Guido settled back into the sumptuous brown leather. His fingernails bit deep into the hide of the arms like a death grip, but if you were scared of flying, it was much better to do it in style.
The Learjet had been one of their more extravagant gifts to themselves, but every time he was thirty thousand feet up, and his body was rigid with tension and terror, he never regretted the purchase.
He opened his eyes and saw Antonio coming towards him with a fresh drink. He smiled at the vision. Of all their staff, Antonio loathed the Learjet the most. Because of his size, he was almost permanently bent double, a huge disadvantage for a manservant, but to his credit, he never grumbled or complained.
Guido glanced across at Ernesto. As in most things, he was the antithesis of his brother. Ernesto’s face betrayed none of the tension or anxiety that Guido was experiencing. His body was stretched out serenely on the tan leather recliner, as he snored softly; oblivious to his companion’s discomfort.
‘Your drink, Mr Mancini,’ said Antonio formally.
‘Thank you, Antonio,’ said Guido, as the ice cubes rattled against the crystal. ‘That will be all. Go and sit yourself down, give your neck a rest.’
Antonio flashed him a smile of gratitude. Guido pulled his chair upright and opened his attaché case. He was flicking through the papers contained within it, when Ernesto yawned and stretched.
‘Have I been out for long?’ he mumbled.
‘About six hours,’ said Guido.
‘Did I miss anything?’ he asked.
‘A couple of bourbons and five hours of sheer terror,’ said Guido drily.
Ernesto laughed.
‘It is the only thing you're afraid of,’ he stated apologetically.
‘I suppose everybody has to have a room 101,’ acknowledged Guido.
‘So, what exactly are we doing over here anyway?’ asked Ernesto.
‘I want to check on progress,’ said Guido. ‘I want to make sure that David and Ben are holding up their end of the bargain. We have invested a lot of our valuable time and finances into this venture, so now we need to reassure ourselves that the investment is being repaid properly.’
Ernesto pursed his lips and nodded. He was just about to call Antonio, when Guido held up his hand.
‘Drink?’ he inquired questioningly.
Ernesto inclined his head.
‘Here, have mine,’ said Guido. ‘Poor Antonio is having a rest and I’ve had two already.’
‘Cheers,’ said Ernesto.
They sat in companionable silence, as the sunlight streamed through the small porthole windows of the Learjet’s cabin.
‘I suspect it won't be quite this sunny when we land,’ said Ernesto.
‘I expect you're right,’ replied Guido.
There was another longer silence this time. All you could hear was the drone of the engines.
‘One other thing did occur to me,’ said Ernesto, his voice almost shockingly loud in the accumulated silence.
Guido raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Well, we are fairly well known; we’re pretty famous, or should I say infamous,’ he said, thinking about it. ‘How are we going to get into the country, without causing a stir?’
‘Our CIA colleague has been most helpful in that regard,’ answered Guido.
He pulled out two US passports and handed one across.
‘Meet Ernesto Borza,’ he said, ‘an Italian American furniture maker investigating investment opportunities in Ireland.’
‘And who is my travelling companion?’ asked Ernesto.
‘Guido Nutini,’ said Guido. ‘I am your friend and business partner. One of the trips we have arranged is a visit to the local IDA office, and a number of other IDA sponsored events. Of particular interest are the inspections of local businesses made good. Don’t worry, there won’t be a problem.’
‘So, what’s the story when we land?’ asked Ernesto.
‘We arrive into Cork Airport,’ said Guido. ‘Clear customs and then straight into a waiting Limo that will take us to the Perryville Guest house.’
‘Only a guest house?’ asked Ernesto.
‘This one is for the more discerning traveller,’ said Guido. ‘You’ll see for yourself. Anyway, the accommodation is in a town called Kinsale. It’s halfway to where we want to go, apparently; all the rich Americans stay there when they’re on holiday. Seeing as we fall into one of those categories, and can easily fake the other, I thought, why not?’
They heard a noise from the cabin, and the next thing, Antonio was at their table.
‘Landing in fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Fasten seatbelts please.’
As he spoke, the light streaming into the cabin was abruptly cut off, as the dense grey mass enveloped the small aircraft. They could feel the downward motion, as the pilot shed altitude. Both Guido and Ernesto blinked, as the plane suddenly emerged from the cloud cover.
Fourteen minutes later, Ernesto noted with interest that Guido had failed to register their transition from air to land because he was so petrified. Their pilot was especially skilled; money was a great enabler.
Guido was right though, they sailed through customs. They had one sticky moment on the way out. They initially failed to recognise their new surnames being held up on cards in the arrivals hall. Once that faux pas had been overcome, they were escorted in silence to the pickup zone, and both jumped thankfully into the back of the black limo.
The journey to the guest house was quiet and uneventful. They both sat back and closed their eyes. In doing so, each was oblivious to the fact that with every mile they travelled, the vista was changing. They were literally going back in time.
Half an hour into the journey, Ernesto opened his eyes. He watched, transfixed, as the pretty whitewashed cottages alternated with the not so pretty derelict ruins. Living history flashed past on either side of the limo. He nudged Guido awake and started pointing out some of the sights.
