The Storm Protocol (48 page)

She clashed her beer bottle with his.

‘So whether you like it or not, David, we are two of a kind.’

They finished the rest of the meal in a companionable silence. When David got up to clear the plates away, Sam got up to help him. As she loaded the dishwasher and cleared away the condiments, he was frozen briefly in amazement and wonder at the sheer domesticity of the evening; it was a very surreal feeling.

He walked on through into the lounge and sat on the sofa in his favourite spot; the corner. As he picked up the paper, she ventured in.

‘Do you mind if I turn the TV on?’ she asked.

‘Knock
yourself out,’ he said, not unkindly.

As he shook the paper open, the TV blared
, and he felt the pressure on the sofa as she sat next to him. It was an odd, almost alien sensation. She swung her legs up onto the couch and leaned back against him; snuggling in. He spent the next hour trying to concentrate on the content of the evening paper and trying not to move, while the TV blasted the latest soaps. Ordinarily, it would send him into a rage if he didn't get precisely what he wanted. He couldn't understand why it hadn't, which was even more confusing.

Eventually, his body could take no more of it. His muscles started cramping, he was dog tired anyway. He tapped her gently on the arm, causing her to jump. She was engrossed in whatever rubbish was playing on the large plasma screen.

‘I’m absolutely bushed,’ he said. ‘I’m going to call it a night, if that’s okay?’

She moved away slightly to allow him up. He smiled as she slid completely into the corner; his place. He couldn't understand it, but his heart was hammering in his chest as he moved out into the hall; like he was scared or nervous. Either that or he was having a heart attack.

He walked down the corridor to the master bedroom. The first thing he did was to open the double doors to let in the sound of the sea. He had done it every night that he was in this house, for as long as he could remember. He then moved into his en-suite to shave and brush his teeth.

When he came out again, Sam was sitting on the bed. She had removed the jeans and unbuttoned the shirt. He could see glimpses of flesh where it sagged open. He found it very erotic. He sat on the bed next to her, wearing only his boxer shorts, but made no move towards her.

‘You don't have to, you know,’ he mumbled under his breath.

She reached out her hand and gently lifted his chin, turning his head to make him look at her.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘I’m not very good with girls,’ he said, feeling his cheeks flush. ‘I never really was. I just can’t relax.’

‘Don't worry about that,’ she said, leaning behind her and flicking the switch. The lights went out, and all he could hear was the lapping of the waves and the soft inhale and exhale of her breathing, as he sensed her face approaching his.

‘That’s my speciality,’ she whispered.

#

Much later, he found himself sitting on the shore. As his fingers trailed through the damp sand, he felt strange; like the world had shifted on its axis. His world certainly had. He couldn't help smiling. He looked back towards the bedroom. He couldn't see her in the dark
, but he knew she was there. Did good things happen to bad people? It looked like he was living proof of that.

He pulled out his phone and dialled the number. It rang so many times it went to number unobtainable. He had to hit the redial button two or three times before it was picked up.

‘Hello,’ said a voice sleepily. ‘Who is this?’

‘Who the fuck do you think it is?’ asked David, smiling broadly. ‘Who else is going to be ringing you at three forty five in the morning?’

‘Jesus boss, come on, have a heart.’

‘Wha
t else would you be doing?’ asked David.

‘Sleeping,’ Ben ventured.

‘It’s completely overrated,’ said David. ‘Anyway, just wanted to touch base with you; make sure everything is lined up for tomorrow.’

‘And you rang me at three forty five in the morning to ask me that?’ s
tated Ben stiffly.

‘Careful,’ responded David.

‘Sorry boss,’ replied Ben in a more conciliatory voice. ‘Yes, I spoke to Antonio yesterday evening. The brothers will be here at five pm with all the necessary paperwork. I've drawn up contracts which their lawyers and ours have mutually agreed upon. Once we have the remainder of the protocol, there should be nothing more to stop us.’

‘Excellent,’ said David brightly.

‘Is everything okay boss?’ asked Ben hesitantly. ‘You don't seem yourself?’

David pondered that question. Ben was right; he wasn't himself, he was better than himself. He felt faster, stronger, more alert and more intelligent; he felt invincible.

‘Never better,’ he added. ‘See you tomorrow.’

He hung up
on Ben and turned back to the sea. He could feel it ebbing and flowing; could hear the small breakers rolling onto the sand at his feet with a crump.

He picked up some large flat stones and started skimming them out across the waves. He could hear them flicking across the surface.

His smile got broader.

22
nd
May 2011 – Twelve days after the Storm.

It is a most mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done, compared to what he might have done. – Samuel Johnson.

There were a lot of advantages to a normal job, he knew that. You got to sit at the same desk with the same chair and the same nine to five habit. He’d gotten used to it, the dulling of his senses by the humdrum of boring routine, but at the same time, there was nothing that could come close to the thrill of fieldwork.

