The Spy Whisperer (Ben Sign Mystery Book 1)

by Matthew Dunn

  “You wish me to deploy some of my team to stop it happening?”

  “It might be too late for that, but I do need your advice. I have data I need to show you. I’d value your opinion. I must warn you – it makes for uncomfortable viewing.”

  File sat in a chair. “In my time in this job, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe – videos of beheadings, rape, genocide, and so much more. I doubt what you’re going to show me will be more upsetting.”

  “This might be.” From his briefcase, Sign took an IPad and its stand and placed both on a coffee table, facing File.

  “Should I ring the chief and cancel our meeting?”

  “That won’t be necessary. This won’t take long. You’ll have enough time to get your train.” Smith sat next to the coffee table. “The assassination attempts pertain to an MI6 officer and his affiliates. We need to move very fast on this.”

  File frowned. “Why didn’t you just call me on the secure line, rather than come all the way up here? It would have been so much quicker.”

  “We have a breach of security. It’s most relevant to the assassinations. Even secure communications might be compromised. This had to be dealt with face to face.”

  “Breach of security? What, exactly?”

  “Someone is corrupting MI6. The Office doesn’t yet know who. It may never know. But we do know lives are at stake.” Smith held up his hand. “Don’t worry. You’re not a suspect. We know you’re loyal to the cause. Plus, you’re a devout Catholic. It would be inconceivable for you to betray your country and your ethics. The only thing that matters more to you than patriotism and your religion, is your family. You have a wife and a five year old boy, I believe.”

  File bristled. “I do. Why’s that relevant?”

  Smith turned on the Ipad and activated Skype. “There they are. Your wife; your son. How sweet – they’re holding hands. As usual, your wife is walking your son to pre–school nursery. She’ll drop him off, do some shopping, and return most likely around mid–morning.”

  File was incredulous. “What’s going on?!”

  “I told you – we’re dealing with one or possibly three assassinations. The numbers will be down to you. What you’re seeing is a video taken by my sniper. It’s in live time. My sniper will kill your wife and child if needs be.”

  “You fucking…!”

  Smith smiled. “You’re a big man. You could probably overpower me and call the police. The problem you have is that my sniper is listening to our conversation. My orders to him are that if he has the slightest indication that I’m in danger, he must pull the trigger. First it will be your wife. The son will be utterly confused. Most likely he’ll stay with his mother’s body. But, if he runs, he’ll make five yards or so before his head is blown off. And cops will be of no use to you. Their response time is three minutes at best. You of all people know that a bullet is considerably faster than that.”

  File looked at the screen and saw his wife and son walking down one of the streets they always took in the outskirts of Hertford, en route to school. “This could be a pre–recording from yesterday or any other school day.”

  “It could be but it’s not. And you know that. Look at your wife’s garments. Did she wear them yesterday, the day before, or anytime this week? And if she did, were they the same combination as she’s wearing today.”

  File walked up to Smith and grabbed him by the chin. “Why are you doing this, you bastard?!”

  Smith was unperturbed. “Because I want to remove you from the shortlist of candidates to be the next chief of MI6. Take your hand off me or they die.”

  File backed away, breathing rapidly. “You won’t get away with this!”

  “Well, we’ll see. But your wife and son can certainly come away from this situation alive if you do the honourable thing.”

  “Honourable thing?”

  Smith took a length of rope from his briefcase. He expertly tied a hangman’s noose at one end, screwed a hook into the skirting board, attached the other end of the rope to the screw, and slung the rope over another screw–hook that he’d inserted into the wooden beam traversing the ceiling. He pulled up a dining chair directly under the noose. “You must choose – your life versus your wife and son’s life.”

  File was shaking. “You… you can’t.”

  Smith placed a finger on the screen. “My sniper has repositioned to get a clean line of sight of the final leg of your wife and son’s journey. Ordinarily they’d reach school in about five minutes. That can still happen, but only if you comply. If you don’t they’ll be shot dead before they complete their journey. Get on the chair!”

  File whipped out his mobile phone.

