The Storm Protocol (34 page)

‘Hey James, pick me up, drive me across the city and give me a tour of the station.’

It wasn’t exactly standard behaviour.

Before he could think about it anymore, he was rejoined by James.

‘So, what do you want to see first?’ asked James.

‘I don't know, you tell me,’ said Roussel.

‘Ok, let’s start at the top, so.’

They spent the next ten
minutes visiting the boardroom, CID and Drug Squad offices, Uniform Patrol Public office, and all the while, Roussel was sweating buckets, doing his best to portray an air of nonchalance. He thought his torture would never end, when they finally arrived back in reception again.

‘And last but not least, the holding cells,’ said James.

Roussel relaxed slightly; at last, something to do. He was a man of action. As they descended the steps, his anxiety dissolved, as it always did, to be replaced with a steely determination. He kept his hearing half tuned to James, as they continued their descent. He made
I’m listening
noises, as he pulled the phone from his jacket.

He selected the pre-typed text message and hit send.

There was an officer sitting at a desk at the end of the stairwell. Roussel counted four cells in total.

‘This is Sergeant Keane,’ said James. ‘He’s our duty officer.’

‘So, what do you do down here?’ asked Roussel.

‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ said Sergeant Keane. ‘We check on them regularly
; every fifteen minutes or so. We also do suicide watch if we’re told they are especially high risk, or if we believe that they are of a certain disposition. We also process them as they come in, that kind of thing.’

‘And how long would a typical shift be?’ asked Roussel.

‘Generally we would do eight hour shifts,’ said Sergeant Keane.

‘And what type of people would you have in the cells; does it vary by day or time of day?’

‘Oh, all kinds,’ said Keane. ‘Drunks, addicts, students, you name it.’

Roussel could see that James was looking at him a little strangely. He hadn't asked a single question on the whole tour, and now here he was babbling like a gossip girl. The truth was; he was waiting for James’s phone to ring. He was also trying to build up a rapport with the duty officer. It was part of the plan.

As if on cue, James's phone blasted out a drum and base ringtone.

‘Murray,’ he answered briskly.

He listened for a few seconds, his face registering surprise.

‘How did you get this number?’ he asked.

He held up two fingers, and gestured up the stairs; part one of the plan was working. Roussel acknowledged the gesture with a smile.

‘So
, who have you got in at the moment?’ he asked the sergeant, feigning interest, as James took the stairs two at a time.

Sergeant Keane consulted the clipboards that were hanging on hooks behind his desk. As he took them down one by one, Roussel memorised the order. He was hoping
the man had a neat and tidy mind.

Sergeant Keane
studied each one in turn.

‘Drunk; came in last night.’

He discarded the board.

‘Addict; found strung out early morning. Number two is empty
, and number one has a young woman who was attacked in hospital. She was brought here for her own protection.’

He checked his watch and nodded to himself.

‘I’ve got to do a quarter hour check, back in a sec.’

Roussel's heart was hammering in his chest. It was all going to hinge on the timing. He was about to make his move, when he realised that Sergeant Keane was moving to the far end of the cells. By his reckoning, number four. He waited as the officer went through his practiced routine, cell by cell. The sergeant pulled the slide back
on each door and checked the four corners of each cell. The exception was the second to last one; looked like Roussel had been correct on the order. He made his move as the officer completed the last door.

He turned and bumped into Roussel, who had ventured into the cell area.

‘Can I see inside one?’ Roussel asked brightly.

‘Sure,’ said the officer. ‘We’ll take number two
, as it’s empty.’

He jangled the keys
as he turned away; searching for the one he wanted. Roussel realised he only had a second or two. He removed the note from his pocket and eased the hatch open on cell number one, praying it would be noiseless. There was a slight grating sound as it moved a tiny bit, and he held his breath. Throwing caution to the wind, he slid the note through the gap, and closed it as quietly and silently as he could.

He had his hands in his pockets before Sergeant Keane turned back around
. He smiled brightly at the duty officer, who looked like he was about to say something and then seemed to come to a decision to stay silent. He shook his head, as if to disabuse himself of some notion.

‘After you,’ he sai
d, as Roussel entered the empty cell.

Roussel wondered whether the girl would react as required. Only time would tell.

They heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, as they returned to the sergeant’s desk.

