The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  Sosa was a thirty six year old woman. Tall, facially looked a bit like the actress Jodie Foster, and liked to wear dowdy clothes just to stop men gawping at her. She’d obtained the highest grade in her year when studying at Argentina’s top university - Universidad de Buenos Aires – and had been snapped up by the Federal Intelligence Agency when she applied to be a field operative. After training and mentoring, she’d run some of the FIA’s most sensitive cases, taking her all over South America, North America, and Europe. Things changed for her when a low level FIA analyst had booked her on a series of flights that ultimately took her to Tokyo. She was carrying twenty thousand dollars in cash to meet one of her agents in Japan and pay him the money. Unfortunately, the route she’d taken had been identified by Japanese security services as that typically taken by white collar drug dealers. She was arrested, put in prison, and severely interrogated for three days. Her profile didn’t help her case – she was travelling under business cover. The twenty thousand dollars in her handbag also didn’t help. But, she stuck to her story and was released. When she got back to the FIA headquarters in Buenos Aires, she pinned the analyst up against a wall by his throat and said to him, “You idiot. You’re paid to know about drug routes. You nearly got me killed.” She was sacked for the assault. That’s when Casero stepped in. He met her at her apartment and said, “I have a job for you, if you can prove yourself to me. But, I don’t believe you’ve ever killed anyone. Do you have a problem learning how to kill?” She’d pulled out a gun and placed it against Casero’s head. Casero could have easily stopped her from doing so, but he didn’t. He was testing her. She’d said, “When you have nothing, pulling a trigger is the least of your problems.” Casero told her to report to him the next morning. She’d passed selection and subsequently executed fourteen men and women on behalf of Special Projects.

  Now, Major Casero stood in front of Rojo, Fontonia, and Sosa. They watched him, silent. He said, “A new job. I’ll be with you in the field. So, we’re a four person deployment. We work alone and with different angles. But we must stay in contact with each other. We need to find someone and neutralise that person.” He tossed brown files at the operatives. “Rojo: you’re a shipping insurance guy, seeking evidence on a series of drownings. You want to pay the insurance money. You are a good guy. Fontonia: you are an investigative journalist. You are looking for evidence to support a rumour that Argentina is making provocative military gestures against Great Britain. You are tough but fair. Sosa: you are in the early stages of pregnancy from a one night stand with a man who died at sea. You want to track his friends and family. You are emotional and scared.”

  The unit didn’t flinch.

  Sosa asked, “And you?”

  “I am a British intelligence officer, sent from London without the knowledge of the UK military bases in the target location.”

  “Meaning The Falklands,” said Rojo.

  “Correct. I will be investigating a situation that will enable the British government to go to war against Argentina. It will be a discrete role. The islanders will help me.”

  Fontonia said, “You’re playing with fire.”

  “We’re playing with fire. It is ever thus in the unit.” Casero sat at the table and prodded one finger on each file. “Choose your passports with care. You can’t be British because I’ve already taken that nationality. But you can be Australian, New Zealanders, or white Africans. You must not be Americans or Canadians. And the three of you must be different nationalities. There must be no crossover. We work different angles.”

  “What’s happened,” asked Rojo.

  “We had a vessel monitoring the Falklands. A stupid idea, as far as I’m concerned. A few nights ago, the vessel contacted HQ and said they were under heavy fire from a local fishing boat. Our boat tried to return to Rio Grande but it sunk on route due to damage to its hull. We have recovered the boat and its dead crew. It is clear that our spy ship killed the four men who attacked them, then dumped their bodies in the sea. We know this because of the penultimate transmission we received from our sailors.” Casero withdrew a slip of paper and read its contents out loud. “Four hostiles in the sea. Shot dead. We’re returning to homeland now. Heavily damaged. British military weapons found on the vessel. Gunshot wounds to our crew. Stand by. Message ends.” Casero put the slip of paper back in his pocket.

