Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘There!’ A passenger train thundered through the station to their left without stopping. Even in the depths of the storm they could see the last carriage was different, an old-fashioned, stupendous memento of days gone by.

  ‘That has to be it.’ Jack shouted. Sparky floored the accelerator and the Renault leapt forward after the train. Jack gripped the back of the passenger seat as the truck roared through the car park. A chain-link fence flashed in front of them before it was mown beneath the truck and then the cabin became a bouncing chaos as they raced along a maintenance track alongside the train line. They were already matching the speed of the train.

  Sparky threw a quick look at Jack. ‘Ready?’

  Jack nodded as Sparky threw a switch on the dashboard. The passenger doors slid back and suddenly the storm was inside the cabin with them, wind and rain whipping at Jack’s body as he braced by the open doorway on the side of the van.

  ‘Here we go!’ He could hear Sparky shouting over the maelstrom. Jack looked out to see the last carriage hurtling through the rain like a dark behemoth only feet away from where he stood. Jack threw the beauty of the carriage out of his mind and began scanning it for some sort of entry, careful to maintain his balance on the bucking floor of the Renault. Steel handles jutted out at the front and rear of the carriage, with a footrest below for anyone clambering onto the train from a station platform.

  ‘Go for it, Jack!’ Sparky shouted over the storm, ‘make it count!’

  Jack nodded, flexing his muscle and feeling the weapons hanging close to his body in support. The Renault swerved closer to the train tracks and Jack leaned forward, preparing to launch himself at the steel handles. The van bucked, forcing Jack to grab at the doorway to steady himself. He had to get it right. If he mistimed the jump he could hit the ground, or, worse, fall under the wheels of the carriage and be dashed to nothingness. It was now or never. He let go of the strap in the Renault and leaned forward ready to leap, hands bared for a chance to grab at the rails. A spear of lightning flashed down from overhead, as if striking onto the train itself and Jack felt his ears pop as a terrific blast of thunder crushed down onto his body. He felt the car lurch beneath his feet as if its back were being snapped in two and suddenly he was flying through the air, clutching at nothingness, the rails of the train slipping past as he grasped futilely at the air.

  2215 hrs 17 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  ‘So have you thought about your letter of resignation?’

  Although he asked the question quietly, the Naval Commodore’s tone was laced with contempt. Brice had been sitting silently at the head of the table, shoulders slumped in defeat. The final straw had come at two o’clock that morning; the Grenadier Guardsman sent to watch Sir Johnathon had been discovered in a bar in Piccadilly, gloriously drunk and utterly unable to recall a thing about Sir Johnathon’s escape. Andrew Freeman was still under interrogation, but Brice refused to countenance Andrew’s protestations that the Russians were not involved. The added news that Deschamps had fled Paris before his arrest seemed irrelevant. It was the news of Jack Starling’s escape from the Asterix team that had sucked every inch of energy from the preening staffer. Starling and Fairchild had vanished from the map – no doubt well on their way to Moscow by now. All Brice had been waiting for was his inevitable dismissal once the Prime Minister’s return to Downing Street.

  Yet Brice still jerked his head up, stung by the mockery in the Commodore’s voice. ‘My resignation?’ He hissed, eyes narrowed as he glared across the table. ‘What makes you think my neck’s on the line?’

  ‘The Prime Minister arrives back from Washington at midday.’ The Commodore looked at Brice doubtfully. ‘And you’ve managed to lose a murderer, a traitor and a criminal within three days. Jack Starling and Johnathon Fairchild must be laughing their heads off at what you’ve managed to do.’

  ‘I did not lose any of them.’ Brice’s voice was savage. Attack is the best form of defence, Brice knew. Especially when you’re in trouble! ‘There’s something going on,’ Brice continued vehemently, ‘don’t try and pin any of it on me, Commodore. I’ll drag you down with me if I need to, you know I will.’

  ‘No can do,’ the Commodore eyed Brice scornfully. ‘I’m military, COBRA’s civilian – trying to pin this on me will get you nowhere.’

  ‘So what do I do?’ Brice’s frustration collapsed into a self-pitying sob. ‘We’re screwed… everything has gone wrong since the moment David Starling ended up dead.’

  ‘Mr Brice,’ the Commodore’s voice suddenly changed into one of fatherly encouragement. ‘Look where you are… You’re in command of COBRA – the highest office of national security in the land. The Prime Minister is in the air over the Atlantic, depending on you to resolve the issue of David Starling as soon as possible. Russia is posed to invade Latvia and Estonia and yet you were able to identify Johnathon Fairchild as a Russian traitor. Who else could have done that?’ The Commodore leaned forward. ‘You know this Pierre Deschamps is involved as well, somehow, and you know Jack Starling is at loose in Paris – which means Fairchild might still be here on British territory. Which means we can act! Look at where you are. COBRA. Whitehall. Minutes from Downing Street, from Buckingham Palace, from Trafalgar Square. The centre of British power, of British history. This island has seen off more threats from Europe than you or I have had hot breakfasts.’ Brice’s back began straightening as the Commodore’s voice rang with steel. ‘The Spanish, the French, the Germans… and now the Russians? Do you think we’ll get beaten by Vladimir Putin’s games? Do you think that you’ll let that happen?’ The Commodore’s eyes blazed.

