by Matthew Dunn
“God damn it!” Richards ran his fingers through his hair. “We wanted him alive!”
“So did I.” Sign looked at Richards’ men. They were carrying Hunt to the helicopter. “We found the fifth man for you. I would hazard a guess that he was in a state of paranoia. He tried to kill me because he was no longer rational. Do you have an update on when flights will resume to London. Our job is complete.”
Richards exhaled slowly. “Two to three days. The high winds will have abated by then.”
“Excellent.”
Richards looked at Sign’s lacerated jacket. “I’ll get you to the medical centre in Pleasant.”
“No need, dear chap. I’ve had far worse. This is just a graze; it’s not a deep cut.”
Richards nodded. “My boat’s waiting for you in Port Howard. Try to get there within the next forty minutes. The vessel’s high speed and can make the crossing in forty minutes. That should give you enough time to get back to your cottage before nightfall.”
“Thank you, colonel.”
Richards was about to head to the helicopter, but hesitated. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”
Sign grinned. “Heaven forbid! There are however some loose ends, namely what Hunt’s connection was to Wilson and the others.”
Richards shrugged. “We won’t be bothered to pursue that. Almost certainly he’s a mate of a mate of a mate. That’s how it works down here.”
Sign nodded. “You didn’t get your war.”
“Not my war. An attack on the islands is an attack on Britain. Justice hasn’t been obtained.”
“We lost a battle. If there’s a similar incident in the future, let’s hope the outcome is in our favour.” Sign walked to the jeep. “Time to go home,” he said to Knutsen.
Using binoculars and while prone on the ground, Casero watched the helicopter take off. And he saw Sign and Knutsen drive away from the area where Hunt was shot. When helicopter and car were out of sight, he stood and called Fontonia. “The fifth man’s dead. I’ll be back on the east island tomorrow. We’ll meet at 1400hrs hours at the farm track we parked on this morning. We have one more job to do. Then we’ll exfiltrate the islands at 1700hrs. Call Miss S and relay these instructions. There’s nothing more we can do today.” He picked up his holdall and walked to his car.
Four hours’ later Sign and Knutsen were back at Bluff Cove. Sign looked at the drawer he’d opened by a fraction. It was fully closed. “They’ve been here.”
“The Argentinian assassins.”
“Yes. But not to worry. Maybe they thawed out and made themselves a nice cuppa.”
“Shall I check for bugs?”
Sign reached into the fridge and withdrew a joint of beef brisket. “Yes. I doubt they’ve planted any because they had to move too fast to search this place plus get on our heels. But one can never be too certain.” He diced onions and braised them with the brisket and root vegetables within a casserole pot on the hob, before adding a bay leaf, thyme, pepper, mustard, and red wine into the pan. He placed the dish into the oven, peeled potatoes, and placed them into a pot for par-boiling and roasting nearer to dinner time. He entered the lounge. Knutsen was searching every piece of furniture. Sign said, “Supper will be served in around two hours. Once you’ve completed your task please get the fire lit. Meanwhile I’m going to have a long bath and extract the pellets some fool shot at me.” He smiled and headed upstairs.
When Sign had finished bathing and attending to his wounds, he dressed, came downstairs, placed twenty three ball-bearings on the kitchen counter, turned on a hob to parboil the potatoes, poured two glasses of brandy, and entered the lounge. The fire was lit and Knutsen was sitting in his armchair. Sign handed him a drink and sat opposite him.
Knutsen said, “For an eavesdropping device to work and transmit in these weather conditions and landscape, it would have to be very sophisticated and no smaller than my fist. Certainly it wouldn’t be a tiny bug placed under a table or in a lampshade. The logical place to install it would be the ceiling or walls. The walls are stone, and haven’t been corrupted. The ceiling could have been corrupted, but it would take at least half a day to open it up, insert a device, and re-plaster and paint the ceiling in the exact colour of the rest of the ceiling. I’ve looked in and under furniture, in drawers, cupboards et cetera, et cetera. There’s no listening device in the cottage.”
