The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2) Page 3

  Sign was quiet for a moment. “We’ll take the case. All expenses payed for. We’ll take one of your planes from Brize Norton to the Falklands. We’ll be in civilian attire but I know how it works on that military route. For the sake of anyone asking, I will hold the rank of general; due to his age Mr. Knutsen will hold the rank of colonel. We are special investigators and are not to be obstructed by anyone in the British military. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Sign checked his watch. “Time is against us today. But we can be on the first available flight tomorrow. You will pay us one hundred thousand pounds for this case.”

  “What?!”

  “Half in advance; half upon completion of the job. And you will pay all expenses.” Sign stood and held out his hand. “We have a deal, do we not.”

  “One hundred thousand?!”

  “We have a deal sir!”

  The colonel slowly stood, looked confused, then nodded and said in a quiet voice, “Yes, we have a deal.” He shook hands with Sign. “I will text you details of the flight times.” He nodded at Knutsen. “Good day to you Mr. Knutsen.” He nodded at Sign. “And good day to you sir.” He walked out of the flat.

  Sign opened the file. There was very little inside – birth certificates of Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson; their addresses and employment history; a photo of Wilson’s trawler; an aerial photo of the spy ship; the post mortem report on the deceased; a thermal image of five men on Wilson’s boat before the blizzard hit the vessel and its surroundings; statements from Sally and the two other people in the pub on the night the four men got drunk and sailed their ship, and a photo of the four dead men on the beach. Sign handed the file to Knutsen. “Take a look and tell me what you think.”

  After Knutsen had carefully looked at the contents, he asked, “Do we trust Colonel Richards?”

  “Of course not. We don’t know him. But, I believe he’s told us the truth. And he knows that if he tries to spin us a lie, then I will make his pension vanish. He’s playing a straight bat.”

  Knutsen leaned forward and stared at the file. “All this tells us is what we already know. If the spy ship comes back, we could get the SBS to board the boat – Richards will have sway with his former unit – and arrest the Argentinians. We could interview the prisoners and get them to confess to what they did.”

  “The spy ship won’t come back to the Falklands.”

  Knutsen’s mind was racing. “Could you and I go to Rio Grande and try to find the spy ship? It’s possible its crew are still near to the boat.”

  Sign shook his head. “A daring thought, but alas it wouldn’t work. Upon their return to Rio Grande, the crew would have been debriefed about the incident. The Argentine intelligence services would have immediately recognised the severity of the situation. They’d have dispersed the spy ship crew and ensured they were as far away from Rio Grande as possible. The boat will have been destroyed.”

  Knutsen drummed his fingers on the arm rest. “So, all we have to go on is the fifth man. With a population of over three thousand in the islands, that’s going to be needle in a haystack territory.”

  Sign stood. “We must endeavour to find the needle. Mr. Knutsen, tonight I will be viewing Mozart’s Don Giovanni at the Royal Opera House. Would you care to join me? It’s a black tie event.”

  “I don’t have a tuxedo or whatever it’s called by you posh types. Anyway, I’ve got a date with two cans of beer and the final episode of Masterchef.” He grinned. “I’m trying to pick up some tips so that I can cook better stuff than the shit you serve up.”

  Sign smiled. “A laudable venture.” His expression changed. “This afternoon, pack your bags. You’ll need cold weather hiking gear and a suit.”

  “A suit?”

  “Don’t forget, we are high ranking military officers. We will travel in suits and when we arrive on the islands it will be military protocol for us to be invited for cocktails in the officers’ mess in one of their establishments. For obvious reasons you can’t travel with your handgun, but I will procure you a pistol when we arrive on the islands.”

  “Why would I need a handgun? We’re not at risk. All we’re trying to do is identify the fifth man.”

  Sign placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “Were it that simple. There is a gun fight between two boats. The islanders lost because they were facing professionals who knew how to kill and vanish. But in that melee, the Argentinians must have realised that there was one islander they hadn’t killed. That person escaped, most likely during combat. The spy ship had no chance of pursuing the fifth man while rounds were crossing decks. Probably the fifth man used the trawler as a shield while he rowed to shore as the battle raged. Here’s the problem: the spy ship will have been decommissioned, its crew will have been laid out to pasture, but there is still a loose end.”

  “The fifth man. If he speaks, there’s war.”

  “Exactly. Argentina will send new spies to the Falklands – paramilitary or special forces types. Probably no more than four of them. A greater number would arouse suspicion. And this time they will be on terra firma. They will have one purpose: kill the fifth man. We need to find him before they do. And that, Mr. Knutsen, is why you’ll need a gun.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Four AM.

  Sign and Knutsen were in their flat’s hallway, their luggage at their feet. Knutsen looked bleary eyed, but alert. Sign looked like he’d had the best sleep in a long time. They were about to embark on a case. This was what Sign lived for.

