The Spy Whisperer (Ben Sign Mystery Book 1)

by Matthew Dunn

  “Why the delay?” asked Roberts.

  “Because the man I need to meet is currently travelling back from India and he doesn’t touch down in Heathrow until seven AM.” Sign’s demeanour changed. He smiled, clapped his hands and said, “Our local pub is trialling a new ale. Why don’t we brave the weather and see what we think of the beer?”

  At seven AM the following morning, Sign waited in the Arrivals section of one of Heathrow’s terminals. Despite the hour, the airport was bustling. Around him were chauffeurs holding placards with names written on them. Announcements about flights were regularly made over speakers. People were staring at monitors. Others were waiting alongside Sign and the chauffeurs at the metal fence, scrutinising each face that was emerging from the British Airways flight from Mumbai. None of them looked happy. They were saving their smiles for when they spotted the person they were here to meet.

  Sign saw the individual he was waiting for. He was a tall, middle–aged man, immaculately dressed in a suit, and was clean shaven. He must have shaved on the flight just before the plane entered UK airspace. He was pulling a trolley bag and seemingly had no escorts. Sign looked at other passengers. Yes – one younger men and one woman worked for him but they were keeping their distance and were wearing less formal attire. The woman was carrying a diplomatic bag. Almost certainly, guns were in there.

  As the middle–aged man exited the barrier and traversed the concourse, Sign casually walked behind him, then alongside him. “Hello Freddy. There’s nothing to worry about. I just want to talk.”

  Freddy Vine glanced over his shoulder, gave the slightest shake of his head at his colleagues, and looked at Sign. “I heard you were out of the community. What do you want with me?”

  “I need your help. This will only be a quick conversation.”

  General Vine was the Director of United Kingdom Special Forces. He said, “In two hours’ time I have to brief the prime minister. Quick is good. We can talk in my car.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the rear seats of a black BMW, stationary in one of the airport’s log–stay carparks. The special forces woman and man were in the front of the car. Sign handed Vine the envelope containing pictures of the limpet. “This person has access to a target of significant interest to me. I believe the man in the photos is a British former special forces soldier. It’s possible he was latterly MI6 or MI5 paramilitary. I don’t know him. But I want his name.”

  Vine looked at the photos. “Are you acting freelance now, or do you have official authority?”

  “I have the authority of the prime minister, the foreign secretary, and the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.”

  Vine’s expression was neutral. “I’m responsible for the SAS, SBS, SRR, 18 Signals Regiment, Special Forces Support Group, and the Joint Special Forces Aviation Wing. Combine them and you have thousands of men and women. Multiply that with former operatives of this man’s apparent age,” he tossed a photo onto his lap, “and you have ten times that number. Plus, I have no access to MI6 and its paramilitary work. This man could be a ghost.”

  Sign placed a hand on the general’s arm, not caring that the act made Vine bristle. “A photo gives me a name. You’ll have records. I’m not getting any help from MI6.”

  “The prime minister could order that assistance!”

  Sign removed his hand. “She could. But in doing so she wouldn’t know who was paying the man in the photos. He’d go to ground. National security is at stake. It is possible that the next head of MI6 is a serial killer who’s contracted the man in the photo.”

  “Where did you get these photos and when?”

  Sign told him what had happened at the British Museum.

  “I don’t know who he is, but then again I’ve only been in this job for two years.” Vine leafed through all of the photos. “Caucasian; adept at disguise; presumably adept at surveillance; and unarmed combat given he managed to get away – he could be one of ours. But he could equally be American, French, German, or Russian.”

  “I know.” Sign wondered if Vine was going to cooperate. “But, I think he’s British.”

  “Why?”

  “A hunch.”

  Vine laughed. “A hunch?” He placed the photos into the envelope and sighed. “I’ll do what I can to help identify him, if he is or was one of my boys. But I can’t tell you how long that will take. It could be a matter of hours; or it could be days if we need to talk to former operatives to see if one of them knows who the man is. And if one former operative does recognise him, there’s every chance he won’t tell me his name and may call the man to warn him off.”

