by Matthew Dunn
Ben Sign
Tom Knutsen
Katy Roberts
Henry Gable
Edward Messenger
Nicholas Pendry
James Logan
Terry File
Beneath that, he wrote:
Who is the limpet?
And:
Who is the whisperer?
He handed the sheet back to Knutsen. “Messenger, Pendry, Logan, and File. They may all be dead men walking. Or maybe one of them is the killer. The whisperer.”
“Why?”
“Remember – he’s cleaning out the garbage. I think he wants to be chief. He is eliminating the competition and ensuring that he does not inherit any bad apples. It is pure self–fulfilment. He wants the top job.”
“Ben, this is a…”
“Stab in the dark? Yes, I know. But I was hired to investigate this case because I know the mind–set of a spy. This is what I’m doing. I’m ascertaining motive and methodology. But if I’m right, we have very dark waters to navigate. Right now, we have a number of low IQ sociopaths who are presidents around the world. That’s one thing. But imagine if a supremely intelligent serial killer becomes head of MI6. He’d have at his disposal huge power and resources. I can imagine what he’d do with that power. He’d corrupt others and send our men and women to kill.”
“Spies would become his army?”
“Yes. But it would be more complicated than that. He’d do what spies do best – he’d manipulate foreign powers; change landscapes; start wars; and he’d do it all purely for the thrill.” Sign’s voice quietened. “In my time, I’ve dealt with many, many, sociopaths and psychopaths. I’ve outwitted them all. But, a psychotic MI6 officer? That would be a whole new challenge for me.”
“No one else is better suited to that task than you.”
“If indeed it is a task. I could be so wrong.” Sign frowned. “Do you think it would be a good idea to erect a cross on Mount Snowdon for Katy’s husband? I have sway with the MP of that district. She’d give me permission for the construction.”
“It would be inappropriate. Let Katy make her own plans.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Sign touched the paper. “This is all I have to go on.”
“But, your instinct tells you that all that’s needed?”
“Yes.”
Knutsen lifted the paper. “Tell me about the others.”
“You could put a cigarette paper between their intellects. All of them are overachievers. Messenger is currently head of all European operations; Pendry is on the board of directors as head of communications; Logan runs Asia; File heads up the paramilitary wing.”
“File runs people like the limpet?”
“Yes.”
“Then, he could be our man.”
“Maybe. The problem is, all operational MI6 officers use limpets from time to time.”
“We could meet File and get his opinion.”
Sign shook his head. “And tell him what? That a highly trained killer with an English accent has been following us and has killed a detective inspector’s husband, allegedly for the sake of national interest. File would laugh us out of his home. He’d remind me that he has dozens of UK killers under his control; that he also has hundreds of foreign paramilitary assets overseas; that the killer may not be intelligence, but rather a regular criminal; and that this could be a foreign intelligence operative posing as a Brit. Plus he’d remind me that special forces types come and go. If the limpet is retired and reactivated, we can treble or quadruple the number of suspects. File would tell me I’m looking for a needle in a giant haystack. He’d be right.”
“We should warn Messenger, Pendry, Logan, and File that their lives are in danger.”
Sign looked weary as he rubbed his face. “Were it that easy.” He sighed. “If we talk to all four of them, and one of them turns out to be the whisperer, we’d be signposting our knowledge of the kill list to the whisperer. No. We have to let things play out.”
“Play out?”
“We need three of them to die; and one to stay alive. Whoever stays alive is the whisperer.”
Knutsen was incredulous. “You want more murders to identify the killer?!”
“Logically, can you see an alternative?”
“Yes! Forget the investigation. Protect all four. Maybe some other evidence will come out in due course.”
Sign looked wistful. “It won’t. I believe we’re dealing with a highly capable thinker and operator. The only way to flush him out is to leave him isolated. If he kills the others, he is the killer. If we warn him off he’ll go to ground.”