  “Have you ordered a cab?” asked Knutsen.

  “We have a limousine. Military. It will take us to Brize Norton.”

  Two hours later they were in the West Oxfordshire RAF air base, exiting the limousine. They showed their passports to the security gate and walked to the main terminal. Inside were numerous military personnel. Those travelling were in civilian attire – that was the security protocol. Those not travelling were in RAF uniform. Sign had been told by Colonel Richards that an RAF corporal would meet them in the departures section of airport. The place was bustling. Knutsen wondered how the corporal was going to identify them amid the throng of people. Sign was unperturbed. He knew that Richards would have a photo of him that had either been given to the colonel by Sign’s senior government allies, or had been covertly taken by the colonel’s men outside Sign’s home. The photo would now be in the possession of the corporal.

  A wiry, thirty-something man in uniform came up to them, big grin on his face, and one hand holding a cluster of small documents. He saluted Sign and Knutsen. “General, colonel: Corporal Bainbridge. I have your tickets. Can I take your bags for you?”

  “We’ll carry our own bags,” replied Knutsen.

  Bainbridge led them to the check-in counter. He said to the woman behind the counter, “Two VIPs travelling today, Helen.” He handed her their tickets. Knutsen and Sign gave her their passports.

  She asked them, “Have you travelled this route before?”

  Knutsen replied, “No.”

  Sign answered, “Yes.”

  She looked at Knutsen. “You’ll fly to Ascension Island. There’s a swimming pool there and a restaurant. Not much else aside from military and GCHQ instillations. It’ll be very hot, so I hope you’ve packed your swimwear. You’ll be there for about three hours. Then you’ll head south to the islands.” She smiled. “Different ballgame there at the moment, sir. Its winter and it’s been chucking it down with snow. Don’t be surprised if your flight is delayed.”

  Thirty minutes later, Sign and Knutsen boarded the flight. It was a civilian aircraft and was crammed with passengers – some of whom were soldiers and sailors returning to base after holiday leave, others were new entrants to the islands’ military facilities. The plane had no first, business, or economy class. Instead, it was like a bus. Sign and Knutsen were however positioned at the front of the plane, both seats either side of them were empty.

  Eight hours and thirteen minutes later they touched down in Ascens
ion Island. It had been the staging post for troops and convoys on route to combat the Argentinian invasion of the Falklands. Ever since, it retained a military presence and was a place for planes to refuel. Knutsen put on sunglasses as he and Sign walked off the plan and across tarmac.

  Knutsen said, “This is not what I expected. The island looks like a shit hole.”

  Sign replied, “The island’s volcanic. There’s not much more here than unforgiving shale and the sound of planes coming and going. Still, make the most of the sunshine.”

  They dined in a military cafeteria. The food was basic and designed to inject as many carbohydrates into hungry young men and women. Knutsen expected Sign’s refined tastes to be repulsed by the fare. But instead Sign polished all the food off and rubbed his belly. “A man must eat whatever is offered to him when travelling,” said Sign, reading Knutsen’s thoughts. “I’ve eaten considerably worse in impoverished places where kind souls wanted to feed me their last morsel, rather than take the food for themselves. One must always be courteous.”

  Close to the cafeteria was a small swimming pool. It was within eye shot of Knutsen’s table. He could see six Royal Marine commando trainee officers doing laps, jumping out of the pool, doing press ups and star jumps, jumping back into the pool, and repeating the process.

  Sign followed his gaze. “Youngsters on a jolly. It will be bought and paid for by the marines. They’ll be following the epic seventy five mile route across the islands that 45 Commando took in horrendous weather and with one hundred and twenty pounds on their back in order to engage the enemy.” Sign smiled. “It will be deemed by their officers to be a character building exercise for these young men. The reality is they will be tested and at least one of them will twist his ankle on baby heads.”

  “Baby heads?”

  “Much of the Falklands is covered by inflammable heathland. Some of it clusters into vast fields of uneven balls the size of heads. The only way around these stretches is to climb mountains. These lads will take the straightest route. They will suffer torn tendons or broken bones or both. The others will have to decide whether to casualty evacuate the injured party or press on. They will press on. Look at them – no more than twenty years old. Machismo will take a hold of their decision-making. It won’t cross their minds that an injured party may not be able to return to training when back in England.”

  Knutsen looked at the young men. “How do you deduce all this?”

  “Imagination and logic.” Sign dabbed his napkin against his mouth. “Let’s leave the boys to their pool exercise. I fear, no swim shorts and a dip for you, Mr. Knutsen.”

  “I wasn’t going to take a dip, anyway.” Knutsen frowned. “Why hasn’t the fifth man come forward as a witness?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He’s scared. He may have concluded that the Argentinians may come for him. He may fear local police action against him for the reckless events of that night. Maybe he’s in shock. Possibly he’s protecting the families of the dead men, not wishing to bring dishonour on their names. I don’t know. But I do know he’s petrified and won’t be easy to find.”

