The Storm Protocol (35 page)

‘So
, you’re trying to shake us down?’ asked Guido.

‘I would prefer to look at it more as sealing the deal,’ said the stranger.

‘And what it we don’t?’ asked Ernesto.

‘Have you
not been listening to me?’ asked the stranger slowly. ‘Your end product will be even more useless on the street than a mountain of breath mints.’

‘We’ve already put a lot of money into this,’ said Guido
, dangerously softly.

‘And none of that investment will be affected,’ said the stranger hastily. ‘That is why I have come back to you now, so the production process can be modified without any additional expense.’

Guido grunted.

‘So
, how much are we talking?’ he asked.

‘Ten percent of your initial investment and ten percent of anything you make on top of that.’

Ernesto started laughing, but Guido put up his hand.

‘You want ten percent of our company,’ he said slowly and succinctly.

The stranger nodded.

‘Let me
get this crystal clear, just so there’s no ambiguity; you want ten percent of our company,’ Guido repeated.

‘The way I look at it is this,’ said the stranger pleasantly. ‘
I don’t want part of your company, but I do want the monetary equivalent of ten percent in wire transfers, on top of the initial investment. That way, you get ninety percent of something massive, or one hundred percent of nothing.’

They both looked at the stranger for a
very long time.

‘You're playing a
dangerous game,’ said Guido eventually, ‘but you’ve got balls and I like that.’

‘If we say yes, how soon do we get the missing section?’ asked Ernesto.

‘We can shake on it now,’ said the stranger.

He threw a manila envelope onto the chequer board, sending the counters skating across the polished oak
floor like hockey pucks.

Guido looked at the envelope and then flicked his head at the stranger.

‘Leave us,’ he said.

‘As you wish,’ said the stranger. ‘I’ll be in the lounge, waiting to celebrate.’

‘So, what do you think?’ asked Ernesto, after the stranger had sidled out.

‘I think we are bent over the proverbial barrel,’
replied Guido.

Ernesto could hear the flint in his voice.

‘If I pay for something, I don't expect this death by a thousand cuts. If someone wants to make a deal with me, reach a realistic valuation and stick to it. I hate greedy people who come back for more.’

The irony of his statement was completely lost on both brothers.

‘Are there any other alternatives?’ asked Ernesto.

‘There are always alternatives,’ smiled Guido grimly. ‘
We put a hold on the wire transfers until we are positive we have the full confirmed Protocol. The most important thing now is to get the lines up and running. We shake on this now, and worry about the logistics later.’

Both brothers knew what
worry about the logistics later
meant.

‘He doesn’t get his money till we are totally happy.’

‘What if he has a problem with that?’

‘He won’t; he is driven by greed, a very predictable animal. Anyway, who said we were going to tell him?’

They clashed their glasses together and laughed, then stood up and embraced briefly.

The perfect storm inched ever closer.

20
th
May 2011 – Ten days after the Storm.

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is always more important than any one thing. – Abraham Lincoln.

Roussel leant against the wall and watched the tide of humanity pass him by. For some reason, he couldn't stop smiling. It was always the same when he pulled off something extra dangerous or exciting. It made him feel a little bit more alive. When he thought about everything that had happened to him since he’d arrived in Ireland, it was almost like he was starring in his very own action movie. Move over James Bond; the name’s Roussel, Charles Roussel.

He’d been attacked, knocked out, shot at, kidnapped and participated in a fire fight using live rounds. He’d then been blown up by a grenade
, while possibly also shooting and killing multiple assailants; so why did it feel so good?

As soon as he’d exited the building, he’d walked straight into a newsagent and bought himself a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. It was the first time in a long time that he’d purchased his own, rather than bumming them off someone else. H
e lit one up, revelling in the nicotine hit. It was funny, but it was just like he’d told Guilbeau. Occasionally, there was that rare moment when he just wanted a cigarette. He didn’t need it, he certainly didn’t crave it; he just wanted it.

‘I wouldn’t have figured you for a smoker,’ said a voice beside him.

He turned to his right, where Dale was leaning against the wall. It looked like Dale had been affected the same way. They grinned at each other stupidly.

‘Well
, that was exciting,’ said Roussel. ‘Cigarette?’

He held out the
packet.

Dale thought about it for a second.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he answered.

Dale waited for the loud flare as the match ignited
, and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. But it was strange, this cigarette felt different from all the others he’d secretly smoked. Like Roussel, it was something he wanted to do, a reward to himself. It was not something he needed to do; there was a subtle difference.