‘Do you ever wonder where we’d be, if our father had stayed in Italy?’ asked Ernesto.
‘You know me,’ said Guido. ‘I don’t like looking back. We move forward or we die.’
‘Humour me,’ said Ernesto. ‘Do you think we would be as successful as we are now?’
‘People like you and I will always be successful,’ answered Guido. ‘Cream inevitably rises to the top.’
‘Maybe we should go back to Italy after this trip,’ said Ernesto. ‘Have a little visit.’
‘And maybe we shouldn't,’ said Guido. ‘Papa was never sentimental. Always move forward boys. If a shark stops moving they die. Never stop.’
‘Yeah, good advice when you think about it,’ Ernesto acknowledged, a little sadly.
‘You can torture yourself with thoughts like these,’ said Guido. ‘Just be content that you haven't had to scratch a living from a few meagre acres, waiting for God and the weather to do their worst.’
‘Sometimes I do wish that there were a little more honesty to our endeavours,’ said Ernesto thoughtfully.
‘We worked damn hard to get where we are,’ stated Guido.
‘I'm not disputing our work ethic,’ said Ernesto, ‘but you can still work really hard at something that is amoral and illegal; we are living proof of that. No, sometimes I figure it would have been nice to produce something with sincerity and integrity.’
He pointed to a field where two guys were battling with both the livestock and the weather.
‘I bet they don't have trouble sleeping at night,’ he said.
Guido looked at him strangely for a second, and decided to let the comment go. It was probably just the strain of being away from home and visiting somewhere new. They rarely travelled; both of them were real home birds.
They nodded in appreciation, as the limo swept up to the main entrance of their guesthouse. But guesthouse was just a meaningless moniker really. It was a magnificent building, steeped in centuries old grandeur.
‘It’s like an old southern mansion,’ said Ernesto and th
ey were both silent for a second, each knowing who the other was thinking about.
Somehow, Antonio had managed to get ahead of them with all their bags, and had pre-booked them in. He had also fully unpacked each of their suitcases, and personalised each room to that brother’s individual taste. He really was irreplaceable.
As Ernesto changed for dinner, he silently acknowledged Guido's argument. He rarely told him to his face, but his brother was right in most things. It was always better not to look back.
They gave Antonio the night off, with strict instructions to use the Limo for his own ends. He was rarely allowed off duty, but boy, did he know how to enjoy himself when he was. Ernesto chuckled; Alka-Seltzer would probably be required in large quantities in the morning.
The brothers met in the bar. Antonio had specified their pre-dinner routine to the staff in the guesthouse, all of whom had been more than accommodating. Along with the two scotches, a chequer board lay open on a long low table between two leather wingbacks; home from home.
They got so lost in their game, that they didn't notice the figure standing adjacent to their table, watching patiently with a sardonic smile. It was not until the roaring flames of the open wood fire cast a flickering shadow across their game board, that they both looked up in unison; like twins.
The brothers collectively drew in a breath, but Guido recovered first.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Having a little holiday, same as you, I’d wager,’ said the stranger. ‘Mind if I pull up a chair?’
The stranger didn’t wait for a reply, but dragged another chair over and watched as Ernesto and Guido continued to play. The stranger said no more; the brother’s games were sacrosanct and the stranger obviously knew enough about them to know that. They would remain mute, until one was victor and one was vanquished. The stranger's mouth creased at the corners again, as Ernesto’s solitary piece was forced into a corner by Guido's three Kings. Only when Ernesto acknowledged defeat, by throwing his remaining counter into Guido’s lap, did the two brothers turn to the interloper.
‘Making sure we got here?’ asked Guido, raising an eyebrow.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said the stranger.
‘You’ll get your money,’ said Guido.
‘Oh, I have no doubt about that,’ said the stranger. ‘But there has been a, how should I say it, complication.’
Ernesto narrowed his eyes warningly.
‘Complication how?’ he growled.
‘Let me put it this way,’ said the stranger. ‘Max was holding out on you.’
Ernesto relaxed.
‘We know that, you idiot,’ he said with a smile.
‘It was you who put us onto him, remember?’ added Guido sarcastically. ‘We've already taken measures to limit his efficacy.’
‘So I heard,’ said the stranger. ‘Pity; I liked Max, most of the time. The problem is though; it wasn't just the folder he was holding out on you with.’
This time, it was Guido's turn to narrow his eyes.
‘Go on,’ he demanded dangerously.
‘Well, between the jigs and the reels,’ said the stranger. ‘I neglected to furnish you, and therefore Max, with the complete file. There is a key section of the protocol missing.’
‘What do you mean, missing?’ asked Ernesto.
‘Missing,’ said the stranger in exasperation. ‘Not there, intentionally left out, removed. Now either Max wasn't as good at his job as you thought he was, or he was very good at his job and that's why he was trying to pull a double sting with me. He obviously didn’t realise that I supplied the file to you guys in the first place. Either way, it puts you in an awkward position. Anything you manufacture without this missing section will be worthless garbage.’
‘How do we know you’re telling the truth?’ asked Guido.