  Sosa asked, “What do you want us to do? Take on the British army out of retaliation?!”

  “No.” Casero looked serious. “Our spy ship reacted valiantly to the attack. Some people in our nation think it’s a victory. I disagree. It’s not yet an act of war but it might be due to one other factor.”

  “Meaning,” asked Fontonia.

  Casero replied, “It’s public information that four Islanders died in a drowning incident that night. It’s a cover up. I know for certain that the British don’t want the islanders riled by the knowledge that the men were shot by Argentinians. I also know that the British are searching for reasons to justify an assault against us. The dead men’s details are in your files. They are Eddie Wilson, Rob Taylor, Billy Green, and Mike Jackson. Only Green wasn’t a native islander, though he assimilated into the community. I want you to memorise everything in the files, then burn the papers.”

  Rojo flicked through his file. “We have no mission. Three Argentinian men and one Argentinian woman die at sea, close to our coastline, due to gunshot wounds, a deficient boat, drowning, or a combination of all of those factors. Four islanders are killed by our guys one mile out from the Falklands. Our people were simply defending themselves.”

  Casero shook his head. “We were in British waters. The islanders were drunk. We were professionals. We didn’t defend ourselves; we expertly murdered them before limping towards home.”

  Fontonia said, “There’s something you haven’t told us.”

  Casero eyed them all. They were such bright people. So ruthless. And even though he only thought of his unit’s members as loners, he still felt a duty of care over them. They were his family. He’d assembled them. He’d stripped everything they held dear away from them. He’d recreated them. “I’m coming on this mission with you because it is of vital importance. Yes, there is something I haven’t told you. It’s not in your files. On the night the islander’s trawler attacked our ship, it is clear that four islanders were killed by our people. But before it sunk, our vessel sent its last transmission. It said, “There was a fifth man on the islanders’ boat. He escaped back to the islands on an emergency raft. We couldn’t pursue. He is a witness to what happened.. The message ended there. We estimate our boat got flooded and sank minutes after. The signals man must have been terrified. We don’t know the identity of the fifth man. He is the key witness. His testimony will bring war. We must do everything we can to stop that from happening.”

  Sosa nodded. “We find the fifth man and shut his mouth by putting two nine millimetre bullets in the back of his skull.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Ben Sign cooked bacon, scrambled eggs, beans and toast. Knutsen was outside, doing an early morning run. When Knutsen entered the cottage he was breathless. It was impossible to tell whether his saturated T-shirt was soaked with sweat or snow or both.

  “Smells good,” said Knutsen. “I need a quick shower.”

  Ten minutes later they ate in the lounge, both men wearing their hardy outdoor gear. Sign had also prepared a pot of tea. He said, “This is rustic fare but it was all I could muster. Plus, we are in a rustic place so needs must. How far did you run?”

  “Six miles, along the coastline.”

  “In future conserve your energy and be conscious that a twisted ankle will not serve us well. Plus, remember that people may come to kill us. I need you alive and upright.”

  Knutsen laughed. “This coming from the man who once trekked eighty miles across a desert to rescue a Syrian child while being pursued by rebels.”

  “It was eighty three miles and I was younger then.” The forty nine year old shoved bacon
into his mouth. “I’ve done worse journeys. On all occasions, I was lucky. Minimise risk, Mr. Knutsen. We may have plenty of opportunity to expand our lungs and hearts while on active duty. Pointless jogging in the snow is not advisable.”

  Knutsen ignored the comment. “Active duty today?”

  “We must talk to Sally. She runs a pub in Stanley. She is young, quite pretty, and loyal to other islanders. She won’t fall for your charms.”

  “The thought hadn’t occurred to me.” Knutsen frowned. “How are you feeling, being here?”

