Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘There’s another sign,’ Cleo whispered. ‘This way.’

  They eased open a pair of heavy doors and slipped inside. Jack swallowed dryly as he inspected the space before him. They were at the entrance to a grand hall of impressive size that was filled with tiers of dark blue seats that vanished upward into impenetrable gloom. Jack was silent for a moment, feeling a little like a lost child that had unexpectedly arrived in Narnia.

  ‘The Grand Temple?’ Cleo whispered the question, not wanting to disturb the watchful peace that lingered over the room.

  ‘It must be…’ Jack nodded in agreement. ‘A room this size… it must take up half the building or more.’ He paused for a moment, arching his head to look at the ornate art deco mosaic that was dimly visible on the roof overhead. Lowering his eyes, Jack saw a great throne on a raised dais at the far end of the room.

  ‘Over there,’ he whispered, leading the way forward across a great swathe of softly carpeted blue floor. A few moments later they had reached the steps before the dais, pausing for a moment to look up at the scene before them. A single light far overhead shone directly onto the grand chair, highlighting the craftsmanship of the ornate, gilded throne. Two smaller seats were on either side, while in front of the three chairs was a small altar, squat and square, almost like a golden drinks cabinet.

  ‘That highest temple and its eastward throne,’ Jack looked carefully at the golden chair. ‘That’s got to be it.’

  ‘I think so,’ Cleo nodded. ‘Just be careful.’

  Jack ran his hands over the squat golden frame. A small drawer at its rear swung open to reveal a well-thumbed copy of the King James Bible. Cleo clicked her teeth in frustration. Jack probed the recess carefully with his fingers, gently testing each part of it for any hidden switches or panels that might slide back and reveal a secret. After a few moments he gently tested the top, a smooth square of polished black glass. It remained immobile, but something told Jack to lift it upward.

  ‘It’s a lid… like a capstone,’ Jack whispered. He could sense Cleo to one side, watching in excited silence. He cautiously gripped both sides of the altar’s top and tested it gently. The heavy capstone remained in place. Taking a deep breath, Jack heaved upward, straining mightily against the heavy frame. The muscles in his arms and back protested at the challenge but he persevered, lifting the altar upward and sliding it to one side. Teeth gritted, he lowered it gently to the carpeted floor, careful not to let it slip from his grasp.

  ‘That thing must be solid lead… or gold,’ he muttered, wiping the back of one hand against his lips.

  ‘Jack…’ Cleo whispered, her voice strange. Jack turned around, to see Cleo peering into the alcove he had uncovered. A small space was revealed, a recessed hollow lined with blue velvet like the inside of a jeweller’s box. A square golden tablet nestled in the centre of the cloth, covered with carved squares and circles. Holding his breath, Jack reached out and took the artefact from its resting place.

  ‘It’s heavy,’ Jack whispered, holding the golden rectangle with both hands.

  Cleo gently ran a finger across its surface in awe. ‘It’s like a keyboard,’ she muttered in surprise. Jack leaned close. The surface of the square was covered with circles, each one containing a letter or a number. Apart from its golden hue, the panel was uncannily similar to the keyboard of an ancient typewriter. There were the slightest of clicks as the keys shifted slightly beneath her touch.

  ‘It’s old,’ Cleo whispered.

  ‘A hundred years old, maybe.’ Jack shook his head in amazement. ‘This must be it.’

  He grinned at Cleo, thrilled with a sense of discovery. He turned the tablet over, struggling to imagine the craftsmanship that could have created such a device more than a century before.

  ‘There’s writing on the back.’ Cleo declared in surprise, leaning forward to read the barely legible words inscribed into the broad golden tablet.

  ‘With London’s passkeys in your hand

  Apply them to this golden stand

  Bow before his failing power

  Seek guidance from the only tower

  And by this sacred earthly space

  Will be the golden resting place’

  Cleo sighed. ‘Another chase.’ She looked at him in frustration.

  ‘Another test.’ Jack smiled. ‘We’re on the right track! We’ve left Deschamps in the dust – there’s no way he’ll get his hands on this.’

