by Matthew Dunn
She frowned. “Why would he give me a fake name?”
“Standard practise. Don’t worry. It just means he wants to be anonymous. And he’s obviously trying to do the right thing by you.”
This line seemed to placate Mrs. Wilson. “He told me his name is Peter Sillitoe.”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell. Then again, lots of people come and go through the islands. That said, I’m staying in the officer’s quarters in RAF Mount Pleasant. Maybe he’s staying there as well. What does he look like?”
She shrugged. “Mid to late thirties, I’d say. About your height. Well dressed. Well spoken. Brown hair cut like, you know, army officers have it cut – not like squaddies. Clean shaven.”
Knutsen smiled. “That sounds like most people in the officers’ quarters. Did he give you his mobile number?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame. If he comes back could you ask him for his number? I’d like to swap notes with him on this case.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded.
Knutsen gave her a slip of paper containing his mobile number. “If anything occurs to you please don’t hesitate to call me.” He walked down the driveway. “And don’t forget to put your car on the road.”
As he was driving back to his cottage, he called Sign. “Are you still with Richards?”
“No.”
Knutsen told him who he’d just visited. “Does the name Peter Sillitoe mean anything to you? He’s allegedly British Intelligence. I presume MI6. He visited Wilson’s mother this morning.”
“No, but if he were MI6 he’d be using an alias.”
“Did you get the flight manifests?”
“Yes, but if you’re expecting me to find the name Sillitoe in there you’ll be mistaken. He’ll have travelled in here under one alias and he’ll be operating on the ground with another alias. Meet me at the cottage. We’ve work to do.”
An hour later Knutsen arrived at the Bluff Cove cottage. Light was fading. The temperature was minus fifteen degrees Celsius. As he entered the warm interior of the house, Knutsen could smell the rich aroma of food. The log burner was lit. Sign was sitting next to the fire, wearing his suit trousers and shirt, no tie. He was analysing the flight manifests.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” asked Knutsen.
Sign didn’t look up. “Chicken pan-fried in butter, with herbs, salt and pepper, and a sprinkle of paprika. I’ve made a red wine sauce, with sweated onions and seasoning, that’s been simmering and reducing for the last hour. Thirty minutes prior to plating up, I’ll also be cooking spicy sautéed potatoes and vegetables.”
Knutsen sat opposite him. “Is there anything interesting in the flight manifests?”
Sign nodded. “In the two Brize Norton flights to the islands, the majority of passengers were military personnel. I’ve spent the afternoon on the phone to Richards’ secretary. She’s confirmed their identities. Over and above that, fifteen passengers are islanders. All of them booked their return flights to England months in advance. They’re of no use to me. That leaves five passengers who made bookings at short notice – you, me, and Richards, on the first flight, and two women on the second flight.”
“The women?”
“A New Zealander called Helen Lock. When she arrived at Mount Pleasant she told immigration that she was a freelance journalist. The other woman is an Australian engineer called Michelle Chandler. She works in Melbourne and the South Pole. Apparently she’s here to look up old friends.”
“Did they sit together on the flight?”
“No.” Sign glanced at the second of the two folders. “The Santiago flights are also illuminating. Once again, many of the passengers are British military personnel, returning to the islands after rest and recuperation. But on the first flight there were eighteen civilians. Twelve of them are islanders; flight bookings were made well in advance of the murders. Of the remaining six, two of them were Chilean holiday makers in their seventies; here to take photos of the star constellations.”
“They picked the wrong time of year for that.”
“They picked the right time of year to see the most beautiful images of stars. No one predicted the weather would be this bad. Nevertheless we can discount them, due to their age.”
“And the remaining four?”
