The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

Knutsen said, “When I dropped Sally’s keys of with Richards’ secretary, I was told we shouldn’t stray too far from Stanley today. Apparently the weather’s going to take a turn for the worse.”

  Sign said nothing.

  Knutsen carried on driving for another fifteen minutes, before saying, “You’re very quiet.”

  Sign looked at him. “I’m thinking.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I…”

  “No, it’s alright. I have been dwelling on matters pertaining to this morning.” Sign rubbed his face and inhaled deeply. “I have a strong intellect. But, so do lots of people. What has always made me different from most other clever souls is my ability to read people and situations. It stood me in good stead within MI6 and it should stand me in good stead in this case. However, knowing how something happened is one thing. Knowing why something happened can often be a different challenge altogether. Colonel Richards lied to us this morning. I could tell. His story about overhearing his two sergeants talk about Maloney is, frankly, cock and bull. The question plaguing me is why he’d lie. Why did he know about Maloney and not say anything to us in London or when we first arrived here? The British guns on Wilson’s trawler are integral to the case. They will lead us to the fifth man because he supplied the weapons. I’m convinced of that. Maloney has a shooting range that is laid out and equipped to accommodate military guns. It sounds highly improbable that Maloney is our man, but it’s likely he may have an inkling as to who on the islands has access to weapons that were used in the Falklands War. It is also likely that the fifth man used his weapons on Maloney’s range. So, why would Richards decide to withhold that information until this morning?”

  Knutsen’s mind raced. “There are a number of scenarios. He didn’t think it was relevant, until this morning when the penny dropped that it could be a useful lead. Or, he didn’t want it leaked to his bosses in London that he breaks rules by letting his men use Maloney’s range. Similarly, he may be bunging Maloney a few quid for use of the range; in doing so he’s misappropriating government funds. Or, maybe he doesn’t want us to find the fifth man. This has all been a charade.”

  “Then why tell us about Maloney? And there’s one thing I’m absolutely certain about – Richards wants to find the fifth man. He wants war. Nothing is going to take equal or higher priority over that imperative.” Sign stared out of the window. “But your other points are salient. In my experience, ninety percent of the time people lie to cover their own backsides. Ten percent of the time they may lie for other reasons that are nothing to do with saving their skins; even then they may be lying to protect someone they care about.” He nodded. “Roberts knew he was breaking operational procedures by letting his men use Maloney’s range. And a stringent audit of his budget would show that a few hundred pounds here and there were taken out of petty cash and could not be accounted for. But that was okay until Wilson and his friends died. Richards was officially in the wrong, though one has to be sympathetic to the colonel. In a place like this it’s hard for him to keep his men motivated, particularly when he’s sending them on God-awful and boring treks across the islands. Keeping moral up is key. Richards had to use a stick to get his men off the base. But he also dangled a carrot – a chance for his boys to let rip with their guns on Maloney’s range, in an environment that was wholly less sterile than the shooting range in Mount Pleasant. He didn’t tell us about Maloney for two reasons: first, he hoped we’d have found the fifth man by now; second, he was embarrassed. The trigger point for him telling us about the rifle range was Sally’s death. He suspects she was driving to see the fifth man. Richards doesn’t want any more islanders to die on his watch. That’s why he told us.”

  Knutsen smiled. “You have your answer. So, you think Sally was going to see the fifth man – either to warn him off, or supply him, or both?”

  “No. I think she and her father were murdered.”

  Knutsen glanced at him. “Driven off the road?”

  “I very much doubt that. You and I have both done offensive and defensive driving courses. The stretch of land between the road and cliff is approximately fifty yards long. And a Land Rover is a heavy vehicle. If someone driving another vehicle smashed into Sally’s jeep, it may possibly have caused the Rover to go off road. But there was ample time for Sally’s father to stop the vehicle before the plunge. I don’t think the murders took place in the countryside where their bodies were found. I think they were killed in Sally’s house.”

  Knutsen frowned. “There’s no evidence of any struggle in the house. I’ve worked murder scenes when I was a cop. There are always signs that something bad had happened.”