  Sign stared at him. “Because my wife was Argentinian? And because she was killed in El Salvador?” He looked out of the window. In a distant voice, he said, “I think about her every day. I can smell her hair on the sea breeze. I feel her homeland. I imagine her growing up there – childhood escapades, family barbeques, college, early romances, and friendships. Then there is the reality of what I experienced.. I met her in Buenos Aires when I was in MI6 and she was an NGO worker. My goodness me, she was a stunner. Extremely bright. Full of laughter. I’d never met anyone like her. We got engaged. I met her family. The women were lovely. My fiancée’s brothers said they’d slit my throat if I did anything wrong to their sister. They were happy days. We married. She was murdered in Central America. And that is that. I’m still and always will be mourning. But, to answer your question, she is not truly here. She is buried near West Square.” He looked at Knutsen and said in a firm voice, “It does not sadden me to be in a location close to my wife’s birthplace. You and I know that the demons of loss always remain. The tactic is to keep the demons in a locked cage.” His expression and tone of voice changed. “Now, sir – we must change the conversation.”

  Knutsen didn’t speak for a minute. Instead he thought about Sign. He’d never met anyone like him. And having worked with him for six months he still couldn’t pinpoint his character. Sign was brilliant, charming, temperamental, unconventional, powerful, lonely, and loyal to the bone to those who invested their trust in him. Right now, the only person Sign trusted was Knutsen. Still, every day Knutsen was learning more things about Sign that put off-kilter his previous preconceptions of the man.

  “You’d have made a superb chief of MI6,” said Knutsen.

  “Different topic!”

  “You should get married again.”

  “That would mean you’d have to move out of West Square and live with your criminal pals in some god-awful part of London.”

  “You could give up detective work and do consultancy to the prime minister. I hear there’s good money in that.”

  “No fun. Plus, where would you rather be with me? The corridors of Westminster or hunting down a lead near the Antarctic?”

  Knutsen smiled. “You really know your own mind.”

  “No I don’t. Slice my brain open when I’m dead and somehow tell me what you see.” Sign polished off the rest of his breakfast. “We should head down to Stanley. The pub opens early to serve breakfast dinners. Sally will be on shift.”

  Forty five minutes later they were in the pub. The tiny pub was empty. Only Sally was there, washing glasses and attending to other duties behind the bar. Sign and Knutsen approached the bar.

  Sign said, “Pretty lady – we wish to speak to an employee of this establishment. Her name is Sally. I presume you are Sally.”

  Sally eyed them with suspicion. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Ben Sign. This is Mr. Tom Knutsen. We are from London. And we are at your service. We are private investigators and we wish to further establish the circumstances surrounding how Eddie Wilson, Rob Taylor, Billy Green, and Mike Jackson drowned. I’m led to believe they were drinking in your fine establishment on the night they died.”

  Her suspicion didn’t ebb. “Who’s employed you to investigate their deaths?”

  A clever question, thought Sign. “We represent a British law firm. For now, our client wishes to remain anonymous. That will change when they release their report. Essentially our client is looking for evidence that the fishing rights of Falkland Islanders are being violated by Latin American countries. Moreover, our client wishes to prove that offshore drilling rights for oil or gas must remain in the hands of islanders. In the case of Wilson and his friends, our client wishes to establish whether their deaths were as a result of trying to gain justifiable dominance over fishing grounds that were being illegally used by non-Falklands vessels. Perhaps that’s how the accident happened. If so, we can use their deaths to build a case that bolsters and enforces the protection of your waters. Probably, that will ensure that a Royal Navy frigate is permanently stationed here.”

  Sally placed down the glass she was cleaning. “How do you get paid? How does the law firm get paid?”

  “We are on a retainer with the law firm. Our client gets paid upon results by the British government. If the Falklands loses a penny because of Argentina, the British will take action. We represent you.”

  Sally’s expression softened. “Do you have a badge or something? Anything that proves who you say you are?”

  Sign shook his head. “We’re private investigators, not the New York Police Department. You must make a decision. Do you trust our credentials? Or do you think I’m spinning you a lie?”

