Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  1202 hrs 16 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  ‘What the hell is wrong with his jaw?’ Brice demanded, squinting up the main monitor’s image of Jack standing motionless by the fencing.

  ‘He’s sticking it out, sir,’ Highgrove explained. ‘It’s enough to throw our search programs off, but he must have relaxed it by the river and let the long range cameras get a lock.’

  ‘Silly bugger,’ the Naval Commodore declared. ‘Looks painful.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Sir Johnathon agreed from the doorway. ‘Are you going to pick them up now?’

  Brice thought for a moment then shook his head. Take them now… or wait a little longer to see what else might happen? ‘No,’ he decided at last. ‘It looks like they are waiting for someone... We’ve got them under surveillance and three Police SOG teams are driving into place in unmarked vehicles. They’re trapped on the edge of the Thames with nowhere to run. If we wanted to we could have both of them in the back of a van inside 30 seconds.’ He turned and lumbered back toward the table, voice rising to address the entire room. ‘They’re out there on the Embankment for a reason. We all know the Russians are backing away from the Estonian deal that David Starling set up. Well, I’ve got a very strong feeling that these two little love birds are going to meet someone from Russia any second now – and catching them all red-handed will help shame the Russian Government back into cooperation – and, of course, it’ll help us get to the bottom of David Starling’s murder.’

  Highgrove spoke up from a monitor. ‘We’re tracing their movements back through Trafalgar Square… it looks like they were dropped off on the North West side of the square by a minicab. We’re tracking it down now.’

  ‘Good,’ Brice declared. ‘Find out where the driver picked them up and where they booked it from. I doubt it’ll tell us much, but we might be able to find out where they were last night.’

  The Naval Commodore raised his eyebrows and looked at the bearlike staffer with a new sense of respect. It seemed that Brice was thinking one step ahead of Jack Starling. Noticing the Commodore’s response and trying not to look too gratified, Brice sat back in his chair and shot a dismissive look at Sir Johnathon. ‘And to think you wanted us monitoring trains and airports, when there they are going for a stroll in the middle of the city. It’s a good thing the Prime Minister put me in charge of this one.’

  Sir Johnathon ignored the slight and leaned forward urgently. ‘I suggest you pick Jack Starling and the woman immediately. We know they exceptionally skilled at evading arrest. The longer you wait, the greater chance they have of slipping away.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brice snorted dismissively. ‘They’ve already escaped an old man and an unarmed girl.’ He looked sourly from Sir Johnathon to Michelle Highgrove in one dismissive gaze, conveniently forgetting his embarrassment the previous night. ‘They’re in the middle of London. On the fucking Embankment.’ The Commodore and Highgrove both looked away in distaste as Brice continued. ‘Where the hell are they going to run to? Westminster? Buckingham Palace? We have Police SOG groups less than 100 yards away.’ He waggled the walkie-talkie in Sir Johnathon’s face. ‘We’re ready to pounce and they’re none the wiser.’

  Sir Johnathon raised his eyebrows in frustration. ‘Then I urge you to move on them right now!’

  ‘Look,’ Brice shook his head dismissively and gestured at the monitors. ‘They’re moving up the embankment. Starling still has his jaw out like a caveman. He still thinks he’s got a disguise in place. And he’s limping too. Where the hell is he going to go looking like that?’

  ‘Mr Brice,’ Sir Johnathon tried one last time, ‘I strongly recommend you act now. Order them in.’

  Confident in his power, Brice stared at the civil servant coldly. ‘Fairchild, if you interrupt me one more time, I’ll order you removed.’

  Sir Johnathon looked at him levelly then leaned back in his chair. ‘So be it.’

  ‘Look, what are you worried about?’ Brice stared at him. ‘Do you think that he’s just going to jump up and start punching people left, right and centre?’

  Sir Johnathon sighed carefully. ‘Mr Brice,’ he spoke with quiet resignation, ‘that is exactly what I’m worried about.’

  1203 hrs 15 June 2015, Cleopatra’s Needle, London.

  GR 51.508645, -0.120346

  A car horn blared out across the Embankment and Jack instinctively moved to protect Cleo from any unexpected attack. He looked at her in consternation. ‘What do you mean, too late?’