  “I concede it’s a risk. If I were you I’d pre–empt any conversation with a statement.”

  “A statement?”

  “Tell your former colleagues that the man in the photo has betrayed the special forces community.” Sign opened the door. “I’m not exaggerating, Vine. Do what I tell you to do. This is a matter of national security. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll ensure you’re out of a job by tomorrow.” Sign exited the car.

  Mid–morning, Sign was back in West Square. He told Knutsen and Roberts about his encounter with Vine. “The general will do what he can. He has no alternative. But we must now wait.”

  “Wait?!.” Knutsen paced the room. “The limpet is probably now long gone. And the whisperer will be laughing at us.!”

  In a calm tone, Sign responded, “You are right, dear fellow on both counts. But we have something on our side that the whisperer doesn’t – time. The clock is ticking before the appointment of the next Chief of MI6 is announced. The whisperer must attempt to kill the last two on the three–person shortlist. But we have muddied the waters. He’s going to find murder a far harder task now that I’ve confronted them.”

  Roberts said, “The whisperer must be Pendry. He was the one who was grabbed by the limpet.”

  “Most likely.” Sign didn’t say what he was thinking. The intercom buzzed. Sign smiled and said to Knutsen, “That will be your young lad David. Show him in. And show no mercy.”

  When David was in the room, Sign slid a desk into the rear of the lounge, placed three chairs behind it, and put a chair in the centre of the room, facing the desk.

  Sign looked at the nineteen year old black man. “Sit.”

  David sat in the solitary chair. He was wearing a suit that Knutsen had bought him. Sign, Roberts, and Knutsen sat behind the desk.

  Knutsen said, “You have your first interview with the Metropolitan Police in two days’ time. You have to pass that interview if your application to become a police officer is to progress. We’re here to help you prepare for the interview. For the next hour, I am not Tom Knutsen. I am not your friend or mentor. Understood?”

  David nodded.

  “Yes or no?!”

  “Yes.” David was perspiring.

  Roberts asked, “Why do you want to become a police officer.”

  David’s voice was trembling as he answered, “I want to help my friends. Well, at least I thought they were my friends. I want to set them an example. Get them off drugs and crime.”

  “Wrong answer!” Knutsen slapped the table. “As a police officer you’ll be helping a whole community, the vast majority of who you won’t know.”

  “I… I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Think of it that way.” Knutsen nodded at Roberts.

  She said, “A police officer enters homes she or he has never entered before. They meet people they don’t know. Some of them are liars. Some of them are criminals. Some will want to put a knife in your gut. But some of them will be good people. How are you going to spot the differences?”

  David replied, “I… I know my neighbourhood. I know which bros are on the take, their mums and dads, their friends, and I know the streets.”

  Roberts shook her head. “If you join the Metropolitan Police you may be stationed in a part of London you don’t know. You’ll have to start from scratch. You’ll need to use your brain, knowledge
of the law, and your ability to read people.”

  David was lost for words.

  Sign interjected. “Don’t be nervous, David.”

  David frowned. “You a cop as well, mister?”

  Sign gave him a half truth. “I work for the Metropolitan Police commissioner. No one else.” He placed his hands on the desk. “Nerves are good. It means you respect this forum and it means you’re not cocky and arrogant. But you need to get a grip of your nerves. We can’t have nervous cops on our streets, can we?”

  “No… no sir.”

  Sign stared at him. “Remember Mr. Knutsen’s kendo training. Breathe properly. Always remain in control. Stay poised. Do not let your mind tell you that you’ve lost before you even raise your sword against your opponent. Believe in the truth. And if it helps, imagine the three of us are naked and sat on the loo.”

  Roberts suppressed an urge to giggle.

  Sign continued. “Be calm. Don’t go to the other extreme. Many cops are confident bullies. Don’t be like them. Take the professional route. Be the man on the dojo.” He glanced at Knutsen.

