided my time. I was afraid somebody was going to take the credit for all my hard work, or worse, try to eliminate me as well. I had to keep my wits about me for sure.’

  ‘So, it never occurred to you that someone would exploit the hallucinogenic effects of the drug?’ I asked.

  ‘It honestly never occurred to any of us,’ he said. ‘We often laughed about it; that it seemed like the perfect drug on the surface, and how appearances could be deceptive, but I never in a million years thought someone would seize on that aspect and then try and exploit it for monetary gain. And apart from that, all our tests to that point had been on animals. We only had the original file to describe the effects it had on human subjects.’

  ‘But it’s been tested on humans since.’ said Dale.

  It wasn't a question.

  ‘It absolutely has,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘It’s now more or less perfect for what they want. The problem is that in the trials they are conducting, mistakes are starting to creep in.’

  ‘It’s inevitable really, they’re in a war zone,’ said Roussel. ‘Not the place for steady and rational thoughts and deeds.’

  Agent Bruce nodded.

  ‘But given the issues we've seen with those trials, bearing in mind we are talking about a targeted military demographic, if this gets onto the open market, the ensuing outcome will be nothing short of catastrophic.’

  ‘So, how come you’re over here and intimately involved, if you were sidelined on the project?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘The director needed someone up to speed quickly,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘He knew I'd never really gone away. I was always hovering in the background, keeping an eye on it. Much as I found what they were doing with it distasteful and barely ethical, I still had a stake in it. So, when he came to me and told me he needed my help, I jumped at the chance.’

  ‘So, you know who the rogue agent is?’

  ‘Oh I know who it is all right,’ he said. ‘I’m just not going to share that information with you; not something you need to know.’

  ‘So, why are you here?’ I asked. ‘What is it that we do need to know? What do you need from us?’

  ‘Well, I'd be surprised if you haven't already pieced together a lot of this,’ he said. ‘But I’ll lay it all out for you anyway. The rogue agent has a copy of the Protocol folder. The rogue agent knows that the fatal flaw exists, as does everybody within the CIA who was there for that fateful demonstration, even though it is only listed in one copy of the document. In the director's version of the file, it is listed as outcome number two, but I think fatal flaw describes it much better, don't you?’

  We all nodded.

  ‘The rogue agent passed the file to the Mancini's but obviously did not share the fatal flaw with them. In fairness to the brothers, I think even they would draw the line at their customer base ripping each other to shreds.’

  ‘So, they think they actually do have the perfect drug,’ I said. ‘And nothing they have been told since then has disabused them of that notion. The compliance piece won’t bother them; in fact it would make it more appealing for them. Knowing them like I do, they will act quickly to exploit their competitive advantage.’

  ‘The Mancini's have hooked up with a local drug dealer, a man called David McCabe who goes by the nickname of the Bullock.’

  ‘We’re familiar with David already,’ said Roussel.

  ‘And this is where I may have been a little bit clever, if I say so myself. I met with Black Swan, the other major dealer and told him the whole sorry tale.’

  He chuckled to himself and then saw our faces.

  ‘You know him?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

  ‘Only by reputation,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Yeah, he was none too pleased when I told him, but it was a worthwhile exercise. I’m fairly sure he will have located the factory by now too. He didn’t confirm it in so many words, but I have a feeling that he might yet cause some trouble for young David and his new partners.’

  ‘Be careful with Black Swan,’ I cautioned. ‘He’s not a man to be trifled with.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ he said.

  ‘So David McCabe is the Mancini’s local contact?’ prompted Dale.

  ‘He is, but they needed something more. Guido Mancini knows one of the top board members in ADXR personally. The man is an idiot and easily led; a typical high ranking executive who perceives himself a lord of the universe. It was simple for a man like Guido, a master manipulator, to plant the seed of the idea. A joint venture was formed between ADXR and one of the Mancini companies, G&E Chemicals, ostensibly to produce an Alzheimer's cure. It is truly brilliant really, as the compound elements are very similar. McCabe and his business associate Ben Collins have even managed to get backing from the Irish Industrial Development Authority.’

  ‘So, the Irish Government have put money into this?’ asked Dale incredulously.

  ‘They have indeed. But here is where I need your help. The plant is in Clonakilty on the IDA campus. The Mancini's are meeting McCabe there in person for the first time tonight, and the rogue agent will be there too. It is the perfect opportunity to snatch the folders back.’

