The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  “Surely you’re not thinking of driving somewhere tonight?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. After today’s events, you and I need to witness something pleasant. The journey won’t take long.”

  Sign drove the car three hundred yards, pointed it at the sea, and stopped. Sign said, “Headlights remain on full beam. We disembark.”

  They got out of the car.

  Sign pointed. “Can you see them?”

  Knutsen could. Hundreds of penguins were huddled together on large rocks. “This is what you brought me to see?”

  “Of course.”

  Knutsen smiled. “Before coming to the islands, I’d never seen penguins in the wild.”

  “And now you have. No matter how many bad things there are in the world, life goes on. Come on. Dinner’s ready.”

  Casero called Sosa and Fontonia. He said the same thing to both operatives. “We must assume something unfortunate has happened to Mr. R. Whether Sign and Knutsen were involved cannot be determined. But we need to locate them and find out what they know about our target. Sign and Knutsen can then be disposed of. Sweep Stanley and any other place they might be staying in outside the capital. Get me their address. Report back to me. And then we’ll pay them a visit.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The following morning, Sign cooked omelettes with cheese and ham. He called upstairs. “Mr. Knutsen! Downstairs if you please. Breakfast is served.” It was six AM.

  Two minutes later, Knutsen emerged. He was fully dressed, though bleary eyed.

  “You look like you slept in a hedge,” joked Sign.

  Knutsen wasn’t in the mood for wise cracks. “Kept rolling in my sleep onto my injured arm. It’s on the side I always sleep. For every thirty minutes I slept, I was awake for thirty minutes. I feel like shit.”

  Sign handed him his breakfast and made two mugs of strong coffee. As they ate in the lounge, Sign said, “Today we’re going after Peter Hunt on the west island. Hopefully this will be the end of the case.”

  “It might be the end of our lives if the Argentinians get to us before flights are allowed to resume and Hunt can testify.”

  “True. So, let’s enjoy our food while we can. We have a long journey ahead of us. I don’t know when we’ll next eat.”

  Thirty minutes later, Knutsen was sitting in the car, while Sign secured the cottage. He locked the back door from the inside, went into the lounge, pulled out a cabinet drawer by only two millimetres – the gap being barely perceptible to the human eye, stepped out of the cottage, and locked the front door. He got into the car’s driver’s seat and turned on the engine. “We must traverse the entire east island to get to the port at New Haven. That will take us several hours. The ferry crossing to Port Howard on the west island takes two hours. And when we get there we must meet a man who specialises in the conservation of elephant seals.”

  Knutsen shook his head and muttered, “Elephant seals? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Sign drove the car away from Bluff Cove.

  Sosa spent the morning visiting hotels and B&Bs in Stanley, plus booking agents who rented cottages in the capital or within a ten mile radius of Stanley. The seventh place she attended was a coastal house in the capital. She knocked on the door.

  An elderly woman answered. “Yes?”

  “Hello. I’m enquiring about your holiday let in Bluff Cove. I saw it advertised on your website.”

  The woman looked over her shoulder. “Lizzy. We have a customer.” The woman returned her gaze on Sosa. “My daughter deals with bookings.” She went inside.

  Lizzy came to the door. “How can I help you?”

  Sosa pretended to look distracted and emotional. “I’m looking for my uncle. His name’s Ben Sign. I’ve been trying to call him, but his phone doesn’t seem to be working. I need to reach him urgently. I have some sad family news. I wondered if he’d rented your cottage.”

  Lizzy frowned. “How do you know about your holiday let?”

  “Your website. I…” Sosa wobbled on her feet and slammed a hand against the wall to maintain her balance.

  “Are you okay?”

  Sosa smiled. “I’m alright. It comes and goes. Pregnancy does weird things to the body.”

  Lizzy smiled sympathetically. “Is it your first?”

  Sosa nodded.

  “I’ve got two – boy and a girl. Trust me – pregnancy and childbirth is a walk in the park compared to what happens afterwards.” She drummed her fingers on the hallway. “Are you a local?”

  Sosa shook her head. “I arrived here a week ago. I need my uncle to go to England. We’ve got a funeral to arrange. It’s…” Sosa started sobbing. “It’s hard. I’ve got no husband or boyfriend. I’ve got to look after this,” she patted her stomach, “myself. I shouldn’t be down here, but we’ve got a very small family. No one else could make the trip. They’re too old or ill. I just need to know where Ben is.”

