The Storm Protocol (17 page)

‘Yea, he flagged up as being a known associate,’ said Dempsey
, through a mouthful of crumbs.

He swallowed hard and took another swig of his coffee.

‘Or rather,’ he continued, ‘he flagged up as being related to a known associate.’

He accentuated the word
related.

‘It’s his father who triggered the flag.’

‘Associate of who?’ asked Dodds interestedly.

‘Guido and Ernesto Mancini,’ said Dempsey.

Dodds and Dale stared at each other, coffee mugs pausing in mid air.

13
th
May 2011 – Three Days after the Storm.

There can be no theory of any account unless it corroborate with the theory of the earth. – Walt Whitman.

They watched him closely through the one-way glass. The first thing that struck Dale as odd was his general demeanour. Normally, the guys they interviewed were jumpy and nervous. This guy, despite his injuries, had an aura of casual self assuredness. As far as this guy was concerned, he had nothing to fear.

‘Do you mind if we rattle him a little?’ Dale asked Dempsey directly. ‘If we can, that is?’

‘Like I said,’ answered Dempsey. ‘We’ve already got him on the possession and maybe intent. If you can pin something else on him as well, and we get some of the credit, so much the better.’

‘Do you want to sit in?’ asked Dodds.

‘Yea,’ said Dempsey, ‘but not because I don’t trust you,’ he finished quickly. ‘It’s just that station protocol demands it. You know how it is?’

He shrugged dismissively and ope
ned the door, allowing the two agents to go ahead of him.

As they settled into their seats, the suspect regarded them curiously. Dempsey switched on the recorder.

‘Interview started with suspect Sam Rudino. Date is thirteenth May, 2011.’

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

‘Time is approximately eleven fifteen. Interview is being overseen by Detective Dempsey 56227. Also present are agents Foster and Dodds of the DEA.’

Dale couldn't be sure, b
ut he thought the suspect’s self-satisfied smile slipped just a tiny bit, when he heard the letters DEA. Dale made a show of shuffling the file on the desk.

‘So Sam,’ he said at last. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself in a bit of a jam.’

‘Depends what side of the table you are on, I suppose,’ answered the suspect.

‘Listen carefully,’ said Dale. ‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, it’s not my style. How do you know the Mancini’s?’

As he spoke, Dale’s eyes never left Sam’s face. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he’d have missed it, but he saw it; plain as day. A slight frown appeared between Sam’s eyes. He recovered it well, but he was definitely rattled.

‘I don't really know them,’ said Sam. ‘I am only acquainted with them as customers.’

‘What type of customers exactly?’ asked Dodds sharply.

Sam ignored the comment.

‘My father runs their favourite restaurant,’ said Sam. ‘I deliver their order to them pretty much every night; nothing more, nothing less. No law against that is there?’ he sneered.

‘You expect us to believe that,’ said Dodds incredulously.

‘I don't care what you believe,’ said Sam. ‘The facts of the matter are that my father owns Rudino’s restaurant. The Mancini's like our food and I deliver it; simple as that.’

Dale sat back slowly
, as Dodds and Sam kept talking. A fragment of speech wafted into his brain; Ryan at the diner.

‘I got a job too, cleaning dishes in a place called Rudino’s.’

And further on in the conversation.

‘Well it turns out
the place is connected.’

‘Is your father a gangster?’ asked Dale.

Sam looked at him and laughed at the old fashioned phrasing. The other two smiled as well, but Sam quickly realised that Dale’s expression wasn't changing.

‘You’re serious
, aren’t you?’ sneered Sam incredulously, a slow mocking smile spreading over his face.

‘Well I fail to see how else you could get your hands on a kilo of cocaine,’ said Dale. ‘I am in the DEA and I couldn't. So if your
father didn’t give it to you....’

This time he looked at Sam directly. Sam couldn't hold his gaze; his stare broke and his eyes flicked away guiltily. Dale suddenly clicked his fingers and slapped his forehead.

‘You stole it from the Mancini’s, didn’t you?’ he stated softly.

Sam said nothing, but his
Adams apple bobbed a couple of times.

Dale pressed home his advantage.

‘Do you know what, Sam?’ he intoned slowly. ‘I thought you were in a bit of a jam, but if you stole from the Mancini’s, you’re fucked.’

