The Spy Whisperer (Ben Sign Mystery Book 1)

by Matthew Dunn

  “Detective.” Sign was being mischievous, but for the right reasons. He wanted fight back in Roberts. “I guarantee you – you’ll be the one to arrest the limpet.” His voice trailed as he said, “But we must get a photo of the limpet’s face.”

  Roberts said, “Knutsen and I have both seen the limpet’s face. We could try a sketch artist.”

  Sign was dismissive. “You only saw the limpet briefly and under duress. Sketch artists are notoriously inaccurate because the victims describing the perpetrator are inaccurate. Compound that with the fact that we’re dealing with a special operative who won’t be on the police radar. He’s not a common criminal. But, that doesn’t matter. If I get his face, I get his name.” Sign’s voice rose as he said, “Tomorrow I’m going to meet Messenger, Pendry and Logan. At least I hope I will. I will call them this evening and tell them it’s an emergency. Mrs. Roberts – the meeting location has good cameras.” He gave her details. “But tonight I want you to check they are all operable, and recording devices are intact.” His voice turned grave as he said, “The MI6 officers are of no use to me tomorrow. All that matters is that we spot the limpet. But that is very high–stakes territory. One or all of us could die.”

  Hilt finished his shift watching West Square. He drove in early evening London traffic. It was dark, though the city was bathed in the glow of artificial light from car headlights, street lamps, shops, homes, and office buildings. He felt tired, having been surviving on four hours sleep per night during the last few days. He ignored the sensation. In his view, a full night’s sleep was overrated. Many times, in MI6 and the SBS, he’d spent months on deployment, operating with far less sleep than he was getting now.

  He parked his car and entered the one–bedroom flat he’d been renting in south London since he’d been commissioned by Smith. His real home was eighty three miles north of here. He locked the door and placed two wedges under its base. After withdrawing his handgun and placing it on a table, he had a shower, put on a clean T–shirt and boxer shorts, shoved his worn clothes in the washing machine, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He slowly supped his drink as he checked the workings of his pistol and sniper rifle. Adjacent to them were three mobiles phones, all being charged via a socket with an adaptor. One of the phones was his hotline to Smith. He finished his beer and rang the MI6 officer. “Nothing’s happened since they visited Delacroix. They tried to get a photo of me. I made sure that didn’t work. They’re back in West Square and it doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere. I’ve called it a day.”

  “They’ve got nowhere to go to tonight. Nowhere that bothers me, at least. Tomorrow is a different matter. Sign has just called me. He wants to meet me and two of my colleagues at ten AM tomorrow. If I go, there is a possibility I will be arrested or killed.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “Were it so simple. Sign has constructed a double–spring trap. I’m damned if I go one way and damned if I take the other route.”

  Hilt frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sign is trying to identify me. There are only three possibilities, and I’m one of them. He’s summoned his list of suspects to tomorrow’s meeting. I’ve made you aware of the consequences. If I don’t go and the other two attend his meeting, I have a red flag draped over me. So, I will go. Take precautions. Don’t go in unless you see Knutsen or Roberts enter the building. But don’t take a gun or knife. There is a security scanner at the entrance. Rely on your training and ingenuity. If Roberts or Knutsen approach the meeting, this is what I want you to do.” He explained what he had in mind. “Protection and extraction are key.” He ended the call.

  Hilt lay on the single bed. No duvet was required – he liked feeling cold when sleeping. He closed his eyes and did what he always did when trying to get to sleep – imagining people he wanted to kill. It was his version of counting sheep jumping over a fence. Most people who’d crossed his path had ended up dead; but, there were some who’d escaped his wrath. He knew who they were. As he was blissfully drifting off to sleep, he imagined shooting a Taliban leader who’d executed one of his colleagues, a Russian mafia gang lord who’d set twenty of his armed henchmen on Hilt in Murmansk, a barmaid in Berlin who’d slept with him and tried to stab him, a highly dangerous American computer hacker who’d escaped death by creating a confusing maze of false identities and addresses, a few pricks in MI6 who thought he was too unhinged to maintain his security clearance, and many others. Ultimately, he was at peace as he imagined killing Sign. He had no personal grudge against the man. Their paths hadn’t crossed in MI6. But, he knew Sign was coming to kill him.