  ‘They aren’t workmen,’ Cleo murmured out the corner of her mouth, then turned and began to walk nonchalantly away from the monument. Jack limped after her cautiously.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I recognise some of them,’ Cleo whispered. ‘They work for Deschamps.’

  ‘Wait, come this way,’ Jack declared, steering them beside a wrought iron lamppost that shielded them from view. Cleo leaned gratefully behind the cover and shut her eyes. Jack was surprised to see she was trembling with fear.

  ‘When your brother sent me to investigate Deschamps, I visited his headquarters in Paris.’ Cleo spoke quietly. ‘And some of those men over there were working for him.’

  Jack looked back at the workmen in alarm. ‘But that means they’ve found this clue as well?’

  ‘Found it?’ Cleo looked at him with disbelief. ‘Found it? Jack, those workmen are about to break the thing open!’ A diesel engine revved up with a dull roar and Jack watched in horror as a mammoth bulldozer began muscling its way toward the monument.

  ‘Wait,’ Jack spoke urgently, ‘Deschamps can’t seriously be planning to smash that time capsule open in broad daylight can he? How the hell would they get away?’ Jack could not believe the Frenchman would risk such a move in broad daylight.

  ‘Jack, you don’t know Deschamps,’ Cleo pleaded. ‘I do. If he thinks something is worth the risk, he’ll take it, no matter what. If he destroys the obelisk, it won’t matter, so long as he gets what he wants. Every single man over there could be arrested for all he cares, so long as he gets his hand on that time capsule. If you don’t do something now, his men will smash that thing open, take the clue and leave us high and dry. You have to stop them, right now.’

  Jack sniffed the air carefully, his grey eyes scanning the scene intently. The bulldozer’s engine revved like a lion’s roar. Jack thrust all distractions away, his face cold, his mind whirling through possible courses of action. Nothing he could think of would alter the fact that he and Cleo were only two people, while Deschamps had nearly a dozen men milling around the obelisk. The odds were nearly impossible as it was, let alone if one or two of the enemy were armed.

  ‘Look.’ Cleo gripped his arm, pointing toward the Thames with a bend of her neck. An elegant speedboat was threading its way past the various ships moored along the Thames, nosing its way toward the landing behind Cleopatra’s Needle. Beside the driver, a single man stood amidships, staring up at the monument intently.

  ‘Reynard,’ Cleo whispered, angling her face away from the approaching speed boat. ‘Deschamps’ right hand man. Whatever is going to happen,’ she warned, ‘Reynard will be at the centre of it.’

  Jack frowned, carefully weighing up the narrow figure. There was something in the lithe stance of the man which promised swift, decisive action in any situation.

  ‘So that’s their getaway plan,’ Jack realised. ‘It’s just an old-fashioned smash and grab. Take the clue on the boat and vanish while everyone else gets arrested. They really are playing for high stakes if Deschamps is willing to sacrifice that many of his men.’

  ‘He’ll sacrifice anything to get what he wants,’ Cleo shrugged warningly. ‘Those men are nothing but tools for him to use and throw away,’ she declared. ‘Be careful. If Reynard sees me, there’ll be blood.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘He and Deschamps… those two are like nothing I’ve ever seen... be careful,’ she repeated, ‘please.’

  ‘I hear yo
u.’ Jack’s voice was becoming distant, his eyes watching the men around the pillar with chilling focus. The boat had nosed its way to the tiny wharf tucked behind the Needle. Jack watched carefully as Reynard leapt lithely to the stone steps of the jetty and darted upward.

  ‘Cleo,’ Jack muttered, ‘if something goes wrong…’

  ‘Call the police?’

  ‘I was going to say jump into the Thames and hold your breath, but calling the police might help too.’ He tried to smile reassuringly, but it did little to break the seriousness of his face. He slipped Andrew’s card from his pocket and passed it across to her. ‘If anything goes wrong, then call this guy, Andrew. David trusted him.’ He slipped the Beretta from the small of his back and gripped it carefully, then waggled his jaw back into place. The police would be there in the next few minutes, whether he was identified on the cameras or not.

  The engine of the bulldozer reached a fever pitch and suddenly there was a crack of granite. Jack watched with eagle eyes. The machine had lumbered forward and collided with the front of the pedestal, cracking it cleanly in half. The engine was immediately cut off and shouts of recrimination filled the air. Workers looked inward and began yelling loudly at one another. ‘What are they doing?’ Cleo whispered.

