The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘Essentially, I have some information for you. It's not a normal information exchange, because it is not normal information, even given the boundaries you would usually attach to the word normal. It is going to require you to suspend your disbelief and take a huge amount on trust.’

  Black Swan sat back and regarded the stranger carefully, but did not interrupt.

  ‘It will also require you to make a couple of large leaps of faith. There is little proof, evidence or corroboration of this information and you need to accept that up front.’

  Black Swan arched an eyebrow, but still said nothing.

  ‘However, if you choose to accept that hypothesis, I can share with you the reasons why you should be interested.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ asked Eoin sarcastically.

  ‘All in good time,’ said the stranger, ignoring the comment. ‘Oh yes, and by the way, I forgot the most important thing. This could, and I stress the word advisedly. This could allow you to make the jump from half control to full control of the drugs market in Cork. Hell, it could make you the biggest player in the country. You should think about that for a second, before we go on.’

  Black Swan was about to respond, when the starters arrived. By mutual consent, they picked up their knives and forks and dispatched their Onion Bhajis with practised ease. Only when both sets of cutlery were neatly brought together at the bottom of their plates, did the discourse continue.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ said Eoin slowly. ‘You want me to suspend my disbelief in something that I may or may not believe.’

  The stranger nodded.

  ‘And you can provide me with no corroboration, no evidence, nothing substantive to prove that this information is worthy of anything other than contempt.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ replied the stranger. ‘Maybe there is one thing that will persuade you, but there is also a huge amount of trust involved.’

  ‘I was just checking,’ said Eoin.

  He glanced at the stranger across the gloom.

  ‘Making sure I hadn't missed something fundamental,’ he added sarcastically.

  The sarcasm seemed lost on his companion. He was just about to ask another question, when the main courses arrived. Eoin was glad in a way; it gave him time to think.

  As he watched his dinner companion slowly dispatch a Chicken Tikka Masala, he tried to work the angle, but his brain just couldn't do it. This person was either totally genuine or a complete and utter bluffer, and aside from assassination, he couldn't think of any other reason for someone to use subterfuge to get close to him. Even though he knew Dave and his team were close, he still shivered involuntarily. He had never considered assassination before, but he knew it was a real possibility.

  He shook his head; no, somehow this person did not give off the right signals. Eoin was a good judge of character, he could dispassionately analyse. His dinner companion was ruthless, ambitious, maybe even a killer, but they were not there tonight to kill him, he was sure of that.

  It was a natural assumption though. If the stranger felt the same way as David did about Eoin, it was the perfect scenario; a dimly lit, sparsely populated restaurant with easy escape routes. Eoin didn't know anyone else who would make the investment in time and effort. Someone who knew his organisation; who he was, where he could be found, how he could be contacted?

  ‘I know what you're thinking,’ said the stranger, echoing his thoughts. ‘So don’t be so naive. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be sitting here now. I’m not stupid; I know what goes on in this town. I know where it happens and I know who the main players are. As one of those main players, I’m giving you a rare opportunity. If you don’t want it, don’t waste my time.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ asked Eoin.

  ‘Merely stating a fact,’ said the stranger. ‘Maybe this will help you decide.’

  He threw a fat brown envelope across the table. He clicked his fingers and the ever attentive waiter was at his side in seconds.

  ‘Bring me a coffee and a cognac. I’m in the mood for a comfortable wait,’ he said, glancing at Black Swan with a smile.

  At first Black Swan had thought it was money. This idiot obviously doesn’t know me at all, he’d thought to himself. He was surprised therefore to extract a carefully bundled and annotated document.

  An hour later, Black Swan sat back in his chair. He had read the file from cover to cover, not once but twice and had then re-read certain paragraphs for a third time. He waved unseeingly for attention, and before the waiter had even got to the table, he motioned towards the mug and glass that sat in front of the stranger and mouthed same again. The waiter nodded his understanding, even though Black Swan wasn’t even looking at him.

  As the cognac was placed in front of him, Black Swan took a sip, relishing the impact of the fiery liquid.

  ‘That’s quite a story,’ he said, tapping the letter sized pages. It was the first thing he’d noticed. Little details always nagged at him. The document; the whole folder in fact, had been printed in America. It wasn't A4, it was letter size.

  ‘It’s no story,’ responded the stranger.

  ‘Come on,’ answered Black Swan. ‘It’s very well-written I’ll grant you that, but I’d recognise a story anywhere.’

  The stranger smiled.

  ‘I was like you; I was unbelievably sceptical. That was, until I saw a demonstration of it in the flesh.’

  Eoin’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You've seen it in action.’

  ‘Whatever reason you think I'm here,’ said the stranger. ‘You need to purge it from your mind right now. The reason I am here is because Ireland is struggling economically. The reason I am here is because they have one of the best state agencies in the world for attracting foreign direct inward investment. They are desperate to create jobs and they have more pharma companies per head of population than any other country on earth. In other words, ideal breeding conditions for a drug like this.’

  He indicated the folder.

