The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘More than you know,’ said Foster, a little sadly.

  ‘Try me,’ I said.

  ‘I was born at the height of the Disco boom,’ he replied.

  Roussel and I smiled, despite ourselves.

  ‘I was the product of a liaison between two lawyers; I think a small quantity of cocaine may have been involved too. I was lucky; she carried me to full-term, others of my generation were not so lucky. By all accounts, it was something to do with a devout Catholic mother and an inheritance in jeopardy. Whatever the reason, the ending was never in doubt. I was left in a small Catholic orphanage in Queen's.’

  ‘So, what about your parents?’ asked Roussel. ‘Where do they come in?’

  ‘My parents....’

  Dale accentuated the word parents.

  ‘....were from the Mid West. They married young and went to New York to make their fortune. Initially, they were all about the work. They couldn’t have kids; my mother was born with key parts of her plumbing missing. Neither of them thought it would be a problem in their youth. When they got to thirty, they realised how wrong they were. They moved back to the family farmstead near Dayton, Ohio. When they left New York, they didn’t leave empty handed. They had managed to acquire a piece of it; me.’

  ‘When did you find out?’ asked Roussel interestedly.

  Dale turned to him.

  ‘I've always known,’ he said. ‘My parents never kept anything from me, and it's funny; maybe it's the way I’m made. Maybe I see things differently from other people, maybe it’s purely because I am adopted, but I never once thought about tracing my birth parents.’

  He said the word parents disdainfully this time.

  ‘As far as I am concerned, my real parents live on a small farm in rural Ohio. They are the ones who comforted me when I fell down or failed. They are the ones who taught me right from wrong. They are the people who gave me the strength of character to be who I am. And it was them who raised me right, and released me into the world, which in turn gave me the inner strength to make my own mistakes.’

  He glanced up at the mirror, so that he could catch my gaze, and when he caught it, he held it.

  ‘So, actually, I do know a lot about it,’ he said. ‘And the one thing I’ll share with you is this. For every selfish career woman; for every couple not ready for that kind of commitment or responsibility, there is a corresponding young woman or couple, desperate to have a child at any price. So don’t judge your mother too harshly. Who knows the pressure she was under?’

  I finally broke his gaze and looked away, slightly ashamed of my outburst. I hadn't had a bad life, certainly not a bad childhood. Maybe what Dale said was true; maybe I had finally laid that first ghost to rest.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I mumbled.

  Dale shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You weren’t to know. But don’t be so quick to judge in future.’

  I nodded to acknowledge what he’d said.

  ‘So, does this tell us anything new about the situation with Black Swan?’ asked Roussel.

  I was about to answer when Dale piped up.

  ‘I think it's even more likely now,’ he said. ‘It definitely has something to do with you and your father. One or the other, or both of you, but like I said before, this is personal. You are personal to him, and if you can’t think of a reason why, then it has to be down to your father. Maybe it’s as simple as that old saying the sins of the father.’

  We chewed on that for the rest of the journey, in a slightly stilted, but still companionable silence.

  As we got nearer to the coast, the scenery started changing, and I could feel our collective spirits lifting.

  The sea in Ireland was not the glorious azure blue of the Pacific Islands, or the deep emerald green of the Adriatic or Mediterranean. It was a typical dull and soft Irish day; a fine, almost invisible spray that doesn't seem to be wet.

  As we descended the hill into Kinsale, the grey clouds seemed to swoop down to meet the grey sea on the far horizon, and it was difficult to decide where one finished and the other began.

  I had been to Kinsale once as a boy. I hadn't remembered it being so picturesque. Things like the view don’t affect you when you are that young. Looking at the picture postcard houses and beautifully manicured streets and shop fronts, it seemed an unlikely birthplace for a new illegal addiction.

  ‘Strangely enough, this feels a bit like the East Coast of the US,’ said Dale. ‘There’s a real Boston feel about it, especially around the harbour.’

  ‘Yeah it was originally a fishing port,’ I said. ‘But certainly, in the last thirty to forty years, it's become much more synonymous with food and sailing and expensive holiday homes; very much the lifestyles of the rich and famous.’

  We circled the harbour slowly, until I found what I was looking for; a basic pay-and-display car park. I manoeuvred into a space, careful to centre it between the white lines; something my mother had drilled into me when she’d taught me how to drive. I ignored the looks from the other two, as I continued to move in and out, straightening the car until I was happy.

  ‘Don’t say a word,’ I said, prompting them to smile with amusement and raise their hands in a gesture of supplication.

  ‘Stay here,’ I continued, as I hopped out. ‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  The last thing I needed was to get clamped, and in these little picturesque villages, they took their car parking very seriously. It was a huge revenue stream for them.

  As I pumped my small change into the ticket machine, I failed to register the two cars; large black saloons, each one containing four large and forbidding looking gentlemen, dressed mainly in black.

  I hit the green button to print my ticket. The sun was starting to break through the clouds, penetrating the gloom like golden rods of light. As I passed slowly back behind the two parallel parked BMW’s, all eight doors opened simultaneously. There was something about the symmetry of the action. The choreography of the movement rang faint alarm bells at the back of my head.