  ‘Are we involving local law enforcement?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘We can't,’ said Agent Bruce. ‘There’s too much of a chance that the folders would fall into Irish Government hands. We cannot afford leaks of any kind.’

  ‘So, why do you need us?’ I asked.

  ‘Sheer weight of numbers, and certain professional abilities,’ he said. ‘Believe me, if I could do this myself I would, but I can’t. And let’s be clear; we will be heavily outnumbered, they will be ruthless and they will be armed. From what I’ve been told, you guys are all handy with a gun and bring other skills to bear.’

  He didn’t elaborate on what he thought those skills might be.

  ‘So, are you with me?’

  We glanced at each other. Dale had been right; all of the pieces really had come together. I held up my pint.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I said.

  Roussel and Dale held up their drinks.

  ‘Agreed,’ they echoed.

  Agent Bruce smiled.

  ‘Welcome to the team,’ he said.

  We all drained our glasses.

  ‘Tonight is going to be pretty hectic,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of planning we still need to do. All the detail stuff needs to be worked out. That’s where this is going to succeed or fail.’

  We jointly agreed.

  Leaving Agent Bruce to settle his tab, we milled about on the pavement outside, waiting for him to join us.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Dale.

  ‘I think he's absolutely genuine,’ I said. ‘He really meant it when he said he would rather do it by himself. And he’s right; these drug dealing lads would have plenty of firepower. They may not necessarily be the best marksmen in the world, but they love their guns.’

  I was about to continue when the door opened and he limped slowly out.

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ he said. ‘My foot always gets worse when it’s about to rain.’

  We all realised the significance of what he’d said about ten seconds later.

  He smiled and nodded.

  ‘I know, spooky isn’t it?’

  No one said anything more; we didn’t have to.

  ‘I’ll be over to your hotel in an hour; we can rendezvous there.’

  I didn’t ask him how he knew where we were staying.

  He stepped out across the street and we turned to walk back to our hotel. We had not gone more than twenty five yards when I saw a man seemingly asleep behind the wheel of his car. As we drew level, he miraculously woke up. Milliseconds later, the engine fired into life, as he gunned it out of the space towards the pub we had just vacated.

 
Agent Bruce had just breached the midline of the road on his slow traverse towards the other side. The car was showing no signs of stopping; in fact it was accelerating all the time. I tried to shout a warning to Agent Bruce, but it was too late. Mercifully, he didn't see the car. The unknown assailant planted his foot on the throttle. I winced as I felt the bang and scrape as Agent Bruce thudded across the roof of the car. I watched in horror as he landed in a heap of implausibly twisted limbs; like a marionette with all the strings severed.

  I knew instinctively that he was dead.

  Chapter 53 – Congregation

  23rd May 2011 – Thirteen days after the Storm.

  I have hated the congregation of evil doers; and will not sit with the wicked. – Psalm 26:5.

  I started sprinting after the speeding vehicle. The twenty year reflex kicked in as I reached for the gun, my scrabbling fingers finding nothing but damp cotton. Old habits die hard.

  I heard the sound of tearing and rending metal as the car smashed into a line of parked cars, before it screeched around the corner and accelerated away. I had to stop and put my hands on my hips to catch my breath. I hadn't realised until then how unfit I was, and had to recover for a couple of minutes before I could jog slowly back.

  A crowd had started to gather and with it came the whispered questions. Who was he? Who saw what? How did it happen?

  Dale was working furiously on Agent Bruce. I caught his eye. He was obviously experienced in CPR, and he shook his head imperceptibly. As far as he was concerned, Agent Bruce was gone, but once he’d started the CPR, he couldn’t stop; not until the patient was pronounced by a doctor or a paramedic. We watched as the crowd built, the whispers of the onlookers drowning out Dale’s chanted numbers.

  ‘One one thousand, two one thousand,’ he muttered under his breath, as he tried to affect a miracle.

  Eventually, we heard the wail of a siren in the distance. The streets were very narrow, and the paramedics reached us on foot long before the ambulance did. They skidded to a halt beside us. One counted down with Dale, deliberately coordinating the moment he took over the compressions, so as not to break the rhythm. The other readied the defibrillator.