The Russian Doll (Ben Sign Book 3)

by Matthew Dunn

  Sign waved his hand while looking at the ceiling. “Well, there might have been an element of that in her thought process. The problem is that I never do what I’m told.” He looked straight at her. “Slap whatever labels you wish to on me: guardian angel, mentor, manipulator, scoundrel, knight, barbarian, contrarian, doctor. It doesn’t matter to me and it does matter to you. All that’s relevant is I want you off the high wire.”

  Natalia rubbed her forehead. “Who are you really?”

  Sign dabbed his handkerchief against his lips. “If you wish to choose one label, think of me as your consigliere – the person who advises you.”

  Natalia shook her head. “That’s Sicilian mafia shit. And a consigliere isn’t the boss. Are you saying I’m the boss who you’re advising?”

  “Let’s work on that assumption, until it proves true or false.”

  Natalia’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t strike me as someone who has a boss.” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter who you really are. You obviously have power over Katy. Will I continue to meet her?”

  “Yes. She will wish to check on your welfare. And she will continue to try to persuade you to spy for her. You will also separately meet me. Any attempts by Katy to force you to reveal more Russian spy names must be firmly but gently rebutted by you. Only I can judge when you are ready to recommence work, if indeed you will ever be ready.”

  “What is this? Some good cop, bad cop routine between you and Katy?”

  Sign smiled. “No. Katy and I are not professional partners. And you’ll find out that I’m nothing like a good cop.” He reached into his pocket. “I’ve bought you a gift.” He handed her a small box. “Katy said you were a fan of vaporisers, though normally prefer cigarettes. In the box are one hundred hand rolled cigarettes that I procured from the Balkans. You won’t source finer tobacco anywhere else in the world.”

  Natalia opened the box.

  “I’m not a smoker. But, I’ve been told that it’s recommended to smoke one of them after partaking of a rich meal containing red meat. These are not fags to puff on while you’re having a morning coffee. Savour them for special occasions. The box is hermetically sealed. The cigarettes should last several months.”

  Natalia placed the box in her handbag. “Thank you.”

  Sign checked his watch. “You are off duty tomorrow. I’d like to meet you for lunch. I’ve already taken the liberty of booking a table for two for one PM at Simpson’s In The Strand. One PM, tomorrow. You’ll be there.”

  Natalia looked horrified. “Meet you in a public place? You must be crazy!”

  “You’ll be there. This is all part of your training. Plus, Simpson’s does a lovely roast on Sunday. It’s extremely satiating. You won’t need to worry about cooking your supper tomorrow evening. The table will be booked in the name of John Scott. Obviously, it’s an alias name.”

  “Why do we need to meet? I may have plans tomorrow.”

  “You don’t. I suspect you hide when you’re not working, afraid of open spaces. And we need to meet because you may be able to help me.” He stood and extended his hand. “Good day to you Miss Asina. I will leave now. Wait ten minutes before you depart. Katy has paid for the room. You just grab your bag and leave.”

  Natalia shook his hand. “Do my colleagues know who you are?”

  Sign’s only response was, “I don’t exist.” He left the room.

  Before heading home, Sign went to a butcher’s shop in east London. The place was established in eighteen seventy six, was close to a warehouse which once housed sheep which were slaughtered in the Victorian era by being pushed off ledges so that their front legs were broken and they could easily be dispatched, and was thirty yards from where Jack the Ripper killed one of his victims. Now the establishment was run by a burly cockney who’d spent time in Parkhurst Prison for dissecting a dead gangster who’d tried to extort money from him, had tripped on pigs’ blood while holding a gun at the butcher’s head, and had accidentally blown his own brains out. The butcher had tried to dispose of the body the best way he knew how. Unfortunately, forensics technology got the better of him. Police found cremated body parts in the furnaces of local hospitals. And they had CCTV footage of the gangster’s last whereabouts before he went missing. The butcher went down for contamination of a crime scene and mutilation of a corpse. He was a simple fellow. But he knew his meat and was utterly loyal to those who stood by him. Sign had helped him get his business back when he was released from jail. He told the butcher that his motive for doing so was that he needed a wise and skilled artisan in the neighbourhood who understood fine cuts of flesh. It was a white lie. In truth, Sign knew the butcher was on his uppers and needed a helping hand. That’s why he’d stepped in to help him.