  Lizzy said, “Wait here.” She went further into the house and returned with a business card. “We normally don’t give out the names of our guests to strangers, but under the circumstances I don’t see any harm in letting you know that last night a Mr. Ben Sign secured our Bluff Cove cottage for a week.” She handed the card to Sosa. “The address is on there. Please tell him that if he has to leave early, his holiday payment is non-refundable.”

  “I… I understand. And thank you. I’ve also tried emailing him, but have had no response.”

  Lizzy shrugged. “We get used to it at this time of year. Phones. Internet. During winter they’re unreliable. When are you due?”

  “Five months and two weeks.”

  Lizzy smiled. “Are you hoping for a boy or girl?”

  “I don’t mind. The bastard who got me up the duff has done a runner. Boy or girl doesn’t matter, so long as they help me out when they’re older.” Sosa looked at the card. “Thank you. I’ll drive to Bluff Cove now. Ben’s always been good to my family. He’ll make sure I get home safely.”

  Sosa turned and walked away. When she was out of sight of Lizzy she called Casero and gave him the location of Sign’s holiday let.

  Casero said, “We’ll meet half a mile north east of the house, in one hour’s time.” He hung up.

  Knutsen was getting bored because of the length of the journey across the east island and because Sign had to drive at less than forty miles an hour due to the weather conditions. The beads of snow striking the windscreen were playing havoc with Knutsen’s eyes. God knows how Sign retained focus on the road. Knutsen said, “Let’s play a game. We go through the alphabet. I choose a subject and start at A. You follow with B. Then it’s my turn. You good with that?”

  Sign sighed. “Yes, I’m good with that, to use your awkward strangulation of proper language.”

  “Okay. Subject is movie titles. A is Avatar.”

  “What’s that?

  “It’s a sort of fantasy sci-fi blockbuster.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Knutsen shrugged. “That shouldn’t surprise me. B?”

  “Buffet Froid.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a French film, made in 1979. What I like about is it’s a Buñuelian depiction of the far-from-discreet crimes of the bourgeoisie.”

  Knutsen sighed. “This isn’t going well. Look – can we just focus on films that might have shown at our local multiplex cinema?”

  “I’ve never been to a multiplex cinema.”

  “Shut up! C – Captain America.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Knutsen was exasperated. “Why?”

  “Because grammatically it is illogical and from a technical standpoint it is false. What does Captain America mean? Moreover, you can have a captain who is American. But you can’t have a captain of America. The rank of captain is too low. Only a president holds the entitlement to be referred to as the president of America. But even he or she isn’t referred to as Pr
esident America. Are you sure the film you refer to is real?”

  Knutsen slammed his hand against the dashboard. “Forget this game. Let’s play another. I spy with my little eye something beginning with more fucking snow!”

  Casero stood by his car on the side of the road leading to Sign and Knutsen’s cottage. He was wearing a fleece, woollen hat, gloves, waterproof trousers, and hiking boots. Fontonia and Sosa pulled up in their respective vehicles. They opened their windows. Casero called out, “Follow me.” He got back into his jeep and turned off the road, driving down a farm track. After two hundred yards he stopped and turned off his engine. His colleagues did the same. He exited the car and waited for the two female assassins to join him. Like him, they were wearing Arctic gear. Casero said, “On foot from here. If you hear a vehicle, get off the road asap and take cover.”

  They walked back to the road and headed to the Bluff Cove cottage. Wind and snow battered their faces. They had to lean slightly forward to compensate for the gusts that were striking them. But this was easy. During their time in Special Projects they’d completed horrendously long winter treks in the Andes. And they’d had to survive in the mountains for weeks.

  It took them fifteen minutes to reach the house. There were no vehicles outside and no internal lights visible. Casero silently gestured to Sosa, commanding her to cover the rear exit. She moved to the back of the cottage and waited, her sidearm held in both hands. He pointed at the front door. Fontonia tried the handle. The door was locked. It took her less than a minute to pick the lock and open the door. She stamped her feet to shake snow off of her boots and entered, her pistol held at eye level. Casero followed her. Both were silent as they swept through the house, checking every room for signs of life. When they were satisfied no one was here, Casero unlocked the rear kitchen door to allow Sosa to enter.

