Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘A-1-4-5-2-2-3-8,’ he whispered each numeral as he wrote it down. ‘I guess that’s it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Cleo sounded dubious. ‘What if those numbers are just the maker’s mark or something like that?’ Jack shook his head. ‘I think this must be it. We’ve looked at the rest of the statue – there’s nothing else like it.’

  She looked at him for a moment in consideration, then nodded in agreement. Staring down at the string of numbers, her lips moved silently as she recited them to herself. A moment later she knelt by the edge of the statue and slipped silently into the darkness beyond. Jack squinted in the spotlights then slithered off the pedestal himself. He caught up with her halfway down the hill, but she did not stop until he put himself in front of her car door and refused to move.

  ‘What?’ Her face looked combative under the single streetlight of the carpark.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jack stared her down. ‘You can’t simply drive out of here!’

  ‘And why not?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘24 hours ago you told me my brother had been killed by Pierre Deschamps. Why the hell aren’t you helping the police track him down?’

  ‘Why aren’t you?’ She stared back at him. ‘David was your brother, you found him – why aren’t you helping the police yourself instead of climbing statues?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘That’s not the issue…’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she interrupted him quickly. ‘We both know it was Pierre Deschamps and you should know by now that Pierre Deschamps is untouchable – he has a finger in every pie in Paris – every judge and politician is in his back pocket. Yes, we know he killed David, but there’s no way in hell he’ll ever get caught for it. You try and tell that story to the French police and they’d laugh you all the way to the dock... and even if you got them to believe you, it wouldn’t do any good. He’s not a street thug with a knife and some muscle, Jack.’ She put heavy, sarcastic emphasis on his name. ‘He’s a power. There’s no way the British police could ever pin him down for what he did. The only way to get even with him and clear my name is to get that gold before he does and that’s what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Clear your name?’ Jack leaned close, eyes narrowed. ‘Clear your name from what?’

  Cleo looked at him angrily.

  ‘I have a criminal record, all right? A little bit of break and entry – nothing serious and only from people who could afford it.’

  ‘A burglar with a conscience?’ Jack’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘A cat burglar who wanted to go straight.’ Cleo snapped. ‘I broke into your brother’s home six months ago and he caught me. We talked and I’ve been working for him ever since. Finding out about Deschamps was my last job – he was going to clean my record after that and I was going to be able to go home at last.’ She frowned. ‘But now David’s gone and so is my chance to go straight – and that means the gold is the only thing I can go for.’

  ‘So you’re here for the gold then.’ Jack’s voice was taut. ‘That’s all that matters, is it?’

  She looked at him coolly. ‘You’re here too, Jack, you’re here too.’

  ‘I’m here for my brother.’ Jack snapped angrily. ‘If tracking down this gold is the only way to get my hands on Deschamps then that’s exactly what I’ll do.’

  They stared at each other angrily, cooperation forgotten. There was a crunch of gravel and another car drove slowly into the car park, its headlights picking them out in the darkness. A police officer wound down the window of his car and peered at them suspiciously.

  ‘Evening Officer.’ Cleo said after an awkward pause.

  The man kept staring at them curiously. ‘Everythin’ all right?’

  Jack and Cleo nodded as one.

  ‘We got a phone call that a couple of people were seen climbing on old Nosey,’ the policeman continued, gesturing up to the Wellington statue. ‘You two haven’t seen anything have you?’ Both shook their heads.

  ‘Sorry… we just got here.’ Cleo shrugged her shoulders.

  The policeman nodded. ‘Punk kids most likely. I’ll have to go up and make sure they didn’t leave no bloody graffiti or beer bottles up there. You two, er, lovebirds have a good night now.’ He smiled and drove the car closer to the edge of the car park. Jack realised that he and Cleo were standing very close together, their bodies almost touching. He moved to step back, but found Cleo had grabbed his belt buckle and was holding him close. ‘Not yet, dummy,’ she whispered, ‘he thinks we’re a couple.’ She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Now get in the fucking car before we both get arrested.’

