Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  If she could not find something here, in this room, then she had no chance of finding the gold itself. David had told her one clue was to be found at the Wellington Statue in Aldershot, but had kept stubbornly silent about the other locations, even as his private research had uncovered them one by one. Perhaps those clues were found in the stacks of letters and reports from the first Napoleonic Empire. Cleo eyed the boxes of documents with distaste. If that were true, it could take weeks or even months to uncover what David had been looking for and her reconnaissance of Deschamps’ operations in Paris had shown there was not enough time for such time-consuming research. Deschamps was racing along his own research trail to find the gold and any delay here in this room could let the villainous Frenchman win. Think outside the box. Cleo told herself furiously. David always told you: think outside the box! Right now, however, she was not just thinking inside the box, she was trapped inside it, stuck in a little room filled with David’s research. She shivered slightly and rubbed her arms, trying to ignore the slight chill of the air-conditioned room. Whatever she was looking for had to be here, hidden somewhere inside this room.

  Or did it?

  Cleo’s eyes scanned the walls, quickly finding the tiny air vent in the corner of the room. It was high up in the corner of the room and had been pushing the slight current of fresh air into the room ever since her arrival. In one quick movement she slid the chair to the wall and stepped upward carefully levering the plastic hatch away to reveal the rudely-cut air vent underneath. One hand slid carefully into the narrow aperture and her questing fingers immediately touched the edges of a slim envelope.

  A moment later she had the envelope on the table, sliding out page after page of David’s scrawled writing.

  Cleo leant over the table, eyes wide as she scanned through the text.

  Eventually, a single whisper drifted from her lips.

  ‘My God.’

  1145 hrs 15 June 2015, British Library forecourt, London.

  GR 51.529901, -0.127833

  Michelle Highgrove strode across the British Library forecourt with quick efficiency, the heels of her Christian Louboutin shoes clicking like castanets on the red-bricked space. The building was a brutally severe construction of flat lines and red brick, a modernist masterpiece – not surprising, perhaps, for an institution that was officially created in 1997. The Library had traditionally been housed at the centre of the British Museum, but change, Highgrove reflected, was the nature of all things. She quickly passed the strange, mammoth statue of Isaac Newton made by Eduardo Paolozzi, built in the style of a William Blake etching. The gigantic figure was hunched over on its pedestal, hands busily working with a compass in an attempt to unveil the mysteries of the universe. It was, she admitted, a pretty imposing statue. If only, she sighed, they had not placed it in such a way that its majestic buttocks were pointed toward the pedestrians on nearby Ossulston Street.

  As she walked into the foyer of the Library, Highgrove dismissed such distractions and focused on the task at hand. The staff of COBRA had been searching through the last days and weeks of David Starling’s life in an effort to uncover any clues behind his death. Once she discovered he had a private room at the British Library, Highgrove had been quickly ordered to go there and find out whatever she could. Overall, she was relieved to be on assignment, enjoying a sunny London day and escaping the claustrophobic depths of the COBRA briefing room where the tension between Brice and Sir Johnathon was growing ever stronger. Instead, she was out and about, enjoying the summer warmth and actually looking for real-world information, instead of sifting through endless electronic updates. It was almost as if she were having a day off school. Highgrove quietly introduced herself at the information desk and waited to be shown to David’s private study. After a few minutes a baby-faced library assistant appeared from behind a row of shelves.

  ‘Ms Highgrove?’ He smiled genially. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Hello,’ Highgrove smiled and gave a firm shake to his extended hand then flashed her ID card. ‘I’m here to see David Starling’s papers.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, this way,’ he smiled, leading her along toward the main hall. ‘It’s an absolute rush hour today.’ He spoke in hushed tones as they stepped onto the floor of the reading hall.

  ‘Is that so?’ Highgrove nodded absently, distracted for a moment by the high space around her. A glass wall ran floor to ceiling along one side of the room, revealing row after row of metal bookshelves groaning with books, while the far side of the room featured a staircase and tiered balconies leading to a series of private study rooms.

  ‘Oh certainly, very busy,’ the assistant continued in a whisper. ‘Miss Corday has been here for nearly an hour.’

  ‘Miss who?’ Highgrove frowned. Highgrove had been the one who discovered David Starling’s secondary research location – it had been her job to come to the Library from COBRA and investigate it herself. She began to fume at the possibility that Brice had already sent someone else without bothering to tell her.

  ‘Miss Corday,’ the assistant continued, ‘Dr Starling’s research assistant. She came from the University this morning to start clearing out his papers.’

  Highgrove felt a trickle of unease. COBRA had already contacted University College that morning and had been assured that David Starling had been working on his own – no research staff or graduate students to supervise.

  ‘What did you say her name was?’ Cleo stopped following the assistant and stared at him intently. He blanched, made nervous by her interrogative tone.

  ‘Charlotte Corday – Dr Starling’s research assistant from University College.’

  Highgrove felt her blood run cold. She had studied the French Revolution at university and the name began ringing alarm bells in her mind. A famous journalist of the revolution called Marat had been murdered in his bathtub, his death helping to trigger the Terror, when thousands of citizens had been executed for suspected treason. Highgrove drew in a quick breath of alarm. The name of the assassin had been Charlotte Corday.