  I was almost level with my own car, when I saw Roussel turn around in the back and his eyes widened in horror. The unease I’d felt seconds earlier hardened into grim resolve. At last I had something to channel my anger and frustration into. I took a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I felt my muscles bunch and harden.

  I whirled just in time; as the baseball bat was at the top of its down stroke. I caught it just before it started on its return trajectory, and viciously twisted it out of my attackers grasp. I reversed my grip and then jammed the metal end of it straight back into my assailants face as hard as I could. I felt bones crack and he went down with a scream of agony. I reversed the bat again, using it as a staff this time to deflect an attack from the right. The iron bar splintered the bat in two under the force of the impact, but before he could react, I grabbed his wrist, spun inside and threw him straight over my shoulder. He landed with an almighty crack on his back and I followed up, dropping a knee straight into his exposed groin. He curled into an agonised ball, like a spider does when you touch it. He wasn’t getting up again anytime soon.

  I relieved him of the bar, using it to quickly parry another blow from a bat. Grabbing the arm holding the weapon, I jabbed the bar into my assailant’s stomach, causing him to double up. As he bent over involuntarily, I caught him on the way down, my knee rising savagely into the middle of his face. He was out cold before he hit the deck.

  At this stage Roussel and Dale were out of the car, standing slightly back from the action, but watchful and ready. I grabbed the weapon from the attacker’s nerveless fingers and threw it across to Roussel. That was more like it; we were beginning to even up the odds.

  The five remaining assailants stood back. I could sense a pervading air of uncertainty begin to infiltrate their ranks, until one of their number stepped forward. He held a pickaxe handle, and as I watched, he theatrically twirled it around his head
and from side to side. His action seemed to rejuvenate his gang, who closed in menacingly.

  My eyes never left his. I clung grimly to the small iron bar; I was beginning to really like it as a weapon.

  When he attacked, I had thought I was ready for it. Every nerve and sinew was tensed for the thrust, certain that I could read his intentions. However, my reflexes fired just a fraction too slow; he was a much younger man and had trained himself well.

  The handle came down in a blur of speed. If it had connected, it would have caved my head like a melon. As it was, I felt the sting on my upper arm, as it glanced off. Roussel had been watching proceedings warily, holding the bat like a baseball player. He was a younger man than I, and had reacted instinctively to the down thrust from my opponent. The attacker wasn’t expecting a counter attack, and had left himself wide open. The Bat whirled savagely in a wicked arc, to catch him cleanly on the side of the temple. The force of the blow literally lifted him off his feet. He clattered unconscious to the floor in front of Foster, who relieved him of the stout pickaxe handle. The odds were seriously beginning to even up now.

  I guessed that the remainder of the group were now leaderless and rudderless. They were exchanging uncertain glances between them; a sort of collective paralysis. I knew one of them would make a move, but I had a feeling that it wouldn't be coordinated. I was wrong.

  The attack, when it came, was simple and direct. Two of them came straight for me. They were holding short clubs or coshes. I managed to parry one, but the other blow glanced off the side of my head. It still connected fairly heftily, and my vision blurred for a second. I felt myself going down and they followed up their advantage; I felt the boots thudding viciously into my side. I blinked the tears out of my eyes, and curled into a foetal position to try and protect myself as best I could.

  As my vision cleared, I saw Dale divert an attack and then follow up with a swinging kick to the groin. It was simple, but effective. The next thing I heard a crack, and one of my assailants fell over me. He was out cold, possibly even dead.

  ‘Street, watch out!’ yelled Dale.

  I jerked my head backwards to evade the steel toed construction boot. As it whistled past in midair, I caught it and even though I was still prone on the ground, I swung my right leg around through the back of his calf; the one he was still standing on. He hit the deck with a crash and I heard the whoosh as the air was compressed out of his body. Dale followed up with the pick axe handle, as though he was swinging a golf club, catching him squarely in the groin; seemed it was his speciality. Either way, the attacker wouldn’t be getting up for a while. I sprang to my feet with Dale beside me and we turned to Roussel.

  His attacker had dropped his weapon; both men were of a size, and seemed to be fairly well matched. They were grappling for grip, but as we watched, Roussel managed to get a chokehold; probably a legacy of his uniform days. He tightened his arm around his assailants airway until the scrabbles got weaker and the kicks got lighter, and he eventually slumped in Roussel’s arms.

  I could feel the bruises beginning to form; my body was already stiffening as Roussel opened his arms and let his opponent drop to the floor.

  I grabbed the guy Roussel had taken out earlier; the one I believed was the leader. I popped the boot on the rental car. Roussel guessed my intention and the two of us transpired to stuff the unwieldy and awkward body into the back, cramming the uncooperative limbs in any old way.

  Once he was in, I did a cursory sweep of the boot around him. The holdall and its precious contents were under the front seat, so I didn’t have to worry about that, but I threw out the Jack and the tire iron. I didn’t want him getting access to any potential weapons.

  I slid into the driver's seat, feeling stiffer with every stride. The rear doors closed together as my two colleagues got back in again.

  ‘Everyone okay?’ I asked.

  Like me, they were grinning like idiots. There was nothing like a bit of combat to get the blood circulating.