  ‘A breeding ground where the manufacturing can be camouflaged as a legitimate operation, and where the choice of supply chain is huge. I think they call it hiding in plain sight. Make no mistake; the efficacy of this product cannot be questioned. This drug works and it will be huge.’

  ‘Why are you talking to me?’ asked Eoin.

  ‘Have you heard of the Mancini’s?’

  The change in the conversation took Eoin by surprise.

  ‘Hasn’t everyone? If it’s illegal in America, they’re involved in it.’

  The stranger inclined his head.

  ‘You are correct. So, would it surprise you to discover that they were setting up the same type of operation as I have just described, right under your very nose?

  The stranger paused.

  ‘Ask yourself this? You are independently wealthy, you already have the supply lines and the distribution network setup, and you know this part of the country intimately, so why did they not approach you about a joint venture? Think about it; there are not that many others out there who would be willing to invest in such a scheme.’

  Black Swan laughed.

  ‘You’ve got that right,’ he said.

  The stranger changed tack.

  ‘Well, I can only think of one other, and he’s certainly very interested.’

  ‘How interested?’ asked Black Swan, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Now that would be telling wouldn’t it? Suffice to say that negotiations have reached an advanced level.’

  ‘So, let’s just say hypothetically that I was interested in muscling into this little scheme,’ said Black Swan. ‘And I’m not saying I am,’ he added hastily.

  No point in divulging his cards; he always tried to maintain the upper hand in any negotiations.

  ‘What sort of up-front investment figure are we talking about?’

  ‘You tell me, you've read the file,’ said the stranger. ‘What do you think something like that would be worth?’
/>
  ‘One million,’ said Eoin, sitting back.

  The stranger gave a small chuckle.

  ‘You’re not taking this very seriously are you?’

  ‘It’s tough to estimate based on this ethereal material you’ve given me,’ said Eoin, tapping the file. ‘That was an opening guess. Let’s say double that to two million.’

  The stranger faced him, and stared at him.

  ‘Not even close,’ he stated implacably.

  ‘Ah come on, give me a break, I’m thinking on my feet here,’ said Eoin.

  ‘This is a business investment opportunity to completely control the drugs trade in this country,’ responded the stranger impassively. ‘We’re not talking about small change here.’

  ‘Five million,’ said Eoin.

  The stranger paused.

  ‘Certainly much warmer,’ he said, ‘but you’re still south of the real figure.’

  ‘Okay, seven million,’ said Eoin. ‘That’s about all I would put in as an initial investment.’

  The stranger looked at him for a minute or so.

  ‘That’s about what I calculate has gone in so far.’

  ‘So, who are we talking about?’ asked Eoin, although he feared he already knew the answer.

  ‘I didn’t figure you for a stupid man,’ said the stranger. ‘I think you know exactly who I’m talking about.’

  ‘If they're already dealing with who I think they’re dealing with,’ said Eoin. ‘They will need to be very careful. How can I put this tactfully? He’s not a nice person to conduct business with.’

  ‘Don’t worry about David,’ said the stranger, confirming Eoin’s worst fears. ‘The Mancini’s believe they can easily handle him.’

  ‘So, how can I guarantee a piece of this action?’ Eoin asked.

  ‘You can’t,’ said the stranger. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, or at least the Mancini’s do.’

  ‘So, what’s in it for you? Why are you telling me all of this?’

  ‘Let’s just say that in a previous life, I did not see eye to eye with Guido and Ernesto Mancini, and I always try to help destabilise any of their business ventures.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll help you?’ asked Eoin.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m merely alerting you to the fact that your closest rival has a massive advantage over you. How you choose to handle that information is your business.’

  I need to warn you up front,’ said Eoin, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘I don't take rejection well.’

  ‘I don’t care what you do or don’t do,’ said the stranger calmly. ‘As I said, use the information as you will.’

  ‘You’re a cool customer, aren’t you?’ stated Eoin.

  ‘I can afford to be,’ said the stranger.

  He didn't elaborate any further.

  ‘I'll be in touch,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘Oh, and by the way, I lied before about your men. I picked out every one of them. So don’t even bother thinking about getting me followed. If I have to lose one of them, it will just piss me off and you don't want that.’

  Black Swan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He took another deeper breath and counted to ten slowly. He knew a lot was at stake. He also knew that one way or another, he was getting a piece of it. The stranger was right, he had the information and now he was going to use it.

  He opened his laptop and booted it up. He opened the GPS tracking program and saw the dot, as it tracked away from the Eastern Tandoori and moved slowly up the length of Patrick Street. There was more than one way to follow someone. He started laughing and found he couldn’t stop, prompting startled and bemused glances from the waiters and other diners.

  Chapter 43 – Dialogue

  21st May 2011 – Eleven days after the Storm.

  Be content to act, and leave the talking to others. – Baltasar Gracian.

  I didn’t ordinarily do torture. Not through any moral or religious obligation, but over the years, I’d found it to be messy and counter-productive, and aside from that, I had never yet managed to get anything useful from it.

  In my line of work, it was better to kill them quickly, cleanly and be done with it; minimum mess with minimum fuss. This time was different though; this time I was going to get some answers.

