by Matthew Dunn
They all laughed.
The Argentinian on duty on the spy ship saw the lights of the trawler draw closer. It wasn’t unusual, he reasoned, for a fishing boat to be out at night – often that was the best time to make the best catches – but something wasn’t right. The spy ship was lit-up like a Christmas tree. Even in these conditions the trawler would be able to see the Argentinian vessel. And the trawler was travelling at speed, heading directly toward the spy ship. The watchman estimated it was five hundred yards away. But, it was difficult to tell. The snow blizzard was playing havoc with his eyes and despite the months he’d been working this detail at sea, he still couldn’t master judging distances at sea and in a part of the world where clear air made something look to be a mile away when in fact it was ten miles away. He waited. The vessel was drawing closer, its bow rising and falling, spray spurting from the vessel’s sides.
In Spanish he muttered, “Shit”, ran into the boat, went to the captain’s cot, and woke the man. “Boat approaching fast. Looks civilian, but I can’t be sure. Small. Travelling at speed, straight at us!”
The captain rubbed his face, got on his feet, and shouted, “Everyone up! Ten seconds! Weapons at the ready!” He pulled on his cold weather gear. The others who’d been sleeping did the same. They grabbed their handguns and assembled on deck. The captain looked through a telescope. In a loud voice, he said, “Trawler. Three fifty yards. It can see us. We can see them. Prepare to pull up anchor on my command. Weapons by your sides at all times. This could be a raiding party, disguised as fishermen. If they get too close, you know the drill – shoot to kill and flee.”
Wilson gunned the vessel to its maximum speed, aiming it at the spy ship’s starboard side. He knew his boat’s bow was sturdy enough to withstand the impact. He also knew the spy ship was weak on its flanks. He was twenty yards away. His friends were on deck with their weapons.
Shots rang out and all went to Hell.
CHAPTER 2
Two men resided in the fourth floor apartment of a converted Edwardian terraced house in West Square, Southwark, London. The three other apartments in the building occasionally contained students and London workers. But for now they were empty.
The top floor flat contained two bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, bathroom, and a large lounge that was brimming with antiquities sourced from Burma, Mongolia, France, Patagonia, and Japan. Three armchairs were in the centre of the room – two facing each other next to a fireplace; the third on the other side of the room. On the walls were paintings, framed military maps of various parts of the world, bookshelves containing academic journals, leather-bound out-of-print works of fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and a diary written by a British naval officer during his voyage to America in 1812. Persian rugs were on the floor. The curtains adjacent to the double window were heavy and crimson. The mantelpiece above the fireplace had candles, oil lamps, a revolver that had belonged to a Boer soldier, and an Arabian dagger that had its tip embedded in the mantelpiece’s wood and was vertical.
Today, the fire wasn’t lit. It was summer in the UK. Tourist season in London. But the property was sufficiently set back from the hustle and bustle of the south bank and all its trappings. Very little could be heard aside from the muffled sound of traffic. It was an oasis of sorts. A place where the occupants could collect their thoughts. It was also their command centre for private detective work that ranged from mundane and routine to matters of national and international security.
Ben Sign was cooking lunch in the kitchen. Partridge, rosemary potatoes, steamed vegetables, and a lemon and orange sauce were on the menu. Sign was forty nine years old, a former MI6 officer who was tipped to be the next Chief of British Intelligence but resigned because he didn’t like bureaucracy and following rules, had joined the service after graduating from Oxford University with a double first, had seen plenty of action, but now preferred to use his mental prowess to solve problems. Tall, a widower, no children, kind but - when needed – had the ability to deploy a razor-sharp ruthlessness, Sign was regarded as the finest spy Britain had to offer. He’d thrown it all away and had set up the private detective consulting business. In doing so, he had the support of the prime minister, foreign secretary, home secretary, and commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. It was lovely to have such senior endorsements. But for the most part it didn’t help him pay the bills. He wasn’t wealthy and right now he and his partner were working for a client who thought her husband was cheating on her. A tedious case, but it would ensure that the next three months’ rent was taken care of.