Knutsen desperately wanted to find a flaw in Sign’s logic. He couldn’t. “You might be sending your former colleagues to their deaths!”
“I know.” Sign wrung his hands. “I hate this. But what else is there to do?”
Knutsen’s mind raced. “Has it occurred to you that Gable might think you’re the whisperer?”
“Yes. What do you think?”
Knutsen was silent for a moment. “I don’t think you are. But it’s hard to tell with you spooks. You’re such thoroughbred liars.”
Sign laughed. “Indeed we are. But I have no vested interest in the deaths of the men on the list, one of whom is sitting in this room. And both men sitting in this room are on the back of the paper as likely targets for assassination.” He touched Knutsen’s hand. “My agenda is to catch a killer, even if the killer is someone I know. It deeply saddens me that I have to await more killings. I am not the whisperer. Do you understand?”
Knutsen nodded. “I understand and trust you implicitly. So, what do we do now?”
“We wait.”
CHAPTER 17
Four weeks later, Katy Roberts entered Sign’s flat. She’d just returned from her husband’s funeral and scattering of his ashes on the mountain. The funeral had been delayed because her husband’s corpse was subject to a murder enquiry. She was wearing a light pink jumper and sky blue trousers.
Knutsen asked, “You didn’t wear black at the funeral?”
“Should I have done?”
“No. You were celebrating Elliot’s life, not his death. Your colours are perfect. Fancy a brew?”
Roberts nodded. “Where’s Ben?”
“Tearing up half of London, I imagine.” Knutsen grinned. “He’s been going out of his mind with boredom during the last few weeks. The commissioner has threatened him that he might cancel the investigation and not renew his contract. Sign and I have been working on chicken feed – divorce cases, infidelities, financial fraud, basically anything to pay the bills. Sign is not in the best temper.”
Roberts laughed. “I can imagine.” A tear ran down her face, brought on by the fact this was the first time she’d laughed since Elliot’s death. “Do you think I’ll ever remarry?” She had no idea why she’d blurted out that question. Men, companionship, relationships of any kind were the last thing on her mind. Mind you, she cherished the contact she had with Knutsen and Sign. They helped her in the same way she’d help them if they’d gone through her ordeal.
Knutsen replied, “Don’t ask me. I killed a man who killed the last woman I fancied. I’m not exactly a balanced example of wise relationship counselling.” He smiled sympathetically. “Emotions run high at times like these. It’s like hitting puberty again. The body and mind have no idea what the fuck’s going on.” He handed Roberts her cup of tea. “You’re a good–looking woman, successful, and kind. Who knows what waits for you out there?” He felt he needed to change the subject. “Let’s do some kendo practice with David this evening. I’ll get Sign on the case for dinner after. The bloody guy needs a distraction.”
“Yes to both ideas.” She sat in Sign’s armchair. “I’m selling my house. I’ll find somewhere else soon, but if it’s okay with you both I’d like to stay on in the flat while I’m in… transition.”
“Of course it’s okay. Look at it this way: when you’re not around I’m cooped up with the fractious bastard.
I welcome your company; so does Sign.”
Roberts smiled. “You are the oddest couple. Chalk and cheese.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going back to work. Do you think I’ll be watched by the limpet?”
“Hard to say. If the whisperer’s work is done, it may be that we’re all out of danger.”
“What does Sign think?”
Knutsen hesitated. “Katy, we’re in possession of a list of names. Ben calls it a ‘kill list’. He wonders if one of the names on the list is the whisperer. On the back of the list are the names of the people the whisperer has killed. Also, there is a list of the people he may kill. Me and Sign are on that list. So…”
“Am I.” Roberts looked calm. “What is the kill list?”
“Seven names of predominantly current MI6 officers, one of whom was tipped to be the next chief. Two of them are the suicides, so they’re out of the game. Sign is also on the list, because he was in the running before he resigned. So, he’s also out of the game. That leaves four names – all men. One of the four could be a psychopath.”
“That’s if the whisperer even exists.”