  “By all means call your wife. She’ll be dead before you utter a word to her.”

  Tears were running down File’s sweaty face.

  “Time is running out. What does your conscience tell you? How will you live with yourself if you let your family die to save your skin? In what direction is your moral compass pointing? What would God say about your decision?”

  “You’re… you’re bluffing.”

  “I never bluff.” Smith spoke to Hilt. “Shoot her in the ankle, then train your rifle on the boy’s head.”

  File shouted, “No!” as he saw his wife collapse to the ground.

  The boy was bent over her, clutching his mum.

  Smith laughed. “She’ll need reconstructive surgery. But she’ll live. There might be some concerned civilians who come to her assistance. But,” he looked at the screen, “That’s not happening yet. Your wife’s pulled out her phone. She’ll be calling emergency services. After that she might call you. If so, I give you permission to speak to her providing you are on the chair with the noose around your neck. If you tell her to tell your son to run, he’ll be killed first, your wife second.”

  File was gripping his head so hard that blood was oozing out of his skull. He screamed again. “You bastard. Bastard!” He stood on the chair. “May God have mercy on your soul, you piece of scum.”

  “The clock is ticking, Mr. File.” Smith turned to the Ipad and said to Hilt, “Prepare to kill the child. We are moments away.”

  File’s mobile rang. It was his wife. He answered the call. His voice was trembling as he said, “I love you, Debby. I love you and Thomas so very, very much. This is not what it seems.”

  Smith wagged a finger.

  File ended the call and dropped the phone onto the floor.

  Smith checked the phone to ensure the phone wasn’t still transmitting. He replaced it back on the floor.

  File stared at Smith. “You… you might kill them anyway.”

  “Tut, tut, Mr. File. I am not a monster. Once you’re dead I have no interest in your wife and son. They’ll be left alone.”

  “You are a monster!”

  “Maybe. You have ten seconds to kick the chair away. If you don’t, the fireworks begin in earnest.”

  File closed his eyes and started muttering a prayer.

  “Your god isn’t going to save your wife and child. Right now, I’m God. Move fast.”

  File was hyperventilating. He looked at the ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord.” He kicked the chair away and dangled while choking and writhing. It took a minute before he went limp, dead.

  Smith shut his IPad and called Smith on his mobile. “It’s done. Get to the house asap. The woman and boy are of no use to us now. Leave them alone. Remember what we spoke about – sorting the house is vital. We’ll only have a few minutes to get it done. I’ll make a start now while you’re heading here. Your gun is vital; so too eradicating all traces of our presence. Meanwhile, I’ll plant the evidence.” Smith smiled and set to work.

  Roberts hammered Sign and Knutsen’s door, her heart beating fast, face pasty and oily after a sleepless night. She was in her pyjamas and didn’t give a hoot about her appearance. Sign and Knutsen were like brothers to her. They’d seen her in worse states.

  Sign opened the door. He was unshaven and wearing a dre
ssing gown. “Everything okay?”

  Roberts was breathless as she said, “I’ve just had a call from the commissioner. There’s been another suicide. In Hertford. Terry File. MI6 confirmed to the commissioner that he’s one of yours.”

  Sign bellowed, “Action stations!” He grabbed Roberts arm. “Call for a Met car and driver. The car must not be unmarked. The driver must be expert. His number plate must be flagged as unstoppable by other squad cars. We’ll need to break speed limits.” He turned. “Mr. Knutsen – we have ten minutes to get shaved, showered, and dressed!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Roberts, Knutsen and Sign were hurtling through London, heading north. The driver was a traffic cop. His vehicle’s blue lights and sirens were on permanently.

  Sign cupped a hand around Roberts’ ear. “We can’t speak openly here. The driver isn’t security cleared. I’ll tell you what you need to know when we’re at our destination.”

  Normally the route at this time of morning would have taken at least seventy five minutes. But with the help of driving that entailed cars swerving left and right when they heard the vehicle’s sirens, the cop driver utilising not only road but also pavements, and a driving speed that constantly produced an adrenalin rush for the car’s passengers, they made it to Terry File’s house in forty minutes flat.

