Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘Should we go back?’ She looked at him with wide eyes. ‘Will they be ok?’

  A fine time to ask, now we’re out of the battle-space. Jack thought to himself. He did not give Sir Johnathon or Dusty better than even odds – even if they were tough old fighters. That last handful of opponents had a smell of serious experience about them. Quelling his concerns he tried to sound confident.

  ‘They’ll be fine.’ He put a grin onto his face that he did not feel. ‘Sir Johnathon’s the best man in a tight spot and Dusty is clearly no pushover either. You heard what Sir Johnathon said. Getting out of here and stopping Deschamps is the main objective.’ He could see the words had some positive effect.

  ‘Well then, come on!’ Her white teeth were visible as she smiled a broad, terrified smile. ‘It’s official - we’re on a mission now!’ She vanished into the passenger seat in one smooth motion. Jack took one last look around the street then folded himself into the driver’s seat, passing the rifle to Cleo and buckling his seatbelt as she tucked the weapon out of sight behind the blankets in the back. She grinned at him in excitement. ‘Not bad for two people on the run from the law.’

  ‘It’s a problem though.’ Jack gave her a serious look as he slipped the key into the ignition. ‘Sir Johnathon was operating on his own, which means we are still on the run. We need to get out of here as soon as possible and figure out the next step.’ Frowning at the situation he turned the ignition.

  There was a muffled detonation and a gas bomb under Jack’s seat blasted into effect, flooding the cabin with a choking white mist. Jack clamped his mouth shut but it was too late, the fumes already licking at his lungs with burning pain. He could hear Cleo gasping and coughing at his side. It was tear gas, Jack realised, a whole canister at least. If they did not get out it could asphyxiate them both. Eyes streaming with agony, Jack popped his seatbelt and rolled out of the car, collapsing onto the road in a heap and desperately sucking fresh air from the roadway. Lungs on fire, he staggered to his feet in an effort to circle the car and drag Cleo clear of the noxious fumes. There was a footstep by his side and suddenly his world exploded into blackness.

  Jack fell senseless to the ground. A gas-masked figure looked down at him in anonymous contempt, tucking a fat cosh back into his overcoat and ignoring the streams of gas dispersing into the air from the opened car door. There was a smash of breaking glass on the other side of the car as two men, gasmasks in place, wrenched the passenger door open and dragged a weakly struggling Cleo from her seat. The fresh air gave Cleo an unexpected reserve of strength and she struggled valiantly, one hand raking harmlessly across a masked face. A heavy slap across her face knocked her back against the car and she slipped numbly to the ground. Her arms were pinioned and she was thrown into the back of a waiting truck. The figure in the overcoat kicked the car door shut, trapping the fumes inside, then dragged his gas mask off in one elegant motion. Jack Starling lay senseless at his feet.

  Reynard smiled with contempt as he looked down at his prize. Never had a kidnapping been so perfectly executed. The call from the Termite had given him plenty of time to arrive at Freemasons’ Hall before Jack and Cleo had arrived and set the trap in their car after they entered the building. He paused for a moment, face warm with self-congratulation, before he delivered a heavy kick deep into Jack’s midriff. The soldier groaned horribly, but remained senseless as he was dragged away and tossed into the back of the truck alongside Cleo. The French assassin plucked a small radio from his pocket and turned to look at the mysterious bulk of the masonic building.

  ‘All forces withdraw and disperse.’ His languid voice flashed through the airways, instantly ending the assault within the building. It did not really matter if the gang-land mercenaries died in the attack, or were captured by the British authorities in the days to come. They had flushed Jack from the building and their purpose had now been served. Reynard dismissed them from his mind and pulled himself up into the cabin of the truck. The driver sat nervously, looking at him for instructions. Pleased at the deference, Deschamps nodded grandly and slapped the dashboard. ‘Good. Let’s go. Next stop, Paris.’

  0015 hrs 17 June 2015, Freemasons’ Hall, London.