  Knutsen nodded. “He’s giving you good advice.”

  David hesitated. “The truth? The truth is I don’t want to be a bully. I don’t want to hide behind a uniform and rough people up. I want people like my Mum to make better decisions when they were younger.”

  Sign glanced at Knutsen and Roberts. “That is a good answer.” He returned his attention to David. “You’re no longer perspiring. Your voice now sounds confident. Your eye contact is good. My job is done. My colleagues will continue the interview. I will take my leave.”

  Knutsen and Roberts spent fifty minutes barraging David with questions. They also gave him hypothetical scenarios and asked him what he would do in such events. A mugger is stabbed with his own knife by the victim – do you first attend to the mugger or the traumatised victim? You witness a police officer, who once saved your life, steal cash from a drugs bust – do you report him to your superiors? An armed robber takes a hostage in an off–licence and you are first on the scene – do you request that you’re taken hostage in exchange for the victim being released? A terrorist is about to blow himself up in a crowded location – do you kill him? The list of questions and scenarios were relentless. David didn’t get all of the answers right. It would have been impossible for him to have done so without extensive police training and experience. And as every police veteran will agree, there are always situations that no police officer is prepared for. But that wasn’t the purpose of the interview. What Knutsen and Roberts were looking for in David were thoughtfulness and swift decisiveness.

  At the end of the interview Knutsen smiled. “David – you’ll do an excellent job in your real interview. When you get home, hang your suit up and make sure it’s free of fluff, wash and iron your shirt, polish your shoes, get rid of that goatee beard thing you’ve got going on, and – most importantly – be proud of who you are.”

  After David was gone, Sign re–entered the room and addressed Knutsen and Roberts. “General Vine has just called me. I know the limpet’s name. He is Karl Hilt. He’s a former Royal Marines commando and subsequently a Special Boat Service operative, before joining my lot and becoming a covert paramilitary operative. He left MI6 two years’ ago. Now he works freelance.”

  Roberts asked, “What do you know about his character?”

  Sign sat in his armchair. “Vine said he was an extremely effective operator in special forces. But, he’s a psychopath; or a sociopath; or whatever label we can slap on him. That trait served him very well in behind–the–lines work, including with MI6. Regardless, Vine has told me to be very careful with him.”

  Knutsen asked, “What do we do next?”

  “We hunt him down and make him talk.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Four days’ later Hilt checked into a hotel in Norwich. He felt grubby and exhausted. He’d walked and jogged one hundred and twenty miles from London to Norfolk and his only rest had been a few hours’ kip in some ditches. He knew he couldn’t go anywhere near his home, so he’d chosen Norfolk because there was a Cromer–based trawler captain he knew who might take him to Scandinavia. But the captain wasn’t due back from his North Sea fishing trip until tomorrow and Hilt was on his knees. He needed a proper bed, But, in taking a room in the hotel, he knew that he was probably signing his own death sentence. In the bedroom, he showered and shaved, then sat in a chair, his gun on his lap. He stared at the door, desperately trying not to sleep. But fatigue started to overcome him. His head started nodding; eyes shutting and opening; nose sporadically snorting; and his mind was telling him to rest because he was too old for this lark. His gun fell off his lap as he slouched, deep in sleep.

  Roberts ran up the stairs of West Square and hammered on Sign’s door. Knutsen answered. Breathless, Roberts exclaimed, “We’ve got him! Hilt. He’s checked in to a hotel in Norwich. He used his own ID. Must mean he doesn’t have other ID. Hotel cameras picked up his face. There’s no doubt it’s him.”

  Knutsen ushered her in and called out to Sign.

  Sign entered the living room. He was in a bathrobe. Roberts repeated what she’d told Knutsen. Sign said, “Norfolk will be the first stage of Hilt’s escape route.”

  Knutsen frowned. “Escape?”

