by Matthew Dunn
“You over estimate him.”
“Maybe.”
Sign entered the room. He was wearing corduroy trousers, hiking boots, and a green fleece jacket.
Hunting, shooting, and fishing in Norfolk was what immediately came into Knutsen’s mind when he saw Sign’s garb. “Do you have any clothes that are twenty first century?”
Sign laughed. “Would they keep me warmer than those manufactured in the last century?” He poured himself a coffee. “Clothing manufacture is about fashion, not necessity. Still, people who need warmth within rugged environments are sucked in by alleged advances in clothing technology. It’s a racket. Did you know in 1924 the British mountaineer George Herbert Leigh Mallory is probably the first man to scale Everest? He did so in clothing that by today’s standards would be deemed nonsensical. It wasn’t. I’m certain he reached the peak.”
Knutsen was having none of this. “We don’t know if he reached the peak. In any case, he died on the way down. His body was only discovered in 1999. I don’t think his clothes were good enough.”
Sign sat. “Or he was simply exhausted and suffering from altitude sickness.” He smiled. “I’ve traversed Siberia during winter in little more than a shirt and trousers. I concede, I’ve never suffered altitude sickness. I did, however, have a pack of dogs on my heels. Men do what they have to do under the circumstances.” His expression steeled. “I know what I’m doing. Clothes don’t stop a bullet. If either of you think you know better, try swimming two miles in December from St. Petersburg to a British submarine.”
Knutsen and Roberts were silent.
Sign said, “Now! Get dressed. Think like Mallory. We can ascend in whatever attire. But we may not make it back to base camp. We depart in five minutes.”
John Smith watched Logan’s home. He knew Logan was in there. It was Saturday. Logan had a rare day off. Given he had a six month old baby, that meant his wife would do anything to have a few hours respite from childcare. She’d be out of the house as soon as possible. Smith waited for ninety minutes. Logan’s wife exited, holding a supermarket ‘bag for life’ and an umbrella. She looked tired but happy. Even an hour or two of buying baby food and other essentials would give her the head space she needed. Probably, when she returned home she’d feed her family, put her son to bed, and then collapse on the sofa. Smith waited until she was out of sight and then entered the house. He could hear Logan in the kitchen, washing dishes. He moved silently into the adjacent lounge. Logan had his back to him. His son was in a playpen, lying on his back while fiddling with toys that were too big to choke on. Smith stood by the playpen, staring at the child. He had no affinity to children. As far as he was concerned, they were not only a waste of time, they also produced emotions in their parents that ultimately messed with their minds and supplied them with an early grave. He knew that because his parents had worked themselves to the bone to support him. Like all children, he’d been selfish as a child. His highly educated and intelligent parents got through parenthood like any other mum and dad – they blagged it, taking each day as it came. Lack of sleep was a killer in the early days; so too lack of cash. In an attempt to keep things afloat, his dad had dragged his tiny family to tax havens around the world, every time telling his wife that his new job would make them millions. It never worked that way. His dad ended up bankrupt. His wife divorced him. Dad died of a broken heart. Mum killed herself. And before then, Smith had been schooled in Dubai, Isle of Man, Bermuda, and Vanuatu. Friends came and went. Childhood was a waste of time. Still, MI6 liked the fact that he’d had an unconventional upbringing. The organisation thought it made him well equipped for the work of a spy who had no connection to the normal world.
Smith pulled out a pistol and held it against the baby’s head. “Mr. Logan! I urge you to desist from you chores.”
Logan ran in to the room.
Smith smiled. “Hello Logan. The gun is loaded. If you don’t do what I say, I will kill your son.”
Logan’s face flushed red. “Sign was right! There was always a killer!”
“We do what we have to in life.” He placed the muzzle of the gun in the baby’s mouth. It thought it was a toy. The boy gurgled. With his left hand, Smith withdrew a piece of paper and a pen and placed both on an adjacent table. “Sit down and write what I dictate. I’ll stay here until you’re done. Your baby’s head will be mash if you make one error.”
