The Russian Doll (Ben Sign Book 3)

by Matthew Dunn

  Natalia shrugged. “I don’t see why not. In any case, I’m due some leave, given I haven’t had a holiday for two years. But you’ll have to pay for my flight.”

  “Of course. The sooner you can fly the better. Let Katy know when you have the dates. She’ll arrange to get the money to you. But don’t tell her about the Susan Archer enquiry. It’s a matter that’s personal to me.” Sign paid cash for the bill. When they were alone, he said, “I must confess there is another reason I want you to go back to Russia. I want you to have a change of scenery. It will do you the world of good.”

  It was late afternoon when Sign returned to West Square. Despite the weather, he’d walked from Simpson’s in order to aid his digestion and burn off calories. He called Archer. “I had lunch today with Natalia. I’ve asked her to go to Russia ASAP, for a week. She’ll be flying economy class, for obvious reasons. I need you to pay for her ticket.”

  “Why did you ask her to do that?”

  “It’s based on a gut instinct. She’s been living for too long in a pressure cooker – both at work and at home. I want to release the steam in a place she feels largely safe, but partly scared. And most importantly I want her to check in to her Moscow headquarters so that she’s reminded why she hates the place and the politicians who run it.”

  “That makes sense. Yes, it’s a good idea.”

  Sign said, “Knutsen and I will also travel to Moscow. We need to keep an eye on Natalia. But, the main purpose of our trip will be to investigate what happened to Susan. I have an alias passport with a Russian visa. Knutsen doesn’t. Can you use the service’s fast track system to get him the necessary documentation? I doubt Natalia will be able to travel until Tuesday at the earliest. But that’s still a tight turnaround. Knutsen and I need to be flying on the same day as Natalia, though on a different flight.”

  “It’s tight, but can be done. I’ll need his passport photos. Get him to bring them to me this evening.” She paused. “Actually, why don’t you both come over to my house. I’ll rustle up some food.” She gave him her home address in Putney. “Let’s say seven o’clock.”

  “We’d be delighted.” Sign rubbed his belly. “Though don’t cook anything elaborate or too filling. After the lunch I’ve had, s small plate of beans on toast would suffice.” He ended the call and called out, “Knutsen! Are you having a nap?”

  Knutsen emerged from his bedroom, looking bleary eyed. “Might have been.”

  “Nap time’s over. Do you have any passport photos?”

  “No.”

  Sign checked his watch. “We have an appointment at seven PM in Putney. That only gives us less than two hours to be where we need to be. There’s a photo booth on Waterloo Station. Go there now, get the photos done – they must be passport standard – and while you’re at it pick up a bottle of wine from the off license there. Do it as quickly as possible, get back here, shower, shave, and get changed into casual attire. We’re going to see Jayne this evening. She’s going to help us travel into the mouth of the beast.”

  Knutsen rubbed his face. “Okay. Do I need to bring my gun this evening?”

  “No. Jayne’s unarmed and is highly unlikely to kill us by other means.” He smiled and pointed at his suit. “I need to get out of this work clobber. If we move quickly, we can get this done. We’ll hail a cab at six thirty. That’s our deadline.”

  When Knutsen was gone, Sign poured himself a small whiskey and drank it while having a bath. He tried to relax but his mind was racing. He thought about Natalia and Susan. Natalia was Russian; if Susan was still alive, in all probability she might as well have been Russian. But, his brain didn’t just focus on the two women. He was thinking about moving parts, like a Swiss watchmaker who was trying to engineer a highly complex timepiece and get everything to sync together. Different variables raced through his brain. One stuck, and he didn’t like that moving part one bit.

  He got out of the bath, dried himself, dressed into smart but casual attire, and made himself a green tea. He placed a record onto his player and relaxed in his armchair as he listened to Bach’s Toccata in d minor. He finished his tea and shivered. Shortly he’d have to put the flat’s heating on, light the fire, or both. Summer was gone; autumn was upon Londoners. That was good. West Square was magical in the colder months. Residents draped tasteful white lights on the trees in the square. It transformed the place into a fairy tale setting. Sign’s brain transcended most ascetically beautiful things in the world. But he was a sucker for the lead up to Christmas. Probably that’s because he remembered his deceased father giving a five year old Sign a pen knife that was contained in a brown paper bag, while the two of them were sat by the Christmas tree in their modest home, while Sign’s mother was cooking a lovely roast on Christmas Day. Sign’s father – back then a merchant marine officer – had said to him, “Don’t tell your mother I gave you this. I got it off the captain of my ship who’d tried to defend himself from a polar bear in the Arctic. The captain was dead by the time I and other sailors got to him. I followed the bear for hours, with the intention of killing him or her. I had a rifle. Finally, I had the bear in my sights. It was approaching its cubs. I couldn’t take the shot. It just seemed wrong to do so. The cubs ran up to the bear. Before they reached it, the bear collapsed to the ground. You see, the captain had used the small knife you’re holding to penetrate the bear’s throat. The bear simply ran out of breath. It starved of oxygen. This knife is a bear killer.” Sign still had the knife. It was in a drawer in his bedroom and was as sharp today as it was when the captain thrust its blade into the bear’s gullet while the bear mauled him and subsequently tossed him onto ice like a rag doll.