‘I didn’t steal it,’ Sam blurted out suddenly.

Dale tried to hide his delight; he was getting better at this interrogation lark.

‘So what would you call it, Sam?’ asked Dodds, joining in
, as he realised what Dale was doing.

He emphasised the word
Sam
.

‘You now have a kilo of cocaine that belongs to them.’

‘I....’ Sam's mind blanked.

His eyes flickered
, as he searched for the words.

‘
....I borrowed it,’ he said finally. ‘I was going to sell it and give them the profits, honestly I was. I wanted to prove to them that I wasn’t just a pizza delivery boy.’

‘So
, where did you get it?’ asked Dodds.

‘A couple of the guys who work in the kitchens,’ said Sam. ‘O
utwardly, they are waiting staff and kitchen porters, but they are also delivery mules. They take a package, hold it for a couple of days, and then deliver it onwards to its destination. These guys think they are in an episode of
the sopranos
; made guys, what a laugh!’

Sam spat the words out with vitriol.

‘They are so pathetically eager to demonstrate how mobbed up they are, it makes me sick. One of them showed me his latest stash. Stupid prick even left it in his locker, unlocked.’

The cogs in Sam’s head seemed to be whirring slowly; finally they caught up.

‘You’re not going to tell them, are you?’ asked Sam, the tremble audible in his voice. ‘I’m a dead man if you do.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Dale. ‘I’ll arrange a bust on the kitchens of Rudino’s Restaurant. We’ll take the two guys in and we’ll
pretend
to seize the stash in the raid. In return, you’re going to tell me everything you know about Storm.’

Sam stiffened.

‘How do you know about that?’ he asked.

Dale was silently ex
ultant. He glanced across at his two companions. Dempsey was looking at him with interest, but Dodds was leaning forward intently.

‘It doesn’t matter how I know,’ answered Dale
.

He could feel Dodds eyes boring into him
, but he ignored the stare for the present.

‘The problem for you is that I know. So tell me what I need to hear;
and don’t give me this garbage that I’ve been getting off other people.’ said Dale. ‘A storm is coming; crap. Something big is about to blow; shit. I want specifics.’

Sam thought about it for a brief instant and then seemed to make up his mind.

‘There are only two things I know. They are not certainties by any means; I overheard most of it at the dinner table and they talk very softly, but I’ll tell you anyway.’

He composed himself before continuing.

‘The first thing that I am pretty sure I understood;
Storm
is a drug. How it works, what it does and how it is made, I have no idea.’

He stopped to gather his thoughts, lids closing and eyes flicking from side to side.

‘The second thing I heard is that it has something to do with Ireland; a place called Cork specifically.’

Dale blinked in surprise; the first time he had shown emotion of any kind. He had been expecting to hear a lot of things, but that wasn't one of them.

#

‘And you were going to tell me this when?’ hissed Dodds
, through clenched teeth and compressed lips.

The annoyance drifted palpably across the partition separating their desks. They were both back in the office
, after a very strained car journey.

‘I’m not hiding anything from you Dodds,’ said Dale. ‘You need to listen to me; I’m trying to tell you what happened. I only learnt this stuff myself last night.’

‘We can’t be partners with no trust,’ said Dodds flatly.

‘I know that,’ said Dale.

He ushered Dodds into a side room and told him the whole story. The tip offs from James and Ryan, and the subsequent putting of two and two together in the interview room. Dodds sat back and thought about it for a couple of minutes. He finally gave a small flicker of a smile.

‘So
, did you corroborate this stuff in any other way?’ he asked.

Dale breathed a sigh of relief; even though his story was true, it was good to have Dodds back onside. He hated petty rivalries between partners. He was glad Dodds believed him.

‘Yeah, I went through some of the files. The word
Storm
was sort of mentioned in passing in a few places; nothing concrete. When Sam mentioned the delivery guys, the same dudes that Ryan was talking about, I took a punt. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting his reaction; he was genuinely scared.’

‘Even so,’ said Dodds. ‘The link is tenuous at best and extremely slim at worst. Given your recent history, is it worth going to bat with a few half baked rumours? Apart from anything else, this is the Mancini’s we’re talking about here. These guys are bullet
proof. You’re going to have to be seriously solid in your evidence to try and take them down.’

