The Storm Protocol (18 page)

‘Hello Max.’

He barely had time to register the blur of movement. He didn't even feel the impact of the cosh on the side of his head, as he slumped to the floor in blissful ignorance.

#

He came around slowly, disoriented at first, but gradually realising that he was lying on his side. He could also feel the cold metallic embrace of the handcuffs that were fastened around his wrists and ankles. As consciousness flooded back, he realised his body was bent backwards around something; a large cube of some kind. There was a chain between the shackles that bound his ankles and his wrists; a chain that maintained the tension in his oddly curved body, making it impossible for him to straighten from the imposed banana shape he was being forced to endure.

As full understanding returned, he realised that as well as contending with the painful bindings, he was in a completely unfamiliar place. It was most likely a warehouse. He could smell the vigorous saltiness of the sea and hear the harsh shrieks of the gulls; probably somewhere on the docks.

‘Max, Max, Max,’ said a familiar voice.

Max swallowed hard.

‘We really don't like our employees stealing from us,’ stated Guido simply.

Max gave an involuntary cough
, as the boot thudded into his lower abdomen. He lay on the floor, retching and gasping as Guido turned to the man beside him; the not so gentle giant, who would always do his masters bidding.

‘Thank you Antonio,’ he said. ‘You have done very well tonight. I think that will be all.’

‘As you wish, Mr Mancini,’ replied Antonio.

He dragged two chairs to the centre of the warehouse
, in front of the prostrate and slowly recovering Max.

Guido and Ernesto sat and watched
, as Antonio’s retreating footsteps echoed loudly off the empty warehouse walls. They regarded Max with rueful interest, but didn't speak again until they heard the double clang, as the warehouse door was opened and then closed again.

Ernesto tapped the attaché case he was holding.

‘These are only the photocopies,’ he said. ‘You were told to bring the originals.’

Max opened his mouth and screamed as hard as he possibly could. The two old men watched him dispassionately and with a slightly bemused amusement. The fear in his eyes was palpable
, as he shrieked and cried until his voice finally cracked; their expressions never wavered.

‘Feel better now?’ asked Guido.

He got up and kicked Max; a light contact compared to the last one, the mental impact not helped by Guido immediately wiping the toe of his Italian loafer on Max’s clothes in distaste.

‘Nobody’s coming,’ he said, as he sat down again. ‘So you need to focus and answer our questions.’

‘As I was saying,’ said Ernesto, continuing the train of the conversation. ‘These are only the photocopies. You were told to bring the originals.’

‘Go
to hell,’ responded Max quietly, without any trace of aggression.

It was a simple statement.

‘It’s such a pity,’ said Guido, addressing Ernesto directly, as though Max was no longer in the building. ‘He was such a good worker; very useful.’

‘Just like any other tool,’ Ernesto replied. ‘They get blunted and broken with use. You either m
end or re-sharpen them or you....’

He left the rest of the sentence blank.

‘Still, a pity all the same,’ said Guido.

The two men got up heavily and walked around behind Max. He could hear their soft footfalls retreating. From his prone position on the floor
, he had to strain his neck to try and see where they were going.

‘Please, I can explain,’ he started to beg.

The tears were coming in floods, the self pity well and truly engaged.

‘Too late, I’m afraid,’ Ernesto shouted back sadly. ‘Once the worm has turned, he can never go back to his original hole. The time to talk is over.’

‘Do you think this is far enough back?’ asked Guido. ‘It’s where Antonio told us to stand.’

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Ernesto.

Max heard a click.

The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. Antonio had wired the hinges of the safe, as well as the dial that controlled entry. The simultaneous detonation of the concentrated high explosive at the three points had blown the door clean off.

As the ringing in their ears diminished, and the smoke and dust cleared, they could see the door, lying a full thirty feet away from the initial source of detonation. They walked back from their place of concealment, a hastily erected shield of steel plate that Antonio had bolted to a couple of concrete filled oil drums.