“A Chilean clothes manufacturer who’s been trading with the islands for over a decade; a Peruvian timber merchant who’s here to sign off on a bill of sale – he has one arm after a logging accident in 2005; a French author who is here to conduct a series of interviews with the governor in order to produce a biography of the man – the interviews were set up eight months ago. None of these people are of interest to me. But, the fourth person is of interest. His passport says he’s South African. He’s never been to the islands before. He told immigration that he was an insurance expert specialising in shipping. He’s here to investigate an insurance claim. His name is Max Bosch. He stands out.”
“The other Santiago flight?”
“A similar ratio of profiles. There’s only one person of interest. A British diplomat. Name: Henry Parker. I’ve never heard of him, but that means nothing. If he’s Foreign & Commonwealth Office, or another department, there are tens of thousands of people I’ve never met or heard of. Diplomats are so spread out across the world that for the most part their paths never cross. If, however, he’s MI6 and using diplomatic cover, his name will be false. I’d have no way of confirming he’s British Intelligence unless I saw his face. He gave immigration no justification for why he was here.”
“That must be Sillitoe.”
Sign placed the manifests down and sighed. “Sillitoe; Parker – what difference does it matter what he calls himself? Tomorrow he’ll use a different name. And that is the issue. If, as I suspect, Lock, Chandler, Bosch, and Parker/Sillitoe are the four person Argentinian assassination unit, while they’re on the islands they’ll be using whatever names suit them, depending on who they’re talking to. It is unlikely that we’ll get to them through their names. Their tradecraft will be too good. I expected as much. But my work today has not been a waste of time. On the contrary, it has been instructive. I wanted to see if four people came in to the archipelagos at short notice, bearing passports of nationalities that wouldn’t stand out in the islands. Two men and two women did precisely that. Of course, I can’t be certain that they are an Argentinian team. But, if I was deploying four killers into the Falklands, I’d make sure my operatives had similar covers. And I’d have to cross my fingers and wish for luck, because the only thing going against the team is they had to deploy at short notice.”
“If there is a team on the ground, maybe they came in by other means – boats, submarines, small planes, that kind of thing.”
“They wouldn’t risk that. If they got stopped and questioned by military or police patrols, they’d want to prove they entered the islands by legitimate means. If they couldn’t prove how they got here, this whole situation would be blown wide open. Argentina and Britain don’t want what happened on the night of the murders to be made public. One or more Argentinian spies caught on the islands would be information that would eventually get out and would spread like wildfire – not just here, but across the world.” Sign smiled. “It is, however, unfortunate they couldn’t predict that I’d be here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Today I told Richards to cancel all routine army and law enforcement patrols across the islands. To all intents and purposes, you and I are currently the only law in the Falklands. If the Argentine squad had predicted that, they wouldn’t have had to enter the islands via planes and fake passports.”
Knutsen frowned. “Why did you do that?”
“To make the fifth man feel safe. The last thing he needs is to get twitchy every time a patrol passes near his property. He’s been in hiding. I want that to stop.”
“But, you could be putting a death sentence on him! If we don’t get to him first, the Argentinians will kill him!”
“If we do nothing, the assassination unit will inevitably get to him. We have to take a risk.” Sign stood. “I shall get changed into my scruffs before dinner.” He paused at the base of the stairs, turned around, and looked at Knutsen. “If only this investigation could have been handed over to the local police. They’d have canvassed the entire islands, appealing for witnesses who could help them with their murder enquiries. Specifically, the police would spread the word that they suspect there was a fifth man with the group and that he should not fear coming forward and telling them what he knows. Alas, matters are significantly more complicated. The islanders knew about the Argentinian spy ship. Some of them knew that Wilson and his friends went out that night to confront the boat. So far the islanders have bought the line that the men drowned due to a drunken accident. To tell them the truth would cause widespread outrage on the islands. But in doing so it would push the fifth man further underground. He’s scared for his own skin. So, this is not a police matter; it is an issue of national security. Thus, you and I must be unconventional. And that means we have to play with fire. I have no choice other than to fuel the fire with risk.”
