The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  They looked at me; Foster even blinked, but they allowed me to continue.

  ‘I’m not on the same side of the law as you guys, and I’ve killed a lot of people.’

  I paused to let that statement sink in.

  ‘All of them were scumbags and all of them deserved it, but then, I’m trying to justify my behaviour, especially to myself, so I would say that, wouldn't I?’

  I turned to Roussel directly.

  ‘The point is,’ I said, ‘not only am I the number one suspect in a double murder, your double murder, but I freely confess to carrying both of them out, which puts you in a bit of a quandary.’

  ‘You think?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘So, here’s the decision, as I see it, for you guys.’

  I stated this flatly and with no emotion.

  ‘I have no idea why Scott Mitchell, a.k.a Alan Murphy, was searching for me. I have no idea how he succeeded in tracking me down. I have absolutely no idea what his motivation was. All I can assume, from what I’ve managed to find out about him, is that he was up to no good.’

  I curled a finger to illustrate another point.

  ‘The second guy who was after me; I know exactly what he was and I know exactly who sent him, and I make no apologies for that one. It was pure self defence.’

  I curled another finger.

  ‘And gentlemen, I don’t think I need to remind you of the attack on all of us in my mother’s house. Somebody is definitely going to pay for that.’

  I curled my hand into a fist.

  ‘So, in summary, I am going to find out who tried to kill me, I am going to find out who trashed my mother’s house, and I am going to find out why this guy Scott Mitchell was sent to find me. Those are certainties. You can work with me or you can work against me, it’s up to you. Either way, it’s now personal for me. But if you do choose to work with me, I have considerable advantages that you guys don’t have. I can work outside the law, which you guys can’t. I have access to information and resources that you guys don't. And possibly the strangest statement of all; I'm an honourable man and you can trust me.’

  Roussel made to speak, but Foster got there first, holding his hand up in a pausing motion.

  ‘I don't know about Charles,’ he said, looking at me, ‘but I’ll give you my take on this.’

  He sat back and smiled.

  ‘I can't believe I'm saying this,’ he continued, ‘but I am actually relieved that I was shot at yesterday. I've been chasing shadows for the last week, but shadows don't fire live rounds. It was nice to get some cold hard evidence that I’m headed in the right direction. I’ve been going on hunches and intuition for too long and like you....’

  He pointed a finger in my direction.

  ‘....I’m operating in an unofficial capacity. So, it depends what Charles says, but I think we should pool our resources. There’s a lot of mutual benefit, and besides....’

  He said this with a smile.

  ‘....I think we make a good team and yes, I do believe you're an honest man.’

  We collectively let that statement ring in the air for a few minutes.

  ‘My turn?’ asked Roussel, a faint smile creasing his face. ‘Well, unlike you two, I am very definitely operating within the law. I have an official liaison with the police here in Cork, requested through official channels. Any deviation from those procedures could look bad, not only for me and my career, but also for my department and ultimately my whole Parish.’

  He took another sip of coffee.

  ‘Having said all that, somebody is jerking our collective chain. I don't like it and my Captain doesn't like it, so I'm prepared to work with you guys.’

  Here he pointed his finger at both of us.

  ‘This is based on the proviso that we have no secrets, and also on the proviso that we stay within the law as much as we possibly can.’

  He fired the last statement directly at me.

  ‘Works for me,’ said Foster.

  ‘Me too,’ I echoed.

  I lifted my mug.

  ‘Slainte; to us!’

  The pottery chinked, as they silently pledged their allegiance to our unholy trinity. Roussel extracted his notebook and pen, causing Foster to laugh.

  ‘You are such a policeman, do you know that?’ he said, still laughing.

  Roussel shrugged off the throwaway remark, as he tore a page out of the notebook and put it in the centre of the table.

  ‘If the cap fits,’ he said. ‘Anyway, as I see it, we have two focus areas. We have Cork and we have Storm.’

  He wrote Cork in large capital letters.

