The Fifth Man (Ben Sign Book 2)

by Matthew Dunn

  After all, he was the tethered goat.

  Knutsen couldn’t see him. And neither of them had mobile phone reception. They were both very alone, their only hope being that they’d stick to their drills and come out on top of the situation. Sign was the most vulnerable, and reliant on Knutsen. But, Knutsen could be shot dead before he got anywhere near his quarry.

  Sign kept pacing, even when he got the tiniest glimpse of a person in the snow about eighty yards away. The person was no longer visible.

  It was happening.

  Sign breathed in deeply. He wasn’t scared. That emotion had no purpose in moments like this. And he’d faced death so many times that it now just felt like part of life. But, he was worried about messing this up. He hadn’t been able to save Sally, Maloney, and Hunt. If he lost another innocent life he really would be a failure.

  He moved to the centre of the room, not caring if he was visible to the assassins. There was no point in playacting anymore. The killers knew he was here. They were coming in to finish the job.

  Fontonia slowly approached the cottage from the north. The snow was hampering her progress – it was at least a foot deep. But, she kept her gun held at eye level and focused on the back door.

  Sosa walked towards the property from the west. Her job was to incapacitate Sign or Knutsen if they fled the house. It would be a shot to the leg. Then she’d all the injured man into the house so that he could be interrogated. She passed the dilapidated tint sheep pen, got onto one knee, and pointed her gun at the cottage.

  Casero reached Sign and Knutsen’s jeep. He’d approached the house from the south. He crouched behind the vehicle. The front door of the cottage was only four yards away. He gripped his gun.

  Knutsen saw a person walk past his location, stop, and kneel. The person was holding a pistol. It was difficult to tell if the assassin was male or female – a hat, bulky jacket, and other winter clothes hid all indicators of gender. The person had his or her back to Knutsen and was just waiting. Possibly he or she was intending to enter the house through one of the two windows on this side of the cottage. That would be the only way in from the west. More likely, Knutsen decided, she was tasked to shoot Sign if he tried to escape.

  He recalled what Sign had said to him earlier in the day.

  When they come, don’t think like a policeman. Don’t call out to them, give them a chance to surrender, attempt to arrest them, or do anything full stop that gives them a second of breathing space. If you give them that second, you’re a dead man. They’re cold–blooded executioners. The only protocol to be had is to kill them once they’re close to the house. No mercy. No hesitation. We can examine our consciences at a later date.

  Knutsen aimed his gun at the back of the person’s head, pulled the trigger, and watched the head turn into pulp. The person fell forward, blood seeping into the snow.

  Sign, Casero, and Sosa heard the shot. All of them reacted.

  Sosa raced as fast as she could to the back door. It was unlocked. She pulled it open, ready to storm the building and put her gun in Sign’s mouth. But, Sign was standing in the archway between the lounge and kitchen, facing her. He was holding a wine bottle with a flaming rag in its neck. Firebomb. Sosa tried to spin around but she was too late. Sign hurled the bomb at her feet. The bottle smashed. Flames encased her clothes. She dropped her gun, and ran screaming away from the house. She was a ball of orange fire, the colour vivid against the backdrop of the pure white landscape. Sign picked up her gun and shot her in the head. She collapsed to the ground. He put two more shots into her back, knowing that both would have penetrated her lungs. She was dead.

  From behind, an arm wrapped itself around his throat. A gun was put against his face.

  Casero held him firm. His mouth was close to Sign’s ear. “If you wish to live I suggest you do exactly as I say.” He dragged him back into the lounge.

  Knutsen ran through the snow as quickly as he could. Sign’s firebomb hadn’t done any damage to the kitchen. He entered the property, breathing fast, his handgun made ready to kill anything that shouldn’t be here.

  Sign was there, upright. Casero was gripping him tight and using Sign’s body as a shield. Aside from the assassins arm, there was barely anything visible of the man holding Knutsen’s friend.