  Jack stepped back and opened the door for her, then forced himself to unhurriedly walk around and slip into the passenger seat. The Aston Martin’s engine purred into life and the sports car rolled smoothly out of the car park. The last Jack saw of the policeman was a distant figure struggling up the same pathway he had followed.

  ‘Well.’ Cleo’s voice was short. ‘Where will I drop you?’

  Jack turned in his seat and stared at her profile. Her eyes were calm, scanning the road carefully as she drove at a leisurely pace through the late night traffic. ‘Hey,’ he spoke calmly, ‘you have to stop this right now.’

  ‘I don’t have to stop anything.’

  ‘You said it yourself,’ Jack tried to explain in a way that would get past her stubbornness. ‘Deschamps is a killer. Look what he did to David. You don’t want to mess with a man like that. He’s after the gold. Cross him and he could kill you too.’

  She did not even glance in his direction. ‘I know more about Deschamps than you, Jack – and more about the gold as well. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘The gold is nothing.’ Jack swore. ‘This guy could kill you!’

  She threw him a look filled with scorn and anger. ‘The gold is everything – and he had his chance to kill me once already. He won’t get it again.’

  She pulled the car over in a darkened side street and crossed her arms. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Look, for the last time…’ Jack tried to reason with her, but she sat staring straight ahead. Jack felt frustration rising inside him but there was nothing he could do. Both of them were operating outside the law – she for profit, he for revenge. He reluctantly pulled himself out of the seat and into the warm summer night. ‘Listen,’ he turned around and leaned back into the car. ‘If I can’t convince you to back off, then… then just be careful, ok.’ She turned and looked at him with a strange look on her face. ‘That’s what your brother told me once. That was the last time I saw him – before last night.’ Jack could see a wave of emotion cross her face. She had cared for his brother, he realised. Suddenly he felt ashamed at his treatment of her.

  Her green eyes looked up at him, armoured and impenetrable once again. ‘You look out too, Jack – for your own sake.’

  ‘And the gold?’ Jack suddenly wanted the conversation to keep going. She looked at him considering. ‘What next? What do the numbers mean?’

  She smiled. ‘David gave you the clues to find the code here in Aldershot. Perhaps he gave you the clues to the other locations as well. But did he tell you about the way to make sense of it all?’

  Jack stared at her, dumbfounded. The string of numbers needed to be decoded as well?

  ‘Oh dear.’ She smiled at his confusion. ‘I can see I’m right. I suppose what I said last night was true after all, Jack! That gold is mine! Adios!’

  She revved the engine and Jack stepped back as the Aston Martin raced into the night. Jack watched the red tail lights vanish around a corner and frowned. He was not at a dead end just yet, not with the poem from David in his pocket. Perhaps Andrew would be able to help decipher it at their six am rendezvous the next morning. Jack turned and began walking back through Aldershot to the train station, mulling over what he had seen during the night and turning the numbers from the statue over and over in his head. Unfortunately, Jack was so busy thinking that he did not notice the p
olice cars until it was too late.

  0000 hrs 15 June 2015, St Paul’s Cathedral, London.

  GR 51.513749, -0.100472

  Reynard looked out across the facade of St Paul’s Cathedral with a sour look on his face. A summer rain shower was drizzling its way across Christopher Wren’s great building, painting it with the shiny reflection of car lights and street lights. Reynard could feel his lips twitching with frustration. He disliked Britain intensely. The people seemed miserable, clotted with Hobbit-like ignorance of the world, their leaders distinguished by bumptious arrogance and the City of London itself little more than a crowded sewer drain of self-important nobodies. Standing here in the shadows, looking up across the hulking dome of St Paul’s, Reynard felt nothing but resentment. To think these people had defeated Hitler, the Kaiser and even Napoleon himself was nearly incomprehensible.

