by Matthew Dunn
Knutsen said, “I’ve never seen anyone do something as brave as what you did today.”
Sign didn’t care for the flattery. “We all fall down, one day.” He smiled. “Are you up to another job?”
Knutsen rubbed his face. “Damn right.”
“Good man.” He pointed up the road. “We need to go thirteen miles that way. On the rear seat of the car is your suit, a shirt, tie, and your brogues. Get dressed, because the man we’re meeting in thirty minutes won’t take kindly to shabby attire.”
“Dressed? Where?”
Sign chuckled. “It appears it’s too harsh a climate at this time of the day for the Norfolk folk. No one’s here. You might as well get on with it.”
Ten minutes’ later they drove away. Though he was now in formal attire and showed no external signs of the brutal assault he’d suffered, Knutsen was still wincing. Sign leaned across and opened the glove compartment opposite Knutsen. He withdrew a first aid kit and handed it to the ex–cop.
“There are painkillers in there. All you need to do is get through the next thirty or so minutes. After that, I’ll drive you back to London. I have a friend who works as a doctor on Harley Street. He can prescribe you stronger pain killers if need be.”
Knutsen put two paracetamol in his mouth and swallowed them down with a swig of water. “I’ll be alright. I just don’t like losing fights.”
“You neither lost nor won. The same was true for the limpet.” Sign turned into a narrower country lane, while glancing in his rear–view mirror. “Still, we’ll have to be more careful next time. I don’t like the fact that he has a rifle. And I don’t like seeing a master of the dojo sitting in my car holding his seatbelt away from his chest because the strap is aggravating wounds.” Sign stopped the car outside an iron double–gate. Beyond it was a gravel driveway that led to a small mansion. “We have arrived at the country retreat of the chief of MI6. He is expecting us. Still, the encounter will be tricky. I will do most of the talking. And I will do my best to counter any mind games he might throw at us. But if you see me faltering, play PC Plod and threaten him with a police investigation. On UK soil he is not above the law.”
Two armed bodyguards opened the gates and waved them through. Sign stopped the car outside the front door. He and Knutsen exited the vehicle. The door opened. Two beagles ran out, tails wagging, and ran circles around the guests, sniffing their shoes.
In the doorway was the chief. “They’re harmless. I need to walk them later, or they’ll be the equivalent of children who’ve eaten too much sugar. Come in.”
The chief guided them through the hallway containing shooting smocks, walking sticks, and a gun cabinet. They entered a large lounge. He told them to sit where they liked. The beagles followed them and rolled onto their backs in front of a log burner. A maid entered the room and asked them what they’d like to drink. Sign asked for tea; Knutsen wanted black coffee. Knutsen looked around the room. It was oak–panelled, crammed with books, paintings, and antiquities. But what grabbed his attention was a glass cabinet containing a samurai sword.
The chief was wearing tweeds, looking every inch a country gentleman. “You are interested in the sword, Mr. Knutsen. Its steel remains as sharp as it was in the Battle of Shiroyama in…”
“Eighteen seventy seven. May I hold the weapon?”
The chief delicately pulled out the sword and handed it to Knutsen. “The last man to have held this in anger is rumoured to have killed thirty six men in the battle. Treat this with respect.”
Knutsen moved away from the chief and Sign. He gripped the sword’s hilt with two hands and swashed the blade through air. “It’s so delicate. I never knew.” He handed the sword back to the chief, who replaced it in its cabinet.
The chief said, “All those years studying kendo and yet this is your first time holding a samurai sword.”
Knutsen sat near Sign.
The chief sat opposite them. “What do you want?”
Sign replied, “Sir, we…”
“I am not your sir or your chief. You are no longer in MI6.” He looked at Knutsen. “And you are no longer with the Metropolitan Police. You are civilians. Anxious ones, I will concede.” He looked at Knutsen. “My name is Henry Gable. I am publicly avowed, so I’m the only person in MI6 who can be named. Given it’s a weekend, on this occasion you can call me Henry. I answer to the foreign secretary and the prime minister. No one else. Even then, politicians come and go and most of them couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. I control things. But not for much longer. We have people nipping at my heels, don’t we Mr. Sign?”