  “Hello Brian.”

  Brian smiled. “Mr. Sign, sir. What a pleasure.” Brian was behind the counter in his shop, wearing a bloody apron, preparing his produce for the following morning. On the nearby work surface were a brace of hares, partridge, chicken, lamb cutlets, shanks of beef, and an array of offal. Once preparations had been completed, all of the meat would be refrigerated overnight, before being displayed the next day.

  Sign asked, “Do you have my order?”

  “Of course.” He went into the rear room that was kept at two degrees Celsius, walked past carcases that were hanging from the ceiling, unhooked what he needed, and re-entered the shop. “Here we go, sir. She’s a mighty fine specimen.” He laid the muntjac deer on a slab, underneath which was a large sheet of brown oven-proof paper. “It took me a while to source her. This one came from the north. Do you want me to butcher her for you?”

  “I’ll do that.” Sign walked behind the counter and examined the beast. Like all muntjacs, it was small; approximately two feet long. “I like to do my own butchering, because I want to respect the food I eat.”

  “Quite right, sir. I wish all of my customers were as discerning and skilled as you. But you won’t stop me from packaging her up.” Brian rolled the paper around the carcass and bound the parcel with hemp twine. “Job done.” He handed the deer to Sign.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Twenty quid.”

  “The meat is worth at least five times that amount.”

  “Twenty quid and just promise me you’ll come back here when you need some nice bangers, or a beautiful rib-eye steak. I’ll be charging you full price then.”

  Sign smiled, paid him the money, and placed the deer on his shoulder. He walked back towards West Square. He must have looked odd, wearing a suit and lugging an unusual package on his shoulder. The sun was going down as he reached the Thames embankment. People were still out, though not as many as in the height of summer. Sign adored this part of London. And he loved the different light, smell, and temperature of autumn. Particularly in London, for him summer was two or three months of enduring life in a cauldron. Now, the air was crisp and had the first hints of a bite. It felt like he could breathe again. On the other side of the Thames were the Houses of Parliament; nearby to it, the headquarters of MI5. When he was in MI6 he’d visited both buildings many times – briefing ministers and high ranking counterparts in the Security Service. He was glad those days were behind him.

  A woman was walking towards him – tall, pretty, late thirties, wearing jeans and a white blouse, and with long brunette hair that was entwined in layers so that it was raised over her shoulders. Her name was Ruth. She’d once worked with Sign in MI6. He’d heard she’d recently left the service and was now employed as lecturer at University College London. At first she didn’t notice him; her eyes were fixed on the Thames and she had headphones on. But when she did see him, she smiled. Ruth was the only woman who Sign had wondered about having a relationship with after his wife was murdered. They’d gone out on a date of sorts to a cinema viewing of The English Patient. He’d held her hand. But back then he knew in his heart that he was still an emotional mess. It wouldn’t have worked. They were different times. But, as he saw her now he felt differen
t.

  She walked up to him. “Ben! What a lovely surprise.” She kissed him on the cheek. “How have you been?”

  “Good. How about you? I haven’t seen you for at least four years.”

  “I’m fine, thank you. You may have heard that I’ve quit the cloak and dagger stuff. Now, I’m earning peanuts teaching bored students.” She laughed. “But it beats killing time at three AM in the departure lounge of an international airport, before boarding a plane to some hellhole. What have you got on your shoulder?”

  “A dead deer.”

  Ruth leaned against the wall by the Thames, in fits of giggles. “Of course you have. I’d expect nothing less from you.” She composed herself. “What are you doing these days?” A cloud shifted and exposed the sun to her face.

  Sign was for the briefest of moments lost for words. “Private consultancy. I’m still in West Square. I’ve got a lodger who’s also my business partner.”

  Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Just your business partner?”