“Excellent work. You’ve earned your supper.” Sign sipped his drink. “They may come for us tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“If we tell them something of interest, be under no illusions – they’ll kill us.”
“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.” Knutsen felt weary. “Have you done something like this before?”
“Meaning?”
“Acting as bait? Just waiting?”
Sign smiled. “Like a tethered goat? Yes, many times. But, the point of tethering the goat is to lure in the encroaching tiger of leopard. The predator doesn’t know he’s walking into a trap. Nearby is a hunter with a gun. It’s a tried and tested ploy to kill desperately hungry beasts.”
Knutsen rubbed his fatigued face. “If we get out of this alive and make it back to London, the first thing I’m going to do is put shorts and a T-shirt on and sit on a deckchair in a park. I here southern England’s having a heat wave at the moment. I’m sick of the weather down here.”
Sign laughed. “By contrast, I shall catch a matinee classical concert at the Barbican or Cadogan Hall. It will take my mind off all matters pertaining to our pursuit of the fifth man.”
“Do we have any new cases to work? Anything in our in-tray?”
“Yes. But they’re all minor fare – fraud, cheating husbands, vetting of potential employees, and establishing why a woman threw herself onto a train track in Guildford. I could resolve the cases in my sleep and without leaving the comfort of our West Square flat. Still, they pay the bills.”
“But, they don’t fuel the fire.”
Sign’s eyes twinkled. “No they don’t, Mr. Knutsen. We must hope for a case that is considerably more engaging.” He entered the kitchen, drained off the spuds, added them to a metal tray, poured oil over the potatoes, and put the tray into the oven. He returned to the lounge. “As usual, before you sleep make sure you clean your gun We must be on our game tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 12
Sign was up and dressed at six AM. He’d barely slept during the night because he’d felt uneasy. That sense was still with him as he placed breakfast food on a chopping board, ready to be cooked when Knutsen emerged, and brewed a pot of coffee. He wondered whether he was making the right decision by staying here until flights resumed. It would be so easy to get accommodation in RAF Mount Pleasant. No one would be able to get to him and Knutsen if they were housed there. But, he still felt a figurative bitter taste in his mouth because matters had not been concluded in the way he would have liked. The only way that could change is if they stayed away from the military base. He and Knutsen had to take their chances. Moreover, there was something that he hadn’t told Knutsen. It was a thought that had been nagging him ever since Richards had first visited them in London. The thought wasn’t based on any evidence. Rather, it was a question he had; a ‘what if’, as he liked to call such notions.
He put his fleece on and walked outside. For the first time since he’d been on the islands, the sky was blue. There was still thick snow covering every inch of land, and the temperature was bitterly cold, but a complete lack of wind and no cloud cover showed the islands in a very different light. The landscape around the cottage was stunning, one could see for miles, distant mountains looked like they were only a short walk away whereas they were in fact a long day’s walk from Bluff Cove, and all around him was eerily silent.
He stood for a moment, taking in the vista. But, his thoughts weren’t on the surrounding beauty. Instead, he tried to imagine where the assassins would come from. Most likely they’d be on foot and would approach from different directions. W
as it the right thing to do to put Knutsen in this kind of peril? He didn’t know. Knutsen would balk if he told him to leave while he could. Still, he felt a duty of care over his business partner. Plus, he needed him. Knutsen had been in many tight spots during his career as an undercover cop. He was a grownup. He could handle tough situations. That’s what Sign kept telling himself. Over and over. But, it was one thing dealing with drug barons and their gangs in London, it was another thing altogether confronting highly trained nefarious types who operated in the secret world. But, there was no one else Sign would rather have by his side. For the most part in his MI6 career he’d worked alone. But, when he’d needed to work with others he’d always applied the same standard in his assessment of them: is this someone you want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with in the trenches, before the whistle blows and you have to go over the top? Knutsen was that man, without a doubt. It was simple – Knutsen would take a bullet for Sign; Sign would take a bullet for Knutsen. There was no need to overthink that cast iron principal. And yet lesser men and women would never understand that fundamental of sacrifice.