At midday, Sign, Knutsen, and Roberts stood outside the Holiday Inn in Norwich.
Roberts said to Sign, “The hotel concierge says Hilt’s in his room. He has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ leaflet on his door. I’ve given the concierge your name and instructed him that you have police authority to approach the room. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Sign shrugged. “Time will tell. But I don’t think going in guns blazing will help. If anything, it will antagonise him and force him to keep his mouth shut. He’ll stay silent out of principal. A more subtle tactic is needed. I want you both to stay outside in case he bolts.”
Knutsen shook his head. “That will be a lottery. There are too many entrances and exits to cover.”
“Try your best.” Sign walked in to the hotel.
Knutsen muttered, “He’s making a huge mistake doing this alone. He’s unarmed. We can’t back him up. All he’s got is…”
“His brain.” Roberts stared at the hotel. “This is what he does – going in to situations without a safety net. It’s ingrained in him.” She turned to Knutsen. “I’ll take the north side of the hotel. You stay here. When he gives the signal, we move like fury.”
Sign took a lift to the third floor and walked down the corridor. He knocked on a room door. “Karl Hilt, this is Ben Sign. You know who I am. I am alone and unarmed. But, I do have police officers surrounding the hotel. I’d like to talk.”
There was silence for two minutes.
Sign spoke in a louder voice. “I know you’re in there. And I know you’re desperate. I have something that will help you.”
The door opened a few inches. Hilt was there, his gun pointing at Sign. Hilt said, “If you’ve got others with you, you’ll go down first.”
“I agree to those terms.”
“And it will be a head shot, in case you’re wearing a bullet proof vest.”
Sign patted his chest. “No vest. No wire. No recording device whatsoever. No pistol. No explosives. No tricks. But, I do have a piece of paper I’d like to show you.” He pulled out a letter. “May I come in?”
Hilt fully opened the door, grabbed Sign by the back of his neck, flung him onto the bed, and stood with his gun in two hands. It was pointing at one of Sign’s eyes.
Sign sat up. “There’s no need for violence. I wouldn’t be able to compete with you.” He gestured to a chair. “May I sit there? I’d like you to sit opposite me. By all means keep your gun trained on me if you think it’s necessary. I suspect you already know I can’t hurt you. But I’ll leave it to your intellect to decide whether I’m a problem or a solution.”
Hilt hesitated, then nodded. “Get in the chair.” He pulled up another chair and faced Sign. His gun was still in his hand but not pointing at Sign. “Why and how would you help me?”
Sign was calm. “You’re in a bit of a pickle. No doubt you’re here because you have an exfiltration route planed across the North Sea. If you haven’t, that’s bad luck because you’ve got nowhere to go in the UK. You’ve been hung out to dry by your paymaster. For people like us there’s nothing worse than when you’ve been stabbed in the back by one of your own.”
Hilt chuckled. “It comes with the territory.”
“Yes. And I know you don’t care about that. It’s what you’re trained for. Probably, abandonment is in your DNA. After all, your parents gave you up for adoption when you were four. But, you didn’t get adopted. Instead it was foster care nearly every year until you were eighteen and enlisted in the marines. The commandos were the family you always wanted. The problem was that you could never really fit in with all th
e camaraderie and discipline. It was too late for you because you were a loner and had no trust. Nevertheless, you were top of your marine class and served with distinction. But, you wanted something different. Special forces appealed to you because you thought it might be a job where you could work alone. You made it through the excruciating selection process and were set to task for many years. Alas, you didn’t find solace in the Special Boat Service. There was still a chain of command. And you had to work with colleagues. Family, you concluded, was not for you. And that’s why we picked you up. MI6 gave you precisely what you always knew – you had no family, nor any substitute families. You could now work alone.”
Hilt was silent, though anger was evident in his face.
Sign crossed his legs. “It’s not your fault that you are a sociopath. When a child gets no love – from parents, foster parents, teachers, social workers, aunts or uncles, siblings, anyone – as a result, they don’t trust love.”