  Knutsen returned. “What are you listening to this shit for?”

  “It’s Bach. He was a genius. Do I need to educate you further?”

  “No thanks. And by the way, people who describe other people as geniuses do so because their mental faculties are severely restricted.”

  “An astute observation.” Sign got out of his chair, removed the record and placed another on.

  Knutsen was wide eyed. “Where the hell did you get this from?”

  Sign shrugged. “After lunch I perused a delightful record stall outside the Royal Festival Hall. The owner of the stall specialised in your kind of music. He educated me and recommended I buy this.”

  Knutsen was stunned “You bought this for me?”

  “I bought it to prove a point.” Sign smiled. “The point being is it’s never too late to challenge one’s senses. Actually, this band is rather good.”

  The record was an album by the band Groove Armada, a two-man English electronic act who collaborated with well-known rap, soul, rock, hip-hop, and jazz artists. The track playing was Superstylin’, a thumping upbeat house track, with influences from dub, speed garage, reggae, and dancehall.

  Knutsen shook his head. “I went to see Groove Armada play live in Brixton Academy. I was with some mates of mine who were big-time drug dealers. They were nice blokes, though I’d infiltrated their gang to bust them when the time was right. The concert was amazing.” He hesitated as he stood outside the bathroom. With an earnest tone, he said, “You never fail to surprise me.” He entered the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, Knutsen was shaved, refreshed, and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He entered the lounge.

  Sign said, “You’re wearing that? Strong move.”

  Knutsen shrugged. “I don’t have to get dressed up for Her Nibs.”

  “Quite right.” Sign checked his watch. “We have ten minutes before we need to leave. That gives us just enough time for a sharpener.” He poured two glasses of Calvados. Both men sat in their armchairs.

  Knutsen took a gulp of his drink. “Why do I need passport photos?”

  “Because I’m going to turn you into a spy. In the next few days you and I will travel to Moscow. Jayne is going to get you a passport and visa. The passport won’t be in your name. We have to decide what to call you.”
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  Knutsen blew on his lips, making them vibrate. “John Smith will do.”

  “Too obvious.”

  Knutsen giggled. “Something like Engelbert Humperdinck.”

  “In that vein. What about Ernst Stavro Blofeld?”

  “You want to send me to Russia with the name of a Bond villain?!”

  “It’s just a thought.”

  Knutsen knew that Sign was being silly. He liked it when he was in this mood. “Harry Palmer?”

  Sign smiled. “Though I loved Michael Caine’s portrayal of the anti-hero spy in the Ipcress File, I fear the name may be a little bland. What about Red Adair?”

  “Jon Bon Jovi?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Plácido Domingo?”

  “You don’t speak Spanish. What about Jack The Hat? In a parallel universe you’d have been a London east end criminal.”

  With sarcasm, Knutsen said, “Yeah, that would really work when I’m trying to get through immigration.”

  “I won’t be standing next to you. I’ll be okay.”

  Knutsen chuckled. “I like the theme though. How about Ronald Kray?”

  “Spot on. Alas I already have an alias passport. It would have been perfect if I could have travelled as Reggie Kray.” Sign checked his watch. “Time to move. Grab a coat, or umbrella. It doesn’t look like the weather’s giving in today.”

  Thirty minutes later they arrived at Archer’s house in Putney. It was a town house, in a quiet cul-de-sac, overlooking the Thames.

  Knutsen said, “Blimey. This area’s a bit posh.” There were six other detached properties in the immediate vicinity. “How much do you reckon it costs to buy one of these gaffs?”

  “Gaffs? Are you getting into Kray Twins character?”

  “Actually the term gaff originated in Ireland and was adopted by 1950s working class Londoners.”

  Sign looked at the Thames. There were rowing teams on there, despite the weather. “I would estimate that each house around us costs at least a million to buy. That’s a lot of money for a three bedroom place. Come on. Let’s get this over with.” He rang the doorbell.

  Archer let them in. “I can’t move far from the kitchen because I’ve got a Chinese stir fry on the go. Can you do me a favour? I’ve got two heavy boxes at the base of the stairs. They need lifting up to the first floor. Dump them wherever you can. They contain equipment for a stair lift for my mother.”

