The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘So, Adam?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘Is he your eldest?’

  She held my gaze, searching for the motivation behind the question.

  ‘He is my eldest, yes, and no, he’s not yours, if that’s the question you’re asking.’

  I felt an immediate stab of release, and then a faint flash of guilt at the feeling of relief.

  We’d managed to make our way back to the plot, where Adam was putting the finishing touches to the weeding.

  ‘So, I guess this may not be goodbye,’ she said, shaking my hand solemnly as Adam tidied his tools away.

  ‘Oh I think it probably is,’ I said.

  She smiled; she knew what I meant. I was glad I didn't have to explain it to her. I probably wouldn't have been able to.

  ‘Your leg?’ she asked. ‘I couldn't help noticing you were limping slightly.’

  ‘A tear in the muscle,’ I said truthfully, not elaborating.

  ‘Goodbye Thomas,’ she said, winking at me.

  I sat on the bench and watched the two of them amble toward the exit. There was an air of easiness about them. Even watching them from behind as they walked away, you could see how comfortable they were with each other; love given and received with no thought of a return on your investment.

  I heard the laughter and the jollity in their voices, but it didn't make me feel jealous, just happy and contented for them. From the second I'd found out she had kids, there’d been that nagging feeling at the back of my mind; why hadn't she told me herself?

  As soon as I’d met Adam, I knew he wasn’t mine and as soon as I’d seen the expression on Kathleen’s face, I knew why she hadn’t told me. She hadn’t wanted to upset me; hadn't wanted me to imagine what might have been.

  Maybe I would want to be a father one day, but at that precise moment, I realised that I didn’t, and that was okay. I needed to find a partner first, I thought to myself sardonically. That's generally the way it works, isn’t it?

  I leant back and closed my eyes, feeling the heat of the sun on my face. Maybe I was on a fool's errand; talking to the dead indeed. It was the living I needed to be talking to.

  Suddenly, I felt the pressure of something hard pressing into the base of my neck. I smiled to myself in genuine amusement. I seemed to have made a lot of enemies in a very short space of time.

  ‘So Mr O'Neill, we meet again,’ said the voice.

  My face cleared.

  ‘It's funny,’ I said, ‘but I had a feeling it would be you. I didn't think you were the type of guy to let something like this go.’

  I could feel the gun barrel trembling on my skin as he spoke.

  ‘You cannot begin to understand how much money you have cost me,’ he said. ‘With the Mancini's both dead in the explosion, there is now no way my wire transfers will be completed. And with the human cost of my endeavours to contend with too, you have effectively ended my life and for what; for a big fat slice of nothing.’

  ‘I wish I could take all the credit,’ I responded, ‘but I had a lot of help from Charles and Dale.’

  ‘I’ll deal with them later,’ he said, ‘make no mistake about that. But you’re the one I really want.’

  ‘For a cold fish, you're getting very emotional.’

  He ignored me and I could feel the spittle on the nape of my neck as he talked, viciously throwing the words at the back of my head.

  ‘From the moment I saw Storm, I knew it was the big one,’ he said. ‘I knew it was my one chance and the Mancini's knew it too. We shared the vision.’

  ‘Did they know about the fatal flaw?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course they didn't,’ he said indignantly. ‘Are you mad? I was trying to sell it to them.’

  ‘And you had no crisis of conscience over that?’

  He snorted with derision.

  ‘That's rich, coming from the professional killer,’ he answered, ‘but no I didn't. If somebody takes a drug, they have to accept the consequences. If it ain't prescribed by a doctor, don’t take it, that’s my motto. Every time someone smokes a joint, every time somebody drops a tab of ecstasy, they’re taking their life in their hands. They might not believe it, but they are.’

  ‘We’re talking wholesale slaughter here,’ I said.

  ‘All drugs have side effects,’ he said. ‘This one is just a little more extreme than most.’

  ‘You know they’re looking for you don’t you?’ I responded, changing the subject.

  ‘You forget who you are talking to,’ he said.

  ‘Oh I don’t think I do, Mr No-name,’ I said. ‘Or should I call you the deputy director, or maybe Deputy Director Grant, or just Carl maybe?’

  ‘How do you know who I am?’ he asked.

  I could picture his eyes narrowing.

  ‘It was actually quite easy to piece together,’ I said. ‘It had to be somebody senior in the organisation; there aren't that many people below the director himself, and would you believe the CIA website provides helpful photographs. There you were in black and white; I would have said colour, but that would have been racist wouldn’t it? Must have been tough though, ditching the family and starting a new life for nothing.’

  ‘You’re about to find out how tough,’ he said. ‘To be honest, my wife and I were not getting on. The kids had grown-up and didn’t need me anymore. And I had quite literally millions of reasons to be happy; that was until you came along.’

  ‘You’ve a very recognisable face,’ I stated helpfully. ‘I don't think there are many places you can go.’

  ‘Oh you'd be surprised,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ve had enough of this chit chat. It’s time for you to say goodbye.’

  I felt a renewed pressure on the back of my neck.

  ‘Any last requests?’ he asked.

