The Storm Protocol (24 page)

Too late, he saw the intent, but by that stage he had closed the gap between us himself. I finally glanced in the rear view mirror and his eyes held mine. I saw a
flash of fatalism and then fear. His muscles bunched for the leap to safety, but the distance was not quite enough. I had judged it to perfection.

The bang
, when I heard it, was still pretty shocking; it sounded like a melon that had been dropped from a height onto concrete. The impetus of my continued speed, as it built steadily backwards, kept him pinned to the rear of the car.

Even in his badly injured state, the survival instinct took over. He must have had a dozen broken ribs at least
, but he managed to weakly wrestle the weapon fully from his waistband, and extend his arm through the shattered back window. A ghastly smile of bleak resolve twisted his features, his arm trembling almost uncontrollably, as he fought to steady the gun. I closed my eyes and braced myself back into the seat.

The impact jarred my spine to the core. The car following us had been day dreaming; not expecting another vehicle reversing towards it at high speed. I slipped my own into drive again and what remained of the gearbox
, engaged the ripped and shredded tyres.

The gun dropped from his lifeless fingers
, as his body slipped off the trunk of my car. As I shot forward, I saw the impetus of the vehicle behind carry it up and over his prone body, as the energy of the crash continued to diminish. It lifted clumsily into the air, dropped, and then lifted again, to the limit of its suspension travel. I watched with a kind of detached disinterest, as it swerved off to the side, after running him over. His lifeless body lay sprawled and broken, like an abandoned puppet.

I shuddered
, not with horror, but more a grim realisation. I had the feeling that things were only going to get more dangerous. It was a good thing I had put contingency plans into operation. I extracted the shipping notification from the inside pocket of my jacket.

‘It’s about time we evened
up the odds a little bit,’ I said to myself softly.

#

Back at the house that night, I stared at the large DHL box that I had earlier placed on the kitchen table. I was still a little bemused at how easy it had been. It was the largest box that DHL provided for personal air freight. It was pretty large, yes, but it was exceptionally heavy, too. The waybill noted that it contained machined car parts and a selection of nuts and bolts. I had also estimated a value of one thousand dollars for insurance purposes, and had noted that the parcel was
very heavy, caution required.

The guy behind the counter at the DHL collection point at Cork airport had looked at me strangely.

‘What’s all this shit then, mate?’ he’d asked.

‘Parts fo
r cars; I restore big American cars for a hobby,’ I’d said. ‘I collected all this stuff over the last twenty odd years. When I decided to come home, I thought I’d bring all this stuff with me, too. Worth a good bit to collectors and the like; it’s a niche market.’

I’d noticed the stickers on it; it had already gone through the customs X-Ray machines.

‘Oh right,’ he’d said, completely disinterestedly. ‘The customs guys have estimated the duty at sixty five Euro and seventeen cent.’

I’d handed him the cash and smiled at him
, but his interest was already elsewhere; shouting at his mates to turn down the radio, so he didn’t hear the football scores.

I made myself a cup of tea; how glorious it was to be able to taste real hot tea again and real milk too, after what seemed like a lifetime of coffee.

I worked systematically, first removing the packing tape, before stacking the contents on the table. When I had finished, I had a pile of about a hundred small boxes on one side, and a large single box on the other. I always believed you needed to set out your stall properly to do anything well.

I picked up one of the smaller boxes and studied it. Ostensibly
, it was a container of M14 bolts. They even had the photograph and description on the outside of each box. I slit the tape and opened it, extracting what looked like a standard mild steel bolt, finished in
iron
grey. I hefted it in my hands; it was the right weight too. I extracted a nut from the same box, and screwed it half way down the shaft of the bolt; it worked.

I attached my portable vice to the table and inserted the bolt, thread down
, and tightened it into position, so that only the head of the bolt was visible above the jaws. I took two very thin custom made spanners, and placed them over the head of the bolt, facing in opposite directions. I took hold of the spanners, one in each hand, and twisted them with all my strength in opposing directions.

There was a sharp crack
. The top of the bolt split open, as I started to unscrew it like a lid. I removed the spanners and finished the job with my fingers, placing the lid to the side. I removed the bolt from the vice and tapped it into my hand. When I lifted it, a 9mm bullet dropped neatly into my palm.

