The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  Knutsen shrugged. “It’s possible to spend that amount of money for personal use. Cannabis takes a while to grow and harvest. When it’s cropped, it can take months for the next batch to be ready. Maybe Wilson was bulk buying to see him through the winter and spring.”

  “From what we know about Wilson, he doesn’t strike me as a druggy. Drink was his tipple of choice. And he had no traces of narcotics in his system when the post-mortem was conducted. And his lifestyle – hardworking, hard drinking, up at four AM to strike the fishing grounds. No. His profile doesn’t match that of a drug user.”

  Knutsen laughed. “You don’t know much about drug users.”

  “Maybe not. But, there is one thing notable about the transactions. They were urgent.”

  “Five hundred pounds one day. Five hundred pounds the next.”

  “And both within a forty eight hour period that culminated in his death. The coincidence is too great. This is not about drugs. But I do suspect it is to do with something else illegal.”

  Knutsen put the papers to one side.

  Sign was deep in thought. “We have no facts. All we can rely on is our imagination. Let’s suppose that Wilson got it in to his head that he wanted to confront the spy ship. To do that he needed guns. There was a man on the islands who could supply the guns. But he wasn’t Wilson’s friend. He was the fifth man. And the fifth man wasn’t going to part with his guns and assist him unless there was a business transaction to be had. The man demanded one thousand pounds, payable on the night he delivered the guns and joined Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson on the trawler.”

  “It holds together, but it is only a hunch.”

  “I prefer the word theory.” Sign stared at the fire. In a quiet voice he said, “My experience in life has not been a cold-hard-facts-police-procedural approach towards the problems I confronted. The issues I faced overseas were far more nuanced. And, I worked alone in hostile territories. I had no team of analysts and cops to support my work. I had to make my own judgements. Very often that meant that I had to deal with the realms of the possible. And the starting point for that approach rested in my head.” He looked at Knutsen. “My instincts are telling me that the one thousand pounds was a cash-for-guns transaction.”

  “If that’s true, why did the fifth man join them on the boat that night? Why didn’t he just give Wilson the guns and tell him to return them when the job was done? Or, maybe the guns were sold to Wilson and didn’t need to be returned. Either way, I don’t understand why he risked his neck that night by joining a bunch of drunken blokes who were not his mates.”

  “When we find the fifth man, we will pose that question to him. For now, there are many possibilities. What would you say is the strongest reason for him being there during the battle?”

  “It could be he didn’t trust Wilson. Maybe he was only going to be paid after the job. So, he tagged along to keep an eye on his guns and Wilson. But, I think the strongest possibility rests on a more simple and immediate imperative – the fifth man wanted a fight with the Argentinian spy boat.”

  “Bravo, Mr. Knutsen. Simplicity is usually the route to the truth. Almost certainly you are right. Testosterone-fuelled aggression came in to play, requiring the fifth man to join the combatants. His anger against Argentina would have been simmering within the fifth man for years but not bubbling over. Until now. The spy boat was a tipping point.”

  “He lost the plot.”

  “Yes.” Sign stood when the oven alarm pinged, telling him their dinner was ready. He seemed distracted when he said, “However…”

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Knutsen in a firm voice.

  “I have a theory I’ve been carrying in my head ever since we first met Colonel Richards in London. It may amount to nothing or something.” Sign held up his hand before Knutsen could ask more questions. He smiled. “We must eat, dear chap. There is nothing more that can be achieved this evening.”

  “What are our tasks tomorrow?”

  Sign folded his arms. “This is indeed a difficult case. Sally, Carl, and Nick have not proven instructive. Nor should they be. They were simply witnesses to Wilson and his friends’ behaviour in the bar. But, it is nevertheless regrettable that they have no inkling as to who may have joined the men on that fateful night”

  “Could we ask the police to tell the islanders that any person involved in the escapade will not be prosecuted? Maybe the fifth man would then come forward.”

  “Were it so simple. Richards wouldn’t allow that to happen. He wants secrecy. In conjunction with the Ministry of Defence in London he’s preparing not only for the protection of the islands but also to use the archipelagos to be used as a launch pad for a hostilities.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Logic and my analysis of Richards. But, Richards is also hampered by his impotency in this situation. He can’t go public on anything. We’re here because he can’t use the police and military investigators. If he does, the cat will be out of the bag. As it is, Sally thinks you and I are merely meddling private investigators from England; Carl and Nick think we’re scientists from South Georgia; and Richards has agreed to our cover as high-ranking army officers visiting the islands for an unspecified task.” Sign kept talking as he went into the adjacent kitchen and served up dinner. To accompany the beef bourgeon he’d prepared double-fried chips, diced cabbage mixed with crispy lardons and chillies, and slithers of boiled carrots. “Tomorrow we must meet Richards.” He returned with two plates of the food and cutlery. “As usual, we eat on our laps, in front of the fire.”

  Knutsen asked, “Why Richards?”

  “Oh, just to see if there’s something he’s not telling me.”

