The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘Well, you’ve got to admit, it is very odd. Asking us to virtually break into a police station, and then just slip a note under the cell door of a girl, who may or may not be the one he told us about.’

  ‘There was nothing offhand about it,’ said Roussel grimly. ‘And make no mistake; she’s the right one all right.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Dale.

  Roussel glared at him.

  ‘I’m a detective,’ he said. ‘That’s what I do.’

  ‘Bizarre behaviour anyway,’ said Dale, choosing to ignore the inference.

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ said Roussel thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Well, she’s not a girlfriend for a start,’ said Roussel.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Roussel. ‘He’s only been in the country a week; less than that in fact. He’s a middle aged mob enforcer, with his best years behind him, hiding from a death squad. She’s a young and completely unconnected prostitute.’

  ‘So, what are you thinking?’ asked Dale.

  ‘The one issue I’m having big problems with,’ said Roussel. ‘Maybe it's because I’m closer to it, but Scott Mitchell, victim number one in my double homicide, the man that Street freely admits to shooting. He is the fly in the ointment for me. I spent a lot of hours agonising over who he was, and what he was. Not only does he not fit into our puzzle, he’s a piece of a completely different puzzle; out there on his own, where we don’t have any of the other pieces.’

  ‘So, how does the girl fit into that?’ asked Dale.

  ‘According to my man James,’ said Roussel, ‘Black Swan would be about the same age as Street. Now I don't know if you've noticed it or not, but this place feels very parochial to me. I'm convinced there's a link between those two, Black Swan and Street, and what’s more, I think Street is convinced of it too.’

  ‘Do you think he knows Black Swan?’ Dale asked curiously.

  ‘I don’t think he does,’ said Roussel. ‘Certainly not in his current guise anyway; I don't get that impression from him.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ said Dale. ‘For a criminal, he is oddly honest.’

  ‘But back to the girl,’ said Roussel. ‘I don’t think it is all bullshit. I do think there is some genuine concern there for her well-being, but I also think he's using it as an opportunity.’

  ‘An opportunity for what?’ asked Dale.

  ‘An opportunity to lure Black Swan out into the open,’ answered Roussel.

  He blew out a stream of smoke and regarded his companion closely.

  ‘Make no mistake,’ he said. ‘We need to be very careful that we don't get side tracked on this one. I don’t think this is your normal drugs based feud. I think this aspect of the case has always been personal.’

  ‘So extra vigilant,’ said Dale.

  ‘Extra vigilant,’ echoed Roussel.

  Almost in unison, they threw their butts to the floor and carefully ground them out. They watched the ebb and flow of rush-hour Cork on the busy street, each lost in their own subconscious worlds.

  For Roussel, his thoughts brought him back to the gentle swish of the tree branches, as he stood alone in the small and carefully tended graveyard, pondering what might have been.

  For Dale, his thoughts brought him back to field upon field of tall Midwestern corn. The image was so vivid that he could feel the ears of wheat smacking off his hands, and the sun on one side of his face. It occurred to him that coming away to a different country had made him realise where home actually was. He needed to go and visit with his family very soon.

  The sound of a horn jerked them both out their thoughts.

  ‘Are we getting in ladies, or just standing around?’ asked Street.

  #

  The two guys bundled into the back. I kept one eye on them and one eye on the wing mirrors, as I carefully manoeuvred the car into the rush-hour traffic. I acknowledged the taxi horn blast with a finger; cheeky bastard.

  ‘Jesus, you guys were miles away,’ I said. ‘What were you dreaming about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Roussel.

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if I could get access to the Internet somewhere?’ asked Dale.

  ‘I thought you were off the grid,’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ he answered. ‘But my partner said he’d keep me updated. I haven't heard from him, so I’m thinking there might be something in e-mail.’

  ‘Okay, but I don't trust information technology,’ I said. ‘I don’t trust anything I can’t control. So we’ll go somewhere generic, virtually untraceable. It’ll give me a little peace of mind.’