  “Not when highly trained spies are involved. The father’s computer was still on, though it had gone to sleep. It’s not a weak assumption to make that he would have shut it down before driving. Sally’s TV was on standby. She was watching music videos. And we know it was her because, given his age, it is far less likely that her father was watching young rock bands on the television. So, Sally was in the lounge; Sally’s father was in his room. That, I believe, is the correct deduction. The father’s chair was rickety. Maybe it had been that way for a while. Or maybe something put a strain on it on the night of his death.”

  “All of that makes sense, but there’s no evidence of foul play.”

  “Correct, Mr. Knutsen. Therefore, now we must explore my imagination based on my experience of these type of matters. What would I have done if I was their killer? We must ascertain the how before addressing the why.” Sign pictured himself approaching Sally’s house. “Sally was facing the front of the house. If I force entry through the front door, Sally will see me in the hallway. She will scream. Her father will rush downstairs and realise why Sally is so perturbed. I then have two problems to deal with at once. Probably I could deal with that but it doesn’t serve my purpose because I want quality time with Sally alone. If she’s witnessed me seriously assaulting her father, she will be too traumatised to help me. So, I enter the house through the rear kitchen. Sally is oblivious to my presence. I’m silent as I take each step, though I’m assisted by two factors: the volume of Sally’s music and the fact that if there’s anyone upstairs and they hear a creak on the stairs they’ll assume Sally’s going to the bathroom. I glance in Sally’s bedroom. It’s in darkness. I move to the next bedroom. A man is sat at his desk, his back to me. He’s on his laptop. The man’s of no use to me. I grab his head and jaw, rock him back in his chair so that he’s off balance, and twist his head as if I’m removing a corkscrew. I put the man’s chair upright and leave the corpse there. I return downstairs, approach Sally from behind, and inflict significant injuries on her. But I don’t use weapons and I’m careful not to draw blood. I tie her to a chair and talk to her. I will tell her that her father’s unconscious but he’ll be fine. I question her about Wilson, the fifth man, and the guns.” Sign paused. “This is where we get into the realms of the unknown. We therefore need to further stretch our imaginations to conjure up what Sally might have said to her assailant.”

  “It’s probable she said nothing of value to her interrogator. She told us she knew nothing.”

  “But, we weren’t putting the thumb screws on her. That said, I don’t think she knew who the fifth man is. She was genuinely upset by the deaths of Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson. If there was anyone out there who could help us ascertain what really happened on the boat that night, I believe she’d want us to talk to that man. And if she didn’t trust us, she’d call the police and give them the identity of the witness. She didn’t know there was a fifth man on the boat until we told her. Or, so she says. But if she was lying to us, I believe she’d still call the authorities after we visited her and would have given them a name – most likely the call would have been anonymous. That call wasn’t made. Sally carried on with her life, as normal. She wasn’t withholding a secret. No. We can rule out the possibility that she supplied the name of the fifth man.”

  “I still think there’s a strong probability
she had nothing to say.”

  “You could be right.” Sign frowned. “But pain’s a funny old thing. It can jog memories, or bring to the fore matters that may now be significant. The assailant would have threatened her with further pain, maybe even death.” He looked at Knutsen. “She’d have mentioned our names. Possibly she’d have asked her captor whether we were working with him or her. The assassin would have said yes. That means we’re now targets. But, it’s also possible that she remembered something else – maybe someone she’d met, or maybe the name of someone mentioned to her by her father or a friend.” He breathed in deeply. “It is possible that name was Maloney. If so, we must tread carefully at Maloney’s house.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Sally was bludgeoned to death. Her injuries to her head would be consistent with a dramatic fall over a cliff, in a vehicle that had no air bags. The assassin carried the father downstairs and placed him on the back seat of the Land Rover. The assassin cut Sally free and also placed her in the back of the car. He re-entered the car and made sure the house looked normal. Then he left the house, locked the door, and drove the vehicle out of Stanley.”