  ‘Couple of cuts, couple of bruises, nothing that won't heal,’ said Roussel.

  ‘Same here,’ said Dale.

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ I said, slipping the car into reverse, and burying the throttle.

  As we shot backwards out of the space, I braked, engaged drive, hauled on the steering and gave it everything she had. I turned to the others.

  ‘I think it’s time we got some answers.’

  Chapter 42 – Avarice

  21st May 2011 – Eleven days after the Storm.

  The avarice of mankind is insatiable. – Aristotle.

  Black Swan sat at his desk. It was probably the location where he spent most of his time when he was in the house. The study was his favourite room. He had never been afraid of hard work; in fact, the engagement of his brain had always been his antidote to the problems in his personal life. Sometimes, he would raise his head from his books, only to realise it was three o’clock in the morning. He got lost in facts and figures; they were his friends.

  All you could hear at that moment was the feverish scratching of pencil on paper. Black Swan hated pens. They were permanent. If you made a mistake with a pen, it was glaringly obvious for all to see. A mistake with a pencil was different. It could be discreetly and easily eliminated; like a lot of his competition.

  As usual, the blackout curtains were down, but the warm glow from the green banker’s lamp illuminated the pad full of figures that he was working on. Eoin always did his maths by hand. He didn't even own a calculator. Yes, he would verify the figures in his spreadsheets later on, but the majority of the calculation was done by him. He was the solitary architect of his business success. He didn’t rely on machines to do it for him.

  Eoin had always loved maths. It was governed by absolute rules; there was no ambiguity. It was not open to interpretation, it was either right or it was wrong. It really was that simple. If only life mirrored it.

  His cell phone rang, which was unusual in itself. Very few people had his phone number. He picked it up, noticing with interest the unknown number flashing. It was even more unusual for him not to know who was calling him.

  Ordinarily, he would terminate the call immediately, but this time, on impulse, he answered it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said softly.

  ‘Is that Eoin Morrison? Or should I call you Black Swan like everyone else does?’

  It was a self assured and confident voice.

  ‘Who is this?’ asked Eoin in irritation.

  ‘It’s not who you need to worry about, rather you need to ask yourself why?’

  Black Swan hated riddles and games, but he also had the feeling that this was neither. He was intrigued to see where it would go, so he suppressed his rising annoyance.

  ‘Ok, I'll bite,’ said Eoin. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I think we can help each other out,’ said the stranger. ‘Do you know the Eastern Tandoori in town?’

  ‘The one at the end of Patrick Street?’ asked Eoin.

  ‘If you say so,’ said the stranger. ‘Anyway, meet me there tonight, at seven o’clock. Bring your cheque-book and an open mind. I don’t like paying for dinner, and I have some information I think you may be very interested in. Oh, and come alone.’

  ‘Ain’t gonna happen,’ said Eoin.

  ‘Well then, just make sure I can't see the watchers,’ said the stranger. ‘If I see them, I'm gone.’

  Eoin smiled.

  ‘If they see you, you’re gone,’ he responded, to the empty line.

  #

  Eoin liked to be unfashionably early for any appointment. As he sat in the booth, he could see why the Eastern Tandoori had been chosen. Most of the tables were set for two, and they were all situated for maximum privacy. He hated those restaurants where the tables for two were all in a single line, and you could hear the conversations either side of you more clearly than those of your companion.

  The inside of the restaurant was dark and gloomy, almost oppressive, but again
the ideal interior for discretion. Eoin sipped his iced tap water, smiling at the laminated simplicity of the menu. Most of the establishments that he normally frequented would not have had a plethora of helpful colour photographs for the un-initiated. That was normally reserved for Spanish seaside holidays. An indication on how multi-cultural Cork had become, maybe?

  Eoin was still chuckling, when he realised the bench in front of him was no longer empty.

  ‘Your people are good,’ acknowledged the stranger. ‘I couldn’t spot a single one of them as I made my way in.’

  ‘You were hardly expecting carnations were you?’ answered Eoin sarcastically. ‘All my guys are ex-special forces; hardened professionals. A lot of people in my line of business tend to use just hired muscle. I prefer to pay a bit extra. It always pays off in the long run.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m interested in what your profession is?’ stated the stranger.

  ‘Let's not play stupid and childish games,’ said Eoin. ‘We both know that you are well aware of what it is that I do, otherwise you wouldn't be sitting across the table from me. I can also tell you that the only reason you're still alive, and sitting across the table from me, is because I'm intrigued by what it is that you want; no other reason.’

  The stranger raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Are you always so direct? I must say it is nice and refreshing to immediately know where you stand. It seems we understand each other, Mr Morrison? May I call you Eoin, or should I call you Black Swan.’

  ‘What’s in a name,’ he said. ‘You can call me Eoin for now.’

  They were interrupted by the fast talking and almost unintelligible waiter. They delayed any further conversation until their orders had been taken, and the garish menu’s had been cleared away. Both were secretly amused that they had chosen exactly the same starters and main courses, each wondering if the other were playing mind games.

  ‘Can I be frank, Eoin?’ asked the stranger.

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ said Black Swan.