  Knutsen ate a mouthful of the casserole. As usual Sign’s food was delicious. Knutsen wondered how Sign conjured up such world class cuisine, even in locations where local produce was basic and limited. “You must have some other ideas as to what we can do. Use that brilliant brain of yours.” The latter comment was said with sarcasm.

  Sign breathed in deeply. “It is for you to decide whether I’m brilliant or stupid. But I can tell you categorically that I’m not a magician. I can’t conjure something substantial out of something insubstantial. I’m running out of options to source the fifth man.”

  Knutsen replied, “If this was a police operation, faced with the same problems in a murder investigation, we’d do door-to-door. Maybe that’s what we should do – simply knock on every door on the islands until we get answers.”

  Sign ate his food. “It would be relatively easier in the western areas of the islands, where the population is spread out. Not so easy in Stanley. The population of the Falklands is just over three thousand, on top of which are military personnel. But, restricting our search to islanders would mean we’d have to ascertain how many houses we’d have to knock on and how many interviews we’d have to conduct. Let’s make an assumption that the average household on the islands contains three people. It won’t be accurate because some houses will contain four or more people and others will only contain one. But the mean of those variables gives us approximately a headcount of three per property. So, we’d have one thousand houses to visit, spread across the islands, in the bleakest winter the Falklands has known for years. We could possibly do a maximum of ten households per day in Stanley. With its population of two thousand plus, divided by three, further divided by ten, it would take us sixty six days to cover Stanley. Then there’s the remaining one thousand people spread across the islands. We’d be lucky to interview more than two or three in a day.” He was silent while finishing his food, before placing his empty dinner plate to one side. “Door-to-door would take us a minimum of three months. More likely six.”

  Knutsen placed his empty plate on top of Sign’s plate. “It’s still worth a thought.” He smiled. “After all, we’re not going anywhere for now. All planes out of here are gro
unded. We’re trapped.”

  “We don’t have the luxury of time.”

  Knutsen placed another log in the fire. “Maybe the fifth man has left the islands on a plane.”

  Sign shook his head. “Since the night of the murders there have only been four flights that have landed on the islands. Two were from Brize Norton. You, me, and Richards were on one of them. There have also been two flights from Santiago. The planes have left but were not allowed to carry passengers due to the severity of the weather. Since those flights, all incoming and outgoing flights have been cancelled until the weather clears. There is the option that the fifth man is a sailor and took his boat to Argentina, but…”

  “He’d be sailing to the last place on Earth he’d want to be.”

  “Yes. The fifth man is on the islands. Now, no one can come in; no one can get out. We are on Alcatraz until flights are resumed.”

  Knutsen rubbed his face. “We should check the flight manifests of the incoming planes from Santiago and Brize Norton. If, as you suspect, there’s a four person assassination unit looking for the fifth man, they’d have been on one of those flights.”

  “I will be requesting that data from Richards tomorrow.” Sign stared at the burning logs. “We have different agendas but I sympathise with the Argentinians. They are in the same mire as us. How do they find the fifth man?”

  “They’ll know Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson’s names. The drunken idiots would have been carrying their ID on them. When the Argentinians boarded Wilson’s boat, they’ll have searched them before chucking the bodies overboard. No wallets or any other forms of ID were found on their bodies. That means the assassination unit has the same starting point as we have – the identity of the dead men. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Correct. So what do they do?” Sign bowed his head and was silent for a minute. “The Argentinian unit will be on the islands under alias. The operatives will have been chosen for their looks and their command of language. They’ll be posing as British, South Africans, New Zealanders, or Australians. Maybe the unit will take one nationality apiece.”

  “Why not United States nationality?”

  “They’d stand out too much if the posed as north Americans. There are no legitimate US citizens working on the islands. Nor does the States have a reason to deploy workers here. The Falklands is a thoroughly British protectorate with solely British interests in trade and security.”

  Knutsen said, “Put bluntly, the States and its businesses can’t be bothered with the islands.”

  “You could put it that way. I’d put it in more polite terms. The United States simply cannot see any business opportunities here. It knows that Britain would squeeze them out. Thus, an American on the archipelago would stand out like a sore thumb. However, there is a track record of South Africans, Kiwis, and Australians working here in a variety of temporary roles – engineers, traders, lawyers, insurance experts, vets, geologists, builders, et cetera.” Sign listed his head. “When I see the flight manifests, I’m eighty percent certain I’ll be able to identify the assassination squad. The question is: what do we do with that information?”

  “If we have their fake names, we could take them to the governor of the Falklands and advise him to expel them.”

  Sign shook his head. “On what basis? That they may or may not be assassins? If they were legitimate Australians or whatever, we could risk opening up a can of worms. We need to keep this investigation discrete. That’s why Richards brought us in. The governor knows about the murders. I very much doubt he knows about the fifth man. He will most certainly not have deduced there is a strong probability that Argentina has sent covert operatives onto his islands. Even Richards won’t have thought that far ahead.”

  “Will the Argentinian unit be operating together?”