  “Why didn’t he turn off the TV and shutdown the father’s computer? Surely, an assassin of this calibre would have better tradecraft?”

  “He or she has perfect tradecraft. The Argentinians know about the fifth man. They’re sure we know about the fifth man. The TV and laptop were left on in order to make it appear that Sally and her father left the house in a hurry. Any British official in the know about the fifth man would wrongly assume that the two publicans were urgently visiting him in the dead of night. But that lead is now dead to British investigators, because Sally and her father are dead. So, the assassin drove them a few miles up the coastal road, chose a spot to go off-road and send the vehicle over the cliff, accelerated hard on the road, swerved onto rough ground and stopped. He placed Sally in the front passenger seat, and her father into the driver’s seat. The father’s feet were placed on the clutch and accelerator. The assassin leaned in and engaged the gears into fourth. Land Rovers have sufficient grip and power to drive off in fourth. Fourth gear was important – it would indicate the father was driving at speed when the crash happened; it would also mean that – from a standstill - the vehicle would amble at one or two miles an hour until it was able to pick up speed. That meant the assassin could easily duck out of the vehicle after she removed the father’s foot from the accelerator. The assassin watched the vehicle drop over the cliff, then walked to her car, most likely near Sally’s house, called her colleagues to tell them what she knew, and vanished.”

  Knutsen nodded. “Do you think the assassin’s left the islands?”

  “No. I remain convinced that we’re dealing with a team of four. They’ll stay here until the job is done – executing the fifth man. Then they’ll extract via covert means.”

  “If there’s a possibility they’re on to Maloney, I need to be prepared.” He withdrew his handgun and gave it to Sign. “I cleaned it last night, but a lot’s happened since then. Plus we’ve been out in this damn weather. Can you check it for me?”

  Sign removed the magazine, expertly stripped down the gun, checked its working parts, reassembled the weapon, and placed the magazine back into its compartment. He handed the gun to Knutsen. “It’s in perfect working order.”

  An hour later they were approaching Maloney’s remote cottage.

  Sign put his hand on Knutsen’s arms. “Stop the car. Now!”

  Knutsen could see why Sign had issued the instruction. Seventy yards away was Maloney’s house. Parked outside the front was a pick-up truck. Next to it was a jeep.

  Sign said, “On foot from here. We enter through the front door, with force if necessary.”

  They walked towards the house, their boots crunching in the snow and making depressions of up to six inches. It was hard going, and they had to keep their arms partially extended by their sides to maintain balance and avoid toppling over. The front door and its immediate surroundings were covered by a canopy. There was scant snow here. Any that had found its way onto the porch was regularly shovelled off the decking by Maloney. Knutsen stood on one side of the door, his back against the exterior wall. Sign did the same on the other side of the door. Sign nodded at Knutsen and held up three fingers, then two then one. Sign turned the door handle. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open. Knutsen swung into the entrance his gun at eye level. Sign put his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder in order to guide him if the former cop got disorientated. It was the classic way that that small teams of special operatives worked when storming a building.

  It all happened so fast.

  Maloney was on the kitchen floor.

  A man was standing over him, pointing a pistol at his head.

  Maloney’s face was bloody.

  The man spun around to face Knutsen and Sign.

  Knutsen shouted, “Drop your gun!”

  The man looked startled.

  Maloney kicked his stomach, causing the man to reel back by a foot, and lose his aim on Maloney’s head.

  While still off balance, the man shot Maloney in the chest, and turned to run out of the rear door.

  Knutsen shot him in the leg.

  But the man, kept moving, limping through the snow, a blood trail behind him.

  Knutsen ran.

  The man was heading towards the gun range. It was a futile escape. Beyond the range were mountains and nothing else. He’d either bleed or die from the weather conditions and terrain before he made much more than a mile on foot.

  Sign rushed to Maloney and examined the wound. It was catastrophic. Maloney was still alive but would not be able to survive the injury.

  Knutsen slowed to walking pace.

  His quarry turned and raised his gun.