They stood there, smoking in companionable silence.

‘So what was all that about, do you think?’ asked Dale eventually.

‘That is the funniest thing; I was just about to ask you the same question.’

‘Well, you’ve got to admit, it is very odd. Asking us to virtually break into a police station, and then just slip a note under the cell door of a girl, who may or may not be the one he told us about.’

‘There was nothing offhand
about it,’ said Roussel grimly. ‘And make no mistake; she’s the right one all right.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Dale.

Roussel glared at him.

‘I’m a detective,’ he said. ‘That’s what I do.’

‘Bizarre behaviour anyway,’ said Dale, choosing to ignore the inference.

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ said Roussel thoughtfully.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Dale.

‘Well, she’s not a girlfriend for a start,’ said Roussel.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Dale.

‘Oh
, come on,’ said Roussel. ‘He’s only been in the country a week; less than that in fact. He’s a middle aged mob enforcer, with his best years behind him, hiding from a death squad. She’s a young and completely unconnected prostitute.’

‘So
, what are you thinking?’ asked Dale.

‘The one issue I’m having big problems with,’ said Roussel. ‘
Maybe it's because I’m closer to it, but Scott Mitchell, victim number one in my double homicide, the man that Street freely admits to shooting. He is the fly in the ointment for me. I spent a lot of hours agonising over who he was, and what he was. Not only does he not fit into our puzzle, he’s a piece of a completely different puzzle; out there on his own, where we don’t have any of the other pieces.’

‘So
, how does the girl fit into that?’ asked Dale.

‘According to my man James,’ sai
d Roussel, ‘Black Swan would be about the same age as Street. Now I don't know if you've noticed it or not, but this place feels very parochial to me. I'm convinced there's a link between those two, Black Swan and Street, and what’s more, I think Street is convinced of it too.’

‘Do you think he knows Black Swan?’ Dale asked curiously.

‘I don’t think he does,’ said Roussel. ‘Certainly not in his current guise anyway; I don't get that impression from him.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ said Dale. ‘For a criminal, he is oddly honest.’

‘But back to the girl,’ said Roussel. ‘I don’t think it is all bullshit. I do think there is some genuine concern there for her well-being, but I also think he's using it as an opportunity.’

‘An opportunity for what?’ asked Dale.

‘An opportunity to lure Black Swan out into the open,’ answered Roussel.

He blew out a stream of smoke and regarded his companion closely.

‘Make no mistake,’ he said. ‘We need to be very careful that we don't get side tracked on this one. I don’t think this is your normal drugs based feud. I think this aspect of the case has always been personal.’

‘So extra vigilant,’ said Dale.

‘Extra vigilant,’ echoed Roussel.

Almost in unison, they
threw their butts to the floor and carefully ground them out. They watched the ebb and flow of rush-hour Cork on the busy street, each lost in their own subconscious worlds.

For Roussel, his thoughts
brought him back to the gentle swish of the tree branches, as he stood alone in the small and carefully tended graveyard, pondering what might have been.

For Dale, his thoughts
brought him back to field upon field of tall Midwestern corn. The image was so vivid that he could feel the ears of wheat smacking off his hands, and the sun on one side of his face. It occurred to him that coming away to a different country had made him realise where home actually was. He needed to go and visit with his family very soon.

The sound of a horn jerked them both out their thoughts.

‘Are we getting in ladies, or just standing around?’ asked Street.

#

The two guys bundled into the back. I kept one eye on them and one eye on the wing mirrors, as I carefully manoeuvred the car into the rush-hour traffic. I acknowledged the taxi horn blast with a finger; cheeky bastard.

‘Jesus, you guys were miles away,’ I said. ‘What were you dreaming about?’

‘Nothing,’ said Roussel.

‘Actually, I was wondering if I could get access to the Internet somewhere?’
asked Dale.

‘I thought you were off the grid,’ I said
.

‘I am,’ he answered. ‘But my partner said he’d keep me updated. I haven't heard from him, so I’m thinki
ng there might be something in e-mail.’

‘Okay, but I don't trust information technology,’ I said. ‘I don’t trust anything I can’t control. So we’ll go somewhere generic, virtually untraceable. It’ll give me a little peace of mind.’

I circled back around, and eventually found what I was looking for. We pulled up twenty yards ahead; the only place we could park. I stuffed a coin into the meter; last thing I needed was a parking ticket.

It was a typical Irish Internet cafe. There were a few scrappy and beaten up PC’s
, and an Asian guy behind the counter, selling discount phone-cards to any destination in the world.