  Casero said, “You two take the upstairs rooms. Leave no trace. I’m particularly interested in passports, other forms of ID, maps, phones, flight tickets, hire car purchase receipts, photos, and any hand-written notes. But keep an open mind. If you find anything of interest let me know. I’ll search downstairs.” The women were about to go upstairs. “Oh, and ladies – make sure this is an A+ search. Everything, repeat everything must be left exactly as you found it. Take photos if necessary, so you can reassemble items in the exact position you found them.”

  As the women set to work, Casero examined the kitchen. He searched cupboards, lifting up plates, bowls, pans, and the plastic cutlery tray to see if there was anything hidden beneath them. He looked in the bin, but didn’t move anything. As far as he could tell, there was nothing unusual in there; only scraps of food, tins, and plastic disposable trays; certainly he couldn’t see and pieces of paper that might contain information that was memorized before being screwed into a ball and discarded. He looked in the fridge. There was food in there, but nothing unusual. He went into the lounge. The log burner contained dying embers. But that told him nothing about when the occupants of the house were last here. Depending on the quality of the burner, the type of wood used to fuel it, the settings applied in air inflow and outflow, and the length and diameter of its chimney, a log burner could stay lit for twenty four hours or could extinguish in a fraction of that time. He opened drawers in a chest. Inside there were an instruction manual listing how to operate the house, emergency numbers for police, fire brigade, and the hospital, a few brochures on the Falklands and its attractions, and a guest book for visitors to write their feedback on their stay in the cottage. There was nothing in the cabinet that was personal to Sign or Knutsen. He closed the drawers, and searched the rest of the room, looking behind cushions on the armchairs, lifting up the chairs’ padding, peering underneath the furniture, examining ornaments on the mantelpiece, and rifling through a DVD collection that was adjacent to a small TV. He found nothing.

  Sosa and Fontonia came downstairs.

  Fontonia said, “Upstairs has been sanitised. It’s as if they were never here.”

  “It’s the same downstairs.” Casero sat in the armchair used by Sign and cursed. “We’re dealing with highly trained professionals. They may be current or former special forces or specialist police. But, I think – given the tradecraft deployed here – that at least one of them has had significant intelligence experience. Shit!”

  “We can handle special operatives,” said Sosa.

  Casero shook his head. “That’s not what’s bothering me. We’ll have left a trace of our presence here.”

  Fontonia and Sosa glanced at each other, looking confused.

  Fontonia said, “We searched the place exactly as you told us to. All items are inch-perfect in the same position we found them.”

  “Inch perfect isn’t good enough!” Casero looked at the drawers. “Even a millimetre or two out of place can be enough to warn someone that an intruder has been in his house, if he knows we’re coming and he’s set us up for a fall.” He breathed deeply. “Still – maybe it doesn’t matter that they know we’ve been here. If anything, it might work to our advantage. They’ll know they’re dealing with experts. As such, they’ll be under more pressure. Their ability to maintain their pristine standard of espionage etiquette will most likely falter.”

  “We don’t have time to wait for that to happen.”

  Casero agreed. “We must assume that Rojo is dead and that Sign and Knutsen killed him.”

  Fontonia said, “Maybe the British military killed him.”

  Casero shook his head. “Let’s work back from the problem. Sign and Knutsen were engaged by someone to investigate the murders of Wilson and his buddies. We must assume that the Brits are aware that there was a fifth man, so far unaccounted for, who was on the boat that night. They’re as desperate to find him as we are. That’s Sign and Knutsen’s job – find the fifth man. But this is a very serious task that could lead to war. By extension, Sign and Knutsen are very important people. I find it implausible that Richards wouldn’t know that Sign and Knutsen were on the islands. Most likely, he commissioned them to find the fifth man, or at least he was brought into the inner circle of military people who knew about the top secret deployment of the investigators. If I were Sign or Knutsen I wouldn’t want Richards to interfere with my mission. I’d want to work off the radar and minimise the chances of locals finding out that their islands may soon be used as a battle launch pad. But now and again, I would need Richards’ assistance. Sign and Knutsen killed Rojo; Richards cleaned up the mess. So, where does that lead us? And where have Sign and Knutsen driven to today?”

  Sosa said, “It will be linked to Maloney.”

  “Yes.” Casero looked at Fontonia. “Let’s pluck out a possibility or two.”