  ‘Look at the words,’ Cleo’s brow furrowed with concentration. ‘With London’s passkeys in your hand, Apply them to this golden stand. The passkeys must be those codes and letters. Look,’ she turned the golden artefact over in his hands, showing the strangely marked keyboard. Jack ran his fingers across the lines and could feel each symbol give slightly under the pressure of his fingertips.

  ‘It’s like an Enigma Machine,’ Jack couldn’t help the amazed glee in his voice.’

  ‘A what?’

  Jack grinned, amazed by the artistry of the device. ‘An Enigma Machine,’ he explained, ‘used by the Germans in World War Two. They were a sort of encryption machine – a keyboard and set of adjustable gears.… You altered the gears to the setting you wanted and then entered your message into the machine – it would encode the message and each digit you entered altered all the gears, which made the next part of the code essentially random. To decode the message you needed to know the original setting of the gears. The Nazis used the Enigma Machines to send messages all across Europe and the Atlantic – if you didn’t have the code, then the message was unbreakable.’

  ‘So this was built during World War 2?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. It looks older. Perhaps it was built in the 1920s, after Conan Doyle had written the Adventure of the Creeping Man.’

  ‘Or before,’ Cleo pointed out. ‘Conan Doyle could have written the dates to match the code already put into the machine.’

  ‘But how would he have known what to write?’ Jack looked at her in confusion.

  ‘He must have written the clues to fit the code, not the other way around,’ Cleo suggested.

  Jack turned the device over once more. ‘There, on the base,’ he pointed, ‘there’s an inscription.’

  ‘Manufactured by Babbage and Brunel, 1850.’ Cleo read the tiny golden letters carefully.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Incredible. It’s 165 years old.’ He looked at the names blankly. ‘Babbage and Brunel… do those names ring any bells?’

  ‘None,’ Cleo shook her head, ‘engineers or inventors, I suppose. Maybe Freemasons. Whoever they were, they were smart enough to build this.’ Her fingers brushed the golden tablet tenderly.

  Jack marvelled for a moment as he made sense of it all. ‘The men who hid these secrets around London were keeping them hidden in plain sight. Why would they turn to a book for the final clue?’

  ‘Doyle must have written his story specifically with these clues in mind. David must have figured it out as well and left us the clues to follow in his footsteps.’

  ‘Really,’ Cleo took a deep sigh, ‘Wellington… Conan Doyle… Babbage and Brunel… your own brother… I’m beginning to wonder how the British Empire managed to last as long as long as it did when its leaders were playing silly buggers like this.’

  ‘Hey,’ Jack smiled, ‘they kept the secret for two hundred years. I think we have to give them some credit.’

  Cleo bowed her head slightly to acknowledge the point. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Ok.’ Jack concentrated for a moment. ‘With London’s passkeys in your hand, Apply them to this golden stand. I think that means we enter the numbers into the device. If it is an Enigma Machine, then it’ll give us the clues to the next step of the puzzle.’

  Cleo nodded. ‘Well, let’s get to Andrew’s place and figure this out. Do you want to carry that thing or shall I?’

  Jack grinned and tucked the heavy golden tablet into Andrew’s carryall. ‘I’ll be fine. Let’s go.’

  There w
as a sudden slamming noise as the far door swung shut. Jack and Cleo stared up into the gloom, ears straining, intently aware that the light shining overhead left their eyes nearly useless for seeing into the darkness beyond the podium.

  The distinctive snick-snick of a rifle being cocked drifted through the air. Jack swallowed. The hackles on the back of his neck raised upward in suspense.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ a cultured voice drifted mockingly through the darkness. ‘You have come a long way.’

  0000 hrs 17 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  Andrew slipped into the darkness of his open-plan office with relief, shutting the door to the main corridor of COBRA and leaning against it with a whispered prayer of thanks. His heart was racing from the unaccustomed stress and his tube trip from Holborn Station to Westminster had left him feeling panicky and exposed, certain that his duplicity would be revealed at any moment. At this hour of the night, the lights of his underground office were switched off and he fumbled his way to his desk via the greenish light of a distant exit sign and the glowing red dots of inactive computer monitors. Andrew collapsed into his chair with a sigh and rubbed his fingers across his eyes. The coldness of his fingertips gave some relief to his tired eyes. The last two days had been too much – he liked both Jack and Cleo, but could not see how their quest could end in anything but arrest and jail – to say nothing of the consequences that Andrew would face, if the full extent of his involvement became known.