  Yet standing where he was, Reynard was also plagued by rare childhood memories. Growing up in crime-ridden Marseilles had left him a hard and friendless boy who preferred cunning and violence over kindness or hard work. But here, in the shadows by the cathedral, one solitary memory was pushing its way into his head. Long ago, he had been taken as a little child to see the film Mary Poppins at a glamorous Art Deco cinema in the centre of Marseilles. It had been in English, a foreign language to him at that time, but he had been delighted nonetheless. Now, standing in the shadows, he was reminded of the scene with the old woman sitting on the steps of the cathedral, selling bird seed and singing a bitter-sweet song about charity and hope. Reynard had not understood the words at the time, nor ever watched the film again, but the sweetness of the music and the dignified sadness of the hopeless old woman had touched his little heart. Now he stood looking at those same steps and wondered why a little part of him wanted to weep for every aspect of his criminal, blood-drenched life.

  A cell phone rang in his pocket and he pressed it against his ear, eager to push away the unsettling introspection.

  ‘There has been nothing?’ Deschamps did not bother to introduce himself.

  ‘Nothing,’ Reynard replied. ‘I told you he would not be here. I am standing here in the dark for nothing.’

  ‘Not for nothing.’ Deschamps sounded unconcerned at his lieutenant’s impatience. ‘Because I wish it to be so. Even after his brother’s cell phone stopped transmitting his location, there was a small chance that he would be foolish enough to meet you tonight.’

  ‘Well, he has not been that stupid and I have become cold and wet in waiting.’ Reynard snapped bitterly. ‘If he still had the cell-phone then we could track him down that way. Why did you goad him into throwing it away?’

  ‘He would have realised it eventually,’ Deschamps laughed, clearly aware of Reynard’s frustration. ‘But do not worry, Reynard. When the time comes we will find him whether he likes it or not. You can take your discomfort out on him then. Just be patient.’

  Reynard was silent, grinding his teeth. Deschamps sighed contentedly before continuing.

  ‘Anyway, my dear Reynard, calm yourself. Your guard duty is at an end. The reason I have called is to tell you this. The police have just seen Jack Starling – in a place called Aldershot.’

  0015 hrs 15 June 2015, Station Street, Aldershot.

  GR 51.247560, -0.761691

  Jack had taken two steps toward the entrance of Aldershot station before realising the little square in front of the station was flooded with red and blue police lights. He froze, thanking his lucky stars that he was still a decent distance from the station. Without breaking his stride, he turned around smartly and walked back around the corner. Once more in the darkness of the side street he cursed himself for his absentmindedness. They must have caught his image walking from the station after all. In hindsight, it had been foolish to consider returning to the train station to travel back to the centre of London. Jack ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had done too much covert work in the past to easily forgive himself such a rookie error. The flight from New York, the shock of his brother’s death and the stress of avoiding the British authorities was no excuse; there were no second chances or time outs for what he was embarked upon.

  There was another problem. He had to be back in central London by six am to meet with Andrew, but it was too risky to attempt travel by either train or taxi. At this time of night there were few other ways of returning to the City. Hitching a ride was equally dangerous. He might be able to pull it off if he stole a motorbike or car, but that would only deepen his guilt in the eyes of the law and create further risk. Jack ground his teeth. It seemed his trip to Aldershot had left him washed up, stranded far from London and without any feasible plan to get back to the centre of the City before sunrise. He glanced behind him cautiously, alarmed to see that two police officers in high visibility yellow jackets had turned into the street and were walking toward him intently.

  Jack kept walking at a casual pace, furiously reviewing his options. A red car pulled into the curb by his side, matching his speed. There was the slight hum of a window drawing down. Despite himself, Jack ducked down to look inside the car. Cleo looked back at him, a half-smile dancing around her face.

  ‘Come on, Superman, get in the car.’

  Jack could not help but grin to himself as he clambered into the car. There was no other reasonable course of action. It seemed she was going to save him one more time. The engine thrummed powerfully and raced them to safety.