  Casero said, “Your name is Knutsen. You’re holding a Glock. Am I right in thinking it’s a 37? That would make it a forty five calibre gun. If you shoot my arm, the bullet will make a mess of my limb. But it will also penetrate Sign’s throat. He’ll die; I may also die. If you deliberately shoot him in a part of his body where there are no vital organs, the bullet will travel through his body and into mine. But, odds are that both of us will die from shock and blood loss. The only good outcome from this is if you don’t pull the trigger. All I want is information.”

  Despite the cold, Knutsen was sweating. He kept his gun pointing at both men. “You’ll kill us when you’re done!”

  “Maybe I will; maybe I won’t. The future is always so terribly uncertain.”

  Knutsen looked into Sign’s eyes. Sign showed no fear.

  Knutsen’s finger was wrapped around the trigger.

  What to do? What to fucking do?

  Sign wrenched Casero’s arm off his throat and dropped to the floor.

  A split second later, Casero opened his mouth.

  Knutsen shot him in the chest.

  Casero fell back onto the floor.

  Sign got to his feet and picked up Casero’s discarded gun.

  Casero was wheezing, his face screwed up in agony.

  Sign crouched beside him and examined the wound. “You have no friends to help you. They’re dead. Mr. Knutsen’s bullet has made an awful mess of you. I suspect you’ve got one minute to live. I regret to inform you that I can’t repatriate your body to your homeland. You were never here; we were never here; and no one can know why we weren’t here. But, I will ensure your body is treated with respect.”

  Casero was struggling to breathe.

  Sign leaned in closer. “You and I don’t want war. We’re professionals. I’m asking you to do one last thing – be a professional to the end. Will you do that for me? Will you do that for yourself?”

  Casero’s eyes were wide. Blood was coming out of his mouth.

  “You killed a man. His name was Peter Hunt. He supplied military grade weapons. You saw us go to his house. You shot him.”

  “I… I… saw him die. I didn’t do that.”

  “Oh come on! You were there. You wanted him dead. It was the sole reason you and your colleagues were on the islands.”

  “It… It was an incredible shot. Whoever killed the fifth man is an expert shooter. But I can’t take credit for the kill. Nor can my colleagues – they were on the east island.”

  “Well, if you didn’t pull the trigger, who did?”

  “Don’t… don’t know. Didn’t see a shooter.” Casero’s back arched. “Ask yourself – where was Hunt going when you tried to speak to him?”

  “When he got onto his snow mobile and headed north? I’ve already asked myself that question.” Sign stood. “Do you know the answer?”

  “No… No.” Casero’s eyes were screwed tight. “I thought Hunt may have spoken to you. That’s… that’s why we came here. Information.”

  Sign glanced at Knutsen. His colleague was no longer pointing his weapon at Casero. Sign returned his attention to the assassin. “Men like you and me walk in the shadows. And we die in the shadows. We don’t get medals; recognition; meaningful relationships; peace; or a hero’s funeral. But we do get solitude. And that’s not a bad thing. After all, how many people can move around the world amid billions of people who don’t the slightest inkling of who we are?” He gripped Casero’s hand. “It is a rare occasion where men like us bump into each other. We know in a shot that we are one and the same, even though we also know that we can never be kindred spirits. That is our nature – to be alone. You’ve served your country. This is your hero’s funeral.” He
released Casero’s hand.

  Casero exhaled one last time. He died.

  Sign said to Knutsen, “We need to hide the bodies in the sheep pen. They can be properly dealt with later. Tomorrow, we have a final job to do.”

  CHAPTER 13

  At six AM, Sign and Knutsen left the Bluff Cove cottage. They’d never return. In the boot of the car were their bags containing all their belongings. Knutsen was driving. He’d reasoned that if he was strong enough to help Sign carry three bodies into the outhouse, he was strong enough to turn a steering wheel. In any case, his arm barely hurt now.

  It was funny. When Knutsen had first arrived here he’d felt like a fish out of water. Most of his police career had been spent operating in urban environments. The Falklands was as far removed from that as possible. Even Port Stanley was nothing more than a large village. And yet, during his stay on the islands he’d become enamoured with the climate and harsh but spectacular terrain. And as brutal as conditions could be in winter, he found the islanders’ way of life endearing and effective. They lived a simple life, were happy, always accommodating, helped each other out at the drop of a hat, were hardworking, and wouldn’t swap their circumstances for any others in the world. And they were a peaceful bunch. The only people they hated were Argentinian politicians and generals. They just wanted to be left alone.

