The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  Sign’s father travelled the world, on different ships, for the following twelve years. He went to places that, in some cases, were relatively unexplored. As a child, Sign would listen with awe to his father’s accounts of giving a carton of cigarettes to natives in the Amazon so that he and a pal could borrow their dug-out canoes and paddle up piranha infested waters; doing a similar trip up the Congo; getting lost in Hong Kong and nearly missing the ship’s departure time; sailing around the treacherous Cape Horn; and so many other adventures. But the one adventure that had captivated Sign the most was hearing about his father working on an icebreaker that was sent to carve a channel and free up a boat that had got stuck in the Antarctic. The icebreaker had also got temporarily stuck. His father and the rest of the crew spent three days on the ice, playing football and making snowmen to while away the time, before the ice shifted and they were able to get moving again and rescue the trapped boat.

  As Sign looked south from the ferry, he felt like he was close to his father’s adventure. He was holding a cardboard carton of black coffee. He raised it and said, “Dad – this is to you. Like father, like son. Without our adventures, there is no meaningful life.” He drank from the carton and headed inside. “Mr. Knutsen. Port Howard is visible. We will be disembarking very shortly.”

  It took Casero four hours to drive to New Haven. The ferry was in port, having returned from Port Howard. Casero parked his car and entered the ticket office. He spoke with impeccable English to a bored-looking islander working behind the counter. “I wish to speak to the captain of the ferry. I’m on official business.”

  The islander looked nonplussed as she picked up a walkie-talkie and said, “Rob. There’s someone here to see you. Don’t know what it’s about.”

  One minute later, Rob emerged from a room while eating a sandwich. His forearms were exposed and covered in black oil. He was wearing red all-in-one overalls and wellington boots. He looked at Casero. “You wanted to see me?”

  Casero nodded. “Can we speak in private, in your office? I’m from London.”

  Rob shrugged. “Sure. Come his way.” He led Casero into his office and shut the door. The room was tiny, with only a desk, two chairs, telephone, computer, overflowing ashtray, walkie-talkie, barometer, and maps of the strait between the east and west Falklands stuck to the wall. He gestured to the seat and took his own seat behind his desk, while finishing his sandwich. “How can I help you?”

  Casero was composed as he sat down and replied, ““I’m on official business. Military business. Have you taken any passengers over to the west island today?”

  Rob’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have credentials?”

  Casero waved his hand. “Call RAF Mount Pleasant and tell them that Ben Sign is making official enquiries. They’ll vouch for me. Also, tell them that I’ve warned you that your shipping license will be suspended unless you cooperate with me.”

  Rob placed his hand on the phone.

  “Make the call. I’m sure you have the number. But, if you don’t I can recite it for you.”

  Rob lifted his hand. “What’s a London military man doing down here?”

  “Something that should be of no concern to you. All I want is a bit of information.”

  Rob dusted crumbs off his fingers. “I’ve only made one crossing today. Two men and their jeep. I got back twenty minutes ago.”

  “Who were the men?”

  “Don’t know.” He picked up his walkie-talkie. “Sally – do you know the names of the blokes I took west earlier today?”

  Sally replied, “No. They didn’t use a bank card to buy the tickets. Only cash.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Rob placed the walkie-talkie on his desk and looked at Casero. “No names.”

  Casero nodded. “What did they look and sound like?”

  “They sounded English. One of them had a posh accent. And I can tell you exactly what they looked like. Come around here.” Rob was staring at his computer.

  Casero peered over his shoulder.

  Rob clicked on a file. “My boat has cameras. We have to for insurance reasons, in case there’s an accident at sea.” He spent a few seconds fast forwarding the video feed from the last crossing before hitting the pause icon. “There we go. That’s them, getting out of their car.”

  Casero memorised the faces of the two men in the image, plus the number plate of their vehicle. “Did they say what business they had on the west island?”

  “I didn’t speak to them. I’ve no idea why they wanted to make the crossing on today of all days. The sea conditions were rough enough to make even me a bit queasy.”

  Casero sat back in the chair, opposite Rob. “Those men are of no interest to me. I know who they are. Like me, they’re on official business. But, now I’m here I wouldn’t mind visiting the west island. Would you take me?”

  Rob looked at the wall clock. “Jesus! I thought I was done for the day.”

  “I will pay you double and put in a good word to the military base, saying you’ve been an enormous help.”

  Rob rubbed his beard. “I can do it, but I won’t be able to bring you back today. You’ll have to overnight it in Howard. I’ll collect you 0900hrs tomorrow and bring you home. If you can’t make that time, you’re stuffed tomorrow. We’re expecting a storm midday. No way am I taking my misses out there when that shit kicks off.”

  Casero smiled. “0900hrs return is perfect.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’ll get the tickets from Sally and see you on the boat in a few minutes.”