  ‘Listen,’ Highgrove turned to her guide and gave a reassuring smile. ‘I need you to go back to your office and call this number immediately.’ She pulled a card from her jacket and pressed it into his trembling hands.

  ‘What’s going on?’ The man looked puzzled but unalarmed.

  Highgrove shook her head. There wasn’t time to explain.

  ‘Just go to your office and call that number, please. Tell them I need a priority one S-O-G at the British Library right now, do you have that?’

  The assistant nodded, ‘Priority one S-O-G.’ He repeated the phrase bemusedly.

  ‘Good.’ Highgrove nodded reassuringly. ‘Go and do that now, please. But first, where was David’s office?’

  He pointed a finger to a doorway distantly visible on the top level of the far wall.

  ‘That one – third level, two doors along. That’s Miss Corday there.’

  Highgrove followed his gaze and tensed. A slender figure was looking down at them from the balcony exactly where he was pointing. Even at this range Highgrove could see the tension in the figure’s stance.

  Highgrove clenched her jaw. It would be several minutes before an S-O-G, a Police Special Operations Group, could be scrambled directly to her location. They would be armed, unlike Highgrove herself – COBRA staffers were analysts who were not usually issued with firearms. Shit, Highgrove whispered as the slender figure overhead stepped away from the balcony and vanished from sight. I can’t let her get away. She looked around. None of the scholars studying nearby looked as if they would be of any help. She was out of options. Highgrove squared her shoulders and began stalking determinedly toward the stairwell leading to the balcony. It was time to put three years of cross-fit training to the test.

  1145 hrs 15 June 2015, British Library Reading Room, London.

  GR 51.529901, -0.127833

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Cleo swore to herself.

  Thank God she had come out onto the b
alcony to get her mind around what had been written in David’s notes. If she had stayed in the little room a minute longer she might have been trapped. As it was, she had been able to see the library assistant leading a determined-looking brunette across the floor of the library toward David’s office. The woman looked stamped with government authority and the muted conversation with the assistant, which finished with him pointing directly to where Cleo stood, was the final warning that danger was on its way. Even as Cleo watched, the library assistant had ducked back to his office while the brunette had squared her shoulders and walked forward toward the staircase. Shit. Cleo thought again. The brunette’s walk promised a great deal more toughness than her size and fashionable dress sense would immediately imply. The last thing Cleo needed was a stand-up brawl in the British Library. An Exit sign at the end of the balcony led to an alarmed doorway – another unacceptable option. Cleo paused, tapping her teeth together thinking through the options. The click of the woman’s heels were clearly audible as they began to stride up the white staircase toward Cleo’s level. Nice heels, Cleo thought, distracted for a moment despite herself. Christian Louboutin heels, she realised, congratulated herself on picking the designer’s distinctive style from such a distance. Her own feet were clad in a pair of shabby but chic high-top trainers. Shoes. An idea began to form at the back of her head. It’ll take timing, Cleo thought. Thank God I chose to wear Diesels today.

  The business-like click of heels changed tempo slightly and Cleo could almost feel the woman walking up the stairs toward Cleo’s level. Leaning out to look, Cleo made direct eye contact as the woman turned the corner of the stairs and proceeded up to the second level. Hm, Cleo was distracted for a moment, she’s pretty. The woman disappeared a moment later as the stairwell curved back on itself. Now only the clicking of her heels marked her inexorable progress. I’ll have to time this right, Cleo thought. She looked out over the hall, eyes wide as she picked up every possible detail that could give her an advantage. The space below was vast and cavernous. A muted cough echoed up from one of the assembled scholars. Not one was looking up at the walkway where Cleo stood trapped – each one of the men and women scattered across the room below was wrapped in their own research dramas. There was a slight rustle as a page was turned, nothing more. Cleo shook her head in wonder. Academics. Below her, Cleo saw the woman had reached the second floor and again they locked determined eyes. Cleo licked her lips nervously, fingers rubbing against one another in agitation. Anyone close enough to hear would have realised she was counting the seconds under her breath. The woman reached the curve of the staircase and vanished from view for the last time.

  A few seconds passed before Michelle Highgrove stepped around the final corner, fists raised for any potential attack. The gantry was deserted. She stepped forward suspiciously, arms tense. Each door was locked. The alarmed door at the end of the gantry was closed too – no siren had sounded and David Starling’s tiny study room was empty. Highgrove looked around in bemusement. Where the hell did she go?

