The Storm Protocol (25 page)

At this stage
, they had reached the entrance to the airport.

‘Shit,’ said James quickly.

Roussel could see where he was pointing and laughed. Airport police had stopped and were just about to clamp his car. James ran over and showed them some ID. A heated exchange ensued, which made Roussel laugh even more. It seemed that inter-agency cooperation was the same in any country and in any jurisdiction. The airport cops finally drove off, after trading insults with James.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said
. ‘Fucking jobsworths! Where were we?’

‘Left
Ireland in 1988,’ said Roussel, prompting him.

‘Ah yes,’ responded
James. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ he asked. ‘Do you have anywhere setup to stay while you’re here?’

Roussel shook his head
, as he replied.

‘No, thought I’d leave that to you,’ he said. ‘Or at least
, get a local recommendation,’ he continued hastily, in case the first part was misconstrued; didn’t want the guy thinking he regarded him as a servant.

‘Sure, we’ll get you
fixed-up,’ said James. ‘But no check-in means we can go straight round to the place.’

‘What place?’ asked Roussel
, as they pulled out into the traffic.

‘That’s where it gets interesting,’ said James. ‘We traced Thomas’s mother. She’s dead; died in
1990 I think, I don’t have my notes with me, sorry.’

‘1990
would make sense,’ said Roussel, thinking back to the simple yet tasteful headstone.

‘Yeah, and her name was Mary; same as the name you found, so another loop closed there
, I think.’

James paused to collect his thoughts.

‘We checked out the arrangements after the funeral. He was an only child. She left everything in her will to Thomas, including the house and all the contents.’

‘So
, I'm guessing he never sold it,’ said Roussel.

‘How did you know that?’ asked James quizzically.

‘Well, the gravestone for me indicates guilt; I’m guessing he couldn’t come back for the funeral. Maybe he kept the house, so he could eventually make peace with a few memories.’

‘Very insightful,’ said James
, studying him thoughtfully.

‘Personal experience,’ said Roussel. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ said James.

‘So
, following this through,’ said Roussel, ignoring the comment. ‘If Thomas flees the US to come back home, and he's fairly certain that nobody is looking for him....’

He paused.

‘....or would be able to find him,’ he qualified.

‘Then he would probably stay in a house that he already owned,’ finished James with satisfaction.

‘Which just so happens to correspond to the address we provided?’ ventured Roussel.

‘Exactly,’ said James. ‘Confirms the story even more
, wouldn't you think?’

He slapped his forehead in sudden remembrance.

‘Also,’ he said, ‘I forgot all about it with the arrival of the dickheads, but we checked incoming flights for the last few days. Nothing into Cork, so we widened our search. Bingo, he flew into Dublin on the morning of the thirteenth of May.’

Roussel felt a small swell of satisfaction. He loved it when cases started coming together.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ he asked.

‘Well, by all accounts,’ said James, ‘this man, at the very least witnessed a double murder; may even have perpetrated it. We’ve got to assume he’s pretty dangerous, so we should try and play it a little bit clever.’

‘How so?’ asked Roussel.

‘I was thinking a story about a hit-and-run on the road into the estate; a dealer got hit by a car, hence the drug squad are the ones doing the snooping. Case the neighbour’s each side, see if we can find out anything and then call on the house itself. See how cool a customer he really is.’

‘Do you carry?’ asked Roussel.

‘I'm sorry, what?’ asked James.

‘A piece; do you carry a piece?’

James looked at him with a puzzled expression.

‘A piece of what?’

‘A gun; do you carry a gun?’ asked Roussel in exasperation.

James’s expression cleared and he smiled.

‘Oh, no
,’ he said. ‘Generally, we only carry weapons in restricted situations; very few and far between really. Very isolated incidents, when we know there is a real danger, both to us and the public.’

Roussel raised his eyebrows.

‘Do we not think there’s a fair chance of that here?’

James laughed.