  Sign nodded. “We won’t be welcomed by the islanders. “For them, this is not only a tragedy, it is also an embarrassment. Four of their own got slaughter by Argentinians. We must tread carefully. They will be feeling raw and angry.”

  Knutsen agreed. “Providing they know what happened and that the men are dead.”

  “They know. It’s a close knit community. Richards wouldn’t have been able to withhold this information from them.” Sign stared at the volcano. Quietly he said, “Richards wants this situation to erupt, but on his terms. He doesn’t want the islanders to take the law into their own hands. I very much doubt the islanders know about the fifth man. Finding him gives Richards control of the situation and organise a strike force against mainland Argentina. But if the islanders speak to the fifth man, Richards loses control. The locals will be baying for blood.”

  “They’ll already be baying for blood if what you say is true. The Argentinian occupants of the spy ship killed four of their own. That in itself is enough to get them hot under the collar.”

  Sign shook his head. “The islanders know that Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson were drunk that night. They also know that the men deliberately sailed out to provoke the spy ship. The islanders will have some sympathy with the men’s actions, but they will also think they were stupid. But the fifth man can put a new slant on events – he can tell the islanders that they were executed in cold blood.”

  “And that paints a whole different picture.”

  “Yes. Richards wants to keep a grip on that information. If he can’t he loses control of the situation and the Falklands.” Sign checked his watch. “We depart in ninety minutes. While we’re here I’d like to take a walk and examine Ascension Islands flora. I will meet you at the hanger for boarding.”

  Two hours after landing in the Falklands, Sign and Knutsen entered the officers’ mess in RAF Mount Pleasant. They were here by invitation of Colonel Richards. As they walked toward the bar, Sign muttered to Knutsen, “Keep your cover vague. If someone asks, and they will do, say we’re in a specialist unit. You were commissioned into the Parachute Regiment after graduating from Exeter University. The are no paratroopers based on the islands at present, so it’s unlikely anyone here will know someone in your alleged old unit. But if by bad luck they do, say that you were pulled out of the paras after training and had to undergo selection for special duties. That should shut them up. I will adopt a similar cover story, though can reel of a list of genuine contacts in the military. Attack is the best form of defence and all that. If they start asking too many questions, turn the tables and start asking them questions.”

  Knutsen replied in an irritated tone, “I was an undercover cop, you know. I spent years gaining the trust of criminal gangs and other shit. I do know how to bluff and lie.”

  Sign chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

  They entered the bar. There were four RAF officers, three infantry officers, Richards, twenty five year old daughter, and a barmaid. Richards whispered in the ear of the barmaid.

  In a commanding voice, the barmaid said, “Lady and gentlemen, please welcome General Sign and Colonel Knutsen.”

  A waiter appeared, holding a tray of cocktails. Knutsen and Sign took their drinks and introduced themselves to the officers. Like Sign and Knutsen, the officers were dressed in immaculate suits. Richards’ daughter was wearing smart but unfashionable trousers and a blouse. Knutsen correctly assumed she was used to military life and all the rituals it brought, and that she’d change into something more flattering when she returned to her quarters. She was eying Knutsen, with a slight smile on her face. Knutsen knew the look. He felt uncomfortable. The last thing he needed was a twenty five year old getting the hots for him. Knutsen and Sign made a beeline for the colonel.

  Quietly, and out of earshot of the others, Sign said, “Thank you for getting us down here and for the invitation. Tomorrow, Mr. Knutsen and I will set to work.”

  The colonel was on his third cocktail. His face was slightly flushed. “You were lucky. The snow storm has now kicked in with a vengeance. Flights have been cancelled. You won’t get out of here for at least a week. How are your quarters?”

  Their quarters being in the officers’ section of Mount Pleasant.

  “Perfectly serviceable, but not sustainable.” Sign looked around the room, taking in everything he saw – framed photos of the queen, of previous military commanders of the Falklands, vistas of the islands, its mountains, and the men and woman in the room. Within ten seconds he’d correctly assessed every person’s strength and weakness. He looked back at Richards. “Mr. Knutsen and I desire a cottage to rent, away from the military base. Can you arrange that?”

  The colonel frowned. “You have everything you need here – a gym, restaurant, bar, shops, many other facilities. I would think…”

  “I would think that I know my own min
d.” Sign gestured toward the others in the room. “Your facilities are for those men, not men like us. Mr. Knutsen and I must work under the radar. A cottage will be all we need, thank you. Two bedrooms; a log burner or open fireplace; a serviceable kitchen; and mobile phone reception. We will also need a four-wheel drive vehicle that is man-enough to drive over snow.”