‘But that’s just it,’ said Dale. ‘I don’t have any evidence yet. I’m just looking for approval to collect the evidence; ap
proval to start an operation.’

‘Well, you know what I think,’ said Dodds evenly. ‘I think you’re mad.’

Dale turned to his computer and started typing. The words flowed out of his head and straight into the report.

Two hours later, Dodds had proof-read the document
, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow at the end; what could he say?

Thirty minutes after that, Dodds watched with a mixture of amusement and pity as Dale
came out of the office of the special agent in charge. While he didn't actually slam the door in frustration, Dodds could see the intent written all over his face.

‘So what did he say?’ asked Dodds, already knowing the answer
.

Dale sat down heavily opposite him.

‘To use his exact words and I quote,
a tissue of half baked rumour and conjecture
. He actually laughed out loud when I mentioned the Mancini's. He literally couldn't stop; I had to wait for five or six minutes to continue.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Dodds.

‘Apparently, the only case to answer in this half baked report is lodged deep in my
paranoid and delusional imagination
, and that I need to take an immediate two-week leave of absence, starting right now.’

Dodds got up and patted him on the shoulder
, as he walked towards the coffee station.

‘Probably not a bad idea, my friend,’ he said. ‘It would do you good to get away from this place for a while.’

Dale watched Dodds retreating back. Maybe the boss was right; maybe he did need to get away for a while. He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out his passport. He’d got it when he’d joined the DEA. His head had been filled with images of drug busts in exotic locations; a heady mix of glamour and danger. But he was lucky he had done it in some ways. Most Americans didn't own a passport. He glanced down at the discredited report in front of him. He made his decision, twirling the Rolodex on his desk to the letter T. He dialled the number and waited three rings.

‘Y
es, good afternoon,’ he said, ‘I’m looking for a flight to Cork in Ireland. What’s that? Oh, sorry, from New York; any of the major NY Airports will do. Yes, I can hold.’

He cradled the receiver and waited. He never did anything spontaneous; maybe it was time to start.

13
th
May 2011 – Three Days after the Storm.

It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection. – Voltaire.

The beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, like stars in a cloudless night sky. He didn't notice the small sprinkles of perspiration on his upper lip, or the way his tongue was stuck out to one side of his mouth, so intense was his concentration.

For years, Max had regarded himself as an
in-between
. He had a sliding scale in his head of what he should be earning; his true net worth. At this precise moment of his life, he was definitely the wrong side of the middle. In other words, he was not happy.

He had done moderately well in his career, but nowhere near as well as he felt his talents deserved. He lived in a
nice
area, not in a private and fashionable new resort, with celebrity neighbours and twenty four hour security. He drove a
nice
car, not a self-indulgent, Connolly leather bound Italian sports car. His kids had gone to a
nice
school, not the best and most exclusive school that money could buy. In other words, in Max’s eyes, his reward was in no way commensurate with his ability.

Then to top it all, one day
, he had come home early from work, to find the impossibly tanned and handsome gardener, completely at odds with the white of the living room couch, and the naked, writhing paleness of his wife.

He didn’t complain; in all honesty
, he had been getting bored with home life. He didn’t contest the divorce, and his wife got half of everything. He didn’t mind that either; he’d hidden the majority of his income from her for years. He never really saw her again after that, and his relationship with his two kids drifted into a resigned acceptance, and then almost boredom. He rarely spoke to them, and when they both hit college age, he only really met them at special occasions. Even then, they only spoke in the stilted code language of related strangers.

Max
had moved to a small apartment downtown, which he rarely graced, apart from sleeping and the occasional takeout. But it was here that his true personality began to take hold. Divorce and hard work combined to create a fertile breeding ground, and he inhaled the toxins gladly; greed and resentment, the twin pillars of corporate America.

He kept it well hidden, especially from his employers. A man with a chip on
his shoulder is dangerous. A man who feels superior to the people he works for is slightly more dangerous. But the man who feels he has something to prove to himself; he is the most dangerous of all, a viper ready to turn and strike.

