The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  The two bedrooms were intersected with a bathroom that contained a toilet, sink, and bath. No shower.

  Knutsen said, “I haven’t had a bath since I was ten years old. I’m a shower kind of guy.”

  “We must improvise. When you go to the store, buy the usual bathroom necessities but add on bath foam, or whatever it’s called. Are you squared away on the boiler?”

  “The boiler?”

  “This is not West Square. To get hot water we need to plan at least twelve hours in advance.”

  “I’ll look in to it.”

  Sign smiled. “I’ll take this bedroom.”

  “It’s the smaller of the two. Are you sure?”

  “It has a view of the cove. I’m hoping to see the penguins congregate. Did you know, they get cold, just like us?”

  Knutsen sighed. “No I didn’t. I’m off to the grocery store in Stanley. Back in an hour or two. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as visiting your cold friends in Bluff Cove.”

  “Ha!” Sign slapped his thigh. “When you’re in the store see if they sell seal blubber. It’s just occurred to me that it might make a more nutritious and tasty substitute for sunflower oil when cooking.”

  Knutsen gave him a withering look. “Given what I know about this place so far, don’t be surprised if we’re having beans on toast tonight.”

  Ninety minutes’ later Knutsen returned. He brought in four boxes of groceries.

  “Did you source some blubber?” asked Sign.

  “Fuck off.” Knutsen placed the boxes in the kitchen. “The shop was surprisingly stocked with a variety of stuff. Alongside veg, herbs and spices, bread, tinned stuff, wine, beer, and toiletries, we’ve got steaks, chicken, cod, lamb, a joint of beef, mince beef, zebra trout, and brown trout.” He started unpacking the boxes. “They didn’t have your favourite drop of calvados. So, I bought a bottle of brandy instead. Hopefully your gastronomic skills and palate will be able to make something of it all.”

  “Splendid, dear chap.” Sign placed a hard plastic case on the kitchen table, next to the boxes. “While you were gone, Colonel Richards popped over. He gave me this. He opened the box. Inside was a Glock 37 handgun, cleaning kit, and four spare magazines. Sign expertly stripped it down, reassembled it, checked its workings and handed it to Knutsen. “It’s a .45 calibre weapon. You’d be able to kill an elephant with this thing. The magazine holds ten rounds. The gun has been cared for – there’s not a speck of dust in its mechanics.”

  Knutsen weighed the gun in his hand. The last time he’d held a gun this powerful was when he was on an undercover assignment to take down a gang lord. His police partner – the woman he was secretly in love with – was his fellow undercover colleague. They’d married prior to the assignment, purely as a façade to give credence to their fake backstory. But Knutsen was convinced they’d never get divorced after the job. Alas, she was killed when they took down the gang leader. Knutsen had used a gun as powerful as the one he was now holding to blow her killer’s head to smithereens.

  Sign knew all of this and could tell what Knutsen was thinking. “Sometimes we need a sledgehammer to crack a nut. But on this occasion it is possible we may have formidable opposition. We need to find and protect the fifth man. One shot from your gun, anywhere in the body, will immobilise the enemy.”

  Knutsen ensured the safety gadget was engaged and placed the gun between his belt and the nape of his back. “What about you? Did Richards give you an identical model?”

  Sign waved his hand dismissively. “You know I no longer use weapons of any sort. The days of violence are behind me.”

  “So I’m the dumb grunt shooter, and you’re the thinker?”

  “Incorrect. You are also the thinker. But you carry the gun because your youth means you are better equipped to deal with trauma. One day the trauma will catch up on you, but not yet. When it does, you will be where I am and will never want to pull a trigger again.” Sign riffled through the food. In a strident and jovial voice he said, “You’ve shopped like a queen.” He winked at Knutsen. “Lunch will be baguettes with melted cheese and salad. Dinner will be zebra trout with Parma ham, chives, sautéed potatoes, broccoli, carrots, and a drizzle of white wine jus. It’s a shame you couldn’t source seal blubber. It would have given a lovely shine to the jus. Regardless, while I’m cooking you can do some target practice outside. Just don’t shoot any sheep.”