At ten thirty that evening, Fontonia entered the pub in Stanley where Sally worked. She was wearing waterproof trousers over her jeans, hiking boots, ski gloves, a woollen hat, and a jacket of the type used by Arctic and Antarctic explorers. There were seven customers in the tiny establishment. Two of them were sitting at a table, playing cards; another three were playing darts; the remaining two were standing by a window, chatting and quaffing their ales. No one was sitting in one of the four barstools that Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson always used when drinking here. Music was playing in the background, but it was quiet. The whole ambience in the room was subdued.
Fontonia sat on a barstool, removed her gloves, and addressed the young woman working behind the bar. “Can I have a double whiskey. Nothing expensive. I just need something to warm me up.”
Sally smiled and poured Fontonia her drink.
After paying, Fontonia sipped the spirit and faked a shiver. “God, that’s better. I’m not used to this climate.”
Sally asked, “Have you arrived in the Falklands recently?”
Fontonia smiled. “You can tell from my accent that I’m not from the islands? Well, you’re right. Yeah, I got here a few days ago for a job interview at the military base.” She swigged her drink. “Logistics manager. They want someone who can help run the base. I doubt I’ll get the job. The guy who interviewed me seemed like a right knob.”
Sally laughed. “Where are you from?”
Fontonia drained her drink. “Grew up in Tasmania. But I moved around a lot with work – England, the States, Germany, Hong Kong. Recently I’ve been living and working in Bermuda. Met a guy there. He moved in with me. A month ago I found out he’d been cheating on me. I kicked him out and applied for the job down here.” She slid her glass towards Sally. “I need a change of scenery. But, if this is what your winters are like, I’m not sure I chose wisely.”
Sally empathised. Her last boyfriend had cheated on her. “Do you want another drink?”
“One more. After that, I have to hit the road and the sack. I’ve got a second interview tomorrow morning with knob-face.” She downed her drink, stood, and shook hands with Sally. “Thanks for the drinks. My name’s Debbie. Wish me luck for tomorrow.”
“Good luck and it was nice to meet you. My name’s Sally.”
Fontonia left the pub and entered her nearby car. She watched the pub. Over the course of the next thirty minutes, the customers she’d seen in there left the establishment in dribs and drabs and drove away from the building. At eleven thirty, Sally exited the bar, locked up, and drove south through the small capital.
Fontonia followed her, while keeping her distance. It wasn’t a difficult job. Snow was still falling, but it was lighter compared to earlier in the day; thus visibility wasn’t too bad, despite it being night. There were no other drivers on the coastal road. All Fontonia needed to do was follow Sally’s vehicle’s taillights.
Sally stopped her vehicle outside her house. The property was a small wooden building with a slate roof. It was facing the sea. There was another vehicle parked outside. Who did the second vehicle belong to? Fontonia thought fast. Husband? Unlikely because of Sally’s age and due to the fact she wasn’t wearing rings when she’d seen her in the bar. Then again, she could have removed her engagement and wedding rings in order not to get them scratched and dirty when working. Boyfriend? A possibility, though islanders don’t like gossip. Two unmarried people cohabiting together could be deemed inappropriate by Falklanders. There was a possibility she was wrong. She didn’t discount the option. A strong, youthful boyfriend could pose a problem. The third option was that Sally was cohabiting with a family relative. This seemed a more likely scenario. Unless Sally had inherited money from deceased parents, she wouldn’t be able to afford to run the pub. Somebody else was the owner of the pub. Most likely it was her mother or father. It was impossible to guess which gender lived in Sally’s house. But, Fontonia was sure about one thing – only one other person lived in the house. It was too small to contain three people. She decided that the most probable scenario was that one of Sally’s parents had died and that the other was the owner of the pub. She or he was in the house. That was for sure. Lights were on inside the property before Sally got home. It wouldn’t have been due to Sally taking security precautions before her evening shift. Burglary didn’t exist on the islands.