‘Well
, that was just plain weird,’ said James.

‘What was?’ asked Roussel.

‘Some guy from the DEA, standing in reception, bold as brass; said he’d got my number from an international task force report.’

‘Sounds like a cock and bull story to me,’ said Roussel.

‘Oh, his credentials were genuine enough,’ said James.

‘What did he have to say?’ asked Roussel.

‘Well that’s just it,’ answered James. ‘He started talking about some rumours they'd heard; something big due to hit the streets. He said he couldn't give me any specifics, but he said Ireland would be one of the first geographies affected.’

‘Sounds a little far-fetched,’ said Roussel.

‘Ordinarily, I would agree,’ said James, surprising him. ‘But in the last month or so, we've been getting some serious vibes from the Street. Dealers and junkies alike have been getting really excited; drooling over the prospect almost.’

‘Really,’ responded
Roussel. ‘So what do you think it is?’

‘Well this fellow..
..’

James squinted at the card in his hand.

‘Foster. He seems to think it is something new. But even a new drug can be a variant of an existing one. Just look at the impact caused by crack cocaine. Either way, we’re not taking it lightly.’

He turned back towards the cells.

‘Thanks Sergeant,’ he shouted, before directing Roussel back up the stairs and into reception.

‘D
o you still need access to the web?’

‘No, I’m going to leave it,’ said Roussel. ‘The tiredness is really beginning to hit me now,’ he said truthfully.

‘Do you want a lift home?’

‘No I think I’ll walk, if that’s ok
ay?’

‘Yeah
, no problem,’ replied James.

He accompanied Roussel through the main doors
and out onto the street. They shook hands.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said James.

He glanced up at the sky, and noticed the fast moving clouds. They were dark, grey and forbidding and they dominated the distant horizon.

‘Looks
like a storm is coming,’ he stated softly.

19
th
May 2011 – Nine days after the Storm.

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. – Buddha.

Guido settled back into the sumptuous brown leather. His fingernails bit deep into the hide of the arms like a death grip, but if you were scared of flying, it was much better to do it in style.

The Learjet had been one of
their more extravagant gifts to themselves, but every time he was thirty thousand feet up, and his body was rigid with tension and terror, he never regretted the purchase.

He opened his eyes and saw Antonio coming towards him with a fresh drink. He smiled at the vision. Of all their staff, Antonio loathed the Learjet the most. Because of his size, he was almost permanently bent double, a huge disadvantage for a manservant, but to his credit
, he never grumbled or complained.

Guido glanced across at Ernesto. As in most things, he was the antithesis of his brother. Ernesto’s face betrayed none of the tension or anxiety that Guido was experiencing. His body was stretched out seren
ely on the tan leather recliner, as he snored softly; oblivious to his companion’s discomfort.

‘Your drink, Mr Mancini,’ said Antonio formally.

‘Thank you, Antonio,’ said Guido, as the ice cubes rattled against the crystal. ‘That will be all. Go and sit yourself down, give your neck a rest.’

Antonio flashed him a smile of gratitude. Guido pulled his chair upright and opened his attaché case. He was flicking through the papers contained within it, when Ernesto yawned and stretched.

‘Have I been out for long?’ he mumbled.

‘About six hours,’ said Guido.

‘Did I miss anything?’ he asked.

‘A couple of bourbons and five hours of sheer terror,’ said Guido drily.

Ernesto laughed.

‘It is the
only
thing you're afraid of,’ he stated apologetically.

‘I suppose everybody has to have a room 101,’ acknowledged Guido.

‘So, what exactly are we doing over here anyway?’ asked Ernesto.

‘I want to check on progress,’ said Guido. ‘I want to make sure
that David and Ben are holding up their end of the bargain. We have invested a lot of our valuable time and finances into this venture, so now we need to reassure ourselves that the investment is being repaid properly.’

Ernesto pursed his lips and nodded
. He was just about to call Antonio, when Guido held up his hand.

‘Drink?’ he inquired
questioningly.

Ernesto inclined his head.

‘Here, have mine,’ said Guido. ‘Poor Antonio is having a rest and I’ve had two already.’

‘Cheers,’ said Ernesto.

They sat in companionable silence, as the sunlight streamed through the small porthole windows of the Learjet’s cabin.