  Colonel Richards called the British chief of defence staff on a secure military phone. “Sign and Knutsen have arrived. They’ve demanded that they stay in a cottage, not Mount Pleasant. I’ve given them a vehicle and a weapon. Sign won’t take orders from me.”

  “That’s because when he was office he was infinitely superior to you. Plus, he doesn’t take orders from anyone. Will Sign and Knutsen do the job?”

  “I’m sure of that. They’ve distanced themselves from military command and I understand why. They want to work this in their own way. The remit is clear: find the fifth man and make him talk. They can’t fly out of here for at least a week. The weather has grounded our planes. They’re going nowhere.”

  “Good.” The chief asked, “Everything is in lockdown?”

  “Yes. Local police have washed their hands of the case. The hospital obviously knows about the gunfight but don’t know details, and I’ve told the doctor who did the post-mortem that she’d spend a lifetime in prison if she breathed a word about the dead men, given the military now has jurisdiction.”

  “What about the dead men’s families?”

  ““I’ve told them that the men drowned on a routine fishing trip.”

  “They will be suspicious, given the men bragged that they were going to confront the spy ship.”

  Richards shook his head. “I gave them photos, showing that the spy ship was nowhere near the men’s trawler when the died. Obviously, the photos were doctored and taken days before the incident. But I did give them copies of the real toxicology reports. They know the men were blind drunk, the weather was awful, they fell overboard. The families are angry with the men’s stupidity. There’s no suspicion.”

  “And within the military?”

  Richards replied, “Only a handful pf people know about the incident. I’ve briefed them and laid down the law about national security, blah blah blah. Most important, I’ve told them about the sensitivity of the situation and that this may lead to war. Sir – are you making preparations?”

  “Yes. To kick Argentina in the balls I will be using navy frigates and destroyers, 42 and 45 commando Royal Marines, 2 Para, navy and RAF helos and fighter planes, and I will position a Trident submarine off Argentine’s coast. The end game will not be to take Argentina. We don’t want their country. But it will be a massive fuck off and leave us alone. Nobody messes with Britain and its piss poor protectorates.”

  Richards smiled. “The number of civilian casualties will be immense.”

  “Are you worried about that?”

  “No.”

  “Nor am I. The Argentines should have voted in a better government. So, let Sign and Knutsen do their thing and once that’s completed we do our thing. Agreed?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Alright colonel. Do your job. Make preparations for my task force to use your islands as a launch pad, keep an eye on Sign and Knutsen, and get me the fifth man. His evidence means I can strike Argentina and ensure they don’t touch the Falklands.” The chief hung up.

  It was evening. Knutsen walked toward the cottage, his gun in his hand. It had been dark for two hours, but that had suited Knutsen because he’d wanted to do his target practice with the only light coming from the multitude of stars that resembled large jewels in the crystal clear sky. Since mid-afternoon, snow had stopped. But it had started again with a vengeance. He entered the cottage, stamped his boots on the internal doorway mat, placed his sodden fleece by the log burner, and rubbed snow off his face and hair. The gorgeous smell
of Sign’s cooking was permeating the lounge. Knutsen went into the kitchen. “It’s getting shit out there again.”

  Sign was dashing between pots, stirring some, dipping his fingers in another and tasting its sauce, and checking the oven containing the zebra trout stuffed with lemons and encased in clay he’d sourced near the beach. “Food will be ready in ten minutes. That should give you enough time to clean your gun.”

  Knutsen returned to the lounge, stripped down his weapon, cleaned and oiled it, and reassembled the pistol.

  Sign emerged from the kitchen holding two plates of food which he placed on the small table. From his pocket he withdrew knives and forks which he positioned next to the plates. He dashed back into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. “Let’s eat and be merry.”

  After the meal, Sign washed up and prepared two fresh coffees and two glasses of brandy. The men sat by the log burner.

  Sign said, “Tomorrow we set to work. This will be delicate. We must enquire about matters that we don’t want the islanders to know about, and yet to get to the truth we must speak to the islanders. It is an amusing yet complex spin on investigative procedures.”