  ‘Making it look like an accident,’ Jack smiled. ‘They’re pulling this thing off in broad daylight. Perfect. Hold this for a second.’ He thrust the Beretta into her hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Cleo muttered.

  ‘This…’ Jack declared, fishing into his boot and pulling out the little piece of Lego. ‘That thing’s been pissing me off for the last hour,’ Jack flicked it into the Thames with a grimace. ‘If I’m going into a combat situation, I’m not doing it with Lego stuck in my heel.’ He took the Beretta back and slowly eased off the safety catch.

  ‘Right.’ Jack took a deep breath, ‘Get ready to run for the boat and wish me luck.’

  Their options had run out. What mattered now was getting the next clue before Reynard vanished across the river as quickly as he had arrived. Face tense with concentration, Jack slid forward like a shark, the gun low and steady in one hand. The workmen were distracted, each of them staring inward where the collision had occurred, leaving Jack to slip inside the temporary fencing before anyone noticed his approach. Without breaking step, Jack swung the Beretta like a cosh, knocking the nearest man senseless in an instant. A second turned toward him and was greeted with Jack’s knee launching unstoppably into his belly. Winded, the man folded over onto himself in gasping agony and Jack clubbed him downward with a single blow to the back of the head. The man dropped like a stone. Jack snaked forward, the bronze haunch of a Sphinx covering his right as the next man turned toward him. Jack thrust the pistol into the man’s face as a warning. The guard desperately flinched his head away from the lethal muzzle of the weapon, allowing Jack the time to follow it up with a swift punch to the man’s chin. The man collapsed in a heap against the side of the Sphinx. Less than five seconds had passed since Jack had stepped from Cleo’s side.

  He continued forward, shifting into a combat stance with the pistol held low and steady to his front. Shouts of alarm from other workmen washed through the air around him, a meaningless distraction as he stepped toward the base of the obelisk. There was a gap two metres square between the diesel engine and the pedestal and Jack could see a hole had been punched into the granite frontispiece. A slender, carefully dressed man was hauling a wooden chest from the chamber that had been revealed by the bulldozer’s attack.

  Jack stepped forward without hesitation. The noise of the bulldozer to his left was overwhelming.

  ‘Reynard.’ Jack shouted the name urgently. The Frenchman looked up and his eyes narrowed as they confronted Jack’s gun.

  ‘Starling.’ Reynard hissed.

  ‘Put the box down, now,’ Jack ordered. The Frenchman hesitated and Jack’s trigger finger tightened minutely.

  ‘You are more active than your brother, Mr Starling.’ Reynard responded in venomous tones, his accent slithering across the English words like a hungry snake. ‘But more foolish.’ A smile crept across his face. ‘You have no exit,’ he declared smugly.

  Jack frowned, sensing that one of Reynard’s henchmen was behind him. A pistol barrel was jabbed savagely into his ribs. There was a sullen roar as the bulldozer to Jack’s left rumbled forward half a foot. ‘A tragic accident,’ Reynard shouted mockingly over the roar of the engine. ‘Goodbye, Jack Starling!’ The blade of the bulldozer was a full six foot high, quivering with the engine’s power and Jack suddenly realised they intended to grind him up against the base of the monument.

  Reynard’s eyes glittered with anticipation, then opened wide in surprise. Without thinking, Jack shoved back and to the side, the barrel of the pistol slipping past his ribs as the guard fell to the ground. Jack glanced back to see Cleo holding a crowbar like a truncheon, her eyes wild.

  ‘Look out!’ she shouted and Jack turned back to see a pistol had appeared in Reynard’s hands. Jack lunged forward, knocking the pistol up and to the side as it went off. The bullet ricocheted off the steel bulldozer blade, off the granite slab and then vanished overhead. There was a high-pitched scream and then the bulldozer lurched forward. Jack lunged for the wooden box, snatching it from Reynard and leaping backward, the bulldozer grinding into the side of the pedestal an instant later. The bulldozer’s engine revved angrily as the blade bit into the base of the Obelisk and Jack looked up to see one of Reynard’s henchmen lolling over the steering wheel, a red patch spreading across his chest. Jack realised Reynard’s ricocheting bullet had found a mark. There were shouts of anger and outrage from the other side of the bulldozer and Jack lugged his prize away one-handed, scooping Cleo up with his free arm and tearing down the steps of the monument toward the waters of the Thames. ‘This way,’ he shouted. A pistol shot rang out and Jack felt the wooden trunk jar in his hand. He spun round, dropping to one knee and fired two quick shots from the Beretta that bit chips of granite from the pedestal and forced the furious Reynard back under cover. Picking up the trunk again, he turned and ran down the steps toward the waiting speedboat. The speedboat driver stood in the cockpit with both hands in the air, flinching backward as Cleo swung the crowbar near his head.