  Right now, that made Sign Enemy Number One.

  CHAPTER 21

  At seven AM, Sign, Knutsen, and Roberts were in Sign’s apartment. As instructed, Knutsen and Roberts were wearing robust clothing that would enable them to move fast. Sign was wearing a suit. He’d prepared coffee and croissants for breakfast. It was nearly daylight, though the sky was moody and rain was lashing windows. Roberts couldn’t help yawning. Knutsen was bleary–eyed and unshaven.

  Sign said to them, “Grief and anxiety are bad bedfellows. But we must be alert now. Strong coffee will help. You can sleep later.”

  “If we’re alive.” Knutrsen rubbed his stubble and looked out of the windows. “It’s a piss poor day to die.”

  Sign was full of energy, despite having had no sleep. And he’d taken care over his morning ablutions. “It’s my job to ensure that I might die today and you won’t.” He handed Roberts a sealed envelope. “In the event of my death, open that. It contains specific instructions, the contact details of a man, a letter of introduction, and my signature. Don’t take the envelope with you today. If the limpet grabs you he will strip search you. Hide the envelope somewhere outside of West Square. Don’t tell me the location.” He turned his attention on Knutsen. “Sir – today is about a sleight of hand. I want the people meeting me to see one thing, wherein what’s actually happening is a wholly different matter. Katy’s job is to act like an arresting officer. Your job is to focus on the limpet. No guns can be taken into the building. But you’re a dab hand at unarmed combat. If you have to tackle the limpet, hurt him but don’t kill him. Dead people can’t give us answers. And most important – let him escape.”

  Roberts asked, “Shouldn’t we swamp the building with plain clothes Met officers?”

  Sign shook his head. “The whisperer will spot them in a jot; so too the limpet and the other two MI6 officers. Logan, Pendry, and Messenger will tell me they had to abort the meeting due to the hostile nature of the meeting location. And they will be right to say that. The whole exercise will have been a waste of time.” He looked at Roberts. “But, I do want them to see you. And I want the whisperer to feel smug because you’re all that I’ve got.”

  Hilt sat in front of a mirror in his flat. He applied makeup to his face, making his complexion look paler than normal, and a fake moustache and grey wig. He dressed in cheap clothes that looked like they were bought in the 1970s and sprinkled sugar on his jacket’s lapels to make it look like he suffered dandruff. He took a swig of Special Brew lager, gargled and spat the mouth–full out, ensuring that some of the spit dropped onto his clothes. He picked up a wooden walking stick and left the flat, limping as he proceeded to central London.

  At 0955hrs, Pendry walked through the huge pillars that fronted the entrance to the British Museum in Covent Garden. Hilt watched him. From a different location, so did Roberts. Knutsen was nowhere to be seen. At 0956hrs hours, Messenger arrived at the location and entered London’s largest museum. Hilt remained static; so too Roberts. Logan was the last to arrive. Once he was in, Roberts ran to the entrance. Hilt hobbled there, pretending he was disabled.

  Hilt approached the ticket counter and purchased an entrance ticket to the establishment. He handed the ticket to an official who was standing next to the museum’s metal detector.

  The official asked him, “Is there any metal in your walking stick?”
/>   Hilt shook his head. “Just wood and rubber. I can’t manage without it.”

  The official could smell the alcohol on Hilt. “We have disabled ramps and wheelchairs if that would help?”

  “Nah thanks. Fell over outside the boozer last week. It’s just temporary. The stick will be fine.” He emptied his pockets of all metal items, winced as he took off his belt and watch, and placed all items into a tray. He hobbled through the X–ray machine, collected his belongings, and continued onwards. He knew Sign was already in here.

  He spotted Roberts, but couldn’t see Knutsen. Most likely Knutsen had entered the museum earlier. That didn’t matter. Only Roberts could throw the law at Hilt’s paymaster. He followed her. She was walking at a leisurely pace, pretending to read a museum brochure. The building was at half capacity, but that still meant there were hundreds of tourists in the venue. Hilt moved closer to Roberts, fearful he’d lose sight of her. He passed displays of Greek artefacts, Buddhist art, French ceramics, and Roman sculptures. Roberts entered the huge reading room in the centre of the museum. Hilt followed.