He’d been surprised when the recruiter had approached him all those y
ears ago, but with the benefit of hindsight, he couldn't now see why. He’d been studying politics and modern history at Yale, and was on target to be in the top ten for his year. In addition to his cerebral skills, he’d been incredibly athletic. A competition swimmer when he was younger, he could swim the hundred metre freestyle in under a minute.

In college, he’d switched his allegiance to
marathon and was a regular competitor. Of course, the other thing he’d had in spades, and probably the one thing that had singled him out to the recruiter above all others, was his burning ambition to succeed.

So, on the face of it, looking back, he was a no br
ainer. He’d possessed the holy trinity; brains, physical fitness and an all consuming intensity of purpose.

He smiled; he s
till did, too.

Until the recruiter had spoken the word, he would never have considered it as a profession, but when he
’d heard those three letters in that particular order, C – I – A, it had resonated through his being, conjuring up a whole vista of intrigue and opportunity.

There'd been a romantic element to it as well, if he was
honest. It was every boy's fantasy to be a spy, to live like James Bond. The reality hadn't quite matched the dream, but sometimes it came fairly close.

So it was pretty much the perfect job, and at first that had been enough. But as he’d got older, the finer things in life
had started to matter, and the money he earned became a very big issue. The more programs he became involved in, the more he realised that governments and countries essentially existed on varying combinations of greedy politicians and political kickbacks. These uneasy alliances were propped up by enormous and complicated systems of bribery and corruption.

Fraud on the scale he saw did not come cheap. He watched massive sums of money change hands, and then collected his paltry pay c
heque at the end of each month.

Storm had been a big eye-opener for him.

Coincidentally, a few months earlier, he’d been alone in his modest apartment, daydreaming of ways to make money.

Imagine creating the perfect drug
....

This had been one of the scenarios he’d played around with in his head. He’d thought of everything; manufacturing, distribution, potential ways to keep it hidden, and then, when he first saw Storm leap out at him from that file, it had all come flooding back.

It was as though someone had smacked him across the face with the back of their hand, and the ideas and the schemes had literally slammed back into his brain.

There were downsides to his plan of course. He’d have to swap his real-life for an alternate reality. Physically
, it would be no problem. He'd spent a lifetime staying hidden; a twilight warrior operating only from the shadows. No, it was the logical changes that had the potential to be tough. He would have to sever all contact with family and friends. Wham; he would be gone, never again able to see or contact them again.

He smiled broadly to himse
lf. Some men would see it as a god-given miracle of opportunity. To cast off their humdrum lives and become someone else. The ultimate Walter Mitty fantasy and of course the money would help; it was nothing without the money.

The thought of the end-game payout
focused him back to the job in hand. He hadn't been paid yet, so he needed to stop daydreaming.

He sat
alone on a dry stone wall. It transected a grass hillock, and was set high up across the road from the industrial estate. He raised his infrared binoculars and scanned the perimeter. He had been very impressed with the way the construction and fit out of the facility had been approached. From the assembly and build of the production lines, to the security, to the sheer speed of fabrication, the whole thing was very impressive; the Mancini’s had selected their local partner well.

He’d done a bit of digging into David McCabe and had initially been very sceptical. David had seemed at face value to be your typical drug dealing hothead. The first hint of deviation from the norm had been Ben Collins.
The Harvard Alumni ran the McCabe Empire on solid management foundations.

The other thing to impress him about the young David had been his decision making. There was no procrastination, he always weighed up the options quickly and then, bang, decision made. He was also prepared to put his own money where his mouth was; always an admirable quality.

He placed the binoculars next to him on the wall and extracted his phone. He’d picked this spot to make the call because it had cell phone coverage, but there were very few towers around compared to an urban landscape. It would make it much more difficult for them to pinpoint his exact position. He knew they would locate him, he had no doubt of it, but his remoteness held another advantage. He would merely crush the device and buy another, and be gone like a ghost before the search teams could even mobilise.

He sat for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply. He knew he would have limited time and wanted to enjoy every second of it. He rehearsed what he was going to say in his head, over and over again
, until he was satisfied, and then dialled the digits from memory. It was not the kind of contact number that you wrote down.

As he listened to the clicks and onward connections, he smiled grimly.
He knew the call would be routing through at least one listening station, Cheltenham in the UK. When it got to the US, all calls, regardless of carrier, were passed to the NSA for screening and correlation. They say an eavesdropper never hears good things about themselves or others. He hoped any audio interloper would enjoy this particular conversation.

He felt a momentary flash of panic as he heard the familiar barked response.

‘Nicholson!’

He quickly recovered his composure.

‘Hello Winston,’ he said.

He heard the sharp intake of breath. He'd expected no less, smiling happily to himself.

‘You....’ stuttered the director. ‘You’ve a nerve ringing me.’

‘I like to think that's why you employed me in the first place,’ he said, ‘because of my nerve.’

‘We will trace you,’ said the director, matter of factly.

He nodded.

‘I know you will,’ he said, ‘but it’s not like you don't know where I am. Being able to trace this phone will give you no material advantage what so ever.’