  As Knutsen drove the jeep onto the road, he said, “I presume we’re going to RAF Mount Pleasant?”

  Sign answered, “We are but not just yet. I want to have another peek at the west island. After that, we go back to London.”

  Knutsen frowned. “We didn’t achieve our task, but most certainly our business on the islands is concluded. Why go back to Hunt’s house. We’ll find nothing there that can change the fact that the fifth man is dead.”

  In a distant voice, Sign said, “I want to know how he died.”

  Knutsen slapped the steering wheel. “He was shot in the head! A bullet in the brain doesn’t tend to help people live a longer life!”

  Sign ignored Knutsen’s sarcasm and frustration. “New Haven, if you please.” He checked his watch. “If we make good speed we should be able to board the nine AM ferry.”

  At eleven AM they disembarked the ferry, in Port Howard. Knutsen had barely spoken to Sign during the journey. As far as he was concerned, this was a waste of time. Sign, he believed, was trying to salvage his reputation. No doubt he was hoping to find something in Hunt’s house that explained why Sign and Knutsen had never stood a chance of speaking in depth to Hunt before the Argentinian assassin killed him. It was a folly. Sign and Knutsen had unwittingly led the assassin to Hunt. The fifth man had panicked and fled. The Argentinian took the incredible shot. Hunt was dead.

  Sign said, “I called Oates yesterday evening. He’s expecting us. Or rather, he’s expecting me. Please take me to his hut.”

  Two minutes later Knutsen parked outside the conservationist’s workplace.

  Sign said, “The only reason I want to see him alone is because he’s more likely to help if the meeting is one-to-one. But, if you want to come in you have my blessing. I don’t want you to feel that I’m excluding you.”

  Knutsen huffed. “You are excluding me! I’ve no idea why we’re here.”

  Sign touched him on the arm. “I have to protect your reputation. I’m here on a hunch. If I’m wrong, I might as well firebomb myself, just as I did to that poor woman yesterday. I’ll go out in a ball of flames. You, however could get another job; your dignity intact.”

  Knutsen looked at Oates’ hut. He breathed deeply. “Is there any danger in there?”

  Sign smiled, his expression warm. “No, dear chap. I’ll be safe.”

  Knutsen looked at the dashboard and nodded. “Okay. I’ll wait here.”

  Sign got out of the car and knocked on the door.

  Oates opened the entrance.

  Sign said, “Mr. Oates. So good of you to see me at short notice.”

  Oates moved aside, let Sign in, and closed the door behind him. He rolled a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, poured two cups of tea, and sat on his desk. “How can I help? Did you get any joy out of Hunt?”

  “He was most helpful. Alas, he’s a busy man and could only give us thirty minutes of his time. Our survey of the west coast needs input from others.” He walked to a map of the island on Oates’ wall and placed a finger on Hill Cove, where Hunt lived. “The road from Hunt’s place goes north for another few miles. That would suggest someone else lives at the end of the road. Unfortunately, when we were interviewing Hunt the weather was drawing in. We had to return to the east island. I wonder if you could shed any light on who might be worth talking to in this sector.” He placed his finger on the end of the road.

  Oates peered at the map. “Yeah, I know who lives there. Harry Monk. He’ll be happy to help you out.”

  “What does Monk do?”

  Oates shrugged. “Farmer, like most people here.”

  “He’s a local?”

  “Yes. I knew his parents better than I know Monk. They used to let me use some of their farming equipment to restore sea defences. They’re dead now. Monk lives on his own. From what little I’ve seen of him, he’s a nice enough bloke. But, I don’t use the equipment he inherited from his parents. He had to sell a lot of it. Six months ago he lost a lot of money. I heard it was because he’d invested in a business venture in the east island. He had to pare his farm back to the bone.”

  “Does he live alone?”