The bolts had been custom manufactured to my specifications
, to move ammunition freely around the country and across borders. I had never used the method before, so it was pleasing to see that it actually worked.

Placing the gleaming bullet aside, I turned my attention to the larger box. It was filled with an assortment of springs, rods, tubes and an array of oddly shaped brackets.

I extracted the pieces one by one, and laid them in piles. Each was labelled with both a letter and a number, and also labelled with the type of car; Mustang, Charger, Challenger etc.

When the piles were finished
, I made another cup of tea, and then worked quietly and methodically until I was done.

At about midnight
, I sat back and looked at my handiwork. I now had five 9mm automatic pistols, two semi automatic rifles and two fully automatic machine guns. The odds were looking infinitely better already.

I looked at my watch; it had been a long day, but there were still a couple of things I needed to do.

I drove the car to a secluded industrial estate, stopping on the way to buy a plastic petrol container which I filled with petrol.

I parked in a shaded area, devoid of security cameras and lights. I doused the car, a little sadly, in petrol
, and stuffed a soaking rag into the tank, so that it trailed out of the filler point and along the floor. I then dribbled a trail of petrol from the rag about twenty yards behind the car.

Flinging the can away, I lit the trail of petrol, hearing it go up with a whoosh. Even though I was expecting it, the explosion made me duck and jump
, as I walked briskly away.

As the flames crackled
, and what was left of the glass cracked, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialled the pre-saved number.

‘Hello, is that Hertz? It is; oh good, I’m wondering if you can help me? I think someone has stolen my rental car. What do I need to do?’

#

The iPhone made camera noises
, as the button was clicked repeatedly. As Thomas Eugene O’Neill walked up his path and inserted his key into the door, another barrage of clicks could be heard.

The car was parked under a defective streetlight, casting the occupant in deep shadow. He was staying well hidden, as he had on the plane. For him it was a waiting game; not now but very soon, he would make his move.

15
th
May 2011 – Five days after the Storm.

Coincidence, if traced back far enough, becomes inevitable. – Hindu temple inscription.

Roussel had dragged a kitchen chair out onto the veranda of his apartment. Of course, it was labelled an apartment block, but it was really one of those glorified motels; a suite would have been a better way to put it.

Most of his meagre belongings
were packed ceiling high in boxes, some still with Boston shipping labels on them. The suite was supposed to have been temporary accommodation, but that was five years ago. On the plus side, it was cheap, it was close to work, and he didn’t need to worry about getting on with his neighbours; they changed pretty much every week.

He tipped the chair back, his bare feet braced on the top of the balcony railings. He knew he’d have to shift position
, especially if anybody wanted to get to the rooms further down. He also reasonably surmised that no one would need to at three o'clock in the morning.

He swirled the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass, the ice cubes tinkling against the expensive and ornate crystal. The tumbler had belonged to his father, part of a set, one of the only things he had kept from the old house.

He took a sip, and rolled the spirit around on his tongue, in anticipation of the heat and the bite. He shuddered with satisfaction, as it burned its way to his gullet; warmth spreading out in tendrils, like the venom from a viper.

Picking up the bottle, he studied
it closely. A true caricature of a southern man would have been drinking Jack Daniels, Jim Bean, or most probably Southern Comfort. Not this southern man. Powers Gold Label was his poison, a taste he’d acquired courtesy of a late-night mutual support session with Guilbeau. It had been a particularly difficult case, one involving a mutilated child and a deranged father. Off his head on some hallucinogen, the man had believed his infant son possessed by malevolent demons.

As a policeman, he knew for a fact that evil never slept; it was always alive and well in the world, and could be found in the most peaceful and quiet of places.

He poured himself another couple of stiff fingers. He rarely drank, and even less rarely drank heavily. Good job really, as his supply of Powers was beginning to dwindle. He’d bought a case on eBay when the dollar had been favourable against the euro. But now he was down to his last two bottles, so he was using them wisely and judiciously.

He couldn't sleep; his head was buzzing and his brain was alive with different thought patterns, most notably Tony’s cryptic comment.

So what exactly was it that he was looking for? He’d already tried acquiring wealth and success; the dusty boxes from Boston, stacked three high in his tiny suite, were testament to how important that was to him now.