  ‘Oh, David,’ Andrew sighed, head in his hands, ‘What have you done?’

  There was a sudden click as a desk light switched on in Andrew’s face, blinding him instantly. Andrew’s heart jumped into his mouth and he screamed, hands groping helplessly in surprise.

  Michelle Highgrove was resting against the desk, as still and silent as a statue in a graveyard.

  ‘Earlier this evening you received a telephone call from your mother, informing you that your father was in hospital.’ Highgrove’s voice was like steel. ‘Which is strange, as the Passport Office tells me that your mother is currently on holiday in Jamaica, and your father is already in an aged care facility in Essex.’

  Andrew’s mouth opened and shut uselessly, a rictus of terror holding his mind immobile.

  Highgrove leaned forward, eyes trapping Andrew where he sat. ‘What is more strange is that the telephone call from your mother came from an apartment in the Shard building, less than 200 yards from where two fugitives vanished this afternoon.’

  Highgrove’s eyes remained stony. ‘It’s my job to review all calls in and out of COBRA, Andrew. Since when did your mother speak with a New Zealand accent?’

  A tiny murmur of fear escaped Andrew’s mouth as he saw the Walther P99 pointing at him from one manicured hand.

  Highgrove narrowed her eyes and leaned forward like a cold and hungry reptile.

  ‘Andrew,’ she spoke softly. ‘Tell me everything.’

  0005 hrs 17 June 2015, Freemasons’ Hall, London.

  GR 51.514983, -0.121556

  ‘Sir Johnathon.’ Jack spoke the name with tired contempt. A figure emerged from the shadows, walking slowly down the length of the hall toward them.

  ‘Good evening, Jack.’ Fairchild’s voice was cordial, but filled with the certainty of control. ‘You have done well. Now put the tablet on the ground, carefully.’

  Jack tensed.

  ‘I have marksmen with me, Jack.’ Sir Johnathon warned. ‘Stay exactly where you are. Being shot would be a sad end to the chase.’ He skirted the side of the chequered floor and looked up at them from the base of the podium.

  ‘Now,’ Sir Johnathon pulled a snub-nosed handgun from his tailored pocket and pointed at them. ‘I think it is very much time for us to have a little chat.’ Cleo gasped at the menace conveyed by the simple gesture. Jack swallowed, trying to ignore the Walther-PPK that Sir Johnathon had revealed. It was the same brand of pistol that Hitler used to kill himself and that James Bond had made famous. Small and reliable, it would be lethal at this range.

  ‘If you’re going to shoot us, do it,’ Jack snarled.

  ‘I told you, Jack, I want to talk, not shoot. Now both of you, sit, please.’ He gestured to the ornate throne behind them. ‘In there.’

  Eyes blazing, Jack and Cleo sat back into the voluminous seat. Despite its size, the seat was a tight fit for the two of them.

  ‘How did you find us?’ Jack asked.

  ‘The brick you exploded in Apsley House last night,’ Sir Johnathon explained. ‘It had a square and compasses carved on its reverse side. It seemed incidental, compared to tracking you down, but a conversation with the Duke of Wellington was most informative nonetheless.’

  ‘Wha…’ Jack opened his mouth in protest.

  ‘The current Duke, Jack, not the one who beat Napoleon.’ Sir Johnathon clarified. ‘He was reluctant to discuss what had been hidden in his house, but after the destruction of Cleopatra’s Needle this afternoon he realised it was a matter of national security. The square and compasses on the brick you destroyed was proof enough to me that the Freemasons were involved, somehow. The Duke confirmed this and informed me that whatever happened, eventually you would have to come to this building and open that altar. He did not tell me what the secret was, but he told me that it was kept here in this room – and trusted me to keep that secret safe as well. After you escaped from the River Thames this afternoon, I was certain that you would manage to get here eventually.’ He smiled faintly. ‘And so it proved. It was easier to wait for you here, than to try and find you out there.’

  ‘The Duke knew about the clues?’ Cleo asked curiously. ‘Why didn’t he find the gold himself?’

