The Spy Whisperer (Ben Sign Mystery Book 1)

by Matthew Dunn

  The man stopped, un–cocked his shotgun, opened the barrel, and cradled his weapon.

  Smith ran to him, a smile on his face, rain cascading off his garments. “Sir, can you help me?”

  The man was stock still as he eyed him with suspicion.

  Smith got closer. “Car’s broken down. Where can I get help?” Smith was thirty yards away.

  The man gestured to an escarpment. “Get back on the road, walk six miles west, Eddy’s got a garage, he’ll help you.”

  Smith walked right up to the man and pulled down his hood.

  The man looked shocked. “You! What are you doing here?”

  Smith smiled. “Hello Arthur.”

  Arthur Lake slammed shut his shotgun barrel.

  Smith said, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait? I’ve got another week off before I’m back at The Office.” Lake was head of an operational MI6 team in London. It was likely he’d soon be promoted to the organisation’s board of directors. His previous overseas postings had been to Paris, Warsaw, Mexico City, and Washington. He was a rising star, considered by most intelligence officers to have an impeccable career.

  Smith thought otherwise. “Is there anywhere dry we can go? I’d kill for a coffee.”

  They walked to the cottage Lake had rented for his hunting holiday. Inside the isolated one–bedroom stone house, Lake put his shotgun on the kitchen table and flicked on the kettle. Out of the slow cook segment of the Aga, the aroma of venison stew permeated the room. Peeled spuds were in a pan on the hob, waiting to be boiled this evening. Carrots and wild mushrooms were in a bowel adjacent to the oven. Lake hanged his sodden jacket on a coat rack that also contained anti–midge mesh smocks, camouflage jackets and trousers, and a six–foot walking stick with a ram’s horn.

  Smith sat at the kitchen table. “Is it your first time on Skye?”

  Lake made no effort to hide the irritation in his voice. “I come here every year. It clears my head.”

  “How are the wife and kids?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I was passing by and fancied a chat.”

  “Bullshit.” Lake handed him a mug and sat opposite Smith. The shotgun was between them. “Is there a crisis in HQ?”

  Smith smiled. “I’m sorry to have intruded on your solitude. This won’t take long.” He wrapped his hands around the mug to take the chill out of his fingers. “There is an immediate crisis.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  Lake frowned. “You’ve come a long way if it’s just to tell me that I’m no longer being considered for the appointment of director.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that. As far as I know, you’ll get the appointment next autumn.”

  “Has something happened to one of my team members, or one of their agents?”

  “This is nothing to do with anyone under your control. It’s to do with Washington.”

  Lake was about to drink his coffee. He lowered his mug. “Washington?”

  “To be precise, your posting there in two thousand and nine.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Actually, you partially don’t”. Smith drank his coffee. “You made a deal with the Americans. The CIA to be precise. They and you wanted to bring the so–called special relationship even closer. To do so, the Americans wanted you to plant rose–tinted intelligence into MI6 HQ. They wanted to be seen as a conjoined twin with MI6, thereby giving them complete access to our top agents.”

  “Now hold on a minute!”

  Smith held up his hand. His voice was steady and calm as he added, “In itself, that’s not a major sin. You were simply being asked by the Yanks to play spin doctor; be a de facto ambassador for them; promote the cause, and all that. It happens a lot. We’ve all been there – making judgements on our own when liaising with foreign intelligence organisations. Sometimes we overstep the line by the standards of the rule book, but the rule book is open to interpretation, isn’t it?”

  “You can drive a bus through the rule book.”

  “Precisely. So, no high treason there. Just a slap on the wrist. What did the CIA promise you in return?”

  “It was just diplomacy.”

  “What did they promise you?” Smith repeated.

  Lake sighed. “You know what it’s like at this level. It’s not just about support within MI6. As crucial is support from allies.”