‘You’re in Ireland now; it’s not the Wild West. No offence, but we do things a little differently here. Anyway,’ said James as he glided into a parking spot and pulled up the handbrake. ‘We’re here; too late.’

‘Would you mind?’ Roussel
queried, pointing to his shorts and sandals.

‘Sure,’ said James. ‘Hop in the back there.’

Five minutes later, with Roussel changed into much more suitable Irish summer clothes, James rang the doorbell at number twenty nine. They could hear loud music pumping from the inside. Roussel stood back a bit and glanced up at the house. There were no curtains, just bed sheets, and in some cases, newspaper taped over the windows. He was thinking, definitely a rental property.

Eventually they heard the click and clank of multiple locks and bolts being undone. The door swung open
, and Roussel and James were simultaneously assaulted by the unmistakeable aroma of burning cannabis.

The man in front of them was dressed in black jeans and a black Metallica T-shirt. His greasy greying hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing the skull and cross bones earrings that were glinting in the midday sunlight.

‘What do you want?’ he asked roughly.

‘Drug squad,’ said James. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Roussel could barely contain his amusement. The man had gone from hero to zero in about a second. It looked like he was shitting himself on the spot. His mouth worked for a few moments, but nothing came out.

‘It's not mine I swear,’ he eventually managed to croak.

‘Relax,’ said James. ‘We’re not here for you or your junk. We’re looking for information.’

The man’s face cleared and the relief was palpable.

‘Certainly officer, whatever you want!’ he said enthusiastically.

Roussel heard the sound of multiple toilets flushing in the background, and he could see the man groan slightly.

‘There was a hit-and-run on the main road,’ said James, indicating the way they had come in. ‘A dealer was killed. Did see anything?’

‘What day was this?’ asked the man.

James looked back at Roussel; his mind had gone blank.

‘Sunday
,’ Roussel mouthed silently.

‘Last Sunday,’ said James turning back to the man. ‘
It would be this day last week, in fact.’

‘Sorry mate,’ he said. ‘I was in Dublin all last week visiting friends.’

‘What about next door, would they know anything?’ asked James.

‘Next door,’ said the guy. ‘I think there’s somebody in there now
, but I couldn’t be positive. I’ve seen a guy going in the odd time. If he’s there, he certainly keeps to himself. The old biddy next to him; she can probably tell you the car registration number of the vehicle that hit your man, and what the driver had for breakfast too,’ he said.

‘Thanks for your help,’ said James, extracting his notebook and making a big show of writing down the address. ‘You may be hearing from us again.’

‘Was that a threat, officer?’ asked the man, some of his lost bravado returning.

‘Merely a statement of fact,’ said James.

They both turned on their heel and walked away, collectively flinching as the door slammed behind them. They walked past number thirty, for now anyway.

‘I didn't say it before,’ said James. ‘But leave the talking to me.’

‘I kind of figured that,’ said Roussel, accentuating his southern accent.

James smiled, and rang the doorbell of number thirty one. They heard the sound of at least two chains being put on
, before the door was opened a tiny fraction.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a frail voice.

‘Police, ma’am,’ said James.

‘Let me see some ID,’ she demanded.

All signs of frailty were gone from her voice, as James reached for his pocket. She studied his credentials closely, before handing them back and opening the door wide.

‘What can I do for you, detective Murray?’ she asked.

‘We’re investigating a hit-and-run. A drug user was killed on the road last Sunday.’

She shook her head sadly.

‘I’m sorry, young man. I rarely go out these days, but on Sunday I leave early for morning mass and then round to the parish centre for lunch and bingo; I don’t normally get back till about eight pm.’

‘That’s ok
ay ma’am,’ said James. ‘What about your neighbour; number thirty?’

‘Who, Thomas?’ she said and smiled.

Roussel and James looked at each other.

‘I’m not sure he would
have seen anything. I don’t think he was even here on Sunday. He’s just come back from the US, you know,’ she couldn’t help adding. ‘He lived in this house as a child; I didn’t recognise him. He came over the following morning to apologise; said he had been a little bit short with me. He really has matured into such a delightful young man.’