  In the north end of the circular reading room, Sign stood in front of Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. All of the men were in suits. Sign’s guests looked pissed off.

  “What’s so urgent that we had to be summoned here?” asked Messenger.

  “And who are you to summon us?” asked Logan. “You’re no longer one of us.”

  Pendry was silent, though looked hostile.

  Sign looked around before he returned his gaze to the men. “It is possible you’re being targeted for assassination.”

  All three laughed.

  Pendry said, “We take precautions.”

  “Of course.” Sign scrutinized each man.

  Messenger, the schizophrenic. A medium–height man who today was playacting the façade of being a well–groomed gentleman, but tomorrow could transform himself into a Russian bar brawler, if the need arose.

  Pendry the megalomaniac. A tall spin doctor who schmoozed which ever government was in power, and all because he wanted to run the country via the power of suggestion.

  Logan the psychopath. A short man whose muscularity was that of an Olympian weight lifter and whose spine was reinforced by steel after an accident in a rugby match. He’d had problems getting through the museum’s metal detector, just as he always had problems at airports. Logan didn’t care. He always got to where he needed to be and he always got what he wanted.

  Sign said, “I am authorised by the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to investigate the deaths of Mark Archer, Arthur Lake, Terry File, and Colin Parker. There is a fifth death of a man who has no connection to our service. It is most likely related to the other deaths.”

  “Our service?” Messenger chuckled. “You are a private detective. You’re no longer one of us.”

  Sign was unperturbed. “Be that as it may, I retain authority.” He lowered his voice. “I am not here to antagonise you. I’m here to say that there’s a killer on the loose. Most likely it’s a foreign operative. He or she is killing the shortlist to be chief; also, anyone who gets in the way of the objective. I asked you here because I felt duty bound to warn you that your lives are in danger.”

  In a sarcastic tone, Logan said, “How very noble of you. Are you close to identifying the identity of the assassin?”

  “No. And that’s why I’m here.”

  Messenger’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not here for that. Something else is going on.”

  “Yes. I’m getting a whiff of bullshit.” Pendry crossed his legs, clasped his hands, and said calmly, “Mr. Sign is attempting to play games with us.”

  “Poor Mr. Sign,” Logan said in fluent Chinese. “The only treason I’m here today is because Pendry and Messenger called me to say you’d summoned them as well. We’re busy people. We do the games, not you.”

  In impeccable Mandarin, Sign replied, “You decide if your death is a game.” He switched to English, his voice cold and clipped. “There is the possibility that one of you is the killer and there is no hostile foreign agent in play. Somebody in front of me wants to kill off the competition for the post of chief.”

  Logan slapped his hands. “Bravo, Mr. Sign. I hope the commissioner is paying you handsomely for that absurd analysis.”

  Messenger looked less cavalier as he glanced at his colleagues. He returned his gaze to Sign. “It’s preposterous, but feasible.”

  “It is.” Sign saw Roberts approaching the group. He frowned, knowing the expression would be noticed by his guests. Roberts walked right up to him. “Katy – what are you doing here?”

  Roberts showed him her police ID. “I’m here on official police business. The commissioner sent me.”

  Sign said to Messenger, Pendry, and Logan, “Gentlemen – leave now. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Stay where you are!” barked Roberts.

  Hilt wasted no time. He dropped his cane, ran, knocked over Roberts, and grabbed Pendry. “Time to get out of here,” he muttered to the MI6 officer. With his vice–like grip, he frogmarched Pendry away from the others.

  Like Hilt, Knutsen was wearing a disguise. He’d been in the reading room for ninety minutes, waiting for the limpet to show up. He dashed toward the limpet and Pendry, ripped off Hilt’s wig and fake moustache, and yanked his head back.

  Hilt released Pendry and punched Knutsen in the face. Tourists were screaming. The room was turning into chaos as people ran like headless chickens. Knutsen struck Hilt in the chest and shin. Hilt staggered, regained his footing, and flicked his heel behind Knutsen’s ankle while at the same time slamming his palm into Knutsen’s jaw. Knutsen flipped onto his back. He gasped for air, rolled as Hilt attempted to smash his foot into his skull, and got back to his feet. Hilt and Knutsen stood before each other breathing fast.