  GR 51.514983, -0.121556

  Sir Johnathon pushed the side door open with a bang and staggered out into the cool night air. Dusty was clinging to his arm and both old men were struggling under the weight of their heavy machine guns. The stink of cordite and gunpowder flowed from the pair. A dark red stain had spread down Dusty’s clothes from his wounded neck and a number of bullet holes had pierced the jacket of Sir Johnathon’s dark suit. At least four men had been left dead in their wake, lifeless bodies slowly cooling in the corridors and corners of the masonic building. Gasping for breath, the two of them reeled down the narrow causeway like drunken revellers, clutching one another to stay upright.

  ‘What do we do?’ Dusty coughed the question angrily, disregarding the blood that bubbled from his mouth as he spoke.

  ‘Get you to a hospital,’ Sir Johnathon declared shortly, his eyes scanning every inch of the dark alleyway for potential traps or ambushes. The scale of the gunfight in the Masonic Temple had left it clear that Deschamps was prepared to go to any length to secure his goals. His eyes fell onto a car sitting innocently in a darkened patch of the roadway, narrowing slightly as he saw one window on the passenger side had been shattered. His nose caught the caustic smell of tear gas drifting from the vehicle.

  A sound of approaching sirens began to fill the air and Sir Johnathon sighed in relief. With quick medical attention there was a very good chance that Dusty would still be alive in the morning, despite his formidable neck wound.

  ‘Forget me,’ Dusty spat. ‘What about the wee boy and his lass?’

  ‘I intend to forget you the moment I can,’ Sir Johnathon pulled the weakening older man toward the bright lights of Great Queen Street, ‘and taking care of Jack and the girl is next on my list.’

  Dusty grunted in reply and Sir Johnathon concentrated on pulling his wounded comrade toward the front entrance of the Masonic Temple. While his body struggled with Dusty’s weight, Sir Johnathon’s mind was a whirling orrery of priorities and intrigues. The amount of blood Dusty had lost was just one part of the civil servant’s calculations, along with the lives of Jack and Cleo, the scent of teargas by the ruined car, the location of the gold and the uses of Anthony Brice in COBRA. Above all, however, Sir Johnathon was thinking about time. He had no concern about dropping Dusty off with the approaching authorities and vanishing back into the night. His greatest concern was finding a discrete telephone somewhere in the city. The Kremlin was waiting… Serge had to make a call.

  0115 hrs 17 June COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  ‘Things are moving beyond our control.’

  The Naval Commodore leaned gently across the table and murmured the words toward Highgrove’s ear.

  ‘Pardon, Sir?’ Highgrove looked across at him distractedly. An hour had passed since her confrontation with Brice and she was still fuming that he had done nothing to admit she had been right about Freemasons’ Hall.

  The authorities had carried the bodies of a number of heavily armed men from the building, found an apparently confused old man with a bullet wound in the neck wondering through the streets nearby and identified Andrew Freeman’s car in the street behind Freemasons’ Hall. Forensic investigators were now combing through the building and trying to figure out why Freeman’s car was laced with teargas. The whole situation was a mess, but at least COBRA had managed to keep it under wraps, unlike the arrest of the celebrity on the M4.

  The Commodore looked at Highgrove mournfully. ‘David Starling, then his brother, the incident at Cleopatra’s Needle… Sir Johnathon vanishing…’ A line of trouble furrowed its way down the Commodore’s forehead to land heavily on his eyebrows. ‘Is it Brice? Is he trying to sabotage COBRA?’

  Highgrove blinked in surprise, shocked at being taken into th
e confidence of the Secret Services veteran. She looked across the room to where Brice was leaning over an analyst’s shoulder to review the latest information from the security teams at Freemasons’ Hall. ‘Mr Brice was sent here directly from the Prime Minister’s Office.’ Highgrove cautioned the Commodore. ‘He might be a bastard, but he’s trying to fix this just like the rest of us.’

  ‘Certainly, thanks to you and Brice, Johnathon Fairchild and Andrew Freeman have been identified as traitors to Great Britain,’ the Commodore conceded, ‘but be careful. Brice won’t want anyone sharing his lime light.’ He brushed a tired hand across his face as he stared at her mournfully. ‘But you can’t let him take all the credit.’