  “If you want to get up the ladder. Yes.” Smith ran a finger along the length of the shotgun barrel. “Excellent relations with the Americans, French, Germans, Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders are crucial when one is being considered for a board level appointment. One person can’t have all of that. So the board is put together like a jigsaw, each board member bringing an ally to the table. You’ll bring the Americans.”

  Lake shouted, “And that’s a damn good thing!”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t. But the process of getting there is pertinent.”

  “Meaning?”

  Smith said, “When you were head of Washington Station, you cultivated the Americans, and they cultivated you. It was mutual. You knew what they wanted; they knew what you wanted. Your interests were selfish but they never compromised UK national interest. You trod a fine line, but the end game was sound. Relations with the Americans always ebb and flow. At the time you were in Washington, we were in an ebb. We need their intelligence as much as they need ours. You knew that. You tried to build bridges.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Smith didn’t answer. “The CIA should be delighted when you’re appointed to the board. So will MI6. You’ll have brought a temperamental mistress back to bed so that you can make love to her.”

  Lake laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “But, it’s not the only way, because we have a problem.”

  Lake put his hands flat on the table. “I did nothing wrong. Yes, I bent a few rules. But the endgame was crucial. Still is.”

  “Ah, but you didn’t factor in the possibility that you might be taken for an idiot.”

  “How dare you. Just because of who you are…”

  “Yes, yes, And all that.” Smith’s tone was blasé. It steeled as he asked, “How are your wife and kids?”

  “None of your damn business!”

  “Toby and Ella are at the Cotswold School. It’s one of the top ten schools in the country. You should be proud.”

  Lake didn’t reply.

  “And your loving wife is an entrepreneur, carving a cottage industry living from making bespoke perfumes. She’d be heartbroken if she knew you’d had an affair with a CIA officer called Frédérique Dubois.”

  “I didn’t have an affair!”

  “Yes you did!” Smith lowered his voice. “She was your CIA case officer.”

  “Liaison officer!”

  “Call it what you will. You were told by the CIA only to speak to her. The duration of the affair was four days, within which you used her as much as she used you. Both of you understood the game. Frédérique Dubois is an interesting name.”

  Lake put his head in his hands. “She was from Michigan. Her family were Muskrat French.”

  Smith nodded. “Descendants of habitants, voyageurs and coureurs des bois in the Pays d'en Haut. It’s a good cover for a French DGSE intelligence officer.”

  “What?!”

  Smith swirled his coffee. “See, here’s the thing. The woman you fucked moved on to pastures new. She turned up in England. She tried her tricks but we were wise to that and had her arrested. Right now she’s in high security detention in Paddington Police Station. Soon, she’ll be moved to one our UK black sites where we’ll put the thumb screws on her. Frédérique is in fact Marceline Collobert. The French knew Frédérique was due to meet you. Probably they had that information via surveillance. They had Frédérique killed and dumped in a quarry. The Americans have only just discovered her body and put two and two together, with our help. Marceline was deploy
ed against you, pretending to be Frédérique. You fell for it and thought you were talking to the Americans. Instead, you were informing the French about Britain’s economic policies towards Europe, our military strategy against Syria, which UK politicians were in the ascendency, and ultimately whether we favoured France over America. Marceline has told us everything about you. She has more to say about the wider picture and we’ll work that out of her. She was a Mata Hari, and you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”

  Lake was incredulous. “I… I had no idea.”

  “You were trained to second guess! How could you have let this happen?”

  Smith whispered, “If you try to defend your actions, your career will be ruined, you’ll face imprisonment, your wife will divorce you, your children will be taken into protective custody, and they and your wife will suffer public humiliation from the press.”

  Lake started crying. “I had no idea. I had no fucking idea.”

  “I’m sure. But your actions have put Britain in an pickle with our European partners.”

  “Why are you here? Why not just send the cops and MI5 to arrest me?”