His business partner and co-lodger was Tom Knutsen, a former Met undercover cop who’d joined the police after graduating with a first from Exeter University. Knutsen’s belief that the police would be a place where he could quash his tendency to be a loner proved to be a false hope. He’d quickly realised that mass camaraderie and a uniform weren’t for him. His superiors also realised that. He was given specialist training and told to infiltrate major criminal gangs in London and elsewhere. Like Sign, it suited him to work in places where he could be killed if his real identity was established. The thirty five year old was resigned to being alone in the world, with one exception – he was increasingly coming to the conclusion that Sign was the only man he could relate to. Sign was older than him, spoke like an aristocrat even though he was born into poverty, was a man of contradictions, had immensely powerful associates and yet was just as happy conversing with the average man on the street, and treated Knutsen with the utmost respect. Sign could also be a belligerent so-and-so whose vast intellect and cut-to-the-chase attitude sometimes hardened his soft interior. That didn’t matter. In a deeper way, Knutsen was like Sign and vice versa. They were becoming friends.
Knutsen was in the lounge, sitting in his armchair, listening to Sign cursing in the kitchen about rubbish cases, idiots negotiating Brexit, the dire state of American politics, the incompetent police detective who’d arrested the wrong man for the murder of a boy in Islington, how long it would take the police to identify and capture the real murderer – who Sign had identified by spending two seconds looking at a newspaper archive, and why the world was run by idiots.
Knutsen called out, “You’re having one of your moods.”
“I’m bored!” Sign served up the food and brought it in on trays. They ate on their laps in their armchairs. “It’s been months since we’ve had a decent case.”
Knutsen shovelled the food into his mouth. The meal was delicious. “Since we set up shop six months’ ago, we’ve only had one decent case.”
“True.”
Their first proper case – to catch a serial killer forcing senior MI6 officers to commit suicide, purely by the power of suggestion.
Sign looked irritated. “Perhaps I should call my friends in government and ask them if there’s anything they’d like us to do.”
“They’d have called you. They have no use for us at the moment.”
“Damn fools!”
Knutsen smiled. He liked it when Sign was riled. “Maybe they’ve got someone better than us to advise and consult on near-intractable problems.”
“Nonsense! I know their advisors. All of them have an agenda to either go into politics or earn a lot of money. Or both. They have the wit to feather their own nests but they don’t have the intellect to problem solve for a few bob.”
“A few bob?”
“You know what I mean.”
They finished their lunch in silence. Knutsen washed up. It was their rule. Whoever cooks, the other washes up.
Back in his seat, facing Sign, Knutsen said, “I’ve often wondered why you chose me to be your business partner. I don’t care one way or the other what your answer is. But I must admit it has intrigued me.”
Sign waved his hand dismissively. “MI6 officers hate each other. It has to be that way. We are not selected to hunt in packs. MI5 officers are wannabe spies, wherein in fact they are glorified cops. And mainstream police can’t think outside of the rule book.”
“I was a cop.”
“Technically, yes. In reality you were a lost soul who killed the man who killed the woman you were going to propose to.”
Knutsen looked away and quietly said, “Yes”.
Sign leaned forward and placed his hand on Knutsen’s forearm. “Dear chap, I hired you because you were a solitary hunter who’d lost his way in the wilderness. That was far more interesting to me than hiring tired ex-cops, unimaginative special forces types, or Machiavellian former spooks with egos the size of planets.”
Knutsen angled his head. “A pity case?”
“Necessity. I needed the right man for the job.” Sign’s expression steeled. “It’s what spies like me do – find the correct person for the task in hand.”
Knutsen nodded slowly. “I just wish we could flex out attributes on something other than divorce cases, financial fraud, and petty street gang crime.”
The communal entrance downstairs intercom buzzed.