  ‘He knew of the clue in Apsley House,’ Sir Johnathon explained, ‘and he knew of the four other clues as well, though he didn’t know what secrets they hid. Most importantly, however, he also knew that to decipher those clues you would need to come here. Presumably, the golden tablet we watched you uncover will help reveal the location of the gold.’ He gestured toward the bag Jack had put on the edge of the podium. ‘To think of it… the secret has been hidden in the altar of the Grand Lodge for over 150 years’

  ‘And the Duke just told you?’ Cleo frowned. ‘But how could he trust you?’

  Sir Johnathon looked slightly aggrieved.

  ‘I am a servant of Her Majesty,’ he declared with insurmountable dignity. ‘Those in power know that I am to be trusted. So it was with the Duke. He believed that the clues would lead you here, to Freemasons’ Hall and this is where Dusty and I have been waiting for you to arrive.’

  ‘Dusty?’ Jack frowned.

  ‘You can come forward now, Colonel,’ Sir Johnathon called out to the darkness behind him. There was a shuffling noise as a solitary figured shambled into view. An ancient, weather-beaten man approached the podium, weighed down with rheumy eyes and halting steps. The man carried a hint of the sartorial elegance of Sir Johnathon, but with a rougher edge, like a country gentleman more interested in his garden than his stock portfolio. The rifle pointing at them, however, was chillingly modern – an SA80, the standard weapon of the contemporary British infantry, used in every recent conflict from Northern Ireland to Iraq. Jack had used one himself and was familiar with their strengths and weaknesses. Despite its weight, the weapon was held steady in the hands of its elderly carrier.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Cleo stared at the old man with incredulity. ‘Where did you find him? The Imperial War Museum?’

  The old man altered the angle of the rifle and without aiming fired a single shot into the leg of the chair. Cleo flinched away from the deafening crack of the rifle shot. Jack kept his eyes steady on Sir Johnathon, ignoring the ringing in his ears even as he felt the throne tremble from the impact of the bullet.

  ‘Careful, lass,’ Dusty warned, one jaundiced eye viewing her with considerable distain. ‘I’ve been a crack shot for seventy years – don’t make me lose my touch.’ Cleo remained silent, cowed by the competency of the
elderly marksman. Jack was also impressed – a shot from the hip was always difficult to properly aim. There was clearly more to this old man than met the eye.

  ‘Dusty, that’s enough,’ Sir Johnathon gently reproached the marksman, then turned his gaze back to Jack and Cleo.

  ‘Mark his words,’ Sir Johnathon continued. ‘Colonel Miller marched on Berlin in 1945. He knows his business.’

  ‘So why use him now?’ Jack growled. ‘Surely he should have been pensioned off years ago, good shot or not.’ The old man glared at him but remained silent.

  ‘Because right now, Jack,’ Sir Johnathon’s words were measured, ‘I have been shut out of Whitehall. I am, effectively, operating out of bounds. It is a tedious circumstance, but one which I shall endure for the time being nonetheless.’

  A peal of laugher echoed grimly from Jack’s lips.

  ‘So the mighty Johnathon Fairchild is out in the cold.’ Jack stared at him mockingly. ‘All those years of making difficult decisions, of messy incidents quietly cleaned up and here you are, pulling a gun on me like a third-rate villain. How times change.’

  ‘Times do change,’ Sir Johnathon agreed primly, ‘but that does not mean I will let other people cock things up without a fight. I am not going to fail your brother, your parents, or you by letting this gold fall into the hands of a cheap continental criminal like Deschamps.’

  ‘Oh, so you believe my story after all, do you?’ Jack stared at him angrily, stung by the familial references. ‘You’ve found out about Deschamps and his little stunts? Where were you this afternoon when he was shooting as us or when he was driving a bulldozer through central London?’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ Sir Johnathon looked at him distastefully. Dusty shifted on his feet in the shadows and released a gentle, old man’s burp.

  Sir Johnathon’s eyes were sharp. ‘I have kept an eye on you since your childhood, Jack, as you well know, but that doesn’t mean I will indulge a woe-is-me tantrum from the son of Nigel Starling.’

  Jack looked away in disgust.