  Sign and Knutsen obliged. It took both of them to carry each box. When the job was done, Knutsen looked around. The house was pristine, modern, and quite functional. Quietly, he said, “I’d say this place needs a woman’s touch, but obviously that hasn’t worked so far.”

  Sign replied, “She’s a busy person and doesn’t spend much time here.”

  “How did she afford this place?”

  “Back in the eighties her parents were quite the academic celebrities. They wrote some non-fiction bestsellers about Russia, were also put on a lucrative lecture circuit and were engaged as after dinner speakers. It earned them a lot of money – enough for them to buy a house in Oxford and to put a sizeable deposit down on this place for Jayne. Jayne picked up the slack of mortgage payments. She must have paid for the house by now. And bear in mind, back in the eighties this place would have been at least half the price of its current value.”

  They went back downstairs. Knutsen put the bottle of red wine he’d bought on the kitchen counter. He asked Archer, “Would you like me to open this?”

  Archer was busy frying strips of beef. “Absolutely. And be a darling and pour three glasses. Corkscrew’s in the top drawer. Glasses are in the cupboard above.” She was wearing jeans, socks, a jumper, and had no makeup on. Knutsen didn’t blame her. It was Sunday; she could look however she damn well liked.

  Knutsen said, “I’ve put my photos in the lounge. I’d like to be called Ronald Kray.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Archer added spices into the wok, stirred the meat for a few seconds, and added soy sauce. “You’ll be called Thomas Peterson.” She briefly glanced at him. “Russia is no joke. Thomas is important because it is an elongation of your real forename. Peterson is sufficiently different from your real surname but it also has origins in Scandinavia. When constructing an alias, it’s always important to bring an identity as close to your true identity, without the alias betraying who you really are. Least ways, that’s important when you’re an amateur. As you become more experienced, you can be more elaborate with your identities.” She added finely chopped spring onions, tomatoes, zest of lime, and a splash of orange juice into the pan, before turning the mixture down to simmer.

  Knutsen poured the wine, while looking at the vegetables on the chopping board. “Are these for dinner?”

  “Yes, but they need to be added to the pan five minutes from serving.”

  “Would you like me to chop them for you? I’m not as good at cooking as Ben, but I’m a dab hand with a knife.”

  Archer smiled. “Be my guest. That’s very gracious of you.” She walked into the lounge, holding two glasses of wine. Sign was in there, sitting on the sofa with his feet up on a foot rest. She handed him one of the glasses. “I do think it’s a clever idea to send Natalia to Moscow for a week. But, are you sure it’s wise for you to go to Russia? Last time you were there you were tortured.”

  Sign smiled. “Torture’s overrated.”

  “And Knutsen? He’s not trained for this.”

  “If he can infiltrate the seedy side of London, he can work in Moscow. Same cities; different languages.”

  Archer sat in a chair. “You know it’s not that simple.”

  “Do you remember the first time you were deployed after our training? I certainly remember the first time I was sent overseas. Was I ready? Not in a million years. But, I knew it was an extension of our training. It was the chance for me to go it alone and to achieve nothing, great success, or slip up and fail. Those first forays into the jungle are tests. And they’re essential. Remember: on day one of training we were told we would never be wrapped in cotton wool. The service always knows that at some point it must deploy us and keep its fingers crossed. Knutsen will be fine, I’m sure of that. Correction, I will make sure of that.”

  “So long as he knows the risks.”

  “He knows risk as well as you and I. After all, he’s lived most of his adult life fearing execution by thugs,”

  Quietly, Archer asked, “Is everything alright? You don’t look or sound like your normal self.”

  Sign shrugged. “It’s nothing untoward aside from I bumped into someone today who meant something to me but is untouchable. The encounter reminded me that I keep the world at bay, but wish for slivers of hope, only for those slivers to be dashed. There is nothing worse than false hope.”

  With a sympathetic tone, Archer replied, “Hang on in there. One day you’ll meet the right woman. You’d make a splendid husband.” She smiled. “Women like challenges. You’re brilliant, irascible, good looking, non-conformist, polite, a good cook, clean, and a pain in the arse. Were it not for the fact that I’m off the market, I’d shag you.”

  “Charming.” Sign sipped his drink. “Are you mentally prepared for the strong possibility that Susan’s dead?”

  Archer hesitated before replying. “As you rightly say, sometimes it’s better not to have hope. Part of me wishes my mother never told me about Susan. But, the cat’s out of the bag. I grew up in a loving household. My parents were a bit eccentric and were certainly very demanding in terms of what they expected from me academically. They put me under a lot of pressure. I often wondered what it would have been like if I’d had a brother or sister. I doubt I’d have been under my parents’ microscope as much. Now, decades on, that doesn’t feature in my thinking. Instead, the two overwhelming drivers I have are fear and curiosity. If Susan’s alive I worry about what kind of life she’s having. If she’s dead I will have to grieve for her. But how do you grieve for someone you’ve never met?”