  ‘So, for Cork,’ he began, ‘we have you.’

  He pointed at me with an easy smile.

  ‘We have Scott Mitchell, drug pusher with purpose unknown, but a native of Cork; too much in common to be a coincidence. Anything I've missed?’

  Foster shook his head and so did I.

  ‘So, then we have Storm,’ said Roussel, and wrote Storm in capital letters, as he had done previously.

  ‘We have all the circumstantial evidence I was getting,’ said Foster, pointing to the word Storm.

  He then pointed at me.

  ‘And then there’s the evidence I was given, linking you to the Mancini’s, and linking the Mancini’s back to Storm.’

  ‘It’s a tenuous link,’ I said, ‘but I was told that Scott Mitchell was a drug dealer.’

  ‘True,’ said Roussel, ‘but only very small time by all accounts; nothing on this scale.’

  ‘So, we’ve concrete links to Storm and concrete links to Cork,’ said Roussel. ‘What about your two stooges from Rudino’s; didn’t they link Storm with Cork?’

  ‘But I want concrete,’ replied Foster. ‘That’s what we’re missing. All we currently have is a tenuous link from a couple of restaurant kitchen porters.’

  ‘There is one thing we’ve missed,’ I said suddenly.

  The others looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Our friend from the CIA; where does he fit in and how does he fit in?’

  ‘The guy who you killed,’ responded Roussel excitedly, snapping his fingers. ‘The second guy; the one sent with a specific purpose. It was bothering my captain and me why his information was classified. If it's as simple as you say; that he was sent purely by the Mancini's to kill you, then it makes no sense. But if he was there with a higher purpose than just to kill you? Maybe the classification was justified.’

  ‘Still circumstantial,’ I said. ‘But, yes I agree with you certainly, it warrants looking into.’

  ‘I think it's more than that,’ said Roussel doggedly. ‘Why would information on hit-men, specifically related to the Mancini's, be regarded as classified? It’s almost like someone is trying to protect them; shielding them maybe?’

  ‘To what purpose?’ asked Foster.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Roussel. ‘But everybody knows what the Mancini’s are into. Why bother to hide it, especially from other law enforcement agencies.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Okay, you win,’ I said. ‘I agree; we should certainly look into it.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ Foster asked. ‘What is our next step?’

  ‘Two things,’ I replied. ‘We need a place to stay and we need transport.’

  ‘I still have my rental,’ stated Foster.

  ‘Do you?’ I asked interestedly. ‘I’ll still need to add myself as a named driver, so I’ll look after that and the accommodation. I have the means, the ability and the local knowledge. I don’t think it’s safe for either of you guys to go back to the Hotel. We can’t assume that it was me they were after at my Mother’s house.’

  ‘I think we can,’ said Roussel abruptly. ‘They were shouting your name.’

  ‘They could have followed one of you,’ I said.

  ‘Shit,’ said Roussel, suddenly looking at his watch. ‘What time is it?’

  I glanced at my watch.

  ‘Eight o’clock, why?’ I asked.

&nb
sp; ‘I’m meeting my liaison at the hotel at nine thirty,’ he replied.

  ‘Ok, here’s what we’ll do,’ I said. ‘We’ll head back over to the hotel. You can wait there for your colleague. Foster will come with me and we’ll sort out the car and a place to stay. Give us a shout when you're finished, and I’ll come back and pick you up.’

  ‘I would if I knew your number,’ said Roussel.

  I scribbled a number on Roussel’s piece of paper.

  ‘Don’t forget, it’s a US based number same as yours,’ I said with a wink.

  #

  Roussel sat on the railings outside the hotel. Precariously balanced, he used his legs to keep from falling. When he was a kid, he used to try and stay perched on the veranda balustrade for hours. And then he realised; all his thoughts were doggedly guiding him back to the plantation.

  He heard the beep of a car horn and looked up. James screeched to a halt in front of him.

  ‘Man, you are never going to believe what happened last night,’ said James.

