The Storm Protocol (36 page)

‘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 s
ir,’ 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 d
irector 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 tha
t 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 protoco
l 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 tr
y 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.’

20
th
May 201
1–
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.

A
ll 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 air 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 hars
h 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 strai
ned 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.

‘Where the
fuck have you been?’

It was his mother's voice, but it sounded different, slurred. He hadn’t known why then, but he knew now; she’d been drinking heavily. She did a lot of that, especially in later years.

‘Can we do this some other time, I'm tired.’

This time
, it was his father’s deep and gruff voice.

‘No
, we fucking cannot.’

His mother’s reply; there was a crash and a tinkling sound.

‘That was clever.’

His father speaking again.

‘And you'd know all about clever, wouldn’t you? Mr fucking big shot. Well just tell me one thing. Just tell me why her?’

His mother's voice had cracked at the end.

‘Because I love her,’ his father had said simply.

Eoin had heard a scoffing sound.

‘Love! Don’t give me that crap. You don’t know the meaning of the word. The only person you love is that twisted image you have of yourself; the big important man about town.’

Eoin had crawled on his belly as far forward as he could go. If he hadn't seen the shrug, he would have assumed his father had shrugged anyway. It was what he did when he had nothing to say.

‘You sicken me,’ she’d said. ‘What about me? What about our son?’

Eoin had seen her hand come into view
, as she’d flung it in the direction of the stairs.

‘That loveless fruit of a loveless marriage is not my son. He’s your son.’

Eoin had swallowed the cry that he’d wanted to scream. He’d wanted to fly down the stairs to confront the stranger who’d kidnapped his father. He’d wanted to beg, to entreat, to plead. Why was he talking that way?

Even though he could not see her face, Eoin could visualise his mother’s eyebrows narrowing
, as they always did when she was annoyed.

‘You cannot deny him,’ she’d said, dangerously softly.

‘No, I can’t deny him and I never would,’ his father had acknowledged. ‘But I don’t love him, and that’s because of you. I don’t love you and it’s poisoned my feelings toward our son. So I’m leaving both of you; more for your sakes than mine. We’ll all be better off out of this prison we call a family.’

‘You can’t leave me. Without me you’re nothing,’ his mother had shouted. ‘My parent’s money made you,
and with their power and influence, they can break you too.’

S
he’d snarled the last bit like a tiger.

‘Maybe so,’ his father had said resignedly, ‘but I'll take my chances. You can keep the house. I have no need of it. I can’t live like this anymore. I’m going to live with people I truly love.’

Eoin hadn’t picked up on the subtle nuance, but even as sozzled as she was, his mother had leapt on it like that self same tiger.

‘What do you mean
by people?’ she’d asked, dangerously quietly.

He’d seen his father sit down heavily. Eoin could see his face muscles working overtime
, as he’d tried to think of an excuse, a diversion. It was then that he’d looked up; he’d seen Eoin lying on the landing and their eyes had locked. Eoin had seen the pain and suffering and regret in almost equal measure.

‘You have a half brother,’ his father had said.

The fracture of the cosy image that Eoin had built of his world had started from that second, and it was still getting larger.

A discreet knock on the door brought him forward thirty years. Had it been that long? Three quarters of his life looking for vengeance. He’d forgotten how to love and now rage was driving him on. No, that was wrong; it was the revenge itself that drove him no
w. He needed closure, and in his mind, it was the only way he would get it.

He clicked the switch on
the bankers’ lamp that was situated on the desk in front of him, and blinked as the room was instantly enveloped in a soft golden glow.

‘Come
,’ he said softly.

The door opened and Dave Keegan walked in. As he sat at the desk and settled into the chair, Black Swan could see
that he was twitchy. That was never a good sign with Dave. Black Swan rolled the biro between his fingers from the index to the pinkie and back again. Dave watched, mesmerised, as the pen traversed backwards and forwards like a metronome.

‘So?’ asked Black Swan.

Dave kept silent; he knew what was coming. It was always best to let Black Swan get it off his chest.