  It was one PM when Sign and Knutsen stopped outside a hut in the miniscule Port Howard. Sign pulled down on a rope attached to a bell, outside the front door. A man opened the door. He was in his forties, wiry, medium height, had tousled brown and grey hair, a chest length beard that was tucked into the neck of his blue hemp jumper, and was wearing corduroy brown trousers and boots that were strapped to waterproof calf protectors.

  Sign said, “Mr. Oates. Ben Sign. We spoke on the phone. And this is my colleague Tom Knutsen.”

  Oates gestured for them to come in. The hut wasn’t a residential property. It was purely one room and a toilet. The room was crammed with paraphernalia to do with conservation on the west island. There were books about fauna and flora on the island stacked on the floor, maps of the coastline with red pins pierced into various locations, post-it notes with writing stuck next to them, and photos of elephant seals and penguins, all of them with felt pen hand writing at the base of the shots, with the names of the creatures – Pink, Fat Boy, Gorbachev, Cleopatra, Grunt, Boss, and others. There was also a table that was strewn with papers and a bottle of rum. On the floor in the corner of the room was a tea urn. Oates picked up three dirty mugs, washed them in the bathroom sink and poured tea into them. He added a dash of rum to each mug and handed drinks to Sign and Knutsen. He sat on the edge of the table, took a swig of his stewed brew, and asked, “How can I help you.”

  There were no seats for Sign and Knutsen. So they stood and sipped their drinks. Sign said, “This is the first time we’ve visited the west island. We’re seeking local knowledge and we thought you’d might be able to help.”

  Oates sniggered. “I’m not a tour guide.” He pointed at the photos. “I monitor and sometimes help elephant seals. I also keep an eye on their habitat and feeding grounds.”

  Knutsen asked, “You work for the government?”

  “Nah, mate. I work for a charity, though we do get funding from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food.”

  Sign said, “We’re not looking for a tour guide. Mr. Knutsen and I work for the Ministry of Defence. We’re based in London and are down here to do an independent survey of the west coast of the island.”

  “You mean you want to find out where the Argies would land if they assaulted this island.”

  “Correct.”

  “Those types of surveys have been done to death by your pals in Mount Pleasant.”

  “Yes. But Whitehall wants fresh eyes to analyse the i
sland. So, they sent us. All we’re hoping to gain from you is a little local knowledge. We were told that you know the island inside out.”

  Oates shrugged. “I guess I do. I’ve been here for eleven years.” He placed his mug on the table and crossed his arms. “There’s not much to tell you that you can’t read in a book. The island’s smaller than the east island, but not by much. We’ve got hills and small mountains on this side of the coast; further west it’s flatter. Most people live in Port Howard, but there’s not many of us. The last headcount of the island put the total at one hundred and forty one. The majority of adults here are sheep farmers. There’s a handful of us who do different stuff.”

  “What kind of different stuff?”

  Oates rolled a cigarette. “We’ve got a small school, petrol station, airstrips dotted around the island, a shop, one B&B in Howard, one doctor’s surgery, and a few ports. They all need servicing and maintaining. We’ve also got two RAF remote radars – one in the north, one in the south. Sometimes we get RAF blokes out here to check they’re working. They stay for days, sometimes weeks. Then they bugger off.” He lit his cigarette. “Aside from that it’s sheep, sheep, and more bloody sheep.”

  Sign asked, “What’s the road network like here?”

  “It’s pretty good. It has to be because people rely on it to survive. But, there aren’t many roads. All the farmers have quad bikes, or other off-road vehicles, so they can go cross-country when they need to. Think of this place as the Wild West; or more accurately some remote part of the Andes. There’s no police or other emergency services here. If anything bad happens, we rely on people flying in from the east island. Trouble is, there are no flights at the moment. We’re on our own.”

  Sign pulled out a piece of paper. It contained five names. Four of them he’d made up. “I have a list of people who may be able to assist Mr. Knutsen and I to analyse the west coast. That said, I concede the list may be wholly out of date or inaccurate. Would you mind taking a look at the list?”

  Oates took the paper and looked at the names. “You’re right. I’ve got no idea who four of these blokes are. I know everyone on the island. Either these four were before my time here, or your blokes in Whitehall got it wrong. Maybe they live on the east island.” He prodded a finger against the paper. “But this guy, Peter Hunt. Yeah, I know him. He lives near Hill Cove. There’s a direct road from Howard that will get you there. It’s about a thirty mile drive. You can get there in under an hour.”

  Sign faked ignorance. “I must apologise. We were sent down here at short notice. We were given no briefing in London. They just told us to get on a plane and do the job. The only thing supplied to us was the list of names.”

  “And for the most part that was a crock of shite.” Oates dragged on his cigarette. “How can Hunt be of interest to your Whitehall people? I know the coastline better than anyone. I can tell you what you want to know.”

  “But, you’re not an islander, are you?”

  “No. I’m from Devon. I did my undergraduate degree in Environmental Sciences at the University of Exeter and my PhD at the University of St. Andrews. Then I moved down here.”

