by Matthew Dunn
THE SPY WHISPERER
A Ben Sign Mystery
Matthew Dunn
© 2018 Matthew Dunn
The right of Matthew Dunn to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
No one at the Moscow dinner gathering knew their guest’s real name was Ben Sign. And only one of the other eight Russian attendees knew the guest was a senior MI6 officer.
Today the forty nine year old British Intelligence officer called himself Tobias Harcourt. He’d chosen the nom–de–plume because it sounded posh and matched his fake backstory. He was posing as an aristocratic arms dealer; somebody who purportedly was looking to do an under–the–counter illegal weapons trade with Russian oligarchs. His real intention was to lure one of the men to Vienna, where that man would be snatched and interrogated by Austrian intelligence officers. Sign didn’t care which of the men took the bait. His Russian agent at the table had set up the dinner. Both agent and Sign knew that all of their invitees were members of the FSB, the domestic successor to the KGB. With the help of the Austrians, Sign wanted to grab one of the FSB men and make him talk. Sign had advised his Russian agent that someone in MI6 was passing secrets to the Russians. Sign needed that name.
Some considered Sign to be too tall to be a spy. We need grey men who don’t stand out, his MI6 recruiter had told him twenty seven years ago. Sign, back then a graduate student with a double first degree from Oxford University, had replied that in order to play the grey man one needed to stand out. His answer had made the recruiter smile. After extensive tests and interviews, his intelligence career began. Now, he was tipped to be the next chief of MI6. What he was doing in Moscow was his last official oversees assignment. After this, he’d be kept in London, ring fenced in order to protect him, so that in one year’s time he could be interviewed for the post of one of the most prestigious roles in Western intelligence.
As he sat at the table, Sign thought of today as his last dash at the cut and thrust of the spying he so enjoyed. He was making the most of the job. Wearing a hand–tailored Gieves and Hawkes suit whose charcoal colouring matched his clipped hair, silk tie bound in a Windsor knot over a cut–away collar shirt from Saville Row, immaculately polished black Church’s shoes, and a Rolex watch he’d borrowed from MI6’s props department, he was ready to do business. Often Sign had to playact wholly different personas with very different attires. But today he was as close to his real image as possible.
And he kept the family backstory of Harcourt identical to his own. His parents were academics, but not eminent professors who could be easily traced. Plus, they were dead. He had no siblings. His wife was an NGO worker who’d been shot in El Salvador. They’d never had children. He was alone.
Sign opened his napkin and delicately placed it over his lap.
They were in the private dining room of the restaurant, sat around a solitary circular table that was adorned with a starched white cloth and accoutrements befitting of one of the city’s finest eateries. The walls were draped with purple Mongolian sashes. The subtle glow from ceiling spotlights were enhanced by candles that were cleverly positioned around the room. Paintings were French and Dutch. And a small iron bowl of smouldering coals and rosemary was in the corner – there to produce an aroma that complimented the plat du jour of roast poussin, sautéed potatoes, winter vegetables, and Domaine aux Moines Savennieres wine from Roche aux Moines.
Sign’s Russian agent, Peter, was a roguish businessman of many trades but with links to the FSB. Sign had been running him against the Russians for five years. Peter was ex–Spetsnaz, built like a prize fighter, a womanizer and heavy drinker, and had a permanent grin on his face. His attractive jet–black hair and green eyes were offset by his calloused and scarred hands. But like Sign, he was immaculately dressed. Sign had put him up for this job.
The MI6 officer had said, “Tell your FSB pals that there’s a British arms dealer you know who wants to do business with Russia. Tell them the trade he’s offering is worth billions. But also tell them that you can’t verify if the weapons he’s selling are of value to Mother Russia. Plant hope and doubt in their minds. Encourage them to meet me with suspicion in their minds.”
Sign looked at Peter and the others. “Gentlemen: shall we begin.” Sign’s demeanour and tone of voice was as cool as cucumber. He spoke in English, even though he was a fluent Russian speaker.