  Knutsen threw himself to the ground, a fraction before two bullets were fired at the spot where he’d been standing. He kept his breathing calm, while maintain his pistol’s aim on the man. He shouted over the noise of the wind, “Stop! It’s no use.”

  The man staggered onto the range, turned, and fired more shots. The bullets were only just wide of their mark, penetrating the snow inches away from Knutsen’s prone body.

  Knutsen got to his feet.

  Sign held the back of Maloney’s head. “We’re British army investigators. Who did this to you?”

  Blood was pouring out of Maloney’s mouth. His eyes were wide; his teeth gritted.

  “Who did this to you?!” Sign repeated.

  Maloney coughed and arched his back, his face screwed up from the pain. “He said…said…”

  “Yes?!”

  “Name… Max Bosch. Insurance. South African.”

  Urgently, Sign asked, “Did he ask you about someone on the islands who has access to old British Military guns? Did he ask you about a fifth man on Wilson’s boat on the night Wilson and his friends died?”

  Maloney nodded.

  “What did you tell him?!

  “Man comes here… my range…uses his guns.”

  “Name?!”

  “Peter… Peter Hunt. Lives… lives on west island. That’s all I told him.” Maloney was struggling to breathe. “Then you arrived.”

  “Was Hunt on Wilson’s boat on the night Wilson died?”

  “Don’t… don’t know.”

  “Did he test his weapons on your range close to the date Wilson died?”

  “Day… day before. Get me help. Please!”

  Help was of no use. Maloney only had seconds to live. “Help is on its way. When did Hunt use the range before that day?”

  “Two… maybe three months ago.” Maloney went limp. He was dead.

  Sign rested his head on the floor. In Latin, he muttered, “Mortui vivos docent.”

  The dead teach the living.

  Sign ran out of the house.

  The assassin was halfway down the shooting range, wildly shooting off rounds as he tried to make further distance from the cottage. Knutsen wa
s at walking pace, following him, his gun at eye level.

  The killer dragged his useless leg a few more yards, collapsed onto the snow, forced himself around to face Knutsen and aimed his gun in Knutsen’s direction. He fired twice, but the bullets were nowhere near Knutsen.

  Sign was running as fast as he could in the heavy snow. He had to get to Knutsen. His colleague’s Glock 37 .45 calibre handgun would have punched a massive hole in the man’s leg. Chances of survival were slim. But, like an injured and cornered tiger, the man was still capable of inflicting death on anyone who came near him.

  Right now, the man wasn’t going anywhere. He was three quarters of the way down the range. He knew there was no way out of this mess. There was splashes of blood all along the path he’d taken from the house.

  But, he was ex-special forces.

  He was Rojo.

  He was a highly trained assassin.

  He wasn’t going down without a fight.

  He had two more bullets left in his gun. It took all of his strength and willpower to raise his weapon. His hands were shaking due to adrenalin and shock. He tried to muster every semblance of control. He pointed the gun at Knutsen and fired.

  Knutsen yelped and fell to the ground, just as Sign reached him. The bullet had grazed Knutsen’s right arm. It was agonizing. Knutsen was breathing fast while lying on his back. He stared at Sign, who was crouched over him, a look of utter concern evident on Sign’s face. Knutsen asked, “Do we need him alive or dead?”

  Sign didn’t answer.

  “Alive or dead?! I can’t use my right arm. And… and I’m shit at shooting with my left arm.”

  Sign looked down the range.

  Rojo was trying to lift his gun. One bullet was left in the chamber.

  “We can’t allow him to make a mobile call to his colleagues. He has the information he needs. We must shut him down. He won’t talk in prison. He’ll never betray his associates.”

  “Then shut him down!” Knutsen thrust the gun into Sign’s hand. “Shut him down!”

  Sign moved away from Knutsen. He hadn’t fired a weapon in years. He’d turned his back on delivering death by his hand. But, having Knutsen’s pistol in his hand brought everything back. Maybe it was muscle memory. More likely it was training and decades of using a weapon in the most extreme circumstances.