  Though Sign had never been a smoker, he liked the aromatic smell of Oates’ cigarette. It reminded him of his father’s pipe tobacco. “Therein is the problem. We are required to obtain signed affidavits from a select number of islanders who know the west coast. Only islanders. We need to report back to London with statements about the locations islanders fear would be most vulnerable to an attack. For some strange legal reason, we’re not permitted to obtain statements from non-islanders, no matter how expert their testimonies may be.”

  Oates extinguished his cigarette in his tea. “What kit are you carrying in your jeep? You need to be prepared for anything right now. I can lend you stuff if you need it. I’d drive you over to Hill Cove myself, but I’ve got a call with our North America office. I’m hoping to reintroduce wolves onto the island. I’d source them from the States. But, it’s an uphill struggle because the farmers hate the idea. But, I’m still plugging away with the concept. We used to have wolves here. They became extinct in the nineteenth century. Sorry I can’t be of more help today.”

  Sign smiled. “You’ve been more than helpful. Our car is carrying a tent, food, a gas stove, flashlights, flares, blankets, maps, knives, an axe, medical kit, spare clothes, tyre chains, tools, and spare fuel. We’ve come prepared.”

  “Sounds like you have.” Oates rubbed his beard. “My dad was in the army. At one stage I thought about joining the military. But, you know how it is – boys tend to do the opposite of what their fathers want them to do. So, I chose this life.”

  “And you chose an eminently laudable vocation. If you do succeed in introducing wolves onto the island, I will come back. I’ve always been fascinated by wolves.” Sign shook hands with Oates. “Good luck with your work, sir.”

  Sign and Knutsen left, got in their car, and drove towards Hill Cove.

  It took five minutes for Casero to drive along Port Howard’s coast road.. He estimated he had less than one percent chance of spotting their vehicle. Most likely they’d already driven away from the port. If that was the case, it didn’t really matter. He knew where they lived. Whatever information they found on the west island could be easily plied out of them back at their cottage in Bluff Cove. But he was curious and persistent. He stopped his car, turned around, and drove back towards the port. That’s when he spotted the car. Its headlights and windscreen wipers were on. Casero stopped his car, turned the engine off, and ducked down. He heard the car pass him in the opposite direction. He waited two minutes before sitting upright, engaging the engine, turning his car around, and following the route the vehicle had taken. It was the only route out of Port Howard. He drove close enough to the jeep in front of him, noted its number plate, and slowed down so that there was more distance between him and his quarry. The car belonged to Sign and Knutsen. Casero smiled, though was tense and alert. There was zero room for complacency. He tried calling Sosa and Fontonia but there was no mobile phone signal. He’d gotten used to that. He didn’t need the female operatives for back-up. It would take them half a day, at least, to get here. Plus, he was armed with a handgun and an assault rifle with sniper scope. He could handle himself. But, it would have been nice to let the women know that they could stand down from the search of the western part of the east island. He drove onwards, following the road north west, before it bended to face south west. The road changed direction again, heading directly west to Hill Cove and beyond.

  Knutsen said, “We’ve had a car behind us since leaving Howard. It’s keeping its distance.”

  “I know.” Sign was squinting to avoid his eyes getting disorientated from the snowfall. He knew it was unusual for two cars to be on the road in these conditions. “It could be innocent, but let’s get the measure of the driver. Gun at the ready, if you please. It most likely is a farmer.” He stopped the jeep on the side of the road. “Stay here. I don’t want him spooked.” Sign placed his hand on the jeep’s roof and faced the oncoming car. He waved his hand.

  The car slowed, flashed its lights, and stopped behind Sign’s jeep.

  Casero got out. His pistol was hidden in a pocket.

  Sign called out, “We’re trying to reach the coast. Do we take the left turn a mile ahead, or do we keep going west.”

  Casero walked up to him. “Which part of the coast are you going to?” His accent was pitch perfect Falkland Islands.

  “Roy Cove. This damn snow is playing havoc with my bearings. We’ve got to get there before nigh fall. We’re instructed to take samples of the seawater to test for levels of salinity.”

  “Scientist types?”

  Sign smiled. “Yes. We’re doing a survey. But we’re not from here.”

  Casero pointed up the road. “You’re going the right way, mate. Once you hit Hill Cove keep going for a few more miles. Then stop. You’ll have to reach Roy Cove on foot. I’m heading that way myself, thou
gh not as far as Roy Cove. I’ll stick behind you for part of the way. If you get in any trouble, whack your hazard lights on. I’ve got vehicle maintenance kit in the boot of my car.”

  Sign called out, “Much obliged. What brings you out here this afternoon?”

  Casero rubbed his hands together. “I’m missing a sheep. Her son is pining for her like hell and won’t eat. I’ve got to find mum, put her in my pick-up, and reunite the happy family. I can think of better things to be doing.” He turned and headed back to his car. “Take it steady on the road.”