Peter poured himself wine. Addressing the FSB men, he said, “I’ve known of Mr. Harcourt for years, but to my knowledge he rarely attends business meetings in person. In the past, I’ve spoken to him on the phone and corresponded with his office. Yesterday was the first time I met him in person. He has an interesting proposition for you.”
“And if you like the deal, Peter will take a one percent cut of the trade.” Sign paused, looking at each of the men in turn. “Peter vouches for you, saying you have access to serious money.”
“And what do you have to trade?” asked one of the FSB men.
“Technology that Russia doesn’t have.” Sign smiled. “Blueprints of Britain’s latest prototype EMT weapons, Polaris submarine communications systems, and satellite interceptors.”
“But they are just prototypes.”
Sign shook his head. “Not anymore. The trials have been completed and approved by the British military and the COBRA committee.”
The Russians glanced at each other. One of them asked, “How did you get these blueprints?”
Sign folded his hands. “I stole them via two generals on my payroll.” He laughed. “I hope Peter didn’t tell you I was a legitimate businessman.”
“And your price for these blueprints?”
“That’s for you to decide and for me to agree or disagree on.” Sign took a sip of wine. “My business is a tricky one. Trust is non–existent. Proof of concept is the bane of my life.”
“Meaning – how does a buyer know the technology works?”
“Yes.” Sign’s heartbeat had dropped by ten beats per minute. “So, here’s the conundrum: how do I show you what I have; how do you decide if you like it; and how do I ensure that I’m not royally fucked over?”
The men looked at each other.
Sign waited.
The oldest FSB officer at the table said, “It is an impossible problem.”
This was the moment Sign had been waiting for. The moment to lure in one of the FSB officers. He looked at Peter. “Who do you trust the most around this table?”
Peter glanced at each man. “I trust them all.”
“I suspect that’s not true but it doesn’t matter. Regardless, pick one who can view the blueprints.”
Peter said, “Boris. Simply because his forename is first in the alphabet of the men dining with us. But any of them would be up to the task.”
“Boris it is.” Sign stared at Boris. “You have a huge weight of responsibility.”
Boris looked like a rabbit in headlights. “I’m not a scientist or engineer. How can I verify the blueprints?”
“You can’t, but you know business. I will meet you in Vienna. Bring which ever experts you deem fit for the analysis of the prints.”
Boris looked confused. “Vienna?”
“Neutral territory.”
Boris shook his head. “My experts will memorise the blueprints and return with me to Russia. No money will be exchanged. Your theft will have been a waste of time.”
Sign clapped his hands. “Bravo Mr. Boris.” His demeanour turned serious as he analysed the men. “Just because Russian men play chess doe
sn’t make you all chess masters.” He tossed his napkin onto the table, his food uneaten. “Boris; expert analysts; Vienna; three days’ time; a hotel of my choosing. You’ll have one third of each blueprint. A supercomputer might be able to recall the data of each one–third. A genius or photographic mind or anyone on any form of spectrum will most certainly not be able to recall a trace of what I show you. You pay me ten million pounds for the traces. You take them home. You make a judgement call. Do you move your queen to take king? Or to do you walk away? If the former, you get the rest of the blueprints for a serious price. If the latter, I have ten million quid for wasting my valuable time. What say you?”
The senior FSB officer in the room touched Boris’ arm. “This could be a trap.”
Sign snapped, “Gentlemen – if this was a trap, I wouldn’t be in Moscow. On my own. I’m giving you the ability to neutralise what Britain, France, and America can throw at you.” He stood and looked at Peter. “If I’ve wasted my time, do let me know. I have a private jet to catch.”
Peter waved his hands up and down. “No need for any of us to get annoyed. I think Mr. Harcourt’s strategy is sound for all sides.”
Sign swivelled and said in a loud voice, “So, what’s it to be?”
The door swung open with sufficient force to make it bang against the wall. Five policemen rushed into the room and grabbed Sign. Peter and the FSB men stood. The intelligence officers had grins on their faces. The senior officer said, “You talk of chess. Well, you’ve just been outplayed. We knew all along that you were an MI6 officer.”