Knutsen frowned. “Are we expecting a client?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Amazon deliveries?”
“You know I hate the Internet.” Sign stood and pressed the button that opened the communal entrance.
Thirty seconds later there was a knock on the door. Sign opened the entrance. A man was standing in the hallway – late forties, cropped but stylish silver hair, medium height, slight build, tailored charcoal grey suit, highly polished black Church’s shoes, and a silk ties that was bound in a schoolboy knot over an expensive shirt with cutaway collars. Sign immediately suspected he was a military officer. The man was holding a leather briefcase.
The man said in a posh but clipped accent, “Sir, I’m here to speak to Mr. Ben Sign. I apologise for turning up unannounced.”
“I am Mr. Sign. How did you know I was going to be here?”
The man gestured toward the communal front entrance. “I have men. They told me that you and your colleague Tom Knutsen were at home because…”
“They’ve been watching my home. Sir – you have my name. If you wish to talk to me in the comfort of my home, I will need your name and position.”
The man hesitated. “Colonel Richards. I am commander of all military bases on the Falklands Islands.”
Sign gestured for Richards to come in. He patted the armchair used by all clients who visited the flat. Sign pointed at Knutsen. “This is Tom Knutsen, my business partner. You may speak freely in front of him.”
“I would rather speak to you alone.” Richards sat in the chair and crossed his legs.
“Both of us or none of us!”
The colonel bristled. Clearly he wasn’t used to being spoken to that way. He held Sign’s gaze. “As you wish.”
Sign sat in his armchair and interlocked his fingers in front of his chest. “Are you army or Royal Marines?”
“Royal Marines. Plus I did three years in the SBS before returning to regimental duties and gaining promotion. I struggle to understand why what unit I hark from matters to you.”
“I wish to have the measure of you before we proceed. What do you plan to do when you retire from the marines?”
“Sir, could we get to business?!
“What do intend to do when you retire?” Sign repeated.
“I… I have been offered a senior position in BP. Also I’ll be sitting on the board of directors for a golf club, a charity, a London museum, and a national haulage company.”
“All positions requiring energy and youth. You’re retiring imminently. Correct?”
“In two months’ time. The Falklands is my last posting. My successor is an air commodore in the RAF.”
Sign closed his eyes. “So what brings you to England at a time that presumably is very busy, given you’re preparing to hand over the baton of command?”
“I came to London to see you. But what drove me here rests in the Falklands.” Richards opened his brief case and withdrew a brown file. “I want you to have this, but first let me give you some context to its contents.”
Sign opened his eyes and held up his hand. “If you have a case for us, remember it is our prerogative to decide whether we take it on.”
“Oh, I think you’ll take this on. It’s gold dust. And it could lead to war. In fact we want it to lead to war.” He eyed Knutsen and Sign. “Gentlemen – I’m not here to waste your time or my time. You’ve been recommended to me by the chief of defence staff.”
Sign chuckled. “How is the general? Last time I saw him I had to instruct him to stop flirting with Russian agent provocateurs, or I’d ensure he lost his job.”
Richards looked unsettled. “I… I…Well, he speaks very highly of you. Maybe he owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“He owes me more than that. Now, you came here to see me, but the matter pertains to the Falklands and war. Proceed.”
The colonel waved the brown file. “It is winter in the Falklands.”
“Yes, Yes! Get on with it.”
The colonel composed himself. “For two months there’s been an Argentinian spy ship circling the islands. Its intentions seem to be pure observation, though goodness knows what they hoped to spot.”
“It’s provocation. They knew you knew who they were. They were hoping to kick the hornets’ nest.”
“That was our conclusion, Mr. Sign. And the islanders knew about the boat. For the most part they ignored it. The vessel kept its distance, didn’t interfere with local fishing boats, and was viewed by British military and islanders as a useless piece of junk. But, three nights ago something changed.”
Sign looked at Richards.