  Sign called out, “Knutsen – forget him! Protect Pendry!”

  Knutsen grabbed Pendry and backed away from Hilt, toward Sign, Roberts, Logan, and Messenger. Roberts had withdrawn an extendable nightstick. She stared at Hilt, silently daring him to come close.

  Hilt turned and ran, easily knocking unconscious two museum security men who’d entered the room. He kept running until he was out of the museum. Then he vanished.

  Sign acted furious with Roberts. “What just happened?”

  “I’m here to question Pendry, Messenger, and Logan.”

  “Are you now?!” Sign strode right up to her. “To do that, you’d need to have written authority from the foreign secretary or the prime minister. Let me see your paperwork.”

  Roberts hesitated.

  “You don’t have such paperwork, do you?”

  Pendry brushed his hands over his jacket, but looked calm. He said to Messenger and Logan, “We leave separately, but we most certainly leave now.” To Roberts he said, “Detective – your actions will cost you your career, if I have anything to do with it. Look on the bright side. You can sit at home and cry into your vino as you recall the death of your husband. Goodbye.”

  Pendry left first.

  Then Logan.

  Messenger was about to leave. He walked up to Sign and whispered, “If you’re right and the killer’s one of us, I don’t think you’ll have any chance of identifying that person. But, if I can help, call me.” He left.

  When Messenger was out of the room, Sign said to Roberts, “Set to work. When you’re done, meet us in West Square.”

  Roberts walked away.

  Sign approached Knutsen. “Are you okay, dear fellow?”

  Knutsen rubbed his jaw while feeling pain all over his body. He stamped his foot on the floor. “The dojo has a bit of spring in it. And when I’m there I’m covered in armour. Not the same here. But I’ll live.” He winced as he placed his hand on his back. “I hope there’s enough hot water in the flat’s tank. I’ll be using all of it because I need a very long bath.”

  Hilt was ten miles away from the museum when he called Smith from a payphone. “They’ve got my face!”r />
  “I know. You have only two uses to me now: I want you to vanish and keep your mouth shut. I presume you no longer have any alias passports?”

  “No. All confiscated when I left The Office.”

  “Okay. Lay low.”

  “I can deal with them if they come for me, though Knutsen’s a handful. And Roberts might bring in SWAT, in which case I’m screwed.”

  “Roberts and Knutsen are not your problem. It’s Sign who you should be worried about. He’ll find your weakness and make you talk.”

  Hilt shook his head. “I’ve been through worse before and kept my mouth shut. Plus, I’ll take them down before it gets to that.”

  “Make sure that happens. Just don’t let Sign get close to you. I’ll give you an extra payment when this is done. For now, don’t speak to me until I call you.” Smith ended the call. He cursed and called his deputy in MI6. “I won’t be in today. Something’s come up. Make sure you nail that problem in Cambodia.” He took the tube and a taxi to his house in Richmond. His wife was at home and was surprised to see him. He muttered to her that there was a crisis at work and all essential staff had been told to vacate HQ for a few hours. He went into his living room. It contained framed maps of parts of the world, photos of him shaking the hands of three world leaders, decanters of fine brandy and single malt whiskey, and furniture that had been procured from an antiques dealer in Berlin. He sat on a sofa and clasped his hands, deep in thought. Hilt had done the right thing in the museum. But, in doing so it had compromised him. There were two others on the list who needed to be killed. Smith smiled and breathed in deeply. He had no need to worry. He’d outplayed Sign.

  Sign tossed logs onto his living room fire and looked sympathetically at Knutsen and Roberts. “You did well today.”

  Knutsen looked exhausted. “What will you do now?”

  Sign looked at the photos Roberts had obtained from the museum’s cameras. The limpet’s face was visible from several angles. “Inspector Roberts has run these photos through UK national police databases. It’s taken her six hours to be ninety percent sure that the limpet has no criminal record and isn’t on a list of criminal suspects with no formal police record. That comes as no surprise.” He stared at the limpets face before sliding the photos into a beige A4 envelope. “The police can be of no use to us on this. But I have an idea. I need to meet someone who might know who this man is. But that can’t be done until tomorrow morning.”