  1150 Hrs, 15th June, Wellington Statue, Aldershot.

  51.253180, -0.779195

  That’s a big statue. Reynard looked up at the bronze face of the Duke of Wellington, impressed despite himself. Around him, a small crew of industrial cleaners were unpacking a formidable array of water blasters, tubing and tins of solvents and cleaning fluids. Eyes watchful, Reynard slowly puffed a Gauloises cigarette as the workers lugged tool after tool up the hill to the side of the statue. Reynard smiled sardonically. He had driven to Aldershot the night before, watching the police at the train station and waiting for a call from Deschamps in case Starling was found. When Deschamps did eventually call, it was for a very different task. Now Reynard stood in the car park next to the great statue of Wellington, decked out in olive green overalls, watching a cleaning crew begin to place ladders around the base of the mammoth equestrian statue. A code hidden somewhere on the statue. Deschamps had told him. Search it, every inch of it. Find the code. Now! Reynard was pleased with his response to the challenge. What better way to search a statue than while cleaning it – and who would question a cleaning crew polishing up a statue of the Duke of Wellington so close to the 200th anniversary of his great victory? Reynard smiled sourly – and what other cleaning crew in this tired country would have such a criminal record? The underground tentacles of Deschamps’ empire spread far indeed: a crew of London ex-cons was happy to turn on a show for their old Parisian Godfather. Reynard looked up at the statue curiously. Somewhere on this behemoth, according to Deschamps, was a code that would lead them toward Napoleon’s gold. Reynard inhaled a lungful of Gauloises smoke and eyed the statue doubtfully.

  The first ladder was pushed up against the side of the pedestal. Reynard flicked his cigarette into the undergrowth, picked up an empty bucket and began strolling up the hillock. Finding the code would be easy enough, he hoped. Finding it would bring him and his master one step closer to the hidden gold.

  1150 hrs 15 June 2015, British Library Reading Room, London.

  GR 51.529901, -0.127833

  Easy does it, Cleo thought, the well-defined muscles of her arms set against her weight as she clung to the side of the second floor balcony. Her hands were gripping the stout handrail, her feet pushing against the wall, while beneath her yawned a five metre drop to the parquetry floor far below. It had been a simple matter of timing, flipping herself over the edge of the balcony just as her opponent’s view was blocked by the curve of the stairwell.

  The benefits of being a cat-bugler, Cleo smiled to herself, plus eleven years of school gymnastics. She pushed off slightly with her feet then let go with her hands, allowing herself to drop vertically another level, before her hands snapped tight against the next handrail and her feet caught the wall. The grip on the handrail allowed her body to swing inward against her feet, turning the vertical descent into a horizontal push against the balcony. The handrail creaked but stood firm. She pushed up with her feet and vaulted upward and over, vaulting onto the firm ground of the first floor balcony. The operation had been completed in total silence and she could hear the uncertain footsteps of her foe two storeys above. Cleo drummed her fingers against her leg for a quick moment. It might be safer to find a different exit, but she was wary of getting lost inside the building. Best to leave the way she had come. She took a step back, then darted forward, planting one foot on the handrail and leaping upward and outward. The air rushed in her ears and she had a pleasing moment of weightlessness. Show-off, she grinned to herself, before landing on the main floor of the Library with a gentle rustle of clothing and the faintest squeaks of her Diesels as they made contact with the ground. She rolled over once and then slid upright like a jack-in-the-box and began walking toward the exit at a normal pace. Only a single scholar had raised their head, the older woman goggling at her with a look of confusion on her face. Everyone else in the room was engrossed in their books and computers, completely oblivious to her narrow escape. Cleo smiled, stepping up her pace as she neared the exit.

  ‘Wait, stop!’ A woman’s voice yelled out, breaking the sanctity of the Library’s silence. ‘Somebody stop her!’ Cleo spun around, walking backwards for a few moments without breaking her speed. Her would-be assailant was standing on the top balcony, pointing at her futilely, yelling out in an effort to get someone in the room to stand up and take action. Cleo grinned at the woman, then lifted her finger to her lips.

  ‘Shush!’ Cleo mockingly admonished her.

  The woman stared in impotent rage, then turned and began running toward the stairwell. This time there was no sound as she dashed forward. Her heels are off, Cleo decided, guess this means business! She turned away and began a gentle lope toward the Library exit. The nervous young assistant stood by the doorway, open-mouthed in surprise, a business card clutched in both hands like an offering. Without breaking her stride, Cleo plucked the card from his grip, flashing him a brilliant and cheeky smile as she sailed past into the bright morning light. Th
e envelope of information from David Starling was tucked against her ribs and she caressed it for a moment before breaking into a jog across the wide, brick-paved forecourt. There was a sound of sirens approaching. Too late, Cleo whispered as she crossed the road and vanished into the crowds of pedestrians walking to and from St Pancras Station. She glanced down at the business card in curiosity. Michelle Highgrove, Senior Security Analyst, Cabinet Office. Cleo rubbed the card between finger and thumb for a moment. Cabinet Office… that must be COBRA. David’s old department… so they’re on the trail as well. A wicked smile crossed her face as she vanished into the St Pancras tube station, one person hidden among thousands. Who’ll find the gold first? Jack… COBRA… Deschamps… or me?

  2100 hrs 15 June 2015, Apsley House, London.

  GR 51.503379, -0.151931

  The honey-coloured stone walls of Apsley House sat comfortably on Piccadilly, the facade fronted by four narrow Corinthian columns topped by a portico built in the classical temple style. It was 9 pm by the time Jack arrived, two hours after the invitation stated and the party was in full swing, the din clearly audible from the Piccadilly thoroughfare. Jack was able to pass through the front gates of the building with only a wave of his invitation toward the clip-board holding doorman.