  “I…”

  “And we will need all of that by tomorrow.”

  The colonel nodded. “Yes of course. That can be arranged.”

  “Arranged by you. I want to keep knowledge of our presence on the islands to a minimum. And tomorrow morning, after we’ve checked out of your salubrious establishment, we will need to be taken by you and you alone to the beach where the dead men were washed ashore. Are we clear on all matters?”

  The colonel had given up all hope of flexing his rank. Sign was too powerful and way above Richards’ pay grade. “Yes. Ten AM sharp. I’ll knock on your doors and escort you to our vehicle.”

  “Excellent.” Sign turned to Knutsen. “Time for us to mingle. Be careful with the colonel’s daughter. She’s intrigued by you.”

  That night, Knutsen struggled to sleep. He got out of bed, put on his outdoor hiking gear, and walked through the military facility. Even though it was two AM, there were soldiers, sailors, and other staff milling about. They ignored him because they were used to strangers coming and going in the base. Plus, even if they suspected he was a high ranking officer, they didn’t have to bother with salutes or standing to attention or calling him sir, given he wasn’t in uniform and had no tabs on his civilian attire to declare his rank. Knutsen was glad he was left alone. He wanted to clear his head after the exhausting flight and from the two cocktails he’d had in the officers’ mess. He walked outside, near to the runway. The strip was empty; snow underfoot was at least ten inches deep. That would change – snow was pouring out of the sky, only visible in the beams from lights on the airstrip and exterior walls. It was bitterly cold; so cold that Knutsen felt that every time he breathed his lungs were being filled with ice cubes. He’d travelled overseas before, though not as much as he’d liked – a trip to India with some pals when he was at university, family holidays to France with his poor parents when he was a kid and before they died, and Metropolitan Police assignments to track British criminals in Spain and other parts of Europe. The trouble was, in his adult life he’d been too busy getting under the skin of the darkest parts of London to find time to go on holiday. Plus, who would he go on holiday with? Six months ago, the woman he loved was killed in the line of duty. They’d never dated. He’d never told her he loved her, though she probably suspected she had his heart. It was too early to think about finding a nice woman who’d be thrilled at the prospect of sharing a hotel room with Knutsen in Switzerland, ride a gondolier with him in Venice, eat crab and shrimp in street markets in Hong Kong, or swim with turtles in the Maldives before returning to their beach hut and making love. Maybe that day would come; maybe not. Right now, Knutsen was at a time in his life where he needed to be distracted by work. He also needed male friendship. By pure chance, Sign had come along. He’d offered him a job and lodgings in West Square. Sign was in almost every respect different to Knutsen. At least it seemed that way on paper. Sign spoke like a man in command of everything around him; Knutsen was quiet. Sign liked classical concerts; Knutsen liked Nirvana and other grunge music. Sign socialised with prime ministers and kings; Sign taught kendo to a kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Brixton. Despite his petty crime record, that young man was now a cop in the Met, thanks to Knutsen. Sign wore suits purchased on Saville Row; Knutsen had one suit from M&S. But as he’d got to know Sign, Knutsen had begun to realise that they had far more in common than he’d thought. They’d both repeatedly risked their lives in undercover operations. They were both reluctant loners who, until recently, had failed to realise the pleasure of companionship, until it finally hit them in the face – both men were surprised at how the recent lodging arrangement in West square had lifted their spirits. They were quick thinkers. Knutsen didn’t profess to have Sign’s intellect, but you don’t get a first class degree from Exeter through want of IQ. Sign was courteous; so was Knutsen. They could talk for hours, or they could sit in their armchairs in silence. Knutsen had often tried to pigeonhole Sign’s character. It was an impossible task. Sign was a chameleon and unpredictable when working. But in West Square, Sign was himself. He cooked, he stoked the fire in winter, he wore jeans and a T-shirt, he laughed, he regaled Knutsen with his exploits in MI6 – never from an egotistical perspective, always humbling his magnificent successes. And Knutsen would eat Sign’s sumptuous food and tell him about the London Sign didn’t know. They were fascinated by each other – not in an emotional way; both men were straight; but in an intellectual way backed up by their life experiences. Key to Knutsen and Sign was that West Square was their safe place. If there was one label that Knutsen could slap on Sign it was that the former MI6 officer was like an older brother – one who’d been separated from birth from him, educated differently, taught how to be posh, and had risen through the ranks of government while Knutsen was playacting a gangster in Tower Hamlets and elsewhere. There was no doubt that Sign’s persona was that of an aristocratic commander from the nineteenth century, and yet he was full of contradictions. It always made Knutsen laugh when Sign would rifle through the Radio Times after dinner and say, “Eastenders is on in ten minutes. We mustn’t be late. I want to find out whether that woman really is cheating on her husband”.