  ‘Can I at least go and say goodbye to my Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘Don't take me for a fool,’ he said. ‘How do you think I found you? I’ve been watching you, waiting. I know what you’ve been doing for the last few minutes. You’re not getting off this bench.’

  ‘The sign of the cross then?’

  He started laughing.

  ‘A religious hit man; that must be a first. You ain’t getting off this bench,’ he said, ‘but go on, whatever.’

  I closed my eyes and as I made the sign of the cross, I muttered the familiar refrain under my breath.

  ‘In the name of the father, and of the son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.’

  I heard a sharp crack, like a twig breaking, but I felt no pain. The pressure on the back of my neck disappeared as Carl Grant, the erstwhile deputy director of the CIA, collapsed to the ground.

  I stood over him; there was a tiny hole with a trickle of blood at his temple. I flicked his head over with the toe of my boot; the same could not be said for the other side. There was a large mess of smashed bone, blood and grey matter.

  Silly man; to the end he’d believed he was one step ahead of everybody else. It was no accident that he’d fallen next to a fresh, open grave. I bent down with difficulty and straightened him out as best I could.

  I got up awkwardly and rolled him like a log with my foot until he fell into the pit with a muffled thud. I straightened my leg and waited for the throb to return to a dull ache. I felt a slight pressure on my shoulder and I turned around. Two men dressed in overalls materialised beside me, one of them carrying what looked like a large camera case. Incongruously, both were wearing sunglasses, even though it was dull and overcast.

  ‘Thank you, Mr O'Neill,’ said the one with the case. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

  He handed me a plain white envelope.

  ‘Just remember, sir,’ he continued. ‘No deviations; the director wouldn't like that.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  They set to work. By the time I reached the austere stone gateway, the grave had been fully closed and there was no trace of the two young men apart from two sets of overalls that lay draped across the front of a nearby wheelbarrow
.

  Epilogue – After the Storm

  30th May 2011 – Twenty days after the Storm.

  The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over. – Aesop.

  Roussel wound the window down, partly to get some fresh air, but mostly to let the cold onrush blow the cobwebs away.

  Roussel and James had parted on good terms. James even admitted in a weak moment, during his third pint of Guinness, that in the same circumstances he would have done the same duplicitous thing himself.

  Roussel had fully debriefed both James and his boss, Inspector Ryan, but he’d used a prearranged cover story; the one he, Foster and Street had engineered to conceal the ugly parts of the truth. The Mancini's had been in Ireland to agree a major drug supply deal with both Black Swan and the Bullock. One of the rivals had got wind of the deal being offered to the other, and the resulting fire fight had ensued. No mention had been made of the briefcase which Foster had managed to retain and hide.

  To James and Inspector Ryan, the scenario presented to them was both neat and believable. The only fly in the ointment for them was that neither Black Swan nor the Bullock had been found amongst the debris of the explosion. They couldn't be missing presumed dead, so they were just plain missing. Other than that, when the debriefing was over, a good time was had by all, and lots of drink flowed as they jointly celebrated a famous victory over the international drugs trade.

  At the airport, Roussel had been genuinely emotional as Dale and Street had packed him off home. They’d formed a bond, the three of them, and he was pretty sure, no, he was certain, that they would stay in touch.

  Roussel pulled up across the road from the entrance. Some of the police line; do not cross tape was still fluttering in the early evening breeze. As he stared down the long gravelled laneway, he thought about his earlier visit a fortnight ago.

  He’d already told the captain that the two cases were solved which had made both of them very happy men.

  He made sure nothing was coming from either direction and then floored the accelerator. He flew up the driveway, only slowing down as he got to the curve at the top and the mansion came slowly into view.

  He sat there with the engine idling. Street was a lucky man. They had discussed the house, and Street had hinted that maybe Roussel could negotiate a rent or even buy it one day. One way or the other, the last two weeks had demonstrated to him that he needed to be home. They had also amply shown him where home was and where it was not. He wearily resigned himself to another few years in his crappy apartment, and tried to think of more upbeat topics on the way back to the place that was beginning to have a temporary permanence.

  The only car parking spot he could find was about as far from his apartment as it was possible to get. He trudged across the parking lot and up the stairs, getting more tired by the second. With what seemed like the last of his strength, he pushed through the screen and tried to open the front door. It swung inward a couple of inches and then jammed on something. It took him a couple of minutes, but he eventually managed to use one end of his stiff leather belt to push the package backwards, so that the door would open.

  He picked it up and turned it over, absently throwing his keys on the sideboard. He recognised the big jagged slashes of Tony's capital letters.

  SOMEBODY UP THERE LIKES YOU! SEE YOU SOON, TONY AND MARLENE.

  As soon as Roussel opened the package, he knew precisely what it contained. The bundles of documents were identical to the ones he’d seen before, only this time they were the originals. The documentation pack was held together with a large paperclip, the front page of which was a simple dictated note.

  To the rightful owner of Augustine Mansion; look after it, you deserve it. In the words of the Steely Dan song; ‘Yes Jack, I gave it back, the ring I could not own. Now, come my friend, I’ll take your hand and lead you home.’ You’ll know what I mean, Street. PS, make sure one of the spare rooms is always made up for me.