  Sign smiled. “It’s a he, and he is not of that orientation and nor am I. We work cases.”

  “So, you’re private detectives? Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, Sherlock Holmes types?” She laughed again.

  “More like Inspector Clouseau.” Sign took a step closer to her. “You… you look good Ruth. Life outside of the madhouse must be the right tonic.”

  Ruth smiled. “And you look like you haven’t aged since I last saw you. Is there a Mrs. Sign in your life, keeping you on the straight and narrow?”

  “Alas, no. I work, I solve problems, I cook. Talking of which, I’m cooking up a storm tonight. Unless you’re busy you’re welcome to come over to dinner.” He patted the deer. “I have to do something with this thing. It’s enough to feed the five thousand.”

  Ruth averted his eyes. “I… sadly I can’t.”

  “You have other plans. I understand.”

  Ruth pushed herself off the wall and went right up to him. She touched his cheek. “It’s not that. I’m getting married. It would be appropriate for me to go to any man’s house for dinner, providing I didn’t fancy the pants off the man.”

  Sign nodded. In a quiet and tender tone of voice, he said, “I missed my chance.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. The timing was awful for you.” She kissed him on the lips. “Goodbye, Ben. I still remember when you held my hand. I can feel it now. It felt like you were transferring your enormous energy to me. It was the most romantic and extraordinary experience I’ve ever had.” She walked away, her back to him, one hand rubbing her face.

  Sign watched her until she was out of view. He sighed and continued his walk to his home.

  Thirty minutes later he slammed the deer onto his kitchen chopping board, grabbed a meat cleaver, and expertly hacked at the carcass until it was in different joints.

  Knutsen wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a can of beer. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Sign removed three knives from the wall mounted magnetic strip. The knives were of different weights. “I’m making dinner. And I’m going to freeze everything I don’t use in separate bags. The deer must be respected and butchered now. It will feed us for many meals.”

  “Oh okay.” Knutsen went into the lounge and put on the TV, while opening his beer can. He flicked through channels before exclaiming in a loud voice, “Cocking Christ. There’s bugger all on TV!”

  It took Sign thirty minutes to finish the job of boning and filleting the deer. He laid two immaculate fillets on the board and packaged the rest up for use on other days. He made a cranberry jus, infused with lemon, heather, pepper, and whiskey, peeled potatoes, made clapshot - boiled and mashed suede with added chives, and placed kale into a saucepan of cold water, ready to be boiled ten minutes before they wanted to eat. He walked into the lounge. “Tonight we are Scottish.” He poured himself a single malt whiskey and sat in his armchair.

  Knutsen asked, “Is everything alright? Looks like something’s on your mind.”

  Sign wasn’t going to tell his friend about his encounter with Ruth. “Sometimes we forget there are other things in life,” was all he said.

  Knutsen knew Sign was withholding something from him, but he wasn’t going to press him further. It was obvious it was a personal matter. “How did you get on with Natalia?”

  Sign made a conscious effort to change his mood. It was time for him to get his business head back on, he told himself. But the image of Ruth’s face bathed in sunlight remained with him. What a fool he’d been for not wooing her when he had the chance, he concluded. He breathed in deeply. “Natalia is an egg shell that has cracked but has not yet bled yolk.”

  “Because if she cracks further, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Natalia together again.”

  “Correct, if a tad flippant.” Sign sipped his whiskey. “There is a problem.”

  The downstairs doorbell rang.

  Knutsen exclaimed, “Who’s coming here at this hour?”

  Sign sighed. “Stand by your beds. We’re about to endure the company of a vitriolic woman.”

  “Archer? You invited her?”

  “No. But I know it’s her.”

  He was right. One minute later Archer was in the lounge. “What the hell were you thinking, ordering me to leave the hotel room?!”

  Sign asked with resignation, “Would you like a drink?”

  “No!”

  “To take a seat?”

  “I’ll stand!”

  “Would you like to dine with us? I’ve procured muntjac deer. The deer are native to Asia though have been introduced to Britain. The one I bought was raised in Northumbria. They’re delicious to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry!”