‘I'm presuming it isn't good,’ said Black Swan. ‘I can read you like a book, Dave. You’re transparent.’

Dave looked up and then wished he hadn't. There was an unmistakable and unspoken question on Black Swan's face.

‘We were unable to neutralise the target,’ Dave mumbled.

Black Swan nodded almost to himself.

‘I saw the papers; we made quite a mess of the house at least. How many did we send? Two?’

Dave swallowed hard.

‘Nine,’ he said.

‘Nine,’ said Black Swan softly.

The pen he’d been twirling between his fingers suddenly snapped.

‘Nine!’ he screamed.

He got up from behind his desk and walked around. He
bent down until his mouth was just inches from Dave's ear. Dave closed his eyes and braced himself for the hairdryer.

‘Nine!’ screamed Black Swan again. ‘You're telling me we sent nine heavily armed men to kill one person and they failed.’

‘He had help,’ said Dave quietly.

‘What do you mean, he had help?’
asked Black Swan. ‘Unless it was a team of navy seals, of course,’ he added sarcastically.

He paused
, as another idea formed.

‘Anyway,
how could he have a team, he doesn't know anybody here; he’s been gone too long,’ he finished.

‘Well he’s certainly found some allies now,’ said Dave. ‘At least according to our eyewitness, he has. And they were not afraid to defend themselves.’

‘So just how many of this goon squad survived?’ asked Black Swan.

‘Just one,’ said Dave.

‘Just one, Christ almighty, how did they kill eight people. How many
friends
are we talking about here?’ asked Black Swan thickly.

He returned to his place
, and sat down heavily.

‘The eyewitness reckons three, maybe four in the house.’

‘All armed?’ asked Black Swan.

‘Seems like it,’ said Dave.

‘Where did he get the guns?’ asked Black Swan, almost to himself.

Dave knew he was out of the woods, blame wise.

‘He must have some contacts here,’ replied Dave. ‘Either that, or he made some contacts after he landed.’

‘We need some more in
telligence and we need it yesterday,’ said Black Swan. ‘We knew he was a mob enforcer, but he must be more connected than we first thought.’

‘Well
, he did work for the Mancini's,’ said Dave.

Black Swan's face hardened.

‘So the mistake appears to be mine,’ he stated remorselessly. ‘I underestimated him; I assumed he was just some low life bar room thug.’

He stopped to compose himself for a few moments.

‘Dave, I want to know everything there is to know about this ghost. I want to know where he lived over there. I want to know how far up in their organisation he was. But most of all, I want to know who his new friends are, and where he's getting his weapons.’

‘That
could be a fairly tall order, boss,’ said Dave. ‘Look how tough it’s been to get any information on him over the past twenty years.’

‘We found him though
, didn’t we?’ said Black Swan. ‘I’m just sorry our original plan didn’t work. But time is on my side. I found him once, I’ll find him again.’

He paused to consider his next sentence.

‘So does this eyewitness have anything more to add do you think?’ asked Black Swan, changing tack.

‘Nothing that he hasn’t already told me,’ said Dave.

‘I want to talk to him,’ said Black Swan. ‘Where is he?’

‘Safe,’
replied Dave.

‘Let's go,’ said Black Swan.

#

They drove in silence, the only sound the thrum of the tyres on the newly resurfaced road. Dave also fancied he could hear the intensity of Black Swan’s thoughts. His employer could be a focused and scary guy.

‘Can I ask you a question, boss?’ Dave ventured into the silence.

Black Swan looked up.

‘Sure.’

‘Who is this guy?’ asked Dave. ‘What is this guy?’

Black Swan said nothing.

Dave carried on blithely, the words tripping over each other
, as he hurried to get them out.

‘One o
f the things I like about you, boss, is that you are so rational,’ said Dave. ‘You consider problems and think things through. When you act, you generally act decisively, after weighing up the pros and the cons. But this....’

Dave searched for the word.

‘....quest. This revenge mission just does not make any sense to me. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s just so out of character for you.’

Black Swan smiled.

‘I don't know how many times I've asked myself that very same question, and told myself those self same facts,’ he said.