  Roussel dropped to his knees, almost in prayer. When he looked up, his smile was the width of his face. He pulled out his phone and dialled the number from memory.

  ‘Hey Guilbeau,’ he said. ‘Get your drinking pants on, it's Powers Gold Label time, and have I got a tale for you!’

  #

  He’d decided to go straight to the office from the airport. He couldn't face going home and he was fairly sure the work would have built up while he was gone. What he was not expecting was the resounding cheer that sounded from below the Welcome home Dale banner that had been strung across the open plan space as he walked in.

  He was sitting in the corner now; his back had been slapped and his hand had been shaken too many times to recall, and the two chocolate doughnuts were sitting uneasily in a pool of coffee in his otherwise empty stomach. He sipped his water and smiled warmly as Dodds approached.

  ‘You ready to face the Boss now?’ Dodds asked.

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ said Dale.

  As the three of them sat down at Ray’s small meeting table, Dale was surprised at how warmly he’d been greeted. But when he thought about it for a while, it made complete sense. Not only had his seemingly self-destructive career suicide been good for Dale's own prospects, but the expanding ripples had positively impacted his colleagues too. Both Ray and Dodds could now count the director of the CIA as a phone contact; you couldn’t buy that kind of power and influence, especially where drug investigations were concerned.

  ‘So, back on US time yet?’ asked Ray as an icebreaker.

  ‘It's not too bad coming this way,’ said Dale. ‘Your day just extends by a few hours. It’s going the other way that’s a killer. Oh, and before we go any further....’

  He swung his rucksack up onto the table.

  The bag had caused him days of anxiety; he had expected at any moment to feel a hand on his shoulder. He extracted all the documentation he’d removed from the briefcase, and placed it in the centre of the table. He’d also added the original file that precipitated Street’s involvement, so all the outstanding Storm documentation was in that one single pile in front of them.

  Dale regarded it warily, as though it were an unexploded bomb or might spontaneously burst into flames.

  ‘So that's it,’ said Ray. ‘That’s what all the death and destruction has been about?’

  It was just a pile of paper at the end of the day.

  ‘That death and destruction is nothing to what would have happened if their collective plan had succeeded,’ said Dale softly.

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Ray.

  He watched curiously as Dale extracted an evidence bag from his pocket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ray asked suspiciously, as Dale started to pick up the bundle of documents.

  ‘I’m tagging it as evidence,’ said Dale.

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Ray firmly, anchoring the pile to the table.

  ‘Have we learned nothing from the past two weeks?’ pleaded Dale.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Ray, ‘we've learnt a great deal. We’ve learnt that things are done for reasons that neither you nor I can comprehend. We may not like it; these guys may not get it right the whole time, but having met the director, I wouldn’t like to do what he does.’

  ‘But we came so close to a catastrophe,’ argued Dale. ‘Some controls need to be put in place.’

  ‘We came close to a catastrophe,’ echoed Ray, ‘but we managed to avert it. Sometimes you can’t make these decisions by committee.’

  ‘So, what happens next time?’ asked Dale. ‘It’s only a matter of time before someone’s luck runs out.’

  ‘We pray we are not involved at the time,’ answered Ray. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you forget it and enjoy your promotion and pay rise.’

  ‘You’re joking right?’ said Dale suspiciously.

  ‘No, I'm not,’ said Ray. ‘My superiors were unanimous; they think you rightly deserve it, for all the work you've put in on this problem.’
r />   ‘Are you trying to buy me off?’

  ‘No one is trying to buy you off Dale, but let me tell you this and it is not a threat by the way. If you breathe one word of this outside the small circle of people who are already in the know, then I guarantee one day, you will just disappear. In the UK, an army major started asking too many questions. He was shot and killed by mysterious terrorist elements.’

  Ray paused, as if to accentuate the levity of the message.

  ‘The man responsible for the leaking of Storm in the first place, a senior ranking CIA official, who I have no intention of naming by the way, just disappeared; gone. So my advice, and I’m including the both of you here, is to do what I've done. Chalk it down to experience, give thanks to God that you don’t have to do that type of work yourself, and then get on with your life.’

  Dale sat back and thought about what his boss had said. He could see Dodds ruminating on it as well. He thought about his informants, about the network of dealers and runners that expanded across his territory like a spider’s web. He thought about all the good he would be able to do, and about how much better equipped he would now be to do his job. The boss was right; as far as he was concerned, Storm was now merely a representation of a geophysical disturbance; a violent weather system.

  He heard the clink of glass, and was astonished to see Ray throw out three small shot glasses and a bottle of Jim Bean. He poured a healthy slug into each glass and then raised his own.

  ‘To us,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ responded Dodds.

  ‘Amen,’ said Dale, as the fiery liquid burned as strongly as his desire to get back to some real work.

  #

  She leant her elbows on the balcony railings, revelling in the warmth dissipated by the smooth mahogany balustrade. It was noon, when the day was at its hottest, but she loved the sun and relished the heat.

  She looked down at herself. She was wearing a tasteful two-piece bikini. In a romance novel, her skin would have been described as alabaster. Indeed, it was what most of her clients told her they liked about her; it made her seem purer somehow.