She thought about it for a second and giggled.

‘Maybe not so young anymore,’ she said, ‘but he’ll always be that naughty lad to me.’

‘Is he likely to be there now?’ asked James.

‘Well, his car’s not there, so I doubt it,’ she said.

‘You’ve been a great help, Mrs umm....’ said James.

‘Walsh,’ she answered automatically. ‘Mrs Maeve Walsh.’

‘Well thanks very much Mrs Walsh, have yourself a good day now,’ said James.

‘You too officer,’ said Mrs Walsh.

They rang the doorbell of number thirty and peered in the window
s, but it seemed Mrs Walsh was right; there was no one at home. They looked at each other; they didn’t need to say anything.

‘Come on, let’s get you somewhere to stay,’ said James. ‘Thomas Eugene O’Neill doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere soon.’

17
th
May 2011 – Seven days after the Storm.

It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.
–
Marcus Aurelius.

I closed the door and leant back against it, my mind racing. I was fairly certain that he hadn't realised I’d spotted him, just as I was completely certain that I was being watched. There could only be one explanation.

It wasn’t these amateurs I’d enc
ountered locally. If it was, I wouldn’t even have made it to the front door; I would already be dead in a messy and wasteful hail of bullets. I knew this new breed of criminal; they weren’t subtle and they weren’t clever.

No, this was different. This was watching, waiting, monitoring maybe. This was careful, calculated and professional. This had to be the Mancini's; I couldn'
t think of any other way the facts could possibly fit together.

I’d known
all along that I wouldn’t escape either their notice or their reach. They knew I was Irish after all, and it wouldn’t have been hard to put two and two together.

Pity;
I’d always thought that I’d have a little more time to play with.

Still,
at least I knew two things. One, this guy was no amateur, and two, I now had the element of surprise. I just had to be careful about when I made my move.

If I considered all the angles, I knew the best policy was to sit tight and wait. I was on home tu
rf; I knew where everything was and I knew the terrain, an advantage in any battle. Let them come, I was ready.

I had to assume, given where he was parked, that he had some kind of surveillance technology. I was fairly certain that he hadn't gained access to the house. Apart from anything else, it was almost impossible to get past Mrs Walsh.

My guess, then, was some kind of listening device. He would at least be able to hear what was going on; any phone calls I’d made, people I’d spoken to within the house. I thought back over the previous two days. I had made no calls, nor had I spoken to anybody, either inside or outside for that matter, other than Mrs Walsh.

I looked down at my hand still holding the bag full of Chinese takeaway. I checked the foil packages for warmth. They didn’t need reheating
, so I slopped them out onto a plate and then sat in front of the television, watching American cop show re-runs. NYPD Blue had always been a favourite, but the locations, the streets, the people made me home sick for a place that wasn’t even my home.

I made a huge show of switching off the television. I then clattered into the kitchen, washed up the plates, put the waste into the bin, and clomped up the stairs, making sure the front door was closed and locked. I turned out the lights as I went, until the house
was in complete darkness. I took off my shoes and socks and then reached under the mattress. I pulled it out silently; it was already fully loaded.

I knew the darkness inside the house was impenetrable, so I had a curtain of black to assist me. I relaxed completely and made my breathing silent. I was wearing cotton, so there was no heavily starched material to rustle. I moved slowly and silently down the stairs and positioned myself behind the door in the front room.

I stood there like a statue. On the face of it, you’d think it would be really boring, standing in one place. But when you are concentrating so hard on breathing silently, focusing every fibre of your body on keeping still, resisting the natural temptation to tense up, then boredom doesn't even come into it. Unfortunately fatigue does. It was tiredness more than anything else that was almost my undoing.

Like a weary driver that has spent too long at the wheel, but refuses to admit it to themselves, my eyelids kept slowly drooping and then my eyes would suddenly snap open. I was forced to readjust my focus each time. This happened two or three times and then, on the fourth, I realised I was no longer alone.