  I circled back around, and eventually found what I was looking for. We pulled up twenty yards ahead; the only place we could park. I stuffed a coin into the meter; last thing I needed was a parking ticket.

  It was a typical Irish Internet cafe. There were a few scrappy and beaten up PC’s, and an Asian guy behind the counter, selling discount phone-cards to any destination in the world.

  There were plenty of PC’s free. The place was empty, but we clustered around one in the corner to give us a little bit of privacy. Dale sat down; he obviously knew his way around a computer. After a couple of minutes of furious typing, he shook his head.

  ‘Nothing except a bit of spam,’ he said, with a tinge of disappointment.

  The word spam triggered something deep inside my brain. A vision flashed across my subconscious.

  ‘Can you get G-mail on that thing?’ I asked suddenly. ‘Can you pull up the login page?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, as the page slipped into view. ‘What’s the username?’

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ I said, ‘but its werunthistown, all one word.’

  I could see Dale smiling as he typed it.

  ‘I would never have guessed that,’ said Roussel.

  ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Anyway, I'm sure they’ve changed the password at this stage, but it’s worth a try.’

  ‘What’s the password?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Francesco,’ I said.

  ‘Their father’s name,’ I added, in answer to their unspoken question.

  Dale typed it in and hit enter; no dice.

  ‘Try it again,’ I said. ‘Maybe you typed it wrong the first time.’

  Dale tried it again; no, fuck it.

  I put my chin in my hand, and thought for a couple of minutes. I thought about Francesco Mancini. I’d never met him, but what did I know about him? There was only one thing really.

  ‘Okay, try this one more time,’ I said. ‘Try francesco68, the digits not the words.’

  ‘I’m in,’ cried Dale incredulously.

  ‘The year their father died,’ I said, by way of explanation. ‘They used to tell me all the time.’

  ‘So, what are we looking for?’ asked Dale. ‘There is an awful lot of spam in here.’

  I smiled. The word spam had triggered the memory; Antonio wrestling with the spam filter on the brother’s laptop.

  ‘They only use this for Internet related activities, so don't get your hopes up.’

  I directed this to Dale, who was browsing intently through the inbox.

  ‘None of their business dealings are online. They just use it for shopping.’

  Roussel laughed and we all joined in. The idea of two crime bosses buying books on Amazon, and ordering pizza from Domino’s, was actually pretty amusing.

  ‘Well now,’ said Dale. ‘Here are two very interesting things.’

  He double clicked on the first attachment; an invoice for Avgas. He used the mouse to scroll down and highlight the quantity delivered.

  ‘Do they have a private plane?’ Dale asked.

  ‘They do,’ I replied. ‘A Learjet, why?’

  ‘Well it looks like they very recently fuelled it up. And check out this one; it’s even more interesting,’ he said, double-clicking the second attachment.

  I
read the top line.

  Perryville Guesthouse, Kinsale, County Cork.

  ‘Dear Mr Nutini,’ read Dale. ‘Please find attached confirmation of your booking of the nineteenth May through to twenty fifth of May 2011. Number of rooms: three, non smoking, occupants names Ernesto Borza, Guido Nutini and Antonio Pizoni. All additional requests acknowledged and actioned as requested. We look forward to welcoming you to Perryville Guesthouse and we hope you enjoy your stay.’

  ‘I don't know about you, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘but maybe it’s time we took a little bit of a road trip too.’

  #

  Back at the apartment, we mobilised for the journey. We looked at the coffee table, with a holdall full of guns, and a black dustbin bag stuffed with a few clothes and toiletries.

  ‘Jesus, it’s like a scene from reservoir dogs,’ I said.

  ‘What should I do about James?’ asked Roussel. ‘He is my liaison, and given he is a member of the drug squad, he could be useful.’

  I nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Give him a ring and tell him you’re off to do a bit of sight-seeing.’