  All of them got out of the police car. The driver lit a cigarette and wandered over to the only other police officers who were leaning against their vehicle while drinking coffee. Next to their response car was a white van belonging to forensics. Alongside that was a black BMW. Colin Parker, the MI6 head of counter intelligence, was in the vehicle. He got out when he saw Sign.

  Sign walked up to him while glancing at the house that was surrounded by blue and white tape with the words, POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS. “What happened, Colin?”

  The senior MI6 officer replied, “File shot his wife while she was taking her kid to nursery. Then he hanged himself. Forensics is in there now. They’ve been here for an hour.”

  “The body?”

  “Taken to Watford General Hospital. The media haven’t been notified. But if some of them get wind of this I’ll ruin their day.”

  Sign nodded. “What’s your take?”

  “Face value or instinct honed over decades? Face value is as follows: we found bank statements in a filing cabinet belonging to his wife. The wife had been running up credit card debts way beyond File’s paygrade. They were financially crippled. She also had photos of her husband with another woman – nothing lewd; just street shots of them together in daylight. And her husband’s prints and DNA are all over the Lee Enfield rifle he allegedly used to shoot his wife. He missed and hit her in the ankle. She’s in the same hospital as her dead husband. She’ll be alright.”

  “But what about your instinct?”

  Parker rubbed his face. “Actually, instinct is the wrong word. Intellect and covert experience would be the right phrase.” He nodded at the house. “Go in there and see what you think. Forensics will require you to wear head to toe white garments and gloves. See what you make of the suicide scene.”

  Sign asked, “Who do the police think you are?”

  Quietly, Parker replied, “MI5. They know File was MI6, but I can’t have them knowing that I’m also MI6. I suggest you adopt a similar cover story.”

  Sign agreed. MI5 was one step away from being a police agency. MI6 was nothing like that. It was a top secret spy agency and its members – past and present – had to remain in the shadows. Five minutes later, he, Knutsen and Roberts were in the house. Two forensics officers were also in there. They’d finished their job and were preparing to leave. On a dining room table were clear plastic bags containing the evidence they’d collected – the bank statements, rifle, rope that File had hanged himself with, File’s mobile phone, his wallet, train tickets to London, shoes, and photos of him with the woman. Sign examined them all.

  The forensics officers were removing their white overalls. Sign asked one of them, “What do you think?”

  The female forensics officer shrugged. “Detectives will interview Mrs. File when she’s out of surgery. Everything points to a domestic dispute. He may have been having an affair; Mrs. File found out; she got emotional and wanted revenge; she binged on her credit card, just to spite him; she confronted him and told him that she knew he was seeing a woman and that she’s created one hell of a financial debt; he cracked and shot her with his rifle; then he killed himself.” She frowned. “How would he be allowed to have a rifle?”

  “He worked in MI6 special projects. The inscription to him on the gun suggests it was a gift – most likely from a foreign ally. Technically he shouldn’t have kept the gun at his house. Sometimes guys like File break rules.”

  The forensics officer smiled. “These MI6 people make up the rules as they go along. Unlike you MI5 guys, they don’t follow procedures and laws.”

  “Quite.” Sign looked around. “Did anything strike you as odd in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “All normal. Fingerprints of the Files and their son – upstairs and downstairs. No other prints.”

  “And File’s prints were on the gun?”

  “Yes. Also his saliva was on the side of the weapon. He also had cordite on his forearms. It’s not visible to the naked eye. But we have specialist equipment. Most shooters don’t know they leave traces of their presence when they shoot guns.”

  “It was File’s job to know such matters.” Sign swung around and pointed. “The chair was here.” To himself, he muttered, “Where, where?” He knew the answer and sat on a chair facing the place where File killed himself. He knew this was where the whisperer sat, because it was the exact spot Sign would have chosen under the same circumstances. He addressed the forensics officer. “You must have examined hundreds of domestic homes in your career. All of them contain tell–tale signs of the inhabitants. Also, they contain signs of visitors. Did the chair have File’s prints on it?”