Max was always looking for the angle. He didn’t see things in black and white; he didn't see things as legal and illegal, he just saw things as opportunities. If he thought he
could get away with it, he would exploit those opportunities to the maximum. In his eyes, that is what made him a danger to his employers. He secretly saw himself as superior. To him, it was all about intellectual power, an area where he had always excelled.

He did not realise how focused and ruthless his employers were. Their street smart intelligence
trumped his Walter Mitty dreams, and although he didn’t know it, he was becoming a liability to himself.

He looked up
, as the entrance to his office darkened. His eyes flicked back to his watch; it was a quarter to nine, another late-night.

‘We’re heading home now, Max,’ said Jerry, one of his post-grad students.

‘Are you coming, or are you going to stay a little longer?’ asked Ben, the other one.

Max waved the two of them away.

‘No, you guys head home,’ he said. ‘I’ve just a couple more things to tidy up and then I’ll be off myself.’

As he heard the outer door to the office bang shut, he was unreasonably reminded of ice cream. Then he realised what the ongoing tickle in his mind had been; his two students were called Jerry and Ben; Ben and Jerry. He smirked and then his stomach gave a little rumble. All this thinking about food was making him hungry. He checked his watch again. He must be nervous; he had already checked it numerous times, it was quarter to nine.

He slid the photocopied page into the front of the folder. He’d tried to make it look as authentic as possible, or as authentic as a Photostat could. The butterflies in his stomach told him he had done the right thing. Keep hold of the real one for insurance. He took the other folder back to the safe in the corner of his office. He closed it firmly and spun the dial. You could never be too careful.

Ten minutes later
, his cab pulled up outside Rudino’s Restaurant. He’d picked Rudino’s purely because of its association with the Mancini's; hiding in plain sight they called it.

He’d thrown the taxi driver fifty dollars; the man had kept up a steady stream of conversation since he’d got into the cab, but Max hadn't understood a word of it. The drivers face brightened and a broad smile cracked his dark African features. Money talks, thought Max with a smile. Everyone understands the language of cash.

The Maitre D nodded towards Max as he walked through the door; Max was a regular customer, well-known and respected in the area. He gestured toward the corner and got a thumbs-up; his normal table was free.

When he got to the booth, he slid sideways into the seat and
immediately busied himself, laying his attaché case beside him, before checking his BlackBerry for text and phone messages.

He was so engrossed in what he was doing
, that it took a polite cough to make him look up. He blinked in surprise; a surprise compounded by the head waiter running across the room toward him, while trying to disguise it from the other diners.

‘Glad to see you are on time,’ said the stranger. ‘If you remember, punctuality is one of the tenets by which I judge character.’

‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Max,’ said the head waiter, a couple of seconds afterwards, and slightly out of breath from his fast glide across the floor. ‘I had quite forgotten that your guest had already arrived.’

‘No problem,’ said Max distractedly, as he waved the waiter away.

‘Do you always stare like that at old acquaintances?’ asked the stranger, interrupting his train of thought.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Max, closing his mouth with a snap. ‘It’s just I was expecting someone....’

He searched for the appropriate word, before the stranger found it for him.

‘
Different, maybe? I’ll take that as a compliment,’ offered the stranger. ‘I like being different. Or have I changed that much?’

Max shrugged. The waiter brought the menus over, which they studied in a slightly stilted and awkward silence.

‘I’ll have the Caesar salad to start,’ said the stranger, ‘followed by the seafood tagliatelle.’

The waiter nodded his understanding.

‘And for Mr Max?’ he asked.

‘I'll have the bruschetta to start,’ said Max, ‘followed by the Italian mixed grill.’

‘Any drinks or wine?’ asked the waiter.

Max flicked a stare at his companion, who declined to comment. Max glanced quickly at the wine list.

‘Give me a large bottle of still and a large bottle of sparkling water. And bring me a chilled bottle of the Pinot Grigio, too,’ he said.

‘An excellent choice, Mr Max,’ said the waiter. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

‘Long time, no see,’ said the stranger, as they watched the retreating back.

‘I only make contact
when it’s something good,’ responded Max.

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the stranger.

‘Have I ever let you down?’ asked Max.

‘I don’t know, have you?’ asked the stranger.

Max leant forward across the dimly lit gloom of the corner booth.