  ‘So I take it Central London will be all right for you?’ Cleo’s casually asked question helped break the silence between them that had been simmering gently since she had driven them from the centre of Aldershot and onto the M3 motorway into London.

  ‘Somewhere near Kings Cross,’ Jack confirmed. ‘Thank you,’ he added.

  Cleo threw him a quick glance.

  ‘So why didn’t you go straight to the police?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you found David’s body. Last night.’ She sounded slightly surprised, as if amazed it had been only 24 hours before. ‘Why didn’t you call them straight away? They’re British, at least. Not very corrupt, as far as police forces go.’

  Jack shrugged. It was difficult to answer.

  ‘Suspicion,’ he said eventually. Her silence invited him to continue.

  ‘I had a bad experience with the British Government a few years ago,’ he said shortly.

  ‘But you’re a solider,’ Cleo replied. ‘David showed me a photo of you once. Full kit, medals, dress uniform, patriotic smile. What bad experience could you have had?’

  ‘I was betrayed,’ Jack said shortly. ‘First by an Afghani solider – that was my fault for trusting him. Then by my brother and then by the government itself. When I saw David dead, I knew the government wouldn’t dare to think about the situation – all they’d do is arrest me, sweep me back under the carpet and let the real criminals escape.’

  ‘How did David betray you?’

  Jack breathed out slowly. There were so many feelings of rage and betrayal, even ten years after the fact.

  ‘I was captured by an Afghani warlord in December 2001,’ he explained at last. ‘David was a strategist in charge of British intelligence operations in the Afghani theatre. He could have got me out. Instead he left me there for years.’

  ‘But why?’ Cleo sounded shocked and horrified.

  ‘Because the man who held me prisoner wanted a guarantee – a hostage – in case the British turned against him. I was that guarantee. Beaten, mocked, tortured, but left there because it ensured a warlord would do what we wanted.’

  ‘My God.’ Cleo pushed one hand against her mouth. ‘That’s monstrous.’

  ‘And David left me there for years.’ Jack finished the story quickly, throwing the brutality into her face. ‘So trust isn’t something I have much of.’

  Cleo took a deep breath and remained silent for a few minutes.

  ‘So what changed?’ she asked eventually. ‘If you didn’t trust David then why did you come back when
he asked you?’

  Jack looked at her sharply. ‘How do you know he asked me back?’

  ‘Because he told me.’ She threw him a quick glance. ‘He said that his life was in danger and that he needed someone he could trust. He never said anything about what happened between you. He never told me about the warlord. Why would you ever want to see him again after that?

  Jack was silent for a moment. He still was not sure what the answer to that question was. After he had left the military, or been kicked out, as he ruefully admitted, he had spent years in America, drinking his way through bars up and down the east coast, drifting from job to job and from girl to girl, but as the years had passed he had slowly begun to feel his time in America was a retreat – running away from an unfinished story. Whether he admitted it or not, he had known that one day he would have to return to London, to confront his brother and somehow find some peace.

  At the same time, Jack knew, a little part of him simply wanted the opportunity for a blazing row and epic punch-up between the two brothers. Violence never solved anything, as their mother had always warned him, but Jack had spent years itching for a fight. He had sometimes daydreamed for hours about the satisfaction of landing a solid, steam engine punch deep into his brother’s flabby paunch. Now, of course, David was dead and that death had revealed the pettiness for what it was. There was no chance for Jack to reconcile with his brother. Deschamps had seen to that. All that was left was the quest to avenge his murder. Scant consolation, Jack mused, compared to the fun of a brotherly street fight.

  ‘Jack?’ Cleo’s soft voice intruded gently into his thoughts. ‘Why did you come back?’

  Jack cleared his head of the memories.

  ‘To have it out with him,’ he said grimly.

  ‘But if you didn’t trust your brother, why did you go to the Wellington Statue? David had told me there was a secret there, which is what I was looking for. I had a reason to be there, to trust him. What was yours?’