  Oates frowned. “What’s with all the questions? Just go and see him. He should be useful.”

  Sign sipped his coffee. “I’m a busy man. Any statements I obtain from islanders who know the west coast of this island must be taken from credible witnesses. Such credibility doesn’t just pertain to their knowledge of the island; it also pertains to their character. For example, I’ve been told not to speak to anyone whose property, or parents’ property, was damaged in the Falklands War. They would hold a grudge against Argentina. Their statements would be biased, driven by anger.”

  Oates sucked on his cigarette. “Pope lives alone.” He looked away. “I’m trying to remember; give me a minute.” He looked at Sign. “Yeah, I remember. His dad once told me that they had a fishing business on the east island. It was back in the late seventies and early eighties. Dad would work there Monday to Friday, then come home to work the farm at weekends. But, it didn’t work out. The farm was too high maintenance and needed him here fulltime. Plus, he said the fishing business wasn’t doing so well. He moved back to the west island.”

  “How old is Pope junior?”

  Oates shrugged. “I’ve never asked him. At a guess I’d say mid-forties.”

  “Thank you. From what you’ve said I don’t see any reason not to speak to him. May I use your name by way of introduction?”

  “Sure.”

  Sign was about to leave, but hesitated. “Do you happen to know who he was trying to do business with on the east island – the venture that lost him so much money?”

  “I do actually.” He walked to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and rifled through files. “Monk was investing in four trawlers. His idea was to create a fleet that could dominate fishing catches off of Port Stanley. He came to me because he wanted to pick my brains on sea beds, fish migration, and ultimately the best locations for his new trawlers to set up anchor and drop nets. Part of my job as a conservationist is to know shit like that. I was happy to help. Four trawlers ain’t going to make much of a dent in sea life. If anything, it’s useful. Too many fish in the waters means elephant seals start breeding like crazy. We need a balanced ecosystem here. If the seal population gets too big, I have to cull some of them. I’m the only person on the island authorized to do so. And I fucking hate that part of my job.” He pulled out a file. “Here we go.” He opened the file. “To give Monk the information he needed I had to go through formal channels. Technically, the charity I work for can’t demand money for information. We’re not a business. But we can
request financial donations. That’s what we did with Monk. I asked him to donate five thousand pounds. I drew up a contract. The money paid to us was signed by the investors in the trawler business. Alongside Monk, there were four others.” He handed Sign the file. “At the bottom of the first page you’ll see their names and signatures.”

  Sign looked at the paper and handed the file back to Oates.

  Oates looked Sign in the eye. “Four of the men in that document recently drowned. I know that from the local rag. You knew it anyway. You’re not here to analyse the west coast, looking for points of vulnerability to attack, are you? You’re here to investigate the deaths of the four men.”

  Sign was silent for a few seconds. “On the night they drowned, there is evidence to suggest that there was a fifth man on board the trawler. The fifth man witnessed the deaths of Eddie Wilson, Rob Taylor, Billy Green, and Mike Jackson. He panicked, got into a dinghy, and paddled to shore. Since then, he’s gone to ground. I’m working an angle. It is possible that an Argentinian vessel cut across the bow of Wilson’s boat. It caused him to urgently change course. After that, I don’t know. What I do know is that four men washed ashore, dead. The fifth man can help me fill in the gaps as to what happened that night.”

  “You think Pope is the fifth man?”

  “No. I’ve already identified the fifth man. But, I haven’t interviewed him yet. I need to tread very delicately. He’s understandably scared and confused. He may clam up; he may run; he may blame himself for what happened; he may do any number of things. I must treat him with the utmost respect and kindness. Just knocking on his door and introducing myself won’t do. I must speak to someone who knows him. I’d like that person to come with me to the fifth man’s house and tell him that I’m not a threat and will do nothing to him. I am a stranger from London. I need a local by my side. Someone the fifth man trusts.”

  Oates looked at the wall-map. “I’m not stupid. You’ve not spoken to Hunt because you can’t do so yet. Hunt is the fifth man. And you’re hoping Pope, his nearest neighbour, is the man to calm Hunt down.”