“Thanks for the therapy session, Dr. Sign.” Hilt waved his gun. “But, I’m a grown up. And I’m the one who can end your life.”
“Yes, of course you can, dear fellow. This is the problem,” He handed the letter to Hilt.
It took thirty seconds for Hilt to read the two page document. It was written by General Vine, was classed top secret, and had the word Draft printed at the top. Within the letter it said that Hilt suffered mental illness, was a coward in action, had allegedly slept with a fourteen year old girl, and was dishonourably discharged from the military.
Hilt tossed the letter aside. “These are all fucking lies!”
Sign smiled. “Of course they are. But who did you think you were dealing with?”
“Vine didn’t come up with this! You did this!”
Sign said, “You’re going to prison for the murder of Elliot Roberts. I would imagine the sentence will be approximately twenty five to thirty years. Here’s the thing – prison officers and inmates respect courage. You’ll get extra rations; you’ll be treated well; you’ll be able to run a fiefdom. But, if I put a copy of that letter into the system you’ll be a nonce. Your life will be hell. So, I’m sat here wondering what to do. Letter or no letter? No letter means you’ll probably be out on good behaviour in fifteen years. In court a brilliant defence lawyer will cite your appalling childhood, the traumas you’ve suffered in combat, and the fact you were paid to kill Elliot by a man who is infinitely worse than you. Alas, the letter will not go well for you.”
Hilt stated, “If I do anything to you, a copy of this letter will go straight to the courts and prison.”
“Yes.” Sign looked out of the window. “You could shoot your way out of this situation. You’ll die. The papers will say the police killed a paedophile. But if by some miracle you make it to a boat that can take you across the North Sea, know this – there is a British frigate sitting there, waiting to check every boat that heads out of East Anglia. And on the frigate are thirty marines. They won’t like you at all.”
Hilt frowned. “You’re bluffing!”
Sign pulled out his mobile number and extended it to Hilt. “Vine’s number is in my contact list. Call him. Ask him security passwords to verify he is who he says he is. Also in my contacts list are the Minister of Defence, the Foreign Secretary, the Head of MI6, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, and the Prime Minister. Ask them if I’m bluffing.”
Hilt didn’t take the phone.
Sign leaned forward. “There will be no letter if I get a name. I want to know who in MI6 killed the competition.”
Smith watched Logan write his signature at the bottom of the sheet of paper. Smith withdrew his gun from the baby’s mouth and looked at the sheet. It read as follows:
To whom it may concern
My name is James Logan. I am a senior official in British Intelligence. It was probable I would be the next chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. But, to attain that post, I knew I was up against strong competition, as well as external forces. The other men on the shortlist for chief are Mark Archer, Arthur Lake, Edward Messenger, Nicholas Pendry, and Terry File. All but Messenger and Pendry were killed by my hand. I would have killed Messenger and Pendry but my identity has been discovered by former MI6 officer Ben Sign. My tactic has failed. I also confess to instructing a subordinate to kill Elliot Roberts, the husband of a Special Branch Detective who has been helping Sign, and murder Colin Parker, a high ranking counter–intelligence officer. I’m writing this letter under duress. Ben Sign is pointing a gun at my child. He is forcing this confession out of me.
Nevertheless, I will accept whatever punishment is owed to me.
James Logan
Smith grinned as placed the muzzle of his handgun back against the baby’s head. “Him? Or you?”
“You bastard!” Logan was sweating.
“Live with what you might see for the rest of your life, or end the pain. You choose!”
Logan shook his head. “How could you do this?”
Smith cocked the gun. “Bye bye baby.”
“No! No!”
Smith walked to Logan and shoved the gun in his mouth. “That was the right decision.” He pulled the trigger. Logan was instantly dead.
Sign called Roberts. “Bring one of your colleagues. He’s ready to come in. He won’t hurt you. I have the name.”
Knutsen and Roberts were in the room within eighty seconds. Both trained their guns on Hilt.
Roberts’ stomach knotted as she looked at the man who’d killed her husband. “Why did you let us find you?!”
Hilt smiled. “I didn’t want to run anymore.”