“Yes.” Knutsen wondered if he should reveal more about what he knew. He made a decision. “Sign’s idea going forward is… unusual. He wants to see if anyone else on the list is killed. That way he narrows down the list of suspects.”
Roberts digested the information. “It makes sense, to a point. But surely there is a more humane route forward. If we can grab the limpet, we can get to his master.”
“Make him talk?”
“Arrest him. Interview him. Throw the book at him. Offer him twenty years in prison with the chance of parole, if he cooperates, or life imprisonment with no chance of parole if he doesn’t.”
Knutsen admired the fact that Roberts would be willing to offer her husband’s murderer a degree of clemency. Most people wouldn’t have the balls to think that way. “It won’t work. Sign thinks we’re dealing with a highly trained black ops guy. The limpet will sit in your interview room, say nothing, and suck up a lifetime of jail. And when he’s in jail, he’ll be a massive problem. He’ll end up running the place.”
“So, you’re suggesting we capture the limpet and torture him to get the name of the whisperer?”
“Yes.”
Roberts nodded. “Just make sure I’m in the room when it happens. Come and visit me in prison if I get caught and you don’t.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m going back to work because I want to keep the investigation into my husband’s death open. If needs be, I’ll put my bitch hat on. I’ll tell the commissioner that if he doesn’t renew your contract to continue the investigation then I’ll cause him trouble. He’ll capitulate.” She looked Knutsen directly in the eye. “My husband’s free. But so are the limpet and the whisperer. Where’s the yin and yang in that?”
“We get the bastards.”
“Yes. Only Sign can access the whisperer’s mind. But we can get the limpet.”
“Agreed.”
Roberts looked around. “Where did he get all this stuff? All these antiques, paintings, books and other things?”
“He travelled the world. I think of him as a magpie – scavenging things in the same way he scavenged and collected souls.” Knutsen laughed at the absurdity of his analogy.
Roberts didn’t laugh. “You’re right. Everything in this room is all he has. The souls never stuck by him. He’s alone.” She picked up a diary. On the inner cover were Sign’s handwritten words ‘My great, great grandfather’s love letter to a woman he lost while he was at sea’. It wasn’t per se a love letter, rather Sign’s ancestor’s diary while at sea on board a clipper navigating the waters around the Americas. But the diary was most certainly written for a woman. Roberts gently replaced the leather–bound journal back on the bookshelf. “Sign still seeks love.”
Sign entered the flat while holding bags of groceries. “God damn, fucking shits out there have clogged up traffic. Just because there’s a bit of rain it seemingly means they all have to jump in their cars and bring London streets to a damn standstill.”
Knutsen winked at Roberts and whispered, “There is a reason why he has no woman in his life.”
Sign placed his grocery bags on a table, and hugged Roberts. “Today was the day. My sincerest condolences.” He stepped back. “Tonight I’m cooking Mexican food. Given it’s a Wednesday, I’m guessing that you two are shortly off to bash each other over the heads with bamboo sticks. Does a late dinner at nine PM sharp suit?”
They nodded.
“Good, because I’ve got nothing else to worry about and do aside from solving why Mrs. Parson’s husband was caught in flagrante with a gay Lithuanian man, why a rebel Tory MP adhered to the whip and voted against his fellow rebels, and whether an escaped London Zoo golden eagle, that’s been terrorising small dogs in Hyde Park, legally constitutes a redefinition of assault versus natural predatory behaviour. I am bored.”
Knutsen went up to him. “Katy’s going back to work. She will ensure we’re still on the whisperer case.”
Sign looked at her. His demeanour and tone of voice changed – less strident; more thoughtful. “You wish to catch your husband’s killer. You’ve enrolled Knutsen to help you snatch the limpet. Together, you’ll aim to get the truth out of him. Who is the whisperer?”
. “Yes.”