The scene resembled a grisly and gruesome butchers shop. Max’s torso had taken the full concentrated energy of the explosion. The flying metal square had ripped his chest completel
y out of the middle of his body. It was missing; just not there anymore.

His disconnected legs twitched and danced in a macabre tango
, while the blood poured from the shattered blood vessels like a gruesome fountainhead. They could see the pain etched on his ravaged features, the crushed bones and tattered flesh of his blood soaked rib cage trailing off to nothing.

His heart and lungs had been ripped away, so he could not speak, but the involuntary muscle contractions in his arms made his head and neck jerk like a badly controlled marionette. It seemed to Guido and Ernesto, watching and regarding the spectacle impassively, that this was almost the final insult. No matter whom they were or what they had done, everyone deserved a little bit of dignity in death.

Ernesto removed his personal weapon. It was a small twenty-two calibre pistol; a ladies gun, as Guido often teased him. He fired three shots in quick succession, easing Max on his journey to Hell.

‘Now that is quite remarkable,’ said Guido
, with a hint of wonder. ‘Antonio said the structure of the safe would not be compromised, but I wouldn’t have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes.’

He stepped across the scene with distaste and swivelled his head around; peering into the shadows for the item he wanted. He grunted in satisfaction when he saw it
and removed it quickly, so that he could step back and out of the ghoulish tableau. He flicked open the folder, quickly showing Ernesto the lack of grey smear-marks on the paper, consistent with original printing rather than photocopying.

As they walked away, whistling, they failed to see the bloody smear of bones and flesh in the shadows to the right of the safe door. As they clanged the door open and
then shut behind them, the cardiac rhythm of the still beating heart got slowly weaker. It pumped the remainder of the blood from within the transected torso, into a slowly expanding pool on the floor. Then, the heavily muscled organ seemed to give a sigh and a hiccup, before stalling into rest; almost at the same moment as the second explosion ripped the warehouse apart.

The back draft cremated
the heart instantly to ashes.

14
th
May 2011 – Four days after the Storm.

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. – Budda.

I stretched and yawned. I hadn't bothered to set the alarm; I knew that I couldn't function without sleep, so I’d deliberately let my body recharge itself. Now I felt ready to face anything.

Even thoug
h she had been dead a long time, even though her room had been completely redecorated with new carpets, curtains and furniture, I couldn't bring myself to sleep in it. I could actually sense her presence there, a very unsettling, but strangely reassuring feeling.

I looked at my current surroundings and smiled. It was the only room in the house that I hadn't had redecorated. It was a little bit freaky really; exactly as I had left it all those years ago.

I had been a great fan of red; the holy trinity in Cork when it came to sport were Munster rugby club, Cork GAA and Manchester United football club. It was amusing as an adult to rediscover how diligently I had decorated my bedroom. Then I noticed at the bottom of one of the posters scribbled in permanent marker;
Thomas loves Kathleen
. Not all the memories were light-hearted. I threw aside the Manchester United bed sheets and headed into the bathroom.

A shower and a shave later, I was sitting at the kitchen table. The management company had done what I had asked
them to do. There was milk, bread, tea, coffee and marmalade, oh, and butter of course; the real stuff, not the fake polyunsaturated crap that you got in America.

As I crunched into the second slice of toast, I started making notes on a small A5 writing pad. I
had always been a prolific note taker at school, and for the line of work I was in, it was essential that mistakes were not made. I was rarely specific though. It was surprising what could be written down, without giving anyone else a clue what it alluded to, while making sure it contained enough direction to prompt you back into the right train of thought.

I was always orderly and neat. There could be no loose ends in my line of work, as the Mancini’s were finding to their cost.

I looked down at the creased and dirty rags that now adorned my body. Thousand dollar suits, especially ruined ones, were not the normal uniform of choice, where I would be going. The first item on the list would be a visit to a clothing store.

I stood my phone on its end
, and flipped it from top, to side, to bottom, to side, as I was thinking. I also really needed to get a positive identification on my lead. The second item on the list would have to be finding somewhere to print the photographs.