Was it companionship he craved? He didn't think so. He was alone, yes, but he wasn’t lonely; there was a difference. It was a long time since he’d courted a woman, but in fairness it was a long time since he’d wanted to. He didn’t feel ready, and it wasn’t one of those masculine, petrified of commitment scenarios. It was deeper and more fundamental than that.

At the present moment, he was a vagabond, a vagrant if you preferred; a gypsy with no roots. Seeing the old family place had brought it all home to him, but he’d also recognised something else; something equally as important. Not only did he now have a burning desire to belong, but it was a burning desire to belong to this land; this community.

It was said that from tiny acorns
, great oaks would grow. At this stage of his life, he was well past an acorn. He was a seedling, desperate to take root before he withered and died.

He was starting to be recognised on the streets. He was getting nods and smiles from the middle aged
, and even the older ladies. Children laughed and smiled with him. Maybe Tony was wrong. Maybe he had found what he was looking for already, and it had been under his nose all along; a sense of place.

He heard the faint refrain of
hanging on the telephone
, the song by Blondie. He time checked his watch, before taking the phone out of his pocket. Who on earth would be calling at three am. Certainly someone he didn’t know anyway, the ringtone gave it away. He contemplated hanging up, but then thought; fuck it, what the hell?

‘Roussel,’ he barked.

‘The guy you want, Thomas Eugene O'Neill, aka
the Street,
aka
Street,
is currently residing at 30 Grattan Hill, Cork City, Republic of Ireland.’

Roussel almost dropped the phone in astonishment.

‘Who is this?’

‘Let’s just say we both work for similar organisations, and we both have similar reasons for catching him.’

‘Oh come on,’ laughed Roussel. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Hello, hello....’

He tapped the phone in annoyance; the caller had hung up. He dropped the instrument into his lap and glugged back the whiskey. What the hell was going on?

The phone rang again. He snatched it up, and pressed the answer button savagely.

‘Listen, who the hel
l do you think you are?’ he asked forcefully.

‘Easy
, Charlie, easy,’ said a voice.

He had to think about it for a couple of seconds.

‘Captain?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I wanted to leave my phone free
, so I rang you on my wife’s phone.’

He paused.

‘I just got a very interesting call.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Roussel, reciting the information he had been given.

‘This is too weird,’ agreed the Captain.

‘What do you think we should do
, Cap?’ Roussel asked earnestly. ‘What do you really think?’

‘Are you still at the suites?’ asked the c
aptain.

‘Sure am,’ said Roussel.

‘Still got that Powers Gold Label?’

Roussel smiled.

‘Sure have.’

‘I’ll be over in ten.’

Seven minutes later, they were both settled back in chairs on the veranda. The captain took a long slow sip of the amber fluid. He held the glass up to the light to study it closely.

‘That gets better every time I taste it,’ he said.

He paused and puffed up his cheeks, and then blew out his breath with a whoosh.

‘So, you asked me a question,’ he said. ‘Okay, here’s where I am.’

He took another sip.

‘We’ve a double murder. We know the identity of one victim; we also know someone is looking for him
, and that person is in Cork, Ireland. We also know that the identity of the second victim is restricted in some way, and therefore linked to some as yet unnamed Federal Agency. We know who the owner of the house is, and we also know that in all probability, he was there the night of the murders.’

Roussel nodded
, and resumed the recap.

‘Don’t forget the gravestone. The name
Mary O’Neill
must have some significance for him. The date in the past is a mystery, but it does tie him to the property, and she shares the same surname. Wife? Mother? Who knows?’

‘True,’ said the c
aptain. ‘But we also now have more corroborating evidence; cryptic maybe, but corroborating evidence nonetheless. So, we have to assume he is indeed in Ireland. We even have an exact address.’

‘So what should we do
, Captain?’ asked Roussel.

The c
aptain looked him in the eyes for a full minute.

‘You know me
, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’m not an impulsive man. But this federal agency angle is really pissing me off. So, here’s what we do. Get some sleep, pack a few things, and get to the airport at first light. First off, see if you can get any information on passenger movements to Ireland over the last few days. He’ll have used a passport; maybe the only one he has?’