  Sally poured three cups of coffee and nodded at one of the two tables in the pub. “Sit there.” She brought the coffee and placed it in front of the men. “Breakfast service has been shit this morning because of the weather. Deliveries haven’t come through; people are staying at home; and I’m the only sucker who’s come out in the snow to serve no one breakfast. You’re my first customers. Your coffee’s black because there was no milk run this morning. Drink it or leave it. I don’t care.”

  “Marvellous.” Sign cupped his hands around his mug. “Coffee should always be black, softened with a little cold water to prevent burning. The taste is infinitely superior to coffee polluted with cows’ milk.” He sipped his coffee, showing no indication that its scorching heat was burning his lips and that the liquid tasted fowl. “Would you be so kind as to tell us what happened that night?”

  Sally told them what she knew.

  Knutsen asked, “How drunk were they?”

  Sally shrugged. “I’ve worked this place for six years. You pick up on things. I’ve seen people get drunk on just two pints if they’re in a bad mood. I’ve seen people neck a bottle of whiskey and walk out without any symptoms, because they’re in a good mood. But on that night,” she hesitated. “On that night, Wilson and his mates were in an awful mood but just kept drinking. It was man stuff. Adrenalin I guess. They wanted a fight. They were drinking to give them courage and anger. You know how it is when men drink like that. Their sentences get shorter. They become more certain. Then they take action.”

  Knutsen nodded. “What did they take action against?”

  Sally wafted her hand in the air. “A load of silliness. We’ve had an Argie ship watching us for a few months. It never bothered us. We thought it was a joke. But male pride’s a funny old thing, isn’t it. Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson got it in to their dumb heads to sail out and do something about the Argie boat. God knows what they were going to do. I bet even they didn’t know what to do. Four pissed blokes, a boat with an engine, end of.”

  Sign looked away, faking agitation. “But, they fell off their boat and drowned. That’s a serious matter.”

  “Who’s to say they weren’t pushed off?”

  Sign looked at Sally. It was imperative that she didn’t know the truth – that they were shot by the Argentinians. “We take violation of sovereign waters very seriously. The Argentinian vessel you referenced may have caused your friends to change course and inadvertently get caught up in a rip tide. Who’s to blame? The Argentine vessel? Four drunk islanders? My client will err towards the former option. Wilson was an expert skipper. Yes, he was inebriated and the climate that night was atrocious, but five percent of his faculties would have been compos mentis.”

  “He’d have known what he
was doing, a bit anyway,” Knutsen said in plainer language.

  Sign asked, “Who else was in the bar that night?”

  Sally grew suspicious again. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m merely trying to paint a picture of the scene in here before the men went to their boat.”

  She looked away, conflicted. After a twenty seconds she said, “Carl and Nick. They’re sheep farmers. Carl works his farm six miles from here; Nick’s place is eight miles away.”

  Sign nodded. “I presume they know Wilson, Green, Taylor, and Jackson?”

  “Of course. Everyone around here knows each other.”

  “Were they friends?”

  “They weren’t enemies. Now and again they helped each other out with work. But I wouldn’t say they were friends. Just acquaintances, I guess.”

  Sign paused. He was about to nudge his questions to a new level. “Is it possible that Nick or Carl joined Wilson and his friends on the boat that night?”

  The question confused Sally. “Everyone on that boat died. And Nick and Carl are still very much alive.” She laughed. “Carl’s seventy years old and suffers from arthritis. He wouldn’t have been able to walk onto the boat, let alone stand on the damn thing. Nick’s younger but gets seasick just by looking at water. Neither of them would go anywhere near a boat. Plus, they stayed here ‘til closing time. I saw them drive off towards home. Speak to them if you like. I’ll give you their addresses. But, they’ll tell you exactly what I’ve said.” Her expression turned serious. “You promise me you’re asking these questions for the benefit of our islands?”