  Smith touched his hand. “You have to think about your wife and children. They’re all that matters now. A hearing and court trial – public or behind closed doors – will spew out everything you’ve done. You’ll be a ruined man. I assure you that you’ll have not one waking day left on this planet without feeling the weight of a cannon ball in your skull. You’ll hate yourself. You’ll miss seeing your kids grow up. You’ll wonder how they are. They’ll be confused at first, then they’ll hate you. Your wife will ensure that. And she’ll remarry. You will no longer be a father and husband. The world will think you’re a traitor. France will think you’re a fool. It fucked you. There’s nothing Britain can do about that. We like France. You’re a pawn. And a spent one at that. Marceline will die in prison. She never liked you, let alone loved you. She’s gone.” Smith stood. “There is only one way out. Nip this in the bud before the judiciary gets its hands on you. You have two hours to think it through before I call in the hounds.”

  Smith left and walked across the moor to his hire car. He needed to be back in London this evening.

  Thirty minutes later, Lake placed the barrel of his shotgun into his mouth. His face was blotched, sweaty and covered in tears. His hands were trembling. He didn’t want to do it, but Smith’s words kept pounding his brain. Smith was right; there was no other way. He wanted to think something profound – anything about his kids, wife, job, youth. Anything. But all he felt was the pressure of massive depression. And it was unstoppable. His life was now useless and pointless. He couldn’t bear the thought of his family being dragged through the muck because of him. But more important, he felt like scum. All the good times seemed like a distant memory – chatting up girls when at Trinity, a boozy and fun holiday in Ibiza when he was in his early twenties, being awarded a prize at school for his prowess in chemistry, catching crabs in rock pools with his dad, his mum making a Sunday roast every week because he loved the food and it tempered the feeling of angst about going to school the next morning, playing dragon hunt with his mates in the playground at nursery. None of it felt real now.

  He sucked in deeply, the acrid taste of cordite hitting his nostrils.

  He pulled the trigger and blew his brains out.

  CHAPTER 13

  Inspector Roberts pressed the door buzzer in West Square. It was five PM. Light was fading. Knutsen was at home. Sign wasn’t. Knutsen ushered her in to the flat.

  “When’s Ben home?”

  Knutsen looked at a seventeenth century German clock that had been given to Sign by one of his Iranian agents. Sign had arranged for the agent to escape Iran after his cover was blown. Sign had put him on a boat in Bandar Abbas and had helped the skipper – a Moroccan smuggler – sail the boat to Muscat. “He’s due back anytime. I’ll get the fire going. Blinking cold out there today.”

  Roberts sat in one of the armchairs and watched Knutsen assemble and ignite the fire. “How are you getting on with Sign?”

  Knutsen laughed as he rubbed coal dust off his hands. “I’ve never met anyone like him before. He comes from a working class background but speaks like royalty. I’ve heard him on the phone to people. I’m no good at languages and accents, but I reckon he was speaking Chinese, Russian, Spanish, French, German, and in one instance English in a Geordie accent.”

  “He needs to be who he needs to be on any given occasion. But who is he really?”

  Knutsen shook his head. “I reckon it will take me a lifetime to answer that question.”

  Sign walked into the room. “Mrs. Roberts. An unexpected but lovely surprise. Will you be staying for supper?” He put a bag on a table. “Sibelius’ interpretation of Finnish life has invigorated me. This evening I stopped off at a trusted fishmonger and butcher and purchased some excellent herring and hare. One will be the starter; the other the main course.”

  The suggestion sounded intriguing. But Roberts needed to be home for dinner with her husband. She said, “Another time. I’m here for two reasons.”

  Sign slumped onto his chaise lounge. “One of those reasons will be to enquire about our research into Archer’s death. The other will be to do with something bad, though the variables of what that might be are too vast to speculate on a specific.”

  “Archer.”

  “He was taking money from the Russians in exchange for supplying Western secrets. His wife supported this arrangement. Guilt overwhelmed him. He ended his life rather than furthering his duplicity. But…”

  “But?”