  ‘I’m here for Britain,’ Highgrove protested at last, riled up by the hint of defeat in the old warhorse’s voice. ‘Personal considerations are secondary. If Sir Johnathon and Andrew Freeman are traitors then we need to find out what they know and who they are working for – no matter how bad it might be.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Commodore nodded musingly. ‘For you, perhaps, that is the right course. Cut away the deadwood no matter what the cost. Purely professional and utterly commendable…’ He leaned forward to pin her with his eyes. ‘But when you are a little older, perhaps you’ll realise that personal considerations are never secondary. In a place like this…’ his hooded eyes shifted across to watch Brice ‘…personal is sometimes the priority.’

  The two of them shared a moment of silence, watching Brice issue a terse order.

  ‘Have you considered, Ms Highgrove,’ the older man’s voice was barely a whisper, ‘that perhaps Brice can’t win, no matter how hard he tries. He’s been set up to fail.’

  He leaned across the table and stared at Highgrove, his tired eyes sending a thrill of fear deep into her heart. ‘If Johnathon Fairchild is a traitor…’ the Commodore breathed, ‘then this entire office has been compromised.’

  1200 hrs (1100 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Unknown Location.

  Jack dragged his way into an aching consciousness. A great pain was emanating from the back of his head and his eyes felt heavy and abused. Muscles protested as he slowly shifted his head around. After a moment’s disorientation, Jack realised he was tied to a heavy wooden chair in a pleasant, wood-panelled library. Bright windows were stretched along one wall, allowing in a pleasing summer light dappled by the trees outside. The room spoke of elegance and power, with leather-bound books in glass-fronted cases and a long conference table in the centre of the room. Cleo sat in a chair nearby, tied into place as securely as Jack himself. The floors were carefully laid parquetry, polished to a brilliant shine. Bird calls floated in from an open window. A clock on a mantelpiece chimed twelve o’clock.

  There was a dull moan nearby and Cleo slowly raised her head. She looked around groggily and her eyes widened in fear as she took in the wood panelled chamber.

  ‘This is bad,’ Cleo spoke thickly, shaking her head as she tried to clear her thoughts.

  What do you mean?’ Jack spoke slowly, his throat parched. ‘Do you know where we are?’

  ‘I know exactly where we are.’ Cleo’s voice was unexpectedly timid. A strange fear seemed to be settling upon her. ‘We’re in the library of the Chateau de Mont du Richelieu, in the Loire Valley. This is Deschamps’ country retreat.’ She swallowed nervously.

  ‘A library in a country retreat…’ Jack looked around. ‘That can’t be too bad, right?’ He was unnerved by the dread growing on Cleo’s face. She cast him a quick look, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘This is where he kills people,’ she whispered, ‘in this very room.’ Jack frowned. The room was rich and opulent, with nothing to indicate violence of any kind. Looking closely at the floor, however, he realised that the wooden floorboards were marred here and there by broad dark stains, while the smell of polish rising from the floor was nearly overpowering. Blood stains, Jack realised, with fresh polish on top. He could feel a whisper of panic slide nervously through his stomach. We have to get out of here.

  He tensed himself, straining against the ropes holding him to the chair. It was useless.

  ‘No good.’ Jack gave up the struggle. ‘What about at your end?’

  Cleo strained furiously at her bindings but got nowhere.

  ‘Same here,’ her voice was low and dejected. ‘We’re stuck.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Jack looked around the room carefully, desperate to find some form of inspiration to escape, but his gaze kept returning to the dark stains beneath the polish of the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cleo spoke eventually.

  Jack was surprised by the dejected tone of her voice. ‘What for?’

  ‘For getting you involved in this.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Jack protested. ‘It was David, not you.’

  ‘But without me you wouldn’t have kept looking for the clues.’

  ‘Ha,’ Jack smiled, ‘don’t overestimate your influence Cleo. I would have kept looking eventually. The Starlings are a stubborn bunch.’

  ‘Oh, maybe,’ Cleo sighed. Jack could see she was putting on a brave face. ‘But without me, would you have found anything?’

  Jack laughed. ‘Probably not. Which means Deschamps would have been able to find the gold at his leisure.’

  ‘Well,’ Cleo’s voice was suddenly small, ‘it looks like that might be the case already.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Hardly. There’s a long way to go yet.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘We’re still breathing.’ Jack was honest. ‘Which means Deschamps wants us alive. Which means we have a chance.’

  ‘What about the tablet?’