I thought about the birth certificate. I really needed to verify whether that was genuine or fake. The third item on the list would therefore have to be
getting access to the register of births, marriages and deaths. At least it would tell me for certain if my hunch was correct; whether it really was a fake or not.

I thought again about the photographs I needed to print
, and the reason I needed to print them. The last item on the list would have to be finding someone who recognised my mystery man. I really needed to generate a name.

As it transpired, I had the first two ticked off by mid-afternoon. I hadn't been clothes s
hopping in years; all my suits were bespoke personal designs, which were then tailor-made. I found it strangely therapeutic, strolling through clothes shops and finding bargains on the clearance rails.

As I exited the final shop, my arms weighed down with bags, I caught sight of myself in the plate glass window and stopped. I was unrecognisable, even to myself. I was glad in a way; it would make it much harder for my adversaries to track me down. I was glad too at how easy it had been to slip back into my Irish persona. But I was also a little sad. The person that I’d been in America, even though it had been a shallow masquerade
, carefully constructed over a period of twenty years, was gone forever.

The second item on my list had been easier still. I’d slipped the memory card out of my phone and taken it to the local supermarket. They had a machine for printing photographs; I even managed to get the large size prints.

The third item gave me pause for consideration. There were a number of uncertainties in my mind. I was inclined to just walk in and ask for a copy of the certificate. I had my passport with me, which contained my full name; the name that had been used on the potentially fake document. I had imprinted the date of birth and the hospital; committed them to memory on that fateful stormy night, before the sodden paper had dissolved into a mush of pulp in my hands. It was these three pieces of information that I would need.

However, there were two nagging fears in the back of my mind.

The first was that whoever had faked the certificate had access to the original official blank documents. Granted, they may have been forgeries, but with my experience of criminality, it was generally easier to bribe than to forge. My other worry was that whoever had faked the certificate had gone to great lengths. It was part of a hugely elaborate sting, not a schoolboy prank.

So I was torn; torn between the need to know, while also being wary of giving myself away. In the end, bravery won the day; I reasoned it might get me noticed by whoever ha
d set up the whole complex operation, but I badly needed a lead and could take care of myself.

As I walked towards the office in Adelaide Street, I marvelled again at my new persona. I was about as far removed from my old
self as it was possible to get.

I entered the office and took my ticket in line
, and marvelled again at the beautiful idiosyncrasies within the Irish public service.

It took over an hour of fruitless waiting for my name, or rather my number to be called. I was not nervous; I was more interested to see what their reaction wou
ld be. They could find no record of the birth, even though they were thorough in their search, and if I was looking for the remotest sign of interest in me, I was sorely disappointed.

Even when they could find no entries, they didn't even raise an eyebrow at my spur of the moment excuse for confusing my child’s birthplace; that I must have got muddled.
I told them that we’d moved around as a family between Dublin and Cork, and that half the kids had been born in the capital. They seemed to accept this explanation without question.

As I walked out of the office, I felt vaguely disappointed. I was no further along in my quest, and then I thought, hold on a second, maybe I am. I knew for certain that the certificate was a forgery, which meant that I also knew that it wasn't the Man
cini's who had set me up. They wouldn’t bother to send two people to kill me, when one would adequately do the job.

If that was the case, then I had other adversaries.

This came as quite a shock to me. Don't get me wrong, when you're on the wrong side of the law, you tend to make a lot of enemies, but for me, they were generally on behalf of someone else.

A lot of people had cursed and sworn vengeance as I
’d
educated
them. Strangely enough though, it was never directed against me personally; always my employers. It was a puzzle and no mistake, and it made identifying my mystery man even more critical. He would definitely lead me to the heart of the spider’s web.

I walked home to let the fresh air clear my head. I had eliminated three out of my four tasks for the day. That was ordinarily a good return from my to-do list. But I was
going for one hundred percent.

One of the items I bought on my way home was a Street map. Even though I had lived my entire juvenile life in Cork city, I was
now like a stranger; a tourist. Fragments were coming back, but that was all they were; small dimly remembered shards.