‘I think you are going to like this,’ he said with a smile.

He reached for his attaché case, but was interrupted by the arrival of the first course. They both sat back as the waiter placed their dishes in front of them. Max dribbled some olive oil onto the corner of his plate, and picked up his bruschetta. He dipped and ate methodically, groaning inwardly at the perceived effect the oil would have on his cholesterol. He could hear the crunch and snap, as his companion slowly dispatched the Caesar salad.

‘So, what’s this amazing th
ing that has you twirling your Rolodex to my number after fifteen years?’ asked the stranger, through the last mouthful of salad.

Max laid his plate aside and placed his attaché case in front him on the table. He extricated its sole contents, a black ring binder, which he handed wordlessly across the white tablecloth and
then he sat back and waited. He knew it would take a while. The empty plates were collected and the main course was deposited. Max tucked in with gusto. His companion, using a fork with one hand, eagerly digested both the tagliatelle and the black file. The main course went, with espresso and grappa replacing the empty plates.

Eventually
, the stranger sat back, grabbed the small shot glass of colourless temptation and knocked it back in one go.

‘Where did you get this?’ asked the stranger.

‘From you, obviously,’ answered Max, with a smile.

‘Don’t try to be smart, it doesn't suit you,’ said the stranger.

Max’s own expression hardened.

‘Let me worry about where it came from,’ he said.

‘This is a photo copy,’ stated the stranger. ‘If we do business, it has to be all of the copies.’

‘If I get what I want, you’ll get what you want,’ said Max.

‘Your original source?’ asked the stranger. ‘How can you be sure they don't have a copy?’

‘Who are
they
?’

‘Yeah
, right!’ snorted the stranger. ‘Like you found this idly discarded in the trash.’

‘I am certain of it,’ said Max eventually, ignoring the slight. ‘They came to me because I have particular talents in this area. They trust me implicitly.’

‘Do they?’ asked the stranger. ‘Well I don't. I need hardly remind you what will happen if you cross me.’

‘If I get what I want, then so will you,’ repeated Max emphatically.

The stranger nodded, as if making up their mind about something.

‘Okay, meet me at the normal place,’ said the stranger. ‘If you can remember back that far
, that is.’

Max smiled; he remembered.

‘What time?’ he asked.

‘Midnight,’ said the stranger. ‘And you better have all the copies with you.’

Max watched dispassionately as the stranger got up to leave. He waved away the offered money which was wordlessly withdrawn.

‘You can reimburse me later,’ he said under his breath
, to the fast retreating back.

#

The hotel was exactly as he remembered it. The dingy yellowing foyer, the movie posters on the walls, the battered leather sofas next to the old fashioned payphones; it was like a snapshot from his memory. In fact, the only thing that had changed in the last fifteen years was the man behind the desk. He was slightly uneasy at the unfamiliarity, but he needn’t have worried. He handed over the plain white envelope with the word
MEETING
written in capitals on the front.

The desk clerk slid the envelope around to face him, read the single word and stared up at him for a minute or so.

‘Room six-sixty,’ he said unblinkingly.

The familiar sights, sounds and smells of cheap hotels assaulted his eyes and nostrils
, as he made his way up the rickety stairs. The lifts had never worked, so he was quite out of breath when he made it to the sixth-floor landing. He made a mental note to check out his fitness level. Maybe this time he would last the full year of his gym membership renewal, without letting it lapse.

The light bulb was blown at his end of the corridor, which made it seem gloomy and almost sinister
. He gave himself a couple of minutes to recover his breath, as his eyes became accustomed to the artificial twilight.

As he shuffled past the rooms, counting down the numbers, he could almost visualise what was taking place inside them. The rhythmic banging of a headboard on a flimsy partition wall, the chink of glass on glass, a TV blasting the best of the days sport
ing highlights, the screams and thumps of flying words and objects; all the facets of human behaviour playing out.

At last, he came to the door in question. He knocked once and then tried the handle. The door was open, but unusually there were no lights on. He stepped quickly into the room; cautious but not overly scared. Suddenly
, he heard a click behind him as the lights came on. The room was completely empty.

He whirled around; the only thing his panicked brain could think of was the word
giant,
before a familiar voice spoke to him.