“We tried that already. Knutsen came out of the encounter battered and bruised. And For nearly a month I’ve seen no evidence that the limpet’s been following us. We need another development. If that happens, we spring into action; he springs into action. At that point, you have my blessing to try to get him. But you’ll have to be very careful. He’ll try to kill you both. And he’ll only talk if he’s under extreme duress. Hurt him to the point he thinks he’s going to die. Offer him medical assistance on the condition he tells you the name we need.” He looked at Knutsen. “A leg shot might suffice. Be accurate. The limpet will know about battle injuries. He has to be convinced he’ll bleed to death unless you apply tourniquets, give him morphine, extract the bullet, stitch him up, and place paddings on the wound. Search him thoroughly. He must have zero means to communicate with the whisperer. What you do with the limpet after that is of no concern to me.”
Roberts asked, “And if we get the whisperer’s name, what will you do?”
Sign slumped into a chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. “I’ll put the whisperer out of his misery.”
Hilt met John Smith in Pizza Express in Hertford. He ordered a mineral water but no food, sat opposite the senior spy and said, “I’ve been watching them.”
“All three?”
“Yep.”
“Good. You have a pattern of behaviour?”
“Tonight, two of them are going out. The other will stay in and cook. Least ways, that’s how it’s worked every Wednesday evening so far.”
“Okay. Tomorrow morning I want you to do something very unpleasant. But it won’t be unpleasant for you.” Smith smiled, though his expression was cold. He handed Hilt a small rucksack. “In there are things you’ll need. Did you get the rifle?”
“Yeah. Lee Enfield .303. Bit old school, but it will do the job.”
“Old school is necessary. And you’ve put a message on the gun?”
Hilt smiled. “An engraved message on a brass plate on the rifle’s butt.”
“Good. Tomorrow, wear a face mask that covers your mouth and nose. I can’t have one drop of your saliva or any other involuntary excretions on the weapon. Obviously wear gloves. And wear a coat that has a hood and won’t release fibres – a rain mac or similar. Bottom line, there must be no DNA, fingerprints, or other suspicious traces on the rifle.” He told Hilt exactly what he had to do in the morning.
CHAPTER 18
Snowflakes the size of saucers sank slowly downward as Hilt lay prone and trained his rifle on his targets. Two people were walking slowly along a street; houses and commercial buildings were either side of them. They were only fifty yards away. If the
y moved out of sight, Hilt would simply reposition and get them once again in his sight. Either way, they were dead if he wanted them to be. On top of the World War 2 rifle, Hilt had gaffer–taped a modern scope. He had no idea why Smith wanted him to do this job. He didn’t care. This was target practice. Out of the rucksack Smith had given him, he withdrew a laptop and tiny camera. He attached the camera to his right eye and plugged a cable between it and a laptop. Into the laptop he wired a mobile phone that gave him Internet connection. The laptop was good to go; the camera was good to go. He Skyped Smith, looked at the targets through the camera and sniper scope, and asked, “Are you getting this?”
Smith replied, “Yes. Visual is good. Whatever happens, keep them in your sight.” Smith walked along a street within a housing estate. It was early morning; people were leaving their houses to attend to their daily chores. He reached a detached house – modest in size and identical to all of the other houses surrounding the property. He was wearing a suit and overcoat, because he was due to be in work soon. He rang the doorbell and waited.
A man opened the door, chewing the last mouthful of a bacon sandwich that he’d prepared for breakfast. He looked shocked. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello Terry. We have an emergency.”
“At the office?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better come in.” Like Smith, Terry File was smartly dressed, though he wasn’t yet wearing his jacket. As they walked to the lounge, the head of MI6’s paramilitary unit said, “I’ve got a meeting with the chief at ten o’clock. That means I have to catch the…”
“0817 from Hertford North to King’s Cross.”
File’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”
Smith shrugged as he waved a hand through the air. “You live in Hertford. It’s the next available train into London. I need to be on that train because I too have meetings this morning in head office.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s about an assassination. Actually, potentially three assassinations. It falls right into your remit.”