  “Yes. Also Mrs. File’s prints. It was a dining table chair, identical to the chair you’re sitting on.”

  “So, it was well used.” File drummed his fingers on the adjacent dining table. “Did you check for prints of any kind on the table and other chairs around me?”

  The forensics officer checked her notes. “Yes. There were no prints whatsoever – not the Files’ or anyone else. The table and chairs must have been cleaned recently, or not used for a long time.”

  “Yes, that makes sense.” Sign stood. “Thank you, officer. As you say, this looks like a tragic falling out between husband and wife. There’s no role for me and my colleagues in this matter.” He left the house with his colleagues. To Knutsen, he said, “Wait here with Katy for a moment.” He walked to Parker and said to him, “It was murder. Meet me at my flat at seven PM this evening.”

  Hilt watched Sign through high–powered binoculars. He cursed and called Smith. “The pain in the ass is on your back again. He’s been to the house. Roberts and Knutsen are with him. They’re all leaving now.”

  Smith replied, “Sign will know the scene was stage–managed. But he’ll have no proof.” He laughed. “That will considerably annoy him. He’s digging a hole for himself. In the end, he’ll be a laughing stock and his credibility will be shattered. Stay on him though. And watch out for Knutsen and Roberts. They’ll try to grab you while you’re watching Sign. They’ll try to use you to get to me.”

  “Understood boss. If that happens, what are my protocols?”

  “Kill them.”

  “No problem.”

  That evening in West Square, Sign paced back and forth in front of Roberts and Knutsen. He checked his watch. “We don’t have long. In five minutes’ time, the man you saw me speaking to outside File’s house will arrive here. He won’t be late or early. He’s a very senior MI6 officer and is the only person at that grade that I trust. I won’t introduce him to you as MI6. I’ll leave it to him to decide how he couches his credentia
ls. I’d be put in prison for blowing someone’s cover without authority. But when he arrives, I am going to break other rules that are equally detrimental to my freedom. Win him over; charm him; show him you mean business.” The downstairs communal intercom buzzed. Sign looked at Knutsen. “Do your usual security checks first. If all is good, let him in.”

  Two minutes’ later, Colin Parker was in the room.

  Sign gestured to the others. “This is detective inspector Katy Roberts of the Metropolitan Police Special Branch. You saw her this morning. She has been working with me for several weeks and is my sole link to the commissioner of her service. The gentleman sat next to her is Tom Knutsen. He has recently retired from the Metropolitan Police. When in service, he was a detective and an undercover operative. Their credentials are impeccable.”

  Parker nodded at them and slung his overcoat onto a chair. “You’re all working on File’s suicide?”

  Sign pulled out a chair. “Take a seat dear chap. We’re working on a pattern of behaviour. Archer, Lake, and now File. In a matter of weeks they took their lives.”

  Parker was impatient. “I know!” He sat.

  “Would you like to tell Mrs. Roberts and Mr. Knutsen who you are?”

  “I work in government service.”

  “They’ll need specifics if they’re to trust you.”

  Parker looked horrified. “Ben, what the..?”

  Sign smiled. “They know I’m formerly MI6.”

  “Good for you. I didn’t realise you were so loose lipped.”

  “Three deaths. But it’s not just three deaths.” He pointed at Roberts. “Katy’s husband was murdered by a killer who I strongly suspect is working for the man who’s orchestrating the suicides.”

  Parker looked at Roberts. “I’m sorry… I heard, but didn’t know it was your husband.”

  “Why would you?” Roberts pointed at Sign. “Knutsen describes Sign as a magpie. He collects things. But only things of extreme value to him. He’s collected Knutsen and me. Maybe he wants to collect you.” She gestured to the antiquities, other artefacts, and books in the lounge. “As far as I can ascertain, there are four things that are vital to his life and work: trust, kindness, authenticity, and expertise. You won’t find one item in this room that doesn’t match all four criteria.”