  Fontonia thought it through. “Goose Green is a narrow strip of land on the east island. To its east are us and Stanley, plus a few farmers. To the west of the strip of land is not much apart from a chunk of the island, largely uninhabited. It’s possible the fifth man lives there.”

  “Or?”

  “He lives on the west island. There are no checks on the ferry between west and east islands. He could easily transport his guns.”

  Casero nodded. “Maloney is either dead or he’s in protective custody. Either way he might have given Sign and Knutsen the identity of a man who used military grade weapons on his shooting range. If so, the investigators have gone looking for him.” He stood. “We now have no leads, aside from Sign and Knutsen. Therefore, we must find them and see where they take us. But, we don’t know what they look like, or what car they’re driving. In this weather, only emergency services and farmers venture into the remote parts of the islands. Even farmers don’t go out unless absolutely necessary; their cattle are brought into their ranches until the snow thaws. So, we have an advantage – Sign and Knutsen may stand out. I want you two to cover the western chunk of the east island, beyond Goose Green. One of you should sit tight in Goose Green – it’s a bottle neck; every car passing through will be easily spotted. And one of you should take a dr
ive west of there. I’m going to the ferry port in New Haven. I’ll make enquiries there. Depending upon what emerges from those enquiries, I may travel across to Port Howard.” He checked his watch. “Okay. Let’s lock up the house and get moving.”

  Sign drove his vehicle onto the ferry. He and Knutsen were the only passengers on the boat. The ferry pilot was amazed when they’d turned up and requested tickets. He hadn’t needed to ferry customers for days. But, he was a professional and had no qualms about making the crossing, even though the cost of doing so outweighed the price of the tickets.

  For most of the journey Knutsen remained indoors, using his injured arm to lean against a wall and do a standing version of one-arm press-ups. The actions hurt, but were essential to get blood flowing and teach his arm to ignore pain.

  Sign was on deck, the hood of his waterproof jacket covering his head, the collar of the fleece underneath rolled up so that it covered his chin. Only his mouth, eyes, and nose were exposed to the harsh elements. Snow and an icy wind lashed his face. His father had been a merchant sailor in his younger days. Until he passed away from old age, his father adored second hand book shops and antique dealers, searching for obscure books about naval history and exploits, old maps, ships’ logs, souvenirs from early twentieth century explorations, and indeed anything that took his fancy because it reminded him of his own adventures at sea. Sign’s father had been evacuated from London during the Second World War and had been relocated to the country. After his parents’ death, he’d been placed into foster care, moving from one family to the next. That wasn’t for him. He was an extremely intelligent boy, but didn’t have the ability to stay on at school and go to university. He also had fire in his belly. Age fourteen, he joined the merchant navy. After six months of training, he boarded a train from Devon to Lowestoft in Suffolk. It was the longest journey he’d taken alone. All he had with him was a sack of clothes and his seafaring qualification certificate. The train journey, he’d often recount, was relentless. He was so scared that he’d fall asleep and miss the Lowestoft station. But he got there and reported to the port’s merchant navy office that allocated work. In those days, one could choose which ship one wanted to be on, depending on which part of the world one wanted to go to. Sign’s father had chosen to go on an old whaling boat that had been converted to carry food. It was bound for Bombay, as the capital was called back then. As he approached the boat, his sack on one shoulder, he looked at the rusty old vessel and wondered how it was possible for the boat to make the journey. But, he didn’t hesitate. He approached the gangplank in order to get on board. It was then that a man emerged at the top of the gangplank – a six foot eight black man. He looked like a giant. Sign’s father had never seen a black man before. The man walked past him without uttering a word. He smelled of fire. The sight of the man heightened his nerves and excitement. He was truly about to embark on an adventurous life that would take him to places and civilisations he’d only read about in books. The black man’s job was to shovel coal in the ship’s engine room. He, and other salty tough sailors – as foul mouthed as they were – looked out for Sign’s father. They adopted him and gave him rules – he wasn’t allowed to smoke, drink, or curse, until he was sixteen; when they got to shore, the older men would head to bars and chase women, but he wasn’t allowed to come with them; when off-shift at sea, they could play cards and gamble with cigarettes, and he was allowed to watch but not take part; and he had to keep reading books so that he didn’t become as illiterate as they were.