Sally entered her home.
Fontonia waited a few minutes.
She got out of her vehicle, approached the front door and turned the handle. It was locked. She looked left and right. Some of the houses on the street had internal lights on. She wasn’t worried about CCTV – it didn’t exist on the islands, outside of RAF Mount Pleasant. Nor was she overly worried about prying neighbours. It was too dark for her to be visible. Nevertheless, she decided to minimise risk and not force entry into the front of the house. She walked to the back of the property. The windows were double glazed. They could be smashed with repeated swings of a sledgehammer. But Fontonia wanted her entry into the house to be a surprise. She tried the rear door. It too was locked. But this time she wasn’t worried about being randomly spotted by a neighbour. The back yard was in complete darkness. She withdrew from her pocket a leather pouch, unfolded the pouch, and ran her fingers over the small tools that were aligned inside the bag. She didn’t need light. She’d memorised the exact location of every item in the container. Fontonia was adept at picking locks. It was a difficult task for two reasons: First, one had to identify what kind of lock was in situ; second, one had to crack the damn thing. Sometimes the process required using three or four tiny instruments to gently nudge the different internal lock’s levers out of place; other times it a more brutish approach of using a specialist drill to bore out the lock and render it useless; on occasions one had to use a different kind of drill to dig a hole around the lock and then remove it; and worse-case scenario one had to use a lever to force the door until the lock broke free from the door frame. On this occasion, Fontonia was fortunate. The lock was a simple design and was easily picked. And it was done silently. That was good. She entered the house.
She could hear music in the lounge. Sally was in there, smoking a cigarette while watching a YouTube video of a rock band. She was on the sofa and had her back to Fontonia. The Argentinian assassin ignored her and walked up the stairs.
There was a bathroom and two bedrooms upstairs. The bathroom was in darkness; so too one of the bedrooms. But the other bedroom had a dim glow of light emitting into the hallway from the room. She could hear keyboard tapping. She got prone and crawled to the edge of the door. Very slowly, she peered around the doorframe. A man was in the room. He was hunched over a laptop that was on a bedside table. He wasn’t facing the door. Even if he was it would have been unlikely he’d have seen her. The hallway was dark; and people don’t tend to look at the first
six inches of the base of an entrance. Making no sound, she stood and moved fast.
She ran into the room, grabbed the man’s jaw and head, and twisted his head until his neck snapped. Almost certainly he was dead. But to be sure of death, She grabbed a pillow from the adjacent bed and held it firm over his mouth for three minutes. She tossed the pillow back onto the bed.
The man was in his late fifties or early sixties. Most likely he was Sally’s father, Fontonia decided.
She walked downstairs. Loud music was still playing from the TV. Despite the noise, she moved carefully as she approached the sofa where Sally was sitting. Fontonia’s breathing was calm. Her pulse rate was a mere sixty beats per minute. It had to be that way. Heightened emotion or fear were enemies of the job in hand. This was purely business, she always told herself. Emotion only came into play when she was back in Buenos Aires and dating a guy or watching a sad movie.
She grabbed Sally by the chin, hauled her backwards over the sofa, slammed her to the floor, stamped on her face and chest, and punched two fingers into her eyes. Sally was screaming and immobile. Fontonia put one of her ski gloves into Sally’s mouth. Now all that could be heard were muted gasps of desperation and pain. In any case, the neighbours wouldn’t have heard the brief screams. The music was too loud.
Fontonia grabbed a wooden chair, lifted Sally on to it, and expertly tied her hands and legs to the piece of furniture. She removed the glove and said, “I don’t like screaming. Nor should you.”
Sally was in shock. Her body felt like it had been hit by a bus. Her vision was blurry, eyes throbbing. She blinked rapidly while breathing fast. Every breath was excruciating. Her face was as bloody and swollen as a boxer’s face after doing twelve rounds with a superior fighter. Her head was pounding and her mind was confused.