  ‘Try me,’ said Roussel, manfully trying to stifle the smile. He wondered what would happen if he said it straight out.

  ‘Well James, let me guess, there was a fire fight last night in Grattan Hill. Eight people were killed and the roof of the house was blown off with a grenade.’

  He looked back at James. What he had mistaken for brevity was in fact a restrained and worried concentration.

  ‘Sorry, not trying to be flippant, what did happen last night?’

  ‘It’s funny,’ said James almost to himself, as they headed off at high speed. ‘We had a meeting about this only a couple of days ago.’

  Roussel nodded to show he was listening and let him keep talking.

  ‘My boss reckoned it was only a matter of time.’

  James looked at Roussel.

  ‘There’s a turf war going on, you see. Two rival gangs, isn't there always, vying for control. Now don't get me wrong, there has been trouble in the past. The odd shooting here, a beating there, a stabbing here, but this is serious escalation.’

  They pulled up outside number thirty, or at least as close as they could get with the police cordon. They both got out and stood back. Roussel had been present at the aftermath of a couple of gas explosions back home, when he was still in uniform: the effect wasn’t dissimilar. He felt the tingle of shock run through his body, as he realised how lucky they had been. There wasn't much of the house left.

  ‘Fuck, it really is like a war zone,’ stated James, echoing Roussel’s thoughts.

  A uniformed officer was standing at the front of what was left. James flashed his badge and the officer parted the tape and allowed them admittance. He stared hard at Roussel as he went past.

  Roussel looked down at himself. Shit, he was still filthy from the night before; he hadn’t had time to change his clothes. It was only a matter of time before a seriously distracted James would notice. Thinking fast, he feigned tripping over his own feet and fell headlong into the dust and debris, rolling a couple of times for good measure.

  ‘Jesus, Charles, watch where you're going,’ said James. ‘Look at the state of you.’

  Roussel got up carefully.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

  They were standing in what was left of the sitting room.

  ‘So, what caused the explosion?’ asked Roussel, making a show of dusting himself off.

  ‘A small explosive charge, most probably a grenade,’ said James.

  Roussel raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I know,’ said James. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘So, do we know who they are?’ asked Roussel, getting himself onto firmer ground; information that could be useful.

  ‘Yes we do and that's what's worrying us,’ said James. ‘On the way here I was telling you about the feud. Well that dispute is between two rival gangs; one based in the north and one based to the south. This is North Cork we’re in now, but virtually every one of the dead here are members of the North Cork gang; certainly the ones we have been able to identify anyway.’

  ‘So, basically, they were killed on their own patch,’ said Roussel.

  ‘That's what it's beginning to look like,’ said James. ‘I don’t have to tell you how territorial these guys are. This is serious shit. This is serious escalation. The guy who runs this side of town; he’s not going to take this lying down.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘Very interested all of a sudden, aren’t you,’ said James, with the merest hint of suspicion.

  ‘Only because it’s connected, or seemingly connected to the case I’m working on,’ Roussel fired back, straight away.

  ‘True,’ said James grudgingly. ‘Anyway, the guys name is Eoin Morrison, but everyone calls him Black Swan.’

  ‘So, you think my man was mixed up in a drug feud?’

  ‘Certainly looking the most feasible explanation at the moment,’ said James.

  ‘And who are their rivals?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘South Cork is controlled by a man called the Bullock,’ said James.

  He smiled at Roussel's expression.

  ‘I know it sounds funny,’ he said soberly, ‘but the guy is the complete opposite of amusing. In fact, you can see how this row is escalating. These guys have very similar personalities. They don’t back down, they don’t take rejection well and they hate being number two.’

  Something caught James attention.

  ‘Excuse me for a second,’ he said, touching Roussel’s arm before walking over to a technician in a white coat. As he watched James, engrossed in conversation, Roussel mentally digested the information he had gleaned.