There were plenty of PC’s free
. The place was empty, but we clustered around one in the corner to give us a little bit of privacy. Dale sat down; he obviously knew his way around a computer. After a couple of minutes of furious typing, he shook his head.

‘Nothing except a bit of s
pam,’ he said, with a tinge of disappointment.

The word
spam
triggered something deep inside my brain. A vision flashed across my subconscious.

‘Can you get G
-mail on that thing?’ I asked suddenly. ‘Can you pull up the login page?’

‘Sure,’ he said
, as the page slipped into view. ‘What’s the username?’

‘Don’t laugh,’ I said, ‘but it
s
werunthistown
, all one word.’

I could see Dale smiling as he typed it.

‘I would never have guessed that,’ said Roussel.

‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Anyway, I'm sure they’ve changed the password at this stage, but it’s worth a try.’

‘What’s the password?’ asked Dale.

‘Francesco,’ I said.

‘Their father’s name,’ I added, in answer to their unspoken question.

Dale typed it in and hit enter; no dice.

‘Try it again,’ I said. ‘Maybe you typed it wrong the first time.’

D
ale tried it again; no, fuck it.

I put my chin in my hand
, and thought for a couple of minutes. I thought about Francesco Mancini. I’d never met him, but what did I know about him? There was only one thing really.

‘Okay, try this one more time,’ I said. ‘Try
francesco68
, the digits not the words.’

‘I’m in,’ cried
Dale incredulously.

‘The year their father died,’ I said
, by way of explanation. ‘They used to tell me all the time.’

‘So
, what are we looking for?’ asked Dale. ‘There is an awful lot of spam in here.’

I smiled. The word
spam
had triggered the memory; Antonio wrestling with the spam filter on the brother’s laptop.

‘They
only use this for Internet related activities, so don't get your hopes up.’

I directed this to Dale, who was browsing intently through the inbox.

‘None of their business dealings are online. They just use it for shopping.’

Roussel laughed and we all joined in. The idea of two crime bosses buyin
g books on Amazon, and ordering pizza from Domino’s, was actually pretty amusing.

‘Well now,’ said Dale. ‘Here are two very interesting things.’

He double clicked on the first attachment; an invoice for Avgas. He used the mouse to scroll down and highlight the quantity delivered.

‘Do they have a private plane?’ Dale asked.

‘They do,’ I replied. ‘A Learjet, why?’

‘Well it looks like they very recently fuelled it up.
And check out this one; it’s even more interesting,’ he said, double-clicking the second attachment.

I read the top line.

Perryville Guesthouse, Kinsale, County Cork.

‘Dear Mr Nutini,’ read Dale. ‘Please find attached confirmation of your booking of the nineteenth May through to twenty fifth of May 2011. Number of rooms: three, non smoking, occupants names Ernesto Borza, Guido Nutini and Antonio Pizoni. All additional requests acknowledged and actioned as requested. We look forward to welcoming you to Perryville Guesthouse and we hope you enjoy your stay.’

‘I don't know about you, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘but maybe it’s time we took a little bit of a road trip too.’

#

Back at the apartment, we mobilised for the journey. We looked at the coffee table, with a holdall full of guns, and a black dustbin bag stuffed with a few clothes and toiletries.

‘Jesus
, it’s like a scene from reservoir dogs,’ I said.

‘What should I do about James?’ asked Roussel. ‘He is my liaison, and given he is a member of the drug squad, he could be useful.’

I nodded thoughtfully.

‘Give him a ring and tell him you’re off to do a bit of sight-seeing.’

Roussel’s eyebrows crawled up his face.

‘Jesus man,’ I said. ‘
Do I have to do all the thinking around here? Use your imagination. You’re American; Americans like sightseeing, he’ll buy it.’

Roussel pulled out
the card and rang James. The conversation was short.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It didn’t faze him in the slightest.’

‘Told you,’ I stated emphatically. ‘It’s a huge thing, especially down here in the south. All Americans do it, even the ones who only come over for business. They always spend a day or so sightseeing. It’s just the done-thing.’

‘Before we go,’ said
Dale. ‘Seeing as there were no e-mails, I need to check in with my partner; see if there have been any developments.’

Dale sat at the kitchen table and dialled the number. He put it on speaker, but gestured for us to be quiet. There were clicks and pauses as the connection was made and then the unmistakable long ring of an American phone system.

The call was answered on the third ring, one single word.