  “Yes. Hilt’s now of no use to the whisperer. He’s been told to get out while he can. I imagine he didn’t use any form of transport to get to Norfolk. He’s tired and he’s waiting for an asset to get him to,” he looked at a framed map of the world, “somewhere. My guess is that his destination isn’t the Netherlands or Germany – the crossings are too heavily policed. And if he wanted to take conventional ferries into Europe he’d have gravitated to Lowestoft. No. He’s going to Denmark, Norway, or Sweden. And he’s going there via unconventional transport. After that, who knows?”

  Roberts was confused. “He’ll have known that checking into a hotel might have blown his location. Why not check into a B&B where there are no cameras. It would have been far harder for us to trace him there.”

  Sign agreed. “He doesn’t like you, me, and Knutsen. He’s baiting us. He wants us to enter his room. Then he kills us and leaves.”

  Roberts pulled out her phone. “I’m calling SCO19. They’ll arrest or kill him.”

  Sign shook his head. “It would take weeks for SWAT to rehearse how to take down a paramilitary spy. They’re not trained for this.”

  “Then who is?”

  “MI6. But they’re not at my disposal.” Sign rubbed his face. “Special forces could be an option, but there is a significant risk that they won’t want to kill one of their own.”

  Knutsen asked, “What about foreign allies? Could they help? They’ll be impartial.”

  Sign smiled. “It’s a good thought but flawed. A foreign paramilitary unit would have to know what’s at stake in order for them to risk a severe diplomatic row if they hit a UK national on UK soil. To get a foreign ally’s help, we’d have to tell them that the next Chief of MI6 is a murderer. That information would escalate beyond our control. We’re looking for the whisperer. We are most certainly not looking to lose the allegiance of a partner country.” Sign pointed at Roberts. “We take Hilt down ourselves. I’ve no time to tell you how. I’ll be there. I’ll do the thinking. Give me five minutes to get dressed. Then we get in the car to Norfolk. Bring guns. Also handcuffs or rope.”

  When he was out of the room, Roberts muttered, “Arrogant prick!”

  Knutsen was shocked. “Sign? He gave you a place to stay after your husband was murdered. He helped you get back on your feet. He helped give me purpose. He helped David. For very little money, he’s helping UK national security. He’s not arrogant. He was the brightest star in MI6. He’s gone into problem–solving mode. Don’t mistake that for arrogance. He just thinks better than us. You want to slap a label on him then I’ll give you one – he’s lonely. No man is an island and all that. He’s been adrift since his wife was murdered. And I’ll tell
you this – he’ll take a bullet for us without blinking. He wants to be with her again.” Knutsen stood. “Don’t ever speak about my friend like that again!”

  Roberts paled. “I… I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  “Then, don’t think!” Knutsen knelt before her. “You’ve been through so much. Goodness knows how you’ve coped. Always remember who your friends are. Sign is the best of them.” Knutsen smiled. “He can, however, be a pain in the ass.”

  As he stood, Roberts laughed and said, “He most certainly can. But you’re right. He’s done more for me than anyone else.”

  “Including your husband?” Knutsen looked aghast. “Sorry, that came out wrong. It was a dumb thing to ask.”

  Roberts looked at the floor. Quietly she said, “It’s okay. Elliot and I worked. Good marriage. Barely a bad word between us. He remembered anniversaries and birthdays. He was charming with my family and friends. He never did anything bad to me. He was a very proper man. But…” her lips trembled, “but…”

  “There sometimes is a but.”

  She raised her head. “It’s hard for women. Sometimes, when the best thing is looking you in the face, you want something else.”

  “You cheated on him?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I thought of him like a superb brother. Not a lover. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes.” Knutsen stripped his pistol, cleaned the working parts, and reassembled the gun. “We all have to forget the past. The next few hours will define our future. We have to put our faith in Sign. SCO19 might have been the best solution. Then again, I’m not a spy. I don’t think like Sign. Nor do I have his training.”