‘I suspect it won't be quite this sunny when we land,’ said Ernesto
.

‘I expect you're right,’ replied
Guido.

There was another longer silence this time. All you could hear was the drone of the engines.

‘One other thing did occur to me,’ said Ernesto, his voice almost shockingly loud in the accumulated silence.

Guido raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

‘Well, we are fairly well known; we’re pretty famous, or should I say infamous,’ he said, thinking about it. ‘How are we going to get into the country, without causing a stir?’

‘Our CIA colleague has been most helpful in that regard,’
answered Guido.

He pulled out two US passports and handed one across.

‘Meet Ernesto Borza,’ he said, ‘an Italian American furniture maker investigating investment opportunities in Ireland.’

‘And who is my travelling companion?’ asked Ernesto.

‘Guido Nutini,’ said Guido. ‘I am your friend and business partner. One of the trips we have arranged is a visit to the local IDA office, and a number of other IDA sponsored events. Of particular interest are the inspections of local businesses made good. Don’t worry, there won’t be a problem.’

‘So
, what’s the story when we land?’ asked Ernesto.

‘We arrive into Cork Airport,’ said Guido. ‘Clear customs and then straight into a waiting Limo that will take us to the P
erryville Guest house.’

‘Only a guest house?’ asked Ernesto.

‘This one is for the more discerning traveller,’ said Guido. ‘You’ll see for yourself. Anyway, the accommodation is in a town called Kinsale. It’s halfway to where we want to go, apparently; all the rich Americans stay there when they’re on holiday. Seeing as we fall into one of those categories, and can easily fake the other, I thought, why not?’

They heard a noise from the cabin, and the next thing, Antonio was at their table.

‘Landing in fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Fasten seatbelts please.’

As he spoke, the light streaming into the cabin was abruptly cut off
, as the dense grey mass enveloped the small aircraft. They could feel the downward motion, as the pilot shed altitude. Both Guido and Ernesto blinked, as the plane suddenly emerged from the cloud cover.

Fourteen minutes later,
Ernesto noted with interest that Guido had failed to register their transition from air to land because he was so petrified. Their pilot was especially skilled; money was a great enabler.

Guido was right though, they sailed through customs. They had one sticky moment on the way out. They initially failed to recognise their new surnames being held up on cards in the arrivals hall.
Once that faux pas had been overcome, they were escorted in silence to the pickup zone, and both jumped thankfully into the back of the black limo.

The journey to the guest house was quiet and uneventful. They both sat back and closed their eyes. In doing so, each was oblivious to the fact that with every mile they travelled, the vista was changing. They were literally going back in time.

Half an hour into the journey, Ernesto opened his eyes. He watched, transfixed, as the pretty whitewashed cottages alternated with the not so pretty derelict ruins. Living history flashed past on either side of the limo. He nudged Guido awake and started pointing out some of the sights.

‘Do you ever wonder where we’d be
, if our father had stayed in Italy?’ asked Ernesto.

‘You know me,’ said Guido. ‘I don’t like looking back. We move forward or we die.’

‘Humour me,’ said Ernesto. ‘Do you think we would be as successful as we are now?’

‘People like you and I will always be successful,’
answered Guido. ‘Cream inevitably rises to the top.’

‘Maybe we should go back to Italy after this trip,’ said Ernesto. ‘Have a little visit.’

‘And maybe we shouldn't,’ said Guido. ‘Papa was never sentimental. Always move forward boys. If a shark stops moving they die. Never stop.’

‘Yeah, good advice when you think about it,’ Ernesto acknowledged, a little sadly.

‘You can torture yourself with thoughts like these,’ said Guido. ‘Just be content that you haven't had to scratch a living from a few meagre acres, waiting for God and the weather to do their worst.’

‘Sometimes I do wish that there were a little more honesty to our endeavours,’ said Ernesto thoughtfully.

‘We worked damn hard to get where we are,’ stated Guido.

‘I'm not disputing our work ethic,’ said Ernesto, ‘but you can still work really hard at something that is amoral and illegal; we are living pr
oof of that. No, sometimes I figure it would have been nice to produce something with sincerity and integrity.’

He pointed to a field where two guys were battling
with both the livestock and the weather.

‘I bet they don't have trouble sleeping at night,’ he said.