The colonel continued. “Four local lads – two fishermen, a farmer, and a lighthouse keeper – got drunk in a bar in Stanley. In front of witnesses, they bragged they were going to sail out and confront the spy ship. We know that’s what they did because we’ve been monitoring the spy ship with an RAF drone, ever since it arrived. Via drone feed, we saw the locals’ boat get close to the spy ship. But then we lost visual of both boats because a hellish blizzard kicked in. When the blizzard abated, we saw that the spy ship was gone and the locals’ trawler was drifting close to where we’d last seen it. We sent one of our crafts out to check the local boat. No one was on the vessel. It was Mary Celeste. Of course, my men did a search in the waters around the trawler, but they found nothing. We towed the boat back into Stanley. Military and local police examined the vessel. There was fish blood on the vessel but it was impossible to ascertain if there was human blood.”
Knutsen asked, “Evidence of gun fire?”
“Yes. The boat had bullet holes in its cabin. Aside from that the vessel looked like any other sea trawling boat, with the exception that there were guns on board. We think the guns had been fired on that night. They were scattered on the deck.” Richards inhaled deeply. “We assumed at the time that the Argentinians had engaged the drunken idiots, killed them, and taken their bodies back to Rio Grande.”
Sign said, “And they boarded the boat and intermingled any human blood traces with fish blood.”
“Yes. Or they scrubbed the boat clean of the lads’ blood.”
Sign clasped his fingers together again. “But, it doesn’t end there.”
The colonel nodded. “The Argentinian ship is gone. It has not returned. But two nights ago four things did return, washed up on Stanley’s shore – the bodies of the four locals. All of them had shots to the head and chest. We had to do an emergency post mortem. There is no doubt they were killed by bullets. And we are one hundred percent sure that the bullets were manufactured by Argentinian munitions companies. They were shot by the crew of the spy ship and their bodies were dumped in the sea. The tide brought them in.”
Sign said, “The Argentinian military slaughter four civilians. It’s an act of war between Britain and Argentina, but only if you have more proof of what happened other than bullets. Tis a shame your drone lost visual. You should have had men watching the spy ship, not artificial intelligence.”
The colonel agreed but didn’t say so. It was his decision to deploy the drone. “I want you to investigate the murders.”
Sign looked at Knutsen, then Richards. “Why? You have the military police and local police at your disposal. Also, you could probably get detectives from Scotland Yard, or operatives from MI5 and MI6 to fly down. You have expert resources at your disposal.”
The colonel shook his head. “The police will look at this as a murder investigation. It is not. It’s far greater than that. Potentially this is war. The police can’t be involved.”
Knutsen asked, “And MI6 and MI5? The police might not have a grip on national security but the intelligence agencies do.”
The colonel sighed. “There is a complication, and it’s a delicate one. Is this a murder investigation, conducted by the police? Or is this a potential act of war, investigated by MI6? At the moment I don’t know. What I do know is two things: first, I need someone to investigate this very discretely; second, I want proof that the Argentinians slaughtered the islanders. That’s where you come in.”
Sign said, “That makes no sense. We can’t investigate a case of murderers who’ve fled back to their home country, and four dead bodies whose cause of death has already been accurately ascertained.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” The colonel spoke calmly as he said, “Before the drone lost visual we had thermal imagery of the islanders’ boat. There was no doubt – no doubt whatsoever – that there were five men on the trawler. Only four are accounted for.”
Knutsen frowned. “Who is the fifth man?”
“We don’t know. No one knows.”
“How did the fifth man escape?”
“He used the emergency raft to get back to shore. We found it two miles away from where his friends were washed up. Gentlemen: I need to identify the fifth man. He wasn’t in the pub that night. His evidence will enable us to go to war with Argentina. He will still be on the islands, somewhere. My men and the police can’t try to find him. This is too delicate a matter. No doubt the fifth man is petrified. His testimony will mobilise an armada of British ships, an army, and a strike force of fighter planes. Find him and we have legitimacy to knock the Argentinians for six. What say you?”