‘Why would I lie?’ asked the stranger in return. ‘You’ve already made me very rich. I could have disappeared once the wire transfers complete and you would never have seen me again. However, you guys took me by surprise. To be honest, you were my best bet as clients, but I was fifty-fifty as to whether you would go through with it. I thought I'd have a decent interval to come back to you with the missing section, but I'm grudgingly impressed with how quickly you’ve got things up and running.’
‘So, it is about money,’ said Ernesto.
‘It's about more money,’ corrected the stranger. ‘Isn’t it always?’
‘So, you’re trying to shake us down?’ asked Guido.
‘I would prefer to look at it more as sealing the deal,’ said the stranger.
‘And what it we don’t?’ asked Ernesto.
‘Have you not been listening to me?’ asked the stranger slowly. ‘Your end product will be even more useless on the street than a mountain of breath mints.’
‘We’ve already put a lot of money into this,’ said Guido, dangerously softly.
‘And none of that investment will be affected,’ said the stranger hastily. ‘That is why I have come back to you now, so the production process can be modified without any additional expense.’
Guido grunted.
‘So, how much are we talking?’ he asked.
‘Ten percent of your initial investment and ten percent of anything you make on top of that.’
Ernesto started laughing, but Guido put up his hand.
‘You want ten percent of our company,’ he said slowly and succinctly.
The stranger nodded.
‘Let me get this crystal clear, just so there’s no ambiguity; you want ten percent of our company,’ Guido repeated.
‘The way I look at it is this,’ said the stranger pleasantly. ‘I don’t want part of your company, but I do want the monetary equivalent of ten percent in wire transfers, on top of the initial investment. That way, you get ninety percent of something massive, or one hundred percent of nothing.’
They both looked at the stranger for a very long time.
‘You're playing a dangerous game,’ said Guido eventually, ‘but you’ve got balls and I like that.’
‘If we say yes, how soon do we get the missing section?’ asked Ernesto.
‘We can shake on it now,’ said the stranger.
He threw a manila envelope onto the chequer board, sending the counters skating across the polished oak floor like hockey pucks.
Guido looked at the envelope and then flicked his head at the stranger.
‘Leave us,’ he said.
‘As you wish,’ said the stranger. ‘I’ll be in the lounge, waiting to celebrate.’
‘So, what do you think?’ asked Ernesto, after the stranger had sidled out.
‘I think we are bent over the proverbial barrel,’ replied Guido.
Ernesto could hear the flint in his voice.
‘If I pay for something, I don't expect this death by a thousand cuts. If someone wants to make a deal with me, reach a realistic valuation and stick to it. I hate greedy people who come back for more.’
The irony of his statement was completely lost on both brothers.
‘Are there any other alternatives?’ asked Ernesto.
‘There are always alternatives,’ smiled Guido grimly. ‘We put a hold on the wire transfers until we are positive we have the full confirmed Protocol. The most important thing now is to get the lines up and running. We shake on this now, and worry about the logistics later.’
Both brothers knew what worry about the logistics later meant.
‘He doesn’t get his money till we are totally happy.’
‘What if he has a problem with that?’
‘He won’t; he is driven by greed, a very predictable animal. Anyway, who said we were going to tell him?’
They clashed their glasses together and laughed, then stood up and embraced briefly.
The perfect storm inched ever closer.
Chapter 37 – Resolution
20th May 2011 – Ten days after the Storm.
Always bear in mind th
at your own resolution to succeed is always more important than any one thing. – Abraham Lincoln.
Roussel leant against the wall and watched the tide of humanity pass him by. For some reason, he couldn't stop smiling. It was always the same when he pulled off something extra dangerous or exciting. It made him feel a little bit more alive. When he thought about everything that had happened to him since he’d arrived in Ireland, it was almost like he was starring in his very own action movie. Move over James Bond; the name’s Roussel, Charles Roussel.
He’d been attacked, knocked out, shot at, kidnapped and participated in a fire fight using live rounds. He’d then been blown up by a grenade, while possibly also shooting and killing multiple assailants; so why did it feel so good?
As soon as he’d exited the building, he’d walked straight into a newsagent and bought himself a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. It was the first time in a long time that he’d purchased his own, rather than bumming them off someone else. He lit one up, revelling in the nicotine hit. It was funny, but it was just like he’d told Guilbeau. Occasionally, there was that rare moment when he just wanted a cigarette. He didn’t need it, he certainly didn’t crave it; he just wanted it.
‘I wouldn’t have figured you for a smoker,’ said a voice beside him.
He turned to his right, where Dale was leaning against the wall. It looked like Dale had been affected the same way. They grinned at each other stupidly.
‘Well, that was exciting,’ said Roussel. ‘Cigarette?’
He held out the packet.
Dale thought about it for a second.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he answered.
Dale waited for the loud flare as the match ignited, and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. But it was strange, this cigarette felt different from all the others he’d secretly smoked. Like Roussel, it was something he wanted to do, a reward to himself. It was not something he needed to do; there was a subtle difference.
They stood there, smoking in companionable silence.
‘So what was all that about, do you think?’ asked Dale eventually.
‘That is the funniest thing; I was just about to ask you the same question.’
The Storm Protocol Page 35