“I’m not after your job. You know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Henry smiled at Knutsen. “And there is no route back for you into the police, young man.”
“No.” Knutsen felt uneasy.
Sign sensed his colleague’s unease. “Mr. Knutsen is a highly decorated former undercover cop. He doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone, including you and me.”
Henry nodded. “Yes, but he did execute a criminal in cold blood.” Slowly he turned his head towards Knutsen. “It takes a particular kind of man to do that.”
Knutsen was about to reply, but Sign interjected. “Knutsen killed the man who killed the woman Knutsen was in love with. And the criminal was a piece of scum. Knutsen isn’t by nature a killer. Let me ask you this, Henry: how many drone strikes have you ordered that sometimes missed their targets but not civilians; how many black ops assassinations have you signed off on; how many foreign agents have you sent to their deaths?”
Henry smiled. “I could ask the same of you.”
“You could. So, let’s cut the crap. The three of us know what it’s like in the real world and what we have to do. We all have blood on our hands.”
Henry was silent, though his gaze was penetrating.
Sign clasped his hands and lowered his voice. “I believe we have a situation that is beyond the purview of espionage.”
“Elaborate!”
“Mark Archer killed himself because he was corrupt. Arthur Lake killed himself because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Detective Inspector Roberts’ husband was murdered and Katy Roberts was told to back off consulting with us on the suicides due to national security. What can you tell us about that?”
Henry was unfazed. “I can tell you nothing, for two reasons. First, I have no insight on these matters. Second, even if I did it would be none of your business.”
Knutsen said, “This is a murder enquiry.”
“Conducted by one disgraced cop and one former MI6 officer who refused to tow the party line.” Henry shook his head. “You have no authority over me.”
“Not so!” Sign looked menacing as he added, “You have no authority over us. But we most certainly have authority over you.”
Knutsen said, “Mr. Sign and I answer to the police and the judiciary. It wouldn’t be difficult for me to arrange for you to be forced to testify in a closed court. Yeah, you’d pull in favours, speak to mates you went to uni with who now work as judges, blah blah. But here’s the thing. I’d also pull in MI5 and Special Branch to a court room session. And they hate posh bastards like you who work for MI6. I’d set a ball rolling. They’d drag you through the dirt. I’m sure someone of your intellect would outsmart everyone in the court. But at what cost? You’re due to retire shortly. Is this how you want to be remembered? Possibly covering up a murder in the UK?”
“Don’t threaten me, Knutsen!”
“He’s not threatening you.” Sign drummed his fingers on a glass coffee table. “He’s laying out the facts. I strongly urge you to cooperate with us. If you don’t we will set wheels in motion.”
Gable couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You come to my house and…”
“Yes, yes.” Sign made no effort to hide his anger. “Elliot Roberts was unemployed. Previously he was a family lawyer. Nothing – absolutely nothing – he did in his life brought him anywhere near our world. He wasn’t a national secu
rity threat. But he was a means to put the frighteners on his wife. And the only case she was working on was the suicides of two senior MI6 officers. So, in the presence of Mr. Knutsen, I’ll ask you what you know about those suicides.”
Gable looked confused. “Nothing. I was as shocked by their deaths as everyone else. If you have evidence that they took their lives due to past indiscretions, lay that evidence in front of me and the Joint Intelligence Committee. I can assure you that we’ll go over the allegations with a fine tooth comb.”
“What’s the point? Archer and Lake are dead.” Sign decided to soften his tone. “It is quite possible that you’re not our enemy. On paper, why would you be? You’re due to retire. The machinations of MI6 will soon no longer be your concern. But, there is a problem. What links Archer and Lake?”