  “No. Not until the last minute. For now they’ll ne in investigation mode. That means they’ll be in a divide-and-conquer drill – each of them pursuing their own leads, minimal contact with each other unless something urgent arises, lodging at separate properties. Their drill will change when they identify the fifth man. That’s when they’ll come together in order to eliminate him and escape the islands.”

  Knutsen drummed his fingers. In a forthright voice he said, “If we come onto their radar, they’ll come for us; probably torture us to find out what we know.”

  “If they attempt that, you kill them.” Sign’s eyes were twinkling as he smiled and added, “I gave you a gun for a reason. And remember – outside of Stanley, everything is bandit country. Bad things can happen west of the capital and not be discovered for weeks, months, or ever. If they come for us, gun them down. You and I will deal with the bodies.”

  “Richards has authorised this?”

  “Not in so many words. He gave me the gun you’re carrying in order for us to protect ourselves. But, the word protect is open to interpretation. That said, I’d prefer an outcome wherein anything extreme we do does not come to the attention of the authorities – Richards included.”

  Knutsen laughed. “This will be a first – me taking on a highly trained hit squad.”

  “You are up to the task.” Sign placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “You will not be alone. I will be there to help.” He stood and said in a serious tone of voice, “Mr. Knutsen, we are swimming in murky and dangerous waters. Instead of swimming for shore, we must venture further away from safety.”

  “Only you could come up such a melodramatic statement.” Knutsen’s expression became serious. “That said, I get the point.” He looked out of the window. There was nothing but black out there. To himself, quietly he said, “I didn’t expect to die in a place like this.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The following morning Casero woke up in his hotel, showered, shaved with a triple blade razor, and dressed into a two hundred pound white shirt, one thousand two hundred pound Saville Row charcoal suit, immaculate leather black shoes, and a silk tie befitting of British government mandarins and generals. Before arriving in the Falklands, he’d ensured his hair was clipped in the style of English army officers – not long, but not too short; rather that of a man who was posing as a gentleman in important service. He applied dabs of Harvey Nichols aftershave to his throat, placed his fake passport into his pocket, grabbed his wallet and car keys, donned an expensive heavy woollen overcoat, and stood in front of a full-length mirror. He smiled. He looked every inch the persona he wished to convey.

  He left the hotel and drove across Stanley. The house he was seeking was almost the last property on the outskirts of the capital; overlooking the sea, modest in size, a small garden in front. He stopped his hire car outside the home’s fence, got out, and rang the front door bell.

  A woman in her sixties opened the door. “Yes?”

  Casero spoke with impeccable English, with an accent that suggested he’d been schooled in Eaton or Harrow before receiving further education in Oxford or Cambridge. “Mrs. Wilson. My name is Peter Sillitoe. I am a representative of Her Majesty’s government. I have flown to the islands from London with the express intention of speaking to you about your son’s tragic death. May I come in?”

  The woman looked confused. “What’s there to talk about? My son drowned with his friends.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I had to identify his body. The police interviewed me. Then the army. I had to bury him. What more can I do?”

  “My sincerest condolences, Mrs. Wilson. This won’t take long, I can assure you. I’m not here to cause you further anguish. Nor do I wish to besmirch your good son’s name. I represent a government department that wishes to ascertain whether your son’s accident was in any way prompted by the presence of a nearby Argentinian ship. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

  Wilson’s mother nodded. “We all know about that boat. It’s gone now. Hasn’t been seen since Eddie died.” She looked back down her hallway, seeming uncertain. “Alright. Come in.” She led Casero into her lounge. “Would you like tea?”

  “That’
s very kind but I had a cuppa just before coming here.” He sat on one of the chairs.

  She looked suspicious as she sat near him. “Which British government department do you work for?”

  Casero looked away. “It’s delicate.” He reengaged eye contact with her. “Let’s just say I deal with problems that are of interest to our prime minister.”

  “You’re a spook then?”

  He smiled. “Were it so easy to be candid.” His expression turned serious. “I don’t represent the military bases here. Nor do I represent the governor of the islands. In fact, they don’t know I’m here. I am an emissary and guardian of London’s gates. If you talk to me you are talking to power.”

  “How can you prove you are who you say you are?”

  Casero waved a hand dismissively. “I can’t. There are numbers you could call in London. They’re freely available on the Internet. Alas, it is government policy not to respond to any enquiries pertaining to members of staff. You must trust me, or not. All I can say is that I’m here to help.”

  Mrs. Wilson picked up a framed photo from the adjacent coffee table. She stared at the picture. “My boys.” She wiped a tear away. “My son. Bob Taylor. Billy Green. Mike Jackson. They were so close in life. Together in death.” She placed the photo back on the table. “They were good lads. They didn’t deserve this.”

  Casero looked at the picture, memorising their faces. “What did the police tell you about the incident?”

  “You should have all the facts!”

  “I do but sometimes facts overwhelm nuances. I’d dearly like to know your take on matters.” He placed his fingertips together and was silent as he waited for her response.