“Liar!” Roberts stepped forward,
Hilt tossed his gun onto the bed. “I’m sorry about the loss of your husband. Life ain’t fair, is it? If it’s any consolation, pretty much everyone I know is dead. All I have left is a job. The jobs usually include bullets or knives. That’s my path. Shit happens.” He looked Roberts directly in the eye. “I came here because I want to reach the end of that path. I was going to get on a fishing boat tomorrow. But, then what? More of the same old crap. Reinventing myself. No ID I can use. One day being caught out and smashed up in a prison cell in Moscow or Beijing. I could have done that ten years ago. Now, I’m not so sure. See, the thing is I’ve got a bit of a medical situation. Only found out three months ago.” He looked away, his smile no longer on his face. “If you’re a betting person, don’t put a wager on me making it past the next few weeks. Lung cancer’s a fucker. I’ve never smoked. Probably it’s all that nuclear, biological, and chemical training they put SF through. Respirators aren’t faultless. Guess I got some filth in my airways.” He stood and then laid on his front with his hands behind his back. “It’s muscle memory. Leg it to an escape and evasion route. Get to Scandinavia. Go on foot and other means across Europe. End up in Thailand or similar. Then you realise you’re not that person anymore.” He looked over his shoulder. “Get it done!”
Roberts put her foot on his back and attached handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for the murder of my husband.” She looked at Sign. “How did you know?!”
Sign clasped his hands. “I didn’t know about his cancer. But I deduced he’d come here because it was his last stand and a cry for help. It’s like an old wolf who wanders from the pack because it knows something is wrong with its health. It chooses a place to die.” Sign stood and walked out of the room while saying, “Do your police thing and get Hilt to a secure facility. He won’t try to escape.”
Ten minutes later, police were on the scene. They escorted Hilt to Norwich police station where he was placed in a cell. The custody sergeant refused the Metropolitan Police’s request to transfer him to a London police station, on the grounds that Hilt might do severe damage to the officers transporting him. The Metropolitan commissioner tried to object, but the sergeant told him that custody sergeants can only be overruled by the home secretary. Hilt was to be kept in Norfolk, awaiting trial. A doctor and nurses visited him in his cell and did tests on him. They concluded he’d be
dead before a court verdict was issued.
When Sign, Knutsen, and Roberts were back in London, Roberts received a phone call. After she ended the call, she said to Sign, “James Logan has written a letter stating he did the murders. Then he killed himself. His wife found the body. Logan wasn’t the name Hilt gave you. The limpet lied.”
Sign looked distracted as he strolled alongside his colleagues into West Square. “He didn’t lie. The whisperer cast him aside, like a rabid dog. He wouldn’t protect him now.” He stopped and turned to Roberts. “By all means slap me if you wish, but I do feel sorry for Hilt – his upbringing and adult life have been hell. It would have been good if we could have turned back the clock and given him a proper family.”
Roberts stared at him. First, she looked angry. Then sad. “Yes. I know all about living with grief. It corrupts the soul.”
Knutsen said, “We all know how that feels.” He placed his hand on Sign’s arm. “What next?”
Sign stood outside the entrance to the apartment block. “Logan isn’t the whisperer. Nor did he commit suicide. He was executed in the same room as his baby. What I would have done if I were the whisperer is tape bin bags to my arms so that I could dispose of cordite residue on my forearms, wear gloves, plastic shoe covers, hold a gun to the baby’s head, and force a false confession out of Logan. When he’d finished the note, I’d have placed the gun in his mouth. Logan would have put his hands around the weapon, out of fear. I’d have pulled the trigger, knowing that Logan’s prints were now on the gun and that cordite would be on his arms. Police forensics would see the case as cut and dry. And there’d be no trace of an external party in the room.”
Roberts asked, “How do you know this stuff?”
“Life and death.” Sign looked at Knutsen. “I need you and your skills today. You and I aren’t going in to the apartment. However, Mrs. Roberts is going into her flat.”
Roberts looked furious. “Don’t leave me out of this!”