  ‘The tablet? No idea.’ Jack shook his head. ‘But if they have us, they have that too. So once we’re out of here, we’ll have to take it with us.’

  Cleo’s reply was interrupted as a door on the far side of the room opened and a tall, angular figure walked through. Cleo stifled a sob of panic as he approached. The man was dressed in a fashionable cotton suit, tan, with patent leather Italian loafers. The blue of his silk tie and handkerchief matched his eyes, which stared at Jack with a startling intensity. He seemed about 50 years old, red hair thinning against pale white skin, but he carried an aura of violent power that belied the civilised veneer. Ancient acne scars had left his cheeks and jawline pitted and corroded, while an old knife would ran down one side of his face in a thin red line, barely noticeable except when the light fell upon it a certain way. The man rested one hip against the heavy wooden table and crossed his arms in an attitude of gentle anticipation. A number of heavy gold rings sat gleaming dully upon scarred-knuckled fingers – enough to bring an element of street-side brutality to his urbane dress and elegant poise. Jack noticed with distaste that his fingernails were bitten down to the quick, each fingertip a shredded, peeling stump of chewed and worried flesh. Reynard followed behind the man, passing behind Jack’s chair and banging something heavy into the back of Jack’s head as he passed. Reynard put the golden tablet onto the table and then stepped back against the wall.

  ‘Good morning Mr Starling, and Miss Cleo,’ the suited man’s French accent was beguiling. ‘I hope you have rested from the journey.’

  ‘Deschamps.’ Jack let the word fall dismissively from his lips.

  The Frenchman nodded. ‘Congratulations, Mr Starling. Welcome to my country chateau. I thought I would bring you here for some added privacy. Paris is so busy this time of year.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Jack muttered, glaring at him.

  ‘Mr Starling,’ Deschamps ignored the comment. ‘You know, it has been a singular pleasure watching you at work over the last few days.’

  ‘Call me Jack,’ Starling grunted sourly.

  ‘Jack,’ Deschamps said his name slowly, ‘and Cleo, of course.’ He turned to look down at her as well. ‘It is a delight to see you again as well. Such a beautiful, formidable body.’ He reached out a hand and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear with an air of ownership. Jack felt a dull surg
e of anger rise up against the Frenchman. ‘After you vanished from my city apartments I feared that I would never see you again.’ Cleo had gone very still, staring across the room without acknowledging the touch.

  ‘How things change.’ Deschamps sighed. There was a long moment of silence around the group.

  Deschamps shifted his weight upon the table, then moved one hand to gently pat the tablet. There was a little clinking noise as one of his gold rings tapped its surface.

  ‘So it comes back to the gold… my gold… my birthright.’ Deschamps sighed. ‘Do you know how this all began?’ He paused, waiting for a reply.

  ‘I found mention of it in the diary of my ancestor…’ Deschamps was unperturbed by their silence, ‘a captain under Napoleon himself, a man who served his master without question, who wrote down the story of the gold that Napoleon had hidden away.’ Deschamps shrugged. ‘I am a greedy man,’ he admitted freely, ‘so the words of my ancestor triggered my own search. I could find rumours of the gold in the records of the Grande Armée – but nothing more than rumours. Nothing about where it had been hidden, or if it had been used.’ He tapped the golden tablet once more. ‘And so imagine my surprise when I find a British academic was also chasing after the gold – an academic who worked for the British Secret Service.’ He drew a contented sigh. ‘How much easier to let David Starling search for the gold on my behalf, as he did so well.’ Jack looked away in anger at the sound of his brother’s name. ‘David even sent Cleo here to investigate me, to find out what I had discovered, even as I was watching him!’ Deschamps let out a mocking laugh.

  ‘Once I knew he had discovered the clues leading to the gold, then I sent Reynard here to relieve him of that information… except your brother died rather than tell me what he knew.’ Deschamps gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘But then you arrived,’ he leaned forward and patted Jack on the shoulder. ‘Unexpected, uncalled for and utterly unknowing… and yet within hours you were on the scent, chasing the gold from here to there no matter what. I was able to sit back and watch as you and Reynard competed with one another to find the next step, the next clue…’ he laughed again. ‘Why, we still don’t know the meaning of the third clue, but since we know you have found it, what does it matter?’