Guido looked at him strangely for a second, and decided to let the comment go. It was probably just the strain of being away from home and visiting somewhere new. They rarely travelled; both of them were real home birds.

They
nodded in appreciation, as the limo swept up to the main entrance of their guesthouse. But guesthouse was just a meaningless moniker really. It was a magnificent building, steeped in centuries old grandeur.

‘It’s like an old southern m
ansion,’ said Ernesto and they were both silent for a second, each knowing who the other was thinking about.

Somehow
, Antonio had managed to get ahead of them with all their bags, and had pre-booked them in. He had also fully unpacked each of their suitcases, and personalised each room to that brother’s individual taste. He really was irreplaceable.

As Ernesto changed for dinner, he silently acknowledged Guido's argument. He rarely told him to his face, but his brother was right in most things. It was always better not to look back.

They gave Antonio the night off, with strict instructions to use the Limo for his own ends. He was rarely allowed off duty, but boy, did he know how to enjoy himself when he was. Ernesto chuckled; Alka-Seltzer would probably be required in large quantities in the morning.

The brothers met in the b
ar. Antonio had specified their pre-dinner routine to the staff in the guesthouse, all of whom had been more than accommodating. Along with the two scotches, a chequer board lay open on a long low table between two leather wingbacks; home from home.

They got so lost in their game
, that they didn't notice the figure standing adjacent to their table, watching patiently with a sardonic smile. It was not until the roaring flames of the open wood fire cast a flickering shadow across their game board, that they both looked up in unison; like twins.

The brothers collectively drew in a breath, but Guido recovered first.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Having a little holiday, same as you
, I’d wager,’ said the stranger. ‘Mind if I pull up a chair?’

The stranger didn’t wait for a reply
, but dragged another chair over and watched as Ernesto and Guido continued to play. The stranger said no more; the brother’s games were sacrosanct and the stranger obviously knew enough about them to know that. They would remain mute, until one was victor and one was vanquished. The stranger's mouth creased at the corners again, as Ernesto’s solitary piece was forced into a corner by Guido's three Kings. Only when Ernesto acknowledged defeat, by throwing his remaining counter into Guido’s lap, did the two brothers turn to the interloper.

‘Making sure we got here?’ asked Guido, raising an eyebrow.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said the stranger.

‘You’ll get your money,’ said Guido.

‘Oh, I have no doubt about that,’ said the stranger. ‘But there has been a, how should I say it, complication.’

Ernesto narrowed his eyes warningly.

‘Complication how?’ he growled.

‘Let me put it this way,’ said the stranger. ‘Max was holding out on you.’

Ernesto relaxed.

‘We know that,
you idiot,’ he said with a smile.

‘
It was you who put us onto him, remember?’ added Guido sarcastically. ‘We've already taken measures to limit his efficacy.’

‘So I heard,’ said the stranger. ‘Pity; I liked Max, most of the time. The problem is though; it wasn't just the folder he was holding out on you with.’

This time, it was Guido's turn to narrow his eyes.

‘Go on,’ he demanded
dangerously.

‘Well, between the jigs and
the reels,’ said the stranger. ‘I neglected to furnish you, and therefore Max, with the complete file. There is a key section of the protocol missing.’

‘What do you mean
, missing?’ asked Ernesto.

‘Missing,’ said the stranger in exasperation. ‘Not there, intentionally left out, removed. Now either Max wasn't as good at his job as you thought he was, or he was very good at his job and that's why he was trying to pull a double sting with me. He obviously didn
’t realise that I supplied the file to you guys in the first place. Either way, it puts you in an awkward position. Anything you manufacture without this missing section will be worthless garbage.’

‘How do we know you’re telling the truth?’ asked Guido
.

‘Why would I lie?’ asked the stranger in return. ‘You’ve already made me very rich. I could have disappeared
once the wire transfers complete and you would never have seen me again. However, you guys took me by surprise. To be honest, you were my best bet as clients, but I was fifty-fifty as to whether you would go through with it. I thought I'd have a decent interval to come back to you with the missing section, but I'm grudgingly impressed with how quickly you’ve got things up and running.’

‘So
, it is about money,’ said Ernesto.

‘It's about more money,’ corrected the stranger.
‘Isn’t it always?’