The merest click of the front door gave it away. I strained my senses, and could almost feel a gap in the air opening up. The gun was tucked into the waistband of my jeans, at the small of my back. There was no way I would be able to reach it, without giving myself away. I would have to do this the hard way.

I strained my heightened senses still further. I could smell the faint odour of stale sweat; could hear the tiniest inhale and exhale of air. He was good
, but not as practised as me. I felt the ripples again; the disturbance of air, as he advanced through the doorway. My eyes, now well adjusted to the gloom, made out an angular metallic shape. He was armed.

The fact that he had a gun surprised me
, and I made my second mistake of the last three days. My body tensed from the shock of the discovery, and a single intake of breath became barely audible. It was the only trigger he needed.

He didn't even think; he just reacted. The gun swung around in a wicked glinting curve. I ducked
, as it whistled harmlessly over my head, to hit the solid stone wall with a crash. I grabbed the wrist that held the gun, praying that his finger was trapped inside the trigger guard, and smacked it repeatedly off the exposed stone. He howled once and then I felt grasping fingers, nails long and sharp, as he scratched for my eye sockets. I bit down on the soft tissue between forefinger and thumb, at the same time dragging the heel of my shoe down his left instep, to stamp savagely on his foot.

I smashed his hand against the wall one more time
, and as I pulled it back, the gun flicked out of his grasp to land with a clatter on the coffee table. I reacted milliseconds before him, and dived for where I thought the gun had landed. The coffee table splintered like matchwood, as I fell heavily through the middle of it. He’d guessed my intent from the second I’d launched myself; he jumped after me, but not to go for the gun. He made no attempt to brace himself for landing. His elbows were down, and they hit me square in the kidneys, knocking the breath out of me.

He rolled upright
, as I fought to get my breath. I felt another disturbance in the air, and then sensed the toe of his shoe coming toward me at speed, as I frantically jerked my head out of the way. The foot whistled harmlessly past; I wouldn’t be so lucky again. I turned sideways, and spun my legs towards him as fast as I could propel them, like a gymnast on a pommel horse. I caught him at the end of the rapidly accelerating swing, hitting him just behind and below the knee, sending him flying backwards. He fell awkwardly against a chair, the solid wooden arm catching him square in the back. He cried out and dropped to the floor, as I laboured to bring my breathing back under control.

I scrambled up and grabbed for my gun. It was not
there; it must have slipped out of my waistband, as I’d smashed through the table. Changing tack, I leapt for the main light switch. He used the noise of me traversing the room to disguise a pincer movement. As the light came on, I felt a vicious impact to the kidneys. I whirled around, just in time to awkwardly block the second punch.

I could see he was in pain too. We stood away from each other for a second, inhabiting that safe area where you're not completely invading your opponents personal space. He spoke for the first time.

‘It appears I underestimated you,’ he said, as we circled wearily.

Both sets of eyes
kept flicking toward the two weapons, almost casually discarded amongst the wreckage.

‘Even though I read all about you, I was hypnotised by the words describing what you did. Mob enforcer; I was expecting some unskilled thug.’

I nodded in acknowledgement, refusing to break the stare. I suddenly threw a sidekick which he blocked, following up with a roundhouse kick of his own. We traded techniques, each of us looking to exploit the weaknesses in the other. He was reasonably skilled, but he wasn't as good as me. His stance was too narrow for a fighting stance, leaving him open. I went for the kill.

I feigned a front kick, turning it at the last second into a vicious foot sweep. He’d stepped back to block the kick; too late
, he saw the change in direction, the speed and the trajectory of the sweep literally lifting him off his feet. I winced as he hit the floor. His head had connected with the edge of the hearth.

At first
, I thought I had killed him; that kind of impact would dispatch many a lesser man. I knelt beside him. He was out cold, but he had a pulse; strong and steady. I searched the house. The only thing I could find was a nylon clothes line; not ideal for restraining prisoners, but in this case it would have to do.

I tied him up as securely as the nylon would allow; it wasn’t great
, but it would be good enough, I hoped.