Sign looked at Peter. “Tut tut, Peter. Only you could have done this. And I thought we were friends.”
To Peter’s surprise, Sign laughed as he was led away.
For forty eight hours, he was interrogated by the FSB in its headquarters in Lubyanka Square, Moscow. He wasn’t tortured – to have done so would have been a catastrophe for Russia, given Sign had diplomatic status and the FSB was fully aware that maltreatment would be dealt in kind by the Brits if they caught a Russian spy. But, for two days he was given no food or water, and in between harsh questioning he was made to stand while distorted noise was blasted from speakers. Sign was a thinker, not a man of action, yet he told them nothing.
On a road in Russia’s north western border with Finland, Sign was guided to British authorities who were flanked by MI6 paramilitary operatives. It was dark; snow was falling. The senior FSB man who held Sign’s arm was the man at the dinner who told Sign that he’d been outplayed. Ten yards from the British men, he released Sign’s arm and said, “Never come back to Russia.”
Sign turned to him. His exhausted face was highlighted by the headlights of the FSB and MI6 cars that were fifty yards apart from each other. Sign said, “You forgot the rule. Because you play chess doesn’t make you a chess master. I’ve been running Peter for five years. I always suspected he was a double agent, though had no proof. So, for five years I’ve been feeding him crap. It was time for me to flush him out at our lovely dinner two days ago. You did the heavy lifting, for which I’m very grateful. Send my regards to Peter. He was my pawn. Don’t be too hard on him. And don’t be too hard on yourself that you’ve been sucker punched.”
Sign smiled and walked to the British men.
CHAPTER 2
The morning after Sign was delivered over the Finnish border, Tom Knutsen and Helen Pope were in a stationary transit van in Unwin Street, Elephant & Castle, London. The two undercover Metropolitan Police officers shared the vehicle with hardened criminals who had concealed pistols. A shotgun was beside the driver. In front of them was another van, containing three more criminals. They were here to do a bank heist. Knutsen and Pope’s role was to witness the crime. The gang lord who’d planned the heist wasn’t present in the vehicles, instead monitoring the job from afar. The protocol was simple: he called them with the location of the robbery; they mobilised; the bank was assaulted. And he’d given them strict instructions that the assault was to take place with speed and absolute aggression. The guns were not here for show.
Knutsen and Pope had infiltrated the gang from different angles and timeframes.
With the permission of the Met, one year ago Knutsen had held up a post office in Canterbury. He was brandishing a disabled WW2 Luger pistol. He tried to fire a shot at the ceiling, knowing the gun wouldn’t work, but hoping his theatrics would draw the attention of the Kent Police. He was arrested and incarcerated in Parkhurst Prison for nine months. The sentence was lenient because he’d not pointed his weapon at anyone, nor had he committed ABH or GBH on any of the customers in the post office. In fact, the witnesses declared in court that the medium–height, muscular, thirty seven year old seemed desperate and kind. He’d sat on the floor after his gun failed and told everyone around him that he was a good man from the wrong tracks. He gave no resistance when the police came. But his real ploy had worked. In prison he was in the A–list, because he was an armed robber. Serial killers are viewed as weirdos; paedophiles are killed if left alone with other inmates; teenage knife crime is viewed as kids brandishing weapons they don’t know how to use; drug dealers are considered useful because they might get substances into the clink, but otherwise they’re labelled parasites; and petty criminals are simply ignored. But major gun crime equals prestige. Quickly, Knutsen came to the attention of other armed robbers. His target was a criminal boss who was due for parole shortly. The Met and Knutsen knew the gang lord was pretending to be a reformed member of society. Once out, the gang lord would go back to his old ways. Knutsen had to stop that from happening. Knutsen assaulted guards and inmates in prison, but not to a pulp, even though he could have done so against the most hardened members of Parkhurst. Many times, he was put in solitary confinement. Eventually, he was summoned to the gang lord who gave him a simple command.