He looked west. He was certain the man he’d met on the road yesterday would be taking the first available ferry out of the island this morning. No way could he have gotten off the island yesterday. And, because he was sure the man was the leader of the assassination team, Sign knew the man would want to be here in person to enact the coup de grâce – the final blow that would put Sign and Knutsen out of their misery. He was coming, Sign was sure of that.
He walked around the perimeter of the house, taking in everything he could see. He and Knutsen were so exposed here. And they only had one gun. They were like chickens in a coop, awaiting three savage foxes to enter. There was nowhere to go; no means of fleeing; no chance of fighting back. That had to change.
He re-entered the cottage.
Knutsen was downstairs, pouring coffee. He was also frying bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, eggs, and toasting baps. He grinned as he saw Sign. “I thought I’d cook for a change. I’m sick of your shit food.”
“Quite right, sir.” Sign slumped in a chair. “Visibility is superb today. I wish it wasn’t. We are sitting ducks.”
Knutsen brought the food through to the lounge and handed Sign a plate of breakfast. “If we’re sitting ducks, so are they. We’ll spot them before they spot us. What time do you think they’ll come here?”
“Early afternoon. I would imagine they want to get off the islands later today. The clock is ticking.”
“Eat your food. Drink your coffee.”
Sign forced the breakfast and beverage down his neck. He knew he needed the sustenance. But it was a chore to get nutrients and caffeine in to his stomach. “How many rounds do you have left for your Glock 37?”
“Three full magazines. Enough to take down a lot of people.”
“Good.” Sign put his plate and mug to one side. “Your breakfast has given me a second wind. We must think unconventionally.”
“That’s what you do.”
“Indeed. But, ‘amateur improvisation’ is probably a more astute term of reference for situations like this. What will the assassins do?”
Knutsen placed his last portion of food into his mouth. “They’ll want to overwhelm us, and they’ll want to do so up close and personal. There’s no advantage to one of them taking a sniper position. We’re of no use to them dead. Not until the end, at least. So, they’ll come in to the house. They’ll shoot us, but not kill us, or they’ll physically over power us. They’ll tie us up. And that’s when the good stuff starts. They’ll want to know everything we know about the fifth man. They’ll be merciless.”
Sign nodded. “I won’t tell them a thing.” He stared at Knutsen.
Knutsen said, “Nor will I. And the beauty of it is we’ve genuinely got nothing to say. We got very close to Peter Hunt but not close enough to get him to talk. They can torture us all they like. We never got a confession out of Hunt. So, it’s like trying to draw blood out of a stone. They’ll get nothing.”
“And then they kill us.”
“Yep. There’s no other outcome.”
“I agree with your analysis.” Sign stood. “You think I was wrong not to inform Richards about the Argentinian unit. Right now you’re probably thinking that I should eat humble pie, call Richards, and get him to send soldiers here.”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“Even if I wanted support, it’s too late for that now. In all probability, one or both of the women are watching our house. If they see soldiers enter the cottage, the assassins will abort their operation. That would be unacceptable.”
“What do you propose?”
Two hours later, Casero boarded the ferry in Port Howard. On this occasion he wasn’t the only passenger on the boat. The break in the weather had prompted west islanders to travel to the east island to reconnect with friends and family based there, or to collect supplies in Port Stanley. Casero was glad. He’d been worried that he might be making the journey with Sign and Knutsen. But, Fontonia was watching, from distance, their house in the west island. She’d told Casero that they were both back in Bluff Cove.