  ‘Get out,’ Cleo shouted. The man turned and leapt blindly into the waters of the Thames without hesitation. Jack followed her as they dove into the boat, Cleo quickly grabbing the throttle and throwing the idling speedboat into reverse. Reynard appeared over the edge of the embankment and Jack fired another pair of quick shots, cursing as the water disturbed his aim.

  More of Reynard’s helpers appeared, firing short range pistols at the boat in a hail of gunfire. Cleo revved the engine expertly, wheeling the speedboat around toward the open expanse of the river. Jack ducked to one side as a bullet hit the side of the boat, his attempt to return fire frustrated as the dry click of the Beretta revealed an empty magazine. Any further shooting was disrupted by a rumbling roar as the out-of-control bulldozer ground away the last struts of the granite pedestal. With a terrible majesty, the towering obelisk leaned further and further over the Thames. A moment later gravity gathered the column of rock into its arms and pulled it crashing downward into the river. The speedboat raced forward at full throttle, barely clearing the falling colossus before rocketing away beneath the plume of water smashed out of the Thames by the obelisk’s descent. Drenching water hit the boat, obscuring them from Reynard’s pistol fire. A moment later Jack and Cleo were out of range, the boat racing powerfully through the water of the Thames. A last few bullets impacting uselessly in their wake as the speedboat carried them to safety under the arches of Waterloo Bridge.

  Less than sixty seconds had passed since Jack had stepped from Cleo’s side.

  1205 hrs 16 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  Silence reigned in the COBRA control room. Monitors played and replayed the CCTV footage of the towering Egyptian o
belisk collapsing into the river. Brice stood at the head of the conference table like a statue, his face open-mouthed and blanched white, hands pressed against the side of his head.

  ‘Sir,’ Highgrove’s voice was soft. ‘Your orders, sir?’

  The radio on the table crackled with shouts of alarm and confusion.

  Brice stared at the monitor blankly.

  ‘Sir?’ Highgrove’s eyes were wide with alarm. ‘Should we send in the SOG?’

  ‘Brice!’ Sir Johnathon shouted out the name like a gunshot and slammed his hand on the table. Brice jumped visibly, snapping back into focus.

  ‘Send in the police!’ Brice stammered, a flush of red rising up his cheeks like a crimson tide. ‘Send in the police, send in the SOG, send in everything!’ His voice was close to hysterical. ‘What the hell just happened?’

  ‘Sir, we’ve picked up the targets.’ Highgrove ignored the question, her voice coolly professional. ‘They’re in a speedboat heading east.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Brice stumbled forward, hands wringing uselessly. ‘Track them down, now, take them down!’

  ‘What about the men shooting at them?’ Sir Johnathon’s voice was urgent.

  ‘Forget them!’ Brice screeched, rounding on Sir Johnathon. ‘The SOG will sort them out. I want Starling and the woman. They know what’s going on, they’re the Russian spies! Get the Water Police on them now.’

  ‘Contacting the MPU now, sir.’ Highgrove obeyed. ‘Starling’s boat is on screen, camera from Blackfriars Bridge.’

  The screens threw up an image of the River Thames, focusing on a sleek speedboat racing eastward, Jack and Cleo both clearly visible.

  ‘I want them,’ Brice shouted, pointing at the screen with rage. ‘I want them now!’

  ‘We’ve got them, Mr Brice.’ Highgrove’s voice was calm. ‘Air Wing and the MPU are both on a course to intercept. They can’t hide this time.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Brice shouted, spinning around and pointing a thick finger at Sir Johnathon. ‘This is your fault,’ he snapped. ‘Those two are going to be picked up right now and I’ll show you how to run a Situation Room.’