‘How
can you be so sure?’ asked the director.

The stranger looked around at the miles of rolling deserted fields and hills.

‘Let’s just say I have an instinct for these things,’ he said.

‘So what do I owe the ple
asure of this call?’ asked the director. ‘You haven’t just called to gloat have you? I didn't think you were that pathetic?’

‘You know me. I just can’t help myself sometimes.’

‘So that’s genuinely why are you ringing?’ asked the director soberly. ‘You may be a shallow arsehole, but you’d normally have a more serious purpose for your communication than mere gloating.’

‘If you want the honest truth, I’m giving you an opportunity,’ he said.

‘An opportunity for what?’ asked the director.

‘To ask questions,’ said the s
tranger.

‘Like what?’ asked the
director.

The stranger got a little tetchy for the first time.

‘I don't know,’ he snapped. ‘You’re the director of the CIA. I’m sure you can think of something intelligent to ask.’

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

‘I know it shows a singular lack of imagination,’ said the director. ‘But I’ve been through this conversation over and over again in my head, and the only thing I can come up with is
why
?’

‘Not a lack of imagination at all. In fact a very good question,’ said the stranger, his lips creasing at the corners.

He’d hit a nerve with that one.

‘There’s a number of reasons really, the most important one being that I could.’

The director snorted with derision.

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Okay,’ said the stranger. ‘Try this one. I had a product, I had an idea to exploit that product, I had the means to get access to that product, and I had the opportunity. The rest, as they say, is history.’

‘Bullshit,’ stated the d
irector forcefully. ‘Give me a proper reason. All you’ve given me is a fucking mission statement.’

‘Okay,’ said the s
tranger, losing his temper. ‘If you want a reason, I'll give you a reason. I was sick of watching everybody else benefit. I was sick of seeing all of that money change hands; all of that corruption and all of that illegality, and nobody seeming to care. Then worst of all, after seeing all those grubby little deals being done behind the scenes, to have to take that insult of a paycheque at the end of every month.’

The d
irector scoffed.

‘So, you’re trying to occupy the moral high ground.’

‘I think I can safely say I’m on higher ground than you at the moment,’ said the stranger. ‘You’re the director of the CIA, for fuck’s sake. Double dealing, country destabilisation, overthrowing one despotic dictator for another; who are you to lecture me on morality?’

‘Well, seeing as we’re on the
subject of morality,’ said the director. ‘How exactly do you square away the efficacy of this drug with your plans for it? If this gets onto the open market, there could literally be thousands of deaths. You know what it does? You know exactly what outcome number two is. Do you want that on your conscience?’

‘P
eople die every day,’ responded the stranger. ‘Some of them are drug addicts. Nobody is forcing them to take this stuff; my conscience is clear.’

‘So you’re fully aware of what this drug can do and yet you’re completely prepared to sell it to the highest bidder?’

‘Absolutely,’ said the stranger, ‘and let's be very clear about this. Your argument has absolutely nothing to do with morality and everything to do with the fact that Storm was a project sanctioned by you; a fact that is spelt out in all four protocol folders. If this gets out, your career is sinking faster than the Titanic.’

‘There is that as
pect of it, granted,’ said the director. ‘But I’m not a monster either and I don’t want all those deaths on my conscience.’

‘And that's the difference
between you and me,’ acknowledged the stranger. ‘I have no qualms about having your resignation or sacking on my conscience. In fact, if I'm honest, it's a little bit of a fringe benefit for me.’

‘You bastard,’ s
aid Winston with feeling.

‘Tha
t’s better,’ replied the stranger. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘We will find you,’ said the d
irector again.

‘Oh, I d
on't think you will,’ said the stranger. ‘I think you trained me far too well for that.’

The stranger looked at his watch. It was coming up on the time where the triangulation would be complete and his position would be compromised. He enjoyed this bit; the thrill of pushing the envelope just
that little bit further.

‘So I gu
ess this is goodbye,’ continued the stranger.

‘I guess it is,’ said the d
irector ironically. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry about that.’

‘I wish I could be there to witne
ss your humiliation,’ said the stranger. ‘I’ll just have to content myself with the mental images.’

He had exceptional hearing, so he heard the sound of a door opening in the background.

‘We’ve got him,’ someone whispered.

He looked at his watch and nodded to himself; bang on time.

‘Goodbye Winston,’ he said. ‘See you in hell maybe?’

He hung up and powered off the phone, took off the back
cover and extracted the battery. He threw it as far away as he possibly could. Once that was taken care of, he removed the SIM card and placed it on a flat rock; one that sat proud of the dry stone wall he was leaning against. He picked up another bigger rock and ground the SIM into dust. He then placed the phone on the same anvil rock and smashed it into tiny pieces.

He slipped the infrared binoculars into his backpack and set off across the hills. He’d bought a portable GPS unit when he’d landed in Ireland and he would quite literally have been lost without it. Even as it was, with the sun setting behind him and the footing uneven and treacherous in places, he had to be careful on the two mile hike back to his car.