  Roussel’s eyebrows crawled up his face.

  ‘Jesus man,’ I said. ‘Do I have to do all the thinking around here? Use your imagination. You’re American; Americans like sightseeing, he’ll buy it.’

  Roussel pulled out the card and rang James. The conversation was short.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It didn’t faze him in the slightest.’

  ‘Told you,’ I stated emphatically. ‘It’s a huge thing, especially down here in the south. All Americans do it, even the ones who only come over for business. They always spend a day or so sightseeing. It’s just the done-thing.’

  ‘Before we go,’ said Dale. ‘Seeing as there were no e-mails, I need to check in with my partner; see if there have been any developments.’

  Dale sat at the kitchen table and dialled the number. He put it on speaker, but gestured for us to be quiet. There were clicks and pauses as the connection was made and then the unmistakable long ring of an American phone system.

  The call was answered on the third ring, one single word.

  ‘Dodds!’

  ‘Hey Dodds, it’s me, Dale,’ said Dale.

  ‘Dale, Jesus Christ, where have you been?’ asked Dodds, his voice changing. ‘Hold on a second, I’m just transferring you somewhere more confidential.’

  He was almost whispering.

  Two or three more clicks and then the hold music.

  ‘Dale?’

  The single word echoed into the room.

  ‘Agent Fox,’ said Dale, the surprise evident on his face.

  He held up a finger to his lips; a signal to us to reinforce his earlier entreaty for quiet.

  ‘Are you alone?’ asked Ray.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Dale.

  ‘Good.’

  They heard the sound of a door being forcefully closed.

  ‘Dale, I’m here too,’ added Dodds.

  ‘Well, firstly it seems I owe you an apology,’ said Ray slowly.

  Dale blinked in surprise.

  ‘How so?’ he asked, more of a knee-jerk reaction than an actual question.

  ‘We got a call from the director of the CIA.’

  Roussel looked at me in surprise; I’m sure I must have looked equally astonished to him.

  ‘Did you just say the director of the CIA?’ asked Dale, qualifying.

  ‘The one and only,’ said Ray. ‘But before we get into any of that, the first thing we need to tell you is that you are in serious danger. According to the director, you need to be very careful. You are straying into the middle of some serious shit and your life is potentially in jeopardy.’

  ‘Me specifically?’ asked Dale.

  ‘You specifically,’ said Ray. ‘Now he wouldn't say who the danger would be coming from, but we think it's this guy Thomas, a.k.a. the Street.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Okay, I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Dale, looking at my expression and trying not to laugh. ‘So, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Well for a start, Storm is a CIA sanctioned project. We weren't told why it was originally developed; we were just told that if you wanted to design the perfect drug, you couldn't get any closer to it than this.’

  ‘So, definitely officially CIA sanctioned?’ stated Dale.

  ‘Absolutely,’ responded Ray. ‘But this is where the complication seems to arise.’

  ‘I love the word complication,’ said Dale.

  Ray laughed.

  ‘I know exactly what you mean. Apparently Storm; this project, this drug, was extremely confidential. There were only four copies of the protocol folder.’

  ‘The CIA Director himself was the keeper of one of them, I'm guessing,’ stated Dale thoughtfully. ‘So that leaves three others. Do we know who the custodians are?’

  ‘No we don’t. I was told that the knowledge of who held which copy was well beyond my pay scale,’ replied Ray. ‘From which I can only deduce that the people are extremely well known, or extremely senior, or a little bit of both.’

  ‘Or he just didn’t want to tell you,’ said Dale.

  ‘That too,’ agreed Ray.

  ‘So, what’s the significance of this small group of people?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Well, apparently, one of the three individuals has gone rogue. Not only that, but two copies of the Storm protocol folders are missing. Now, the director thinks the reason two files were taken was so that they could be compared. Apparently, with a lot of these protocol files, they leave key documents out of each one, so you need the complete set for the information to be one hundred percent accurate. Like a kind of failsafe mechanism, if you will.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Dale.