“You’re a man who should be working for me.”
When gang lord and Knutsen were out of prison, Knutsen had achieved his Met mission to infiltrate the gang. Now, he was about to commit a heinous crime, all in the name of queen and country.
Pope had different instructions, though no less arduous. Fifteen months ago she married Knutsen in a Brixton registry office. The plan was they’d divorce as soon as their undercover objective was complete. She visited Knutsen in prison, bringing contraband secreted in her private parts. Her visits were welcomed by many inmates, because Knutsen distributed the contraband to prisoners. Plus, Pope always dressed to kill during her visits. Other inmates in the visitors’ reception gawped at her. She put a smile on their faces. Playing a bimbo was hard for her because in reality she was anything but. Prior to her undercover work, she’d had stints in the Met’s firearms units, hostage negotiation, had been a detective in the serious crime unit, and had worked as a scuba diver, pulling bloated human carcases out of rivers and lakes.
When the gang lord had asked Knutsen to work with him, Knutsen replied, “Only if my wife is there with me on every job. She’s a looker. She distracts people. Plus, she shoots guns better than any man I know. And there’s one other thing. She works at a bank. You know the adage: if you want to rob somewhere, work there. Eventually you’ll spot the cracks.”
The gang lord replied, “Which bank?”
Now, Knutsen and Pope were brandishing pistols. Pope looked nothing like a bimbo. She was wearing jeans and a puffer jacket. Knutsen and Pope exchanged glances. They were married. And they now felt it was real. Knutsen nodded at her. She smiled.
The team leader got the call from the gang lord. The gang lord said, “Royal Bank of Scotland. 29 Old Brompton Road. But don’t tell the others until you’re there. Just get them to follow you. And make sure your route to the target is circuitous.”
“Circuitous?”
“Don’t go the most direct route.”
“Why?
“Just move.”
The team leader looked over his shoulder. “We’re on.” Via his mobile, he relayed the instruction to the other van and drove out of Unwin Stre
et, the other van on his tail.
Pope held her mobile phone out of view of the others and sent a text message to the Met’s head of the Specialist Firearms Command. The message was MOBILE TO TARGET.
Clad in fire–resistant black overalls, Kevlar body armour, helmets, boots, communications sets, holstered pistols, and Heckler & Koch submachine guns strapped to their chests, eight members of the Met’s elite SCO19 firearms unit waited fifty yards from the Royal Bank of Scotland branch. They were in a decrepit white van that had insignia on its exterior declaring the vehicle belonged to a plumbing firm. The bank knew they were there. Its staff had been replaced by plain clothed detectives who’d been given a twenty four hour crash course in how to run the branch until the heist took place. Only the branch manager remained on site, to ensure business was efficient and unsuspicious before the attempted robbery.
The Met paramilitary officers had rehearsed the drill twenty two times. The robbers arrive. SCO19 wait. The robbers enter, alongside Knutsen and Pope. The SWAT team still waits. Only when one of the robbers brandishes a gun and tells the fake bank staff to hand over cash or die will Pope run out of the building and wave her hands. That will be the trigger and the end of Pope and Knutsen’s undercover assignment. SCO19 knew they could get to the building in six seconds flat. They’d deploy flashbangs. The criminals would be dead before their heads smacked the floor. Knutsen and Pope would walk away and vanish to their next job.
It took forty minutes for the vans to arrive in Old Brompton Street. The drivers remained in the vehicles. Alongside Knutsen and Pope, six armed criminals exited the vehicles, their guns hidden from pedestrians on the bustling street. The RBS branch was forty yards away. When the job was done, the vans would hurtle toward the front entrance and collect the robbers.
“This is the target,” muttered the team leader.
Knutsen and Pope resisted every urge to panic. This wasn’t the bank that Pope had allegedly worked in. That was two miles away. The gang leader who’d set up the heist probably didn’t trust Pope and Knutsen, so had chosen a different target. They were fucked.