  “Richards has covered up the killings?”

  “No. He’s blurred lines. It would be impossible in a place with such a small population to hide the deaths of four of its brethren. Richards has given the islanders part truths and part lies. I advised him to do so.”

  “What’s the point? It’s not like the islanders are going to raise a militia and invade Argentina.”

  Sign smiled. “The point is we don’t want the islanders growing antagonistic towards the British military. If they knew that four of them had been slaughtered by Argentinians, they’d be baying for blood. A British military delay in action against Argentina would be deemed bad form by the islanders.”

  “Bad form?”

  “You have to remember that we’re in a delicate ecosystem. The islanders want the military to protect them. But they also have lives to lead. Every year, the military causes problems to their livelihood – accidental fires that scorch acres of rich farmland, landmines killing sheep, drunken liaisons between squaddies and young lasses, the list goes on and on. In equal measure, the islanders respect and reluctantly tolerate the British military presence. They’d rather the RAF, army, and navy weren’t here; and they’d rather they were here. It’s a delicate balance.”

  Knutsen sipped his coffee. “That’s a bit of a mind flip.”

  “It’s complicated. Unlike in our colonial days – when, like it or not, we always knew there was the inevitability of self-determination by our conquered countries’ indigenous populations – here we are protecting British people who live on the other side of the world. It’s hard for them; it’s hard for us. We must muddle through. And in our case we must tread very carefully.”

  “Is Richards treading carefully?”

  Sign placed his hands around his brandy, to warm the glass before imbibing. “He’s an action man who’s past his prime. He still clamours for blood and glory, though he won’t be leading the charge. But he can instigate carnage. In his mind it will be his last volley. He wants war – every military person does. This will be his swan song. He is treading carefully by engaging us to get the evidence he needs. Thus, he is manipulating us for his own ends.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who can be manipulated.”

  Sign took a swig of his brandy. “I am several steps ahead of Richards. I’m several chess moves ahead of the Argentinians and the British chief of defence. No one manipulates me.”

  “Steps ahead? What do you mean? We haven’t even started the investigation.”

  Sign looked at the fire. His voice was distant as he said, “Some people see what they want to see. That’s when they’re vulnerable. It’s the time when a clever predator strikes them down.” He looked at Knutsen and smiled. “Dear chap, we have a busy day tomorrow. Let’s lighten the tone tonight. May I suggest we take a stroll to the cove? I wish to show you something.”

  Adorned with their hardy hiking gear, they strode to the cliff edge. Snow was falling rapidly but the flakes were small. Visibility was still good due to the stars and a moon that was three quarters visible, The air was thick with the smell of grass, heather, and the salty smell of the sea that was washing the beach.

  Sign pointed at the beach. “Do you see them?”

  Knutsen looked at the beach. There were hundreds of penguins there, not moving, just standing immobile, shoulders hunched, looking miserable.

  “It’s like Dunkirk is it not?”

  Knutsen hadn’t thought of it that way. “They want to leave but they don’t know how to leave.”

  “Just like us, the military, and the islanders.”

  “And yet they embrace this climate because it produces fish they can feed upon. They are hardy folk.” Sign put his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “They hunt where the food chain exists. Clever. We must be equally clever. Come – let’s retire to our quarters.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Nine AM. Eight miles outside of Buenos Aires.

  Major Alejandro Casero was in a safe house owned by his employer the Federal Intelligence Agency, Argentina’s primary spy and security organisation. For the past two years he’d been running a top secret fifteen-person strong black operations unit called Special Projects. The unit was responsible for surveillance in hostile locations, infiltration of large criminal gangs, destruction of material assets purchased with dirty money, and the executions of key wanted individuals. The executions were always made to look like revenge attacks by rival criminal or spy organisations. Special Projects worked off the grid. They were not answerable to the FIA. Even Argentina’s judiciary was not aware of its existence. In fact, Casero had a very simple chain of command – he reported to Argentina’s president; no one else.