  “
We will need to cross bridges when we get answers.”

  Archer asked, “How will you go about making enquiries on Susan?”

  Sign replied, “I have contacts and resources and they must remain private, even from you. But, my findings will be handed to you on a plate. At that point, you alone will be entitled to judge my success or failure.”

  Archer nodded. Quietly, she said, “I won’t blame you if you can’t trace Susan. It was so long ago. In all probability, all traces of her have vanished. And if you discover she’s dead, at least I can relay that to my mother and hopefully give her closure. You won’t have wasted your or my time.”

  Knutsen entered the lounge, sat down, and sipped his wine. “Right. Chillies, peppers, ginger, and coriander are chopped. I also tasted the sauce. It was okay, but needed peppercorns, star anise, lemon juice, a teaspoon of sugar, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts. I had a rummage through your cupboards and found most of what I wanted. The meat sauce is now much better.” He smiled. “So, what are you two old spooks yarning about?”

  Archer replied. “We were talking about the case, and we were also talking about you and whether you’re ready to go to Russia.”

  Knutsen placed his glass onto a side table. His expression was serious though his tone of voice flippant as he quickly said, “See, here’s the thing love. I had a mate of mine – his name was Phil - who was a complete scumbag. He was a geezer and would make your guts ache with laughter if you went out for a few pints with him. Popular guy. Always carried a gun or blade, or both. Would take a bullet for any of his pals. Phil thought I was a safecracker. He needed me because he was about to do a bank job. He’d done many in the past, until his previous safecracker got shot by SCO19. So, that’s when I came in. The Met wanted to stop him in his tracks, not just because he was robbing banks but also ‘cause he had no qualms about gunning down civilians when he was on a job. Trouble was, we had no evidence. So I was sent in by the Met as the get the evidence man. He was suspicious of me at first. Put a gun against my head. Asked me all sorts of questions. Punched me. Checked me out by getting his foot soldiers to make enquiries around my fake home address. Asked me which school I’d been to and the names of my teachers. Spoke to the teachers. And on and on and on it went. He was smart. For five weeks he raked over every detail of my false identity, and during that time he kept me locked in a room. No windows, Just a bed and a pan for me to shit and piss in. My alias identity held up. He let me out of the room, took me to his tailor in Battersea and bought me a suit, shirt, tie, pair of shoes, and then took me to a lovely brasserie in Covent Garden where we had lobster for lunch. After that, I was part of the family. Before that, it was a living hell – sleep deprivation; buckets of cold water thrown over me; beaten day and night; tested on cracking safes; constantly questioned about previous jobs I allegedly had done; asked if I was an undercover cop; fed little; and overall treated like a piece of trash. I knew it was an initiation test of sorts, to get into the gang. I didn’t blink. No way was I going to let those cunts get to the real me. It paid off. They took me on the bank job. It was a place in Norwich. I wasn’t just there to open safes. I had to disable cameras, blow up thick tempered glass screens, and I was a shooter. There were three of us in the bank. Outside there was a driver and further away from him were two spotters. The job had been planned to the inch. The trouble was, my mate did his usual nut job thing and was going to execute the manager unless he let us in to the vault. It was a bit of a shit situation. Cops were on their way but couldn’t enter until cash was nicked. We had to have that evidence. So, I had to make a decision on my own. Phil was holding his gun against the manager’s head, while screaming at the other bank staff. He had that look in his eyes. I knew he didn’t give a shit. He got off on killing more than he did on money. Split second decision. I shot him and his two colleagues. Clean shots. They were dead before they hit the ground. Then I ran out and shot the driver. The spotters were a fair distance away, but I managed to wing them. They didn’t get far when they tried to escape. SWAT picked them off.” He grinned as he picked up his wine and looked at the floor. He raised his head and stared at Archer. His voice was icy as he said, “I could give you a dozen or so other examples of what I’ve done, Miss Archer. You think you’re special? Try seeing and doing what I’ve seen and done.” He nodded at Sign while keeping his eyes locked on Archer. “I know he’s done similar and has been put through the meat grinder. Like me, Ben kept to the script and never cracked. I don’t know whether you’ve properly been tested. Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t. But, when you discuss me out of earshot while I’m rescuing your pathetic excuse for a meal, always remember that you’re talking about a fucking grown up who’s spent his entire adult life expecting a bullet in the back of his brain.” Knutsen smiled. “That reminds me. I need to turn the sauce down and put a pan of water on to boil. Enjoy your Jason Bourne conversations about how great you are and how naive I am.” He went into the kitchen.