  The guys who had surrounded the house were members of a drug gang controlled by the North Cork overlord. He shook his head; none of it made any sense.

  James came back to him.

  ‘Yep, confirmed, definitely a grenade. Do you know what?’ he asked. ‘I thought I'd seen it all, but a grenade in a quiet suburban street; beggars belief really, doesn’t it?’

  The journey back was accomplished in complete silence. If it was making James uncomfortable, he sure as hell wasn't showing it.

  ‘Here you go, Charles, here’s your stop,’ said James. ‘Do you want to catch a bite later? I know it’s only lunchtime, but I can round up some of the local gang and have a session later tonight if you want? A few beers, bit of a sing song?’

  Roussel flashed him a grimace of apology.

  ‘Think the jet lag is catching up with me,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if we took a rain check?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied James.

  He handed Roussel a business card.

  ‘If you sleep in, as I suspect you will, just give me a shout. If I’m not busy, I’ll come and collect you.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Roussel.

  ‘Sleep tight,’ yelled James, as he drove away.

  #

  ‘You've been holding out on us,’ said Roussel. ‘I told you I wanted honesty; no secrets.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve plenty of secrets, believe me,’ I said, with no trace of humour. ‘Just nothing that is relevant to this.’

  ‘Apparently, all those guys who died last night are members of the same gang; an organised criminal empire that controls the north side.’

  He consulted his notebook.

  ‘The gang is controlled by a guy called Eoin Morrison.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Sorry, the name means nothing.’

  ‘Everyone knows him as Black Swan,’ added Roussel.

  I blinked and he snapped his fingers.

  ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘You're holding out on us.’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ I said. ‘Let me explain.’

  I extracted my iPhone and showed them the gruesome picture.

  Roussel blinked in surprise.

  ‘That’s victim number one, our man....’

  ‘Scott Mitchell,’ I finished. ‘The very man we’ve been discussing. A couple of da
ys ago, I decided to do some snooping down in the red light district. I got lucky; somebody recognised him and told me he worked for a guy called Black Swan.’

  ‘And you were going to tell us this when?’ asked Foster.

  ‘I completely forgot about it,’ I said genuinely. ‘Speaking of disclosure though, I have been pondering this for the last couple of hours. I think it's time both of you were educated. This, gentlemen, is what we are dealing with.’

  I extracted the white ring binder from the hold-all I had been carrying around. Foster gasped as he read the name on the front cover.

  ‘Who wants to go first?’ I asked.

  Chapter 34 – Regret

  19th May 2011 – Nine days after the Storm.

  The man who insists upon seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides. Accept life and you must accept regret. – Henri Frederic Amiel.

  I pulled the hood as far over my head as I could. I looked like a teenage hoodlum, but I didn’t care. Not that anybody would recognise me, but I wanted to be anonymous for a while. I didn’t want to feel known; didn’t want to feel judged.

  I inhaled the fresh, clean air.

  I was getting reacquainted with the sky. I didn't feel hemmed in the way I did in big cities; didn't feel the buildings closing in around me, like a prison. I was getting used to the changing landscape, where every second shop-front was a pub, and everyone had a smile on their face and a joke on their lips.

  I’d left the two boys with their homework. I knew that folder virtually off by heart at this stage. I’d read it so many times, not really out of interest, but more through a healthy sense of self preservation. At least I knew now what a protocol was. I’d even looked it up in a medical journal. The plain and simple statement had indicated that it was the type, quantity, method and length of time of taking the drugs required for any treatment cycle.

  That’s why I’d got out of the flat. I knew there would be questions; I just needed to empty my brain for an hour or so. I looked at my watch. It was coming up for one pm, and I was getting the first stirrings of hunger.

  Suddenly, my footsteps started echoing off the pavement in a strange way. I looked down. It was the reverberation of my shoes on the metal hatch that covered the entrance to a beer cellar. I stepped back and peered at the name of the place; John G Hartigan and Son. It looked as nice an establishment as any to get a full belly.