Retrieving both his gun and mine from the devastated floor of the front sitting room, I made sure his gag was secured, and then sat down to wait. I had a feeling it would be a very interesting conversation.

#

Dale looked at t
he tourist clothes that he had carelessly discarded on the floor of his hotel room. He didn't have the greatest taste in the world, but he hoped that within his own wardrobe, he would never stoop to the fashion faux pas of checks and stripes together. He glanced at the recently delivered gleaming silver tray with renewed interest; it was only when he’d got back to his hotel room that he’d realised how hungry he was.

Five minutes later, he’d dispatched a very large club sandwich and a large portion of chips. Amazing how a full stomach could make you feel so much better. He studied the two addresses that Margaret had written down for him. He was mildly anxious that he’d had to use his
private detective story. He was positive that Margaret was the kind of employee who would have noted date, time and name. There was probably even CC TV footage of him. He knew it had been worth it to get the information he wanted, but he couldn't dodge that uneasy feeling. It could come back to haunt him.

A thought occurred to Dale
, as he sipped on a cup of tea; he hadn't checked in with Dodds since he’d arrived. He rang the number from memory and got the number unobtainable tone. He kept forgetting that the international dialling code was different from everywhere other than the USA; the arrogance of America, maybe? He dialled the number again, this time getting the unmistakable US ringtone.

‘Detective Dodds,’ said a voice.

‘Hey Dodds, how’s it going?’ asked Dale, quickly realising that for some inexplicable reason he was whispering.

‘Who is this?’ asked Dodds.

‘Hey Dodds, it’s me, Dale,’ he replied, this time in his normal voice.

‘Hold on a second,’ said Dodds softly.

Dale realised with amusement that Dodds was now the one whispering. He heard a couple of clicks and then the sound of movement and doors opening and closing. The next thing he heard was the flare of a match. Dale smiled; Dodds was in the smoking area. It was then that it occurred to him. During all the activity over the past few days, the times when he had been in serious stress, not once had he even thought about smoking. Go figure.

‘Where are you?’ asked
Dodds, and then quickly added. ‘No, don’t tell me; not yet anyway. I’ll feel impelled to tell the boss otherwise.’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’ asked Dale.

‘Boss got a phone call earlier,’ said Dodds. ‘Apparently you’re stumbling around like an idiot, unwittingly stepping on all sorts of federal toes.’

‘Really?’ asked
Dale, sitting up with interest.

‘Yep, apparently the top floor got a call
directly from the Medusa’s head; that nest of snakes over in Langley. The Boss made it very clear to me that I needed to let him know, the second you made contact.’

‘I got an address,’ said Dale.

‘Good for you,’ said Dodds. ‘But whatever you’re going to do, I would do it quick. I’m on a tightrope here. I’ll give you as long as I can, but I’m going to have to tell the boss in the next twenty four hours.’

‘I un
derstand,’ said Dale. ‘And thanks Dodds; thanks for everything.’

‘Good luck,’ added
Dodds seriously. ‘And Dale; don’t do anything stupid.’

Dale thought abou
t that last statement, as Dodds hung up. Stupid wasn’t the word he’d have used. He’d certainly been impulsive; impetuous even, but not stupid.

Dale dropped his tray outside the door of his room and headed out. He’d been told that it rained all the time in Ireland, but he hadn’t experienced rain once since he’d arrived.

It was a glorious evening; no clouds and actually quite hot too. As he walked, basking in the still warm sunshine, he studied his surroundings with interest. He realised as he walked, that he’d answered the nagging question that had inhabited his head since he’d arrived in Cork. The houses, the streets, the architecture; it was all untidy and old. It wasn’t laid out in neat rows and intersections like the US. It was chaotic and muddled.

He kept walking, occasionally asking directions to his first address. Some people looked at him quizzically, some with an amused indifference. It was only when he neared his destination that he could understand the reactions.

The first address he’d been given, the birthplace of the man he was looking for, had been turned into a shopping mall.