  Sign chuckled. Then his expression turned icy cold as he looked at Archer. “Then what are you and what do you want? My patience right now is cigarette paper thin.”

  Archer hesitated, uncertainty on her face. In a softer tone she said, “I want to know what you were playing at, kicking me out of the room.”

  Sign kept his eyes on Archer, unblinking, his clipped tone of voice like a precise hydraulic hammer. “There was no play to be had today. You needed to be out of the hotel room so that I could curve Natalia’s way of thinking. If you’d have been present, Natalia would have been conflicted. The two of you have history. I was the unknown quantity in the mix of an established handler-agent relationship. She’d have been confused – looking at you, wondering what she should do; looking at me, wondering whether I’m right or you’re right. You had to be away from her proximity in order for me to do my job. And I do not care one jot if that’s put your nose out of joint.” He placed his fingers together, and closed his eyes.

  “I wanted you to give me a second opinion! Not… not push me out of my job!”

  “I have my methods. They are sound.”

  “Not when they result in my agent thinking I’ve been demoted!”

  “Boring.”

  Archer’s anger was at its zenith. “This is anything but boring!”

  “Still boring.”

  Archer’s face was flushed as she looked at Knutsen, then back at Sign. “I need to get Natalia back on track. She trusts me. She doesn’t know you.”

  Sign smiled. “She no longer trusts you. I made sure of that.”

  Archer’s mouth opened wide. “What?!”

  Sign drummed the tips of his fingers together. “Don’t worry. It’s all for a reason.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I have also demoted myself to the role of advisor. It is deliberate. You and I need Natalia back in the saddle. I don’t care if my ego is dented in the process. It seems, however, that you very much care about your status and prestige. We both know that is the road to hell. We must be dominant when we have matters under control; subservient when we don’t. What’s more important to you – Natalia or your pride?”

  Archer sat in the spare armchair. She said to Knutsen, “Get me a drink.”

  Knutsen smi
led. “Get it yourself. I’m sure you’re capable of doing so.”

  Archer cursed, got a drink, and sat back down in her chair. She addressed Sign. “I want your assessment.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Sign’s tone of voice was deliberately patronising. He leaned forward, his demeanour serious. “Natalia respects you. There is no doubt in my mind that the information she’s given you about Russian spies in the UK and elsewhere is one hundred percent accurate. Nor do I doubt her motivation to spy on Russia. But she is withholding a secret from me and you; of that I’m certain.”

  “What secret?”

  “I have a theory, but no evidence. Nor do I want to coax the secret out of her. Not yet, anyway. Think of her as a virgin bride on her wedding night. Foreplay is required. Every move must be delicate and with her consent. Matters must not be rushed until she’s ready.”

  Archer rubbed her face. “I don’t have much time to placate the blushing bride! In three months, Natalia is going to be posted back to Moscow. When that happens she’s of no use to the service because she will have lost her access to the names in Europe.”

  “Then I must move with the patience and tunnel vision of a fly fisherman stalking a trout on the River Itchen.” Sign looked at Knutsen. “What do you think of Miss Archer’s indignation about my approach?”

  Archer threw her arms up in despair. “Knutsen’s not a trained intelligence officer! His opinion is worthless. No offence intended, Mr. Knutsen.”

  “None taken,” replied Knutsen.

  Sign kept his eyes on Archer. “Mr. Knutsen is a highly experienced undercover operative who’d had years of experience navigating the nuances of different agendas within those around him. And he’s highly intelligent. Last night he tried to poison me with tampered curry. It was an emboldened and mischievous thing to do. Mr. Knutsen – what do you think about my approach with Natalia versus Miss Archer’s indignation?”

  Knutsen looked at Archer. “I trust Ben. I don’t know you. Sometimes when running sources, or agents as you call them, one needs to know when to ease off the gas. You brought Ben in to solve Natalia’s stage fright. Going at her like a bull in a china shop will achieve the opposite of what you want. My opinion? Wind your neck in and let him do his job.”