From a vending machine, he poured himself a black coffee and strolled on deck. The air was still bitterly cold, but was calm. The sky was azure. For a while, seagulls followed the boat before turning back to land because they sensed they were straying too far from the shore of the west island. Casero sucked in the icy air. He liked the Falklands; they reminded him of the place where he’d grown up in southern Argentina. He had no opinion on whether the islands should belong to Argentina or not. He wasn’t interested in politics and power-based land-grabs. His only motivation in life was to do the job in hand. That said, he didn’t want to see Argentina and Britain to once again use the Falklands as a battleground. In his view, politicians never understood war. He’d seen too much death to readily embrace a situation where young Argentinian men were told to lay down their lives for a small plot of land. If Sign and Knutsen had learned something from the west islander who’d been shot, they’d take that information to Colonel Richards. They’d have to testify in a British court of law. Then, UK forces would unleash hell on Argentina. Casero’s country would be outgunned. It was his duty to get to Sign and Knutsen, make them talk, and then dispatch them.
He walked around the deck for the duration of the journey. When the boat was a few hundred yards from New Haven, he entered his vehicle, checked his weapons, and waited to disembark.
Sign poured coffee in to a flask and handed it to Knutsen. “You’re going to need this to stay alert and warm.”
Knutsen took the flask and nodded. “Let’s do this.”
Sign walked out of the house, acutely aware that he was probably being watched by one or more assassins, and got into the jeep. He reversed the car a few yards, and drove it so that it was close to the open front door. The gap between the car and door was only two yards. It would be impossible for anyone with a long range scope to see what was happening in the gap. Knutsen crawled out of the house, entered the rear passenger area, and stayed low. Sign drove the car twenty yards forward, slowed, and said, “Now!”
Knutsen rolled out of the car and dashed into the disused sheep pen outhouse.
Sign leisurely turned the car and drove it close to the front door. He stopped the vehicle and got out. He hoped he was being watched as he leisurely walked around the jeep, pretending to check lights and tyres. He opened the bonnet and leaned forward, looking at the engine. After closing the bonnet, he entered the house, picked up an empty wine bottle, a rubber tube he’d cut off the washing machine, stuffed both in his jacket, exited the house, and crouched by the vehicle’s petrol cap. Now, he couldn’t be seen. He opened the cap, inserted the tube into the tank, sucked on the other end of the tube, and placed it in the bottle after petrol hit his mouth. While spitting petrol out of his mouth, he waited until the bottle was full. He raised the tube, withdrew it, and screwed the cap back into place. He entered t
he house, shut the door, placed the bottle on a table, tossed aside the tube, thrust a rag into the bottle so that it was dowsed in the flammable liquid, extracted half of it, and placed a lighter next to the bottle.
Now all he and Knutsen could do was wait.
Casero stopped his car on the farm track, close to the house at Bluff Cove. Sosa and Fontonia were there, standing next to their vehicles. It was two PM. Casero said nothing as he walked to the women. He looked in the direction of Sign and Knutsen’s cottage. It wasn’t visible, due to the fact that the track was in a hollow and the house was in a dip beyond an elevated stretch of land.
Fontonia said, “They’re both in the house, though I haven’t seen Knutsen for an hour. Sign, however, is in the lounge. He’s pacing backwards and forwards. He’s also checked his car. I guess the clear weather has given him an opportunity to ensure everything’s in working order. But, he turned the car around to face the road. Presumably they’re making a road trip later today.”
Casero nodded. “We have no time to waste. Move quickly. Approach the target from the directions we discussed.”
They set off on foot, all of them carrying handguns.
Knutsen tried to control his breathing. He was shivering, having been in the tiny sheep pen for two hours. Even the cold-weather attire he was wearing couldn’t protect him from the cold. It was the inability to move that was causing him to shake. He had to get control of that physical symptom; had to focus on anything that took his mind of his circumstances. He arched his back to try to relive the muscular tension in his back, got on one knee, raised his pistol, and muttered to himself, “Get your shit together.”
Sign walked back and forth in front of the lounge windows. Sometimes he held a phone to his ear, even though he wasn’t speaking to anyone; other times he gesticulated with his arms while speaking aloud anything that came into his head. The key objective was for him to appear to a surveillance expert that he was doing stuff. As importantly, he had to be visible.