  Was it torture? Maybe torture would be too strong a word. Direct and forceful interrogation; I would be direct and forceful. This bastard was going to talk.

  We had driven a short way out of town, until I'd seen what I wanted; a derelict and abandoned farm with a barn.

  We left him locked in the boot, while we scouted around the small farmyard. In the barn, there were two loose boxes that had originally been used for horses; perfect for what I needed.

  I popped the boot, anticipating what he was going to do. It was just too quiet and we had been driving for too long. As the lid sprung open on its hinges, he dived out, only to meet the butt of the gun coming down. He was consistent if nothing else, and slipped to the ground in a crumpled heap.

  We dragged him into the barn, and using the four tow ropes we had purchased on the way, we secured his ankles and his wrists to the two upright posts that stood either side of the entrance to one of the loose boxes. I took a step back and regarded my handiwork.

  ‘He looks like that Da Vinci image you always see,’ said Roussel. ‘The one with the arms and legs straddled; can't for the life of me remember what it's called.’

  ‘I know the one you mean,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘Vitruvian Man,’ said Dale softly.

  Trust him to know.

  I picked up the old metal bucket that I’d spotted standing in the corner and walked outside. Like in most farms, there was a rainwater butt to collect run-off from the roof. I slid the lid off and immersed the bucket in the icy water. I carried the full container back into the shed, slopping the liquid messily on the ground as I walked.

  I lifted it awkwardly and threw it full force into the face of the slumped figure. He twitched as though I'd electrocuted him, and I smacked him on the cheeks a couple of times, until his head lolled upright and his eyes opened.

  ‘Time to wake up,’ I said, slapping him twice more for good measure.

  You could see the marks of the individual fingers on his cheek.

  As consciousness returned, so too did awareness. I saw the realisation and understanding flit like shadows across his face. He took in the whitewashed stone walls and the bleak exterior landscape. He briefly thrashed about against his restraints, as if he were testing them for strength, and then almost immediately gave up. There was something fatalistic about his demeanour. He knew he wasn't going anywhere, except maybe to hell.

  ‘So, let’s get the pleasantries out of the way first,’ I said. ‘This....’

  I indicated Roussel.

  ‘....is Charles Roussel, a detective with the Louisiana CID. He wants some answers.’

  I punched the captive suddenly and without warning, straight to the stomach. He doubled up, or at least as far as his restraints would allow, almost retching as the air was expelled forcibly from his lungs. We waited for his laboured breathing to return to normal.

  ‘This....’

  I indicated Dale.

  ‘....is Special Agent Dale Foster of the DEA. He too would like some answers, and me....’

  ‘I know who you are,’ he responded hoarsely, bracing himself for another impact.

  ‘I am Thomas O'Neill,’ I said, ignoring him. ‘I also want answers, and that's where you come in.’

  At first I thought he was about to beg. His head was down as if in prayer, but then I heard the tell-tale sound of phlegm being hawked. The gobbet of spit landed neatly on the toe of my boot. He had spirit, I’d give him that.

  ‘That was nice,’ I stated, wiping the tip of my foot with the other.

  This time the ball of spit hit me full in the face. I made a big deal of cleaning it off, taking the time to theatrically remove it with my handkerchief.

&
nbsp; ‘That wasn't very nice at all, was it?’ I asked. ‘Your parents obviously didn't educate you in the social niceties.’

  I stood up close and then swung my elbow into the side of his face. It was not a powerful blow; it was not meant to break or crack anything, it was more a statement of intent.

  He shook his head dazedly, and worked his lower jaw a couple of times. I’m sure he would have rubbed it, if his hands were free.

  ‘So, where was I?’ I said slowly. ‘Oh yes, answers; who sent you?’

  ‘No one,’ he replied.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ I asked.

  ‘We picked you at random,’ he said.

  I nodded and rubbed my chin.

  ‘Hmm, interesting,’ I said.

  I motioned at the holdall and then Roussel. He looked at me blankly.

  ‘The bag, bring it over,’ I responded, exasperatedly.

  Roussel moved surprisingly quickly for a big man, and as he handed the holdall over, I saw the captive’s eyes widen slightly.

  ‘Yes, it’s a gun,’ I said, as I extracted it from the bag.

  I saw his eyes widen still further.

  ‘And a silencer,’ I added pleasantly, as I screwed the shiny silver cylinder onto the end.

  ‘So, this is how it’s going to play out now,’ I said, waving the gun gently in the air. ‘I’m going to ask the same questions again, and this time you're going to give me the answer I want, do you understand?’

  He nodded, but to his credit I couldn't see a trace of fear; bravado yes, but not fear. Not yet anyway.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I asked.

  He looked at me malevolently.

  ‘I have no master,’ he said.

  There was an unmistakable phut sound from the muzzle of the silencer, and a splinter came off the right-hand post, just above his ankle. I saw him jump slightly, but he recovered quickly.

  ‘You missed,’ he stated flatly.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ I asked.

  ‘We picked you at random, I told you that already,’ he answered sullenly.

  This time, the phut was accompanied by a thud, as the bullet embedded in the left-hand post, this time to the left of his knee.