As
I sipped the cup of tea at my table at home, I pondered my last task. I was fairly certain that my mystery man was from Cork, and on the wrong side of the law. I needed to start thinking like a policeman. If I was looking for criminality, or a specific criminal, where would I start? How would I break-in to that circle, especially in an unfamiliar city? I applied that logic to my own background, and then it hit me; the world's oldest profession.

Vice, prostitution, call it what you like, but there was a red light district in every major city in the world. Wherever there was a red light district, there was criminal activity. Wherever there was criminal activity, there were criminals. And wherever there were criminals, there were specific individuals who could be persuaded to part with information. My only problem; I had no idea where the C
ork City red light district was.

Again, using my newfound detective mentality, I pulled up a web search on my phone. I typed in
Cork red light district
and hit enter. The first link that came up, gave me an address; it couldn't be that simple, could it? I went back to my map and cross referenced the links on the web to actual streets. Pretty soon, I had an area staked out. I had a good sense of direction. Even with my sketchily returning street memory, I would easily be able to find this place in the dark.

I walked up the stairs to bed and set my alarm for one am; I would need all my wits about me. If I was tired
, I would be unprepared; after five hours sleep, I would be able to do almost anything.

#

I wandered down the street, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. Don't get me wrong, I knew from that very first day that my chosen profession was criminal. I was not floating on some flowery cloud of self-deception. My first assignment had been protection; not as in protection racket, but protection of the merchandise.

I never saw it that way. I never saw the girls as merchandise; as objects. I always saw them as people. Observing the way the other guys, the other protectors, behaved, with their brutality and forcef
ulness, I always thought of my mum. I remembered the lecture she constantly gave me on the proper treatment of girls and ladies, so I always treated the girls with the utmost respect. They, in turn, respected me and in fact, it came to the point where I wasn’t protecting an item or an object; I was protecting a friend and a colleague. It was a method of protection that got results. I started to get noticed.

I didn’t judge what they did, and they didn’t judge what I did, but by god
, if anyone messed with one of my girls, there was hell to pay. It was where I leaned what I later termed,
detached ferocity
; my emotions were never linked to my actions. I had already separated them and bundled them into violence.

If I thought dispassionately that someone deserved a beating, then that is exactly what they
would get. Word spread quickly about this strange, quirky Irish guy who didn’t take any shit, but who behaved like a gentleman. Pretty soon, girls from other districts and other territories moved over to my patch. The results brought me to prominence, but I never forgot that first lesson. No matter how deep you are in the quagmire of criminality, you have to have some standards. There has to be a line you do not cross, and if you treat people with respect, you can do anything.

I chuckled to myself. The accents were different and so were the fashions, but other than that
, the environment just seemed so familiar. I stood on a corner and waited for the inevitable approach. Less than a minute later, a girl teetered over to me on almost impossibly high heels.

‘Are you looking for some company, love?’ she asked, fluttering her false eyelashes in my direction.

‘No, but I am looking for him,’ I said, showing her the picture, which I had carefully cropped to exclude the excesses of his death.

‘Took a bit of a beating, did he?’ she asked.

‘You could say that,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face.

‘What is he, your brother or something?’

‘My cousin,’ I lied.

‘Sorry l
ove, never seen him before in my life.’

I watched her face carefully as she answered me. She was telling the truth.

‘Sure I can't tempt you?’ she asked slyly. ‘You’re very cute.’

I smiled.

‘No I’m not, but thanks all the same.’

Moving further down the street, I
couldn’t help noticing how the girls began to look classier; better dressed or groomed, maybe? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was in the shadow of Connolly Hall, and it made me smile to think that a bastion of the working man was utilised during the night by working girls.

I struck out six or seven more times and was just about to move to my next identified location, when I was approached again. I noticed the slightly lower heels, the style and cut of her clothes, even the way she talk
ed; this girl had much more....

I struggled to find the right word for a minute
, and then one popped into my head;
decorum
.

T
hat was definitely the right word; decorum.

She had more charm and poise than the other girls I’d encountered that night.