Gable frowned. “Both senior MI6 men. But they had different career paths. I doubt they knew each other that well.”
“Think, Henry! There must be something they have in common.”
Gable shook his head. “If you were still in MI6 I could answer you. Given you’re not, it’s classified.”
Knutsen pulled out his mobile phone and asked Sign, “Shall I call the commissioner? He can get a squad car here in minutes.”
Gable waved his hand through the air. “That won’t be necessary.”
“It will be if I decide it is.” Sign pointed at Gable. “Here’s the thing, Henry. There’s a possibility we’re dealing with a serial killer. An unusual one at that. But to catch him I need to understand motive. Why did he or she want Archer and Lake dead? Why did he kill Roberts to try to stop the investigation? When we know the reason, we are closer to knowing the killer.”
“Roberts’ death may be completely unconnected!”
“Come on Henry. Our whole lives have been devoted to connecting the dots. Coincidences never factor.”
Gable looked pensive. “Archer and Lake’s deaths were by their own hand. How on Earth could they be murders?”
“Someone very skilled could have talked them in to taking their lives.”
“It’s possible.” The chief frowned. “But if that’s the case, who? Lake and Roberts never shared the same geographical targets. The Russians might have targeted Roberts to shut him up, but they’d have no bug bear with Lake.”
“So, maybe we’re dealing with someone closer to home.” Sign leaned forward. “The motive might be personal, not professional.”
“Your ideas are supposition.”
“Yes, they are. But in the right hands, supposition is instinct that out–speeds deductive reasoning. A woman looks at a man and knows he’s a wrong ‘un. Only later may she be able to work out why she reached that conclusion. I’m thinking there’s a wrong ‘un out there. Why, who, and how, are eluding me, though I do have a thought. Who’s on the shortlist to become the next chief of MI6?”
Gable looked mortified. “I can’t give you that information!”
“You will give me that information. Or I hand you over to Mr. Knutsen. Trust me – he’ll move faster than your bodyguards.”
“You are both looking at a prison sentence!”
“That’s alright. We’ll share a cell with you. We can pass the time by playing board games and wondering how we all got locked up.”
The chief smiled. “How is life out in the cold suiting you, Ben?”
“Just fine. Let me know how it goes for you after you retire in a few months’ time. No more bodyguards; no chauffeur–driven limousines; no hotline to the prime minister; no invitations to banquets at the palace; no private jets to Washington DC; just you and your beagles. But the beagles are looking a bit old. They won’t be around for much longer. I understand your daughters are married, with kids, and are living overseas. They won’t see you that much. We all know your wife moved out a while ago. Rumour has it she’s got a fella.” Sign’s tone of voice was cold as he added, “If I were you I wouldn’t sit there all smug and gloating, asking me how it feels to be out of the fold. You’ll know soon enough what it’s like to have no power.”
“Ah, Ben.” Gable’s eyes were twinkling. “You’d have made such an excellent chief. But you backed out of the game and decided to play private detective.” He looked away, deep in thought. “I can tell you this for free. Alongside you, Archer and Lake were on the shortlist of candidates to be my successor. You know how it works – the candidates are chosen by me and the cross–party JIC. Each person is picked due to varying capabilities so that the final choice can reflect the current mood in Westminster and the mood of our closest allies. Archer was deemed unremarkable, but a safe pair of hands. That could have been useful. Lake was deemed a good operator, but perhaps too much of spy to be a manager. And you, Ben, were our best spy. But you did have a negative against your name. You were deemed by all to be cavalier. That negative could have worked exceptionally well in the current climate – keep our allies and detractors on their toes by having an unpredictable spy chief.” Gable pointed at the samurai sword. “Knutsen will know that Shiroyama was the last battle of the samurai. They’d reached the end of the line. Technology was outstripping them. Guns and canons were the new way of things. I keep the sword to remind me of who I was and who I cannot be. It’s soon going to be my end of the line. But you, Ben, were young enough and mentally adroit to adapt to the times. But you fucked it all up.”