The c
aptain paused.

‘Don’t worry if you find nothing. Catch the first flight you can to Ireland anyway. Contact me when you get there, by which time I should have made contact with a local liaison officer in Cork. If I haven’t made contact, you might have to present yourself at the local
police station and call me from there.’

A thought occurred to the c
aptain.

‘Do you actually have a passport?’ he asked.

Roussel extracted it from the side pocket of his Bermuda shorts.

‘Never thought I’d ever get to use it
, mind,’ he said with a smile.

‘T
hanks for the drink,’ said the captain, knocking the rest of the whiskey back and making to leave.

Before he descended the steps
, he turned to Roussel.

‘Just rememb
er, Charlie. This guy ain’t no girl scout. Be careful over there.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Roussel grimly.

#

The first thing he saw
, as he walked from the skyway to the baggage reclaim, was a sign advertising
Powers Gold Label
. He supposed he should have made the connection; Irish whiskey, you would generally assume, was made in Ireland.

He cursed his decision to check his bag onto the plane. It had caused him nothing but trouble. No amount of ID h
ad persuaded the Department of Homeland Security that buying a ticket to Ireland and leaving immediately was anything other than suspicious. In fact, in some ways, it had annoyed them even more.

Once he had cleared the security area
, there was yet more drama. The plane had sat for two hours on the tarmac at New Orleans, waiting for clearance, and then another hour’s delay at JFK. Still, as a man not used to travelling, it was very odd to think that only the previous morning, he had been drinking whiskey on his landing in Louisiana, pondering the mysteries of home, and here he was now, three thousand miles away; the miracle of modern travel.

He had a moment of brain fade
, as he was clearing the baggage hall. There was a green channel, a red channel and a blue channel. It took his weary mind a second to work out which one he needed. The automatic glass doors opened in front of him, like the star ship enterprise, and he was home free, straight into the main body of the arrivals hall.

As he stopped to adjust the shoulder strap on his holdall, he noticed, like in all airports, people were holding
up signs. They were bits of card really, with names scribbled in black marker. His eye was drawn to one in particular. He read it once and then read it again. It said
Charlie Russell
. No, he thought to himself, it couldn’t be. He looked at the young man holding the sign, bored looking, about the same age as himself. He had brown hair, spiked up in an effort to look younger, maybe? He was early to mid thirties, with pale blue eyes, but it was his world weary expression that gave him away. This guy was a policeman, no doubt about it.

As Roussel approached, the man studied him with interest.

‘Charlie Russell?’ he asked, in what seemed to Roussel to be a very soft and melodic Irish accent.

‘Charles Roussel,’ he answered.

The man's face relaxed and he smiled.

‘Charles, nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘James is my name, James Murray.
Detective
James Murray,’ he added, with the emphasis on detective.

‘So you must be my liaison?’ asked Roussel.

‘Your captain rang through last night,’ said James. ‘He spoke to our station superintendant. Based on the information supplied, and some brief follow-up, your boss was transferred to my boss, Inspector Ryan.’

‘Any particular reason?’ asked Roussel
, as they started walking.

‘We were hoping you could tell us a bit more,’ said James, glancing at Roussel. ‘But the major reason you were referred to us was the drugs connection.’

‘Drugs connection?’ asked Roussel, in genuine surprise.

‘Scott Mitchell,’ said James
, handing him a photo which Roussel recognised. ‘Petty criminal, extortion, protection, and latterly drug dealing.’

Roussel thought about it.

‘So Scott Mitchell is a dealer?’

‘
Was
a dealer,’ corrected James. ‘A very small time petty criminal and dealer. But it’s not necessarily Mitchell we had the major interest in. It is more the man he works for. Or should I say, the guy he ultimately works for.’

Roussel digested that for a couple of seconds.

‘Ok, that’s a potted history of Scott Mitchell,’ he said. ‘So, what can you tell me about the other guy? Thomas O'Neill, the man they call
The Street
.’

‘Yeah
, we checked him out; not much of value on him at all. The only thing we could find out, was that he left Ireland in about 1988 as a legal emigrant to the US; got a visa in one of the lotteries in the eighties. No indication of any police record or illegal activity up to that point. But we did a bit more digging.’