  ‘Unfortunately, that wasn't the case here,’ said Ray sadly. ‘Both folders are complete. Not only that, but the rogue agent knows exactly how much the information is worth on the open market.’

  ‘And that brings us onto the next interesting fact,’ said Dodds, taking up the story. ‘Apparently the Mancini's are in the frame as the most likely customers for this information.’

  Dale smiled again. Three out of three wasn’t bad at all.

  ‘So, what now?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Keep your head down and try and stay out of trouble,’ replied Ray. ‘Just remember, Dale. Until we get some more information, there is nothing you can do. You are completely unofficial with absolutely no jurisdiction in that country.’

  ‘Understood, boss,’ said Dale.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Dale,’ said Ray.

  ‘Yeah and try and stay out of trouble, partner,’ said Dodds.

  Dale heard the single uninterrupted tone indicating they had hung up. He turned the speaker off and spun around to face his colleagues.

  ‘So, what do we make of that, boys?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Looks like we’re going to Kinsale,’ said Roussel, with a grin. ‘Maybe I wasn’t telling James a lie. Looks like I may be sightseeing after all.’

  Chapter 38 – Retribution

  20thMay 2011–Ten days after the Storm.

  To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

  He sat alone in the dark. He did all his best thinking when the inky blackness overwhelmed him. You could think whatever you wanted to, especially if you were in the places where the light could not penetrate.

  For instance, you could think happy thoughts; self delusional imaginings of the utopian ideal of a family, where everyone smiled and laughed and loved each other. You could block out the reality; the painted on smiles, the lies and half truths. You could drown out the screams, and the rants, and the thuds of inanimate objects hitting walls.

  He sat at his desk in his study, and drank in the dark.

  All the rooms in the house had blackout curtains. It had been one of the stipulations he had placed on the builders during the refurbishment.

  He held a pen in the ai
r in front of his face and twirled it between his fingers. He could see it turning, and yet he knew he couldn’t. One of the many wonders of the brain; some would call it visualisation, whereas some would call it self-delusion. Even though he knew he couldn’t see the pen, his brain was telling him that he could. No, it was cleverer than that; it was showing him that he could, if he really believed it was there.

  So where did dreams end and reality begin? Eoin had always had a problem differentiating the two.

  Eoin had never visited his parent’s grave. He’d paid for the bare minimum; he didn’t even go along to any of the services in person. He knew how it looked to friends and family, but he didn’t care. His parents had betrayed him. There was no going back for him, even in death. He had crossed the Rubicon, gone over that invisible line in the sand. How he wished to God, he’d never got up that night.

  He’d grown up knowing he was special. He didn't see his parents a lot, but when he did see them, they always told him what a clever, handsome and superior boy he was. There were never any harsh words; they didn't spend enough time with him for that, but they bought him everything he wanted. They bought him toys, they bought him games, they sent him to the best private schools; they even bought him friends. But as an only child, with no frame of reference, he mistook their financial generosity for love, and the vicious circle became ever more vicious.

  The more he asked for, the more he got, and consequently, the more he believed he was loved. He was their best boy, their good boy, their only boy. It was that part he loved the most. He was the only one, part of the trinity; mother, father, son, a symbiotic unit.

  He twirled the pen in his hand, and saw it move in his mind’s eye, as clearly as he remembered the words that had been exchanged that night, like barbed weapons.

  Back in those days, he would sneak out of his room at night and lie face down on the landing. If he was quiet and he strained his eyes, he could see the television.

  That particular night, he hadn't heard the light girlish laughter of his mother, or the heavy, almost false laugh of his father. Instead, he could feel something else, a dense cloud of tension, hanging in the air like fog. He should have gone back to bed at that moment; he should have turned and slipped noiselessly back up the stairs. His life would not have been so drastically and dramatically changed, if he had just turned and clicked the door closed on his bedroom.