  “I suspect a trigger is at play, though have no evidence to support that theory.”

  “A trigger?”

  Sign placed the tips of his fingers together. “When one is in an unhappy marriage, frequently one sticks one’s head in the sand and hopes for the best. Things will muddle through – that kind of mentality. Then one day that person goes out for a drink with his or her pals. They have a gallon of booze and pluck up the courage to tell him or her to divorce the bitch or bastard. Usually, the unhappy person ignores the advice, though recognises its truth. It eats at the person. And sometimes the person wakes up and decides that he or she can’t ignore the descent into Hell any longer. The person takes action. Foul words, violence, and divorce are common results.”

  “So, somebody triggered Archer’s death?”

  “Yes, but not a pal, or a bitch, or a bastard. This is somebody very clever. Somebody went up to the horse’s nose and made it think differently.”

  “But as you say, you have no evidence of that.”

  “I do have my experience. When I asked Mrs. Archer if someone had visited her home prior to her husband’s death, she lied and said no one had visited.” Sign leaped off the chair. “I can smell a liar by looking at their face and listening to their voice.” He chucked logs onto the fire. “What is the second reason you’re here?”

  “Do you know Arthur Lake? Our records show that he’s a diplomat in the Foreign & Commonwealth Office.”

  “Why do you enquire about Lake?”

  “He killed himself this morning. He was alone in a holiday cottage in Skye. His wife and children remained at home in London. My colleagues informed her of the death. She is devastated and can’t give any reason why he would have taken his life.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Roberts said, “She asked if he was killed. She said that her husband had been living a lie for decades. He wasn’t a diplomat. He was MI6.”

  Sign nodded. “Lake was a high flyer in MI6. How did he kill himself?”

  “Shotgun in the mouth.”

  “He was on a hunting holiday?”

  “According to the owner of the holiday let, he went there every year to shoot game.”

  Knutsen asked, “Have forensics been to the scene?”

  “Local police were reluctant to deploy forensics. But as soon as I heard Lake was MI6, I called in some favours. They flew ov
er a couple of specialists and a detective from Inverness. The cottage has been thoroughly examined. So too, Lake’s corpse and the gun. There’s no doubt he killed himself.”

  Sign said, “Because…”

  Knutsen finished what Sign was about to say. “Blood, brain matter, and bone fragments were on the ceiling, meaning the gun was pointing upwards. Cordite residue is in his mouth. The gun could have been forced into his mouth to make it look like a fake suicide, but that would mean he’d have had to have been restrained. Forensics would have looked for rope fibres, bruising from handcuffs, maybe even traces of some kind of head brace that would have locked him still when the gun was put in his mouth. They found nothing, correct?”

  “Correct.” Roberts looked at Sign. “Why would he take his life?”

  “I don’t know.” Sign sat down and rubbed his eyes. “Our paths crossed a few times, but that’s the extent of our contact.” To himself, he said, “Come on Sign. Think. Think.” He looked at Roberts. “I’m not aware of any chinks in his armour. He liked a beer at lunchtime, but only half a glass. He had an eye for the ladies, but only an eye as far as I’m aware. He was a devout Catholic and regularly attended church when he could. He had no enemies in The Office. He was the perfect example of someone who could make it to the top – a grey man who happened to be a superb operator. But, I’m missing something. Where is his body?”

  “In a morgue in Inverness. It will be flown back to London once the inquest is closed in a day or so.”

  To Knutsen, Sign said, “That’s too long. Check out the next available flight to Skye. You and I need to take a trip.”

  Knutsen used his mobile phone to check flights. “Eight AM tomorrow. Flight to Edinburgh, then we get a small propeller plane to Skye. We land at eleven thirty. I’ll arrange for a hire car.”

  “Excellent. Make the bookings.” Sign said to Roberts, “I’m certain that I won’t find anything that contradicts your Scottish colleagues’ findings. But I want to pursue my theory. This one’s tougher. There’s no lying wife in play.”