  Casero was thirty seven years old. Before joining FIA he was a special forces officer. In large part, he’d been responsible for handpicking the current members of Special Projects. He’d drawn people from the ranks of FIA, military intelligence, special forces, and specialist police units. The people he’d selected not only needed to have outstanding skills; they also needed to be grey men and women who could blend in anywhere. The frontline Special Projects field operatives were experts in unarmed military combat, small arms, explosives, covert infiltration, exfiltration, communications, deep cover, sniper skills, and every other attribute required for an elite assassination unit. They also needed to look and sound the part. Special Projects were masters at disguise. They could pass as a drug gang member from Colombia and could just as easily convince someone they were French, German, or British white collar businessmen. All of them were highly educated. Fluent English, no accent, was a prerequisite for entry into the unit. Within the team, other fluent languages spoken were Portuguese, and most other European languages. They could also vary their accents to mirror regional variants in tone. All of them had mastery of the Falklands Islands accent, which sounded a close match to that of New Zealand.

  Selection into Special Projects was merciless, regardless of the gender or age of the applicants. Candidates were put through a month of hell – forty mile mountain walks carrying sixty pounds of weight on their backs, two mile swims in clothing, minimal sleep, escape and evasion exercises with dogs and armed men on their heels, twelve hour interrogations, and daily ten mile runs in sodden clothes and boots. After that, continuation training and selection kicked in. They had to prove that they could acquire all the skills needed to be a Special Projects member. Three months later, the tiny number of successful applicants were allowed into the unit. There wasn’t a graduation ceremony or any form of celebration. Casero would simply look at them while sitting behind his desk and say, “You’re not in any recognisable unit now. Ditch lovers, husbands, wives, anything that ties you to your old life. But don’t think you’ve got a new family. Special Projects needs brilliant loners, not team players seeking camaraderie.”r />
  Now, Casero entered the dining room of the safe house. Three members of Special Projects were in there – Javier Rojo, Maria Fontonia, and Zaia Sosa. They were sitting at the table. Underneath their civilian clothes, they had handguns strapped to their waists and back-up pistols attached to their ankles. Casero hadn’t chosen them to be here because they were better than their peers in the unit – all members of Special Projects were exemplary. Rather, he’d picked them for the assignment because they looked Anglo-Saxon.

  Rojo was a thirty six year old male. He’d spent five years in the French Foreign Legion’s elite parachute regiment before returning to Argentina and joining special forces. He was medium height, had the strength of an ox, shoulder length blonde hair that he tied into a ponytail, a goatee, blue eyes that were penetrating and sexy, and a permanent slight smile that either suggested he knew something others didn’t or he had a mischievous inner joke about the world. He was the first person Casero had recruited into the unit. Since then, Rojo had worked cases in Argentina, Chile, Paraguay, Bolivia, Venezuela, Mexico, and the United States. Though he wasn’t university educated, he had a razor sharp brain, hidden behind his façade that some interpreted that to be of a cage fighter, others a slacker surfer dude or a guy that had just got out of a long stint in prison.

  Fontonia was a thirty three year old female. After graduating with politics and economics at Harvard University, she’d joined the police. She could have made a career of it, rising to the top. Instead, she’d volunteered for the serious crime unit. It was a job that required her to wear Kevlar vests and carry a gun, while she and her assistants stormed houses, ranches, and any other place that held criminal targets. She’d lost count of the number of people she’d cuffed or shot. Despite her magnificent track record of takedowns, at heart she was a superb investigator. None of her arrests and killings would have happened had she not devoted weeks or months identifying the men she wanted to arrest or kill. But, she’d grown bored of the police. That’s when Casero had identified her as a potential candidate for Special Projects. When he first interviewed her to see if she was suitable for selection, he was struck by her presence – she wasn’t particularly beautiful, but nor was she plain. Brunette, average height, average build. Perfect for blending in. But when she talked everything changed. She spoke with a tone that was mesmerising. Casero knew that he was in the presence of someone special. And that’s what he searched for in all of his candidates: something special.