“I resigned.” Sign pulled out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. He placed both on the table in front of Gable. “Give me the shortlist names.”
“I’ve already given you my response to that request.”
“And I haven’t accepted your response. How many are on the list?”
Gable shrugged. “I can tell you that. Seven in total. Thanks to you, Archer, and Lake, we’re now down to four.”
“Who’s your favourite candidate?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Sign!”
Sign stood, walked to the beagles and rubbed their bellies. “Okay, Henry. Let’s do it this way. You call the foreign secretary or prime minister and get their permission to release the names to me. I call the home secretary and tell her that the chief of MI6 is obstructing a murder enquiry. She’d love that. You know how much she’s hankering for a domestic scandal that will put her in the shining light as the woman holding the scales of justice.”
Slowly and with a deep authoritative tone, Gable said, “Be very careful, Mr. Sign. I am adhering to security protocols. You have no proof that the suicides are linked, nor that Roberts’ murder is linked to the suicides. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain by meddling in matters that don’t concern you.”
Sign faced him and smiled. “That’s the beauty of my current position. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Make the call. The names may turn out to mean nothing. But I don’t want it on your conscience if they turn out to be something.”
“You are making a big mistake!”
The noise of Sign’s voice made the beagles scarper as he said, “I am an official emissary of not only the Metropolitan Police but also our government. Make the call!”
Gable stood. “God help you, Sign.” He walked to the adjacent conservatory and picked up the landline phone. He spoke for ninety three seconds, listened, and hung up. He returned to the lounge, sat, picked up the pen, hesitated, then wrote seven names on the sheet. “The prime minister has assured me that I will be immune from prosecution by revealing these names to you and Knutsen. Every phone call in and out of here is recorded by me. It’s my insurance. If the PM denies the conversation I’ve just had with her, I’ll publish and be damned.”
Sign took the sheet. “Thank you, Henry.”
Gable pointed at the sheet while looking at Knutsen. “I’ve just given you the names of our top seven spies. You and Sign have authority to read their names. But, if you want to share their names with anyone in the course of your investigation, you will need me, the foreign secretary, and the home secretary – all three of us, not just one – to vet that person and give you a
uthority or otherwise. Am I clear?”
Knutsen nodded.
Sign folded the paper in half and placed it in the inner pocket of his jacket. “We fully understand.”
“That includes the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He’s security cleared, but not to the level of the UK intelligence agencies. You understand?”
“Yes.”
Gable pulled Sign to one side and said in a quiet voice, “Ben – you could be making a huge mistake. Maybe your train of thought is skewed. This may all be nothing.”
Sign nodded. “I’m aware of that. But since when did men like you and I believe in the impossible?”
That evening, Sign and Knutsen were back in West Square. Sign cooked guinea fowl encrusted with a marmalade glaze, butter mash potato, and vegetables drizzled with lemon juice. After dinner, Sign sat opposite Knutsen in the lounge. He stared at the sheet of paper.
“What does it tell you?” asked Knutsen.
Sign didn’t answer his question. “When are you next on the dojo?”
Knutsen frowned. “Wednesday.”
“Take Katy with you. Pair her up with David. They both have broken wings. Exercise and focus will help repair their ailments. Have you checked on Katy this evening?”
“Yes. She’s ordered an Indian takeaway and is making funeral plans.”
“Good. She’s eating and is busy.” Sign stared at the paper before placing it in front of Knutsen. “What do you see?”
The list read:
Ben Sign
Mark Archer
Arthur Lake
Edward Messenger
Nicholas Pendry
James Logan
Terry File
“I see a list of men.”
Sign looked resigned. “One day we’ll have a female chief.” He took the sheet off Knutsen. “I see a kill list.” He turned the sheet over and withdrew a pen. On the back he wrote:
MURDER VICTIMS
Mark Archer
Arthur Lake
Elliot Roberts
POTENTIAL MURDER VICTIMS