  ‘You have all of COBRA at your command,’ he growled. ‘Mi5, Mi6, the army, the navy, even the darned coastguard at Penzance. Use it. Find Jack Starling and bring this sorry mess into the light.’

  Brice pulled himself upright and looked at the Commodore with fresh eyes.

  ‘You’re right,’ he declared wonderingly. ‘I can do this.’ He looked down at the iPad and thumbed it on decisively. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this no matter what… Johnathon Fairchild will rue the day he betrayed Great Britain!’

  ‘Good, lad, good,’ the Commodore urged him onward, ‘make Churchill proud.’

  Brice nodded, squared his shoulders and marched toward the monitors at the far end of the room. ‘Get me the Foreign Secretary,’ he ordered with relish.

  ‘Well,’ the Commodore sighed to himself in relief as he watched Brice lumber away, ‘at least we’re making headway again.’ He pushed himself upright and moved toward the doorway.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Brice looked up at him from the monitors. ‘Aren’t you needed here?’

  ‘I’ll be close by,’ the Commodore said reassuringly, ‘but first I want to go and speak to this Andrew Freeman character and find out if there’s anything else he knows.’

  ‘Right,’ Brice nodded in agreement as the door shut. He turned back to the analysts sitting at the computers, and leaned over them like a general addressing his troops. ‘Gentlemen, ladies, the time has come. Jack Starling and Johnathon Fairchild have made fools of us long enough, but it is time to end this dance. Lean on the French and Belgian Governments; I want Deschamps found extradited in the next 30 minutes.’ He swallowed for a moment, then thrust out his jaw and grasped the lapels of his jacket. ‘With the power of the Prime Minister,’ he spoke sombrely, ‘I declare Jack Starling and Johnathon Fairchild as armed and dangerous threats to the Crown. Alert all covert teams across Europe. They are to be found and they are to be apprehended immediately – and if they resist, I want them killed.’

  The activity in the room paused for a moment. ‘Here this,’ Brice raised one meaty finger toward the ceiling. ‘Use of deadly force is authorised.’ He announced solemnly. ‘If necessary, our troops are to shoot on sight.’ He lowered his finger and grabbed his lapel once more. ‘Action this day, COBRA. Let us show the Prime Minister what we can do.’


  2330 hrs (2230 hrs GMT), 17 June 2015, Paris-Brussel Train Line.

  GR 50.739005, 4.245530

  ‘Did you hear that, my friend?’ Deschamps smiled. The peal of thunder overhead had been explosively loud, a rippling assault that tried to drum all sense and logic from the mind. ‘Mother Nature is reminding us who is boss tonight!’ The luxurious chamber was darkly lit, illuminated more by the flashes of lightning outside than the art deco light scones within.

  Cleo ignored Deschamps’ words, her mind consumed by worry about Jack and a growing fear of Reynard. The hunter stood by the carriage window, fingers drumming an impatient staccato on the frame. He had been pacing the rocking carriage since it had left Paris, stalking back and forth ceaselessly. As the minutes had ticked by he had drifted closer and closer to Cleo. At the last pass, he had brushed his hand across her neck, his fingers hard and dry. Now he stood by the darkened window, his lidded eyes staring at Cleo with the primal carnality of a thug.

  ‘Mother Nature…’ Reynard spoke quietly, ‘we must always learn from her.’ Reynard pushed himself away from the wall and drifted toward her like a slow-moving shark. Cleo swallowed, keeping her eyes averted. His hand came by and tenderly brushed a strand of her blonde hair back behind her ear, before lingering to squeeze her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. Her arms flexed helplessly against the ropes tying her into place.

  ‘Reynard…’ Deschamps purred his servant’s name, raising a cruel eyebrow. ‘We have a little time to kill,’

  A hint of anticipation rose in Deschamps’ voice. Reynard’s hand slid down from Cleo’s ear to rest against her throat. His broad hand tightened for a moment and Cleo could feel the trapped blood welling against his grip.

  ‘We must ensure,’ Reynard spoke thickly, ‘that she is obedient when we arrive in Brussels.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Deschamps sighed, his blue eyes staring unflinchingly into Cleo’s. ‘Let her learn a lesson.’

  Reynard’s fingers slid into position around her skull. His breathing was coming in short pants and Cleo could feel a dangerous heat radiating from his body. His breath paused suddenly and then his fingers clamped down around Cleo’s skull. The strength of his hands drove the fingertips inward like iron nails. Cleo could feel the soft flesh of her scalp being pulped as his fingers drove toward the surface of her skull. The simple torture was enough to make her scream in agony. Reynard held his grip for five long seconds, then stepped back, panting heavily.

  Cleo lolled in her chair, bound helplessly into place. Great beads of sweat had collected on her forehead. A peal of thunder outside seemed to protest impotently at her torture.

  ‘Now… how are those defiant green eyes of yours?’ Deschamps leaned forward. ‘Still angry with your master?’

  Cleo felt Reynard move close once more and she could not take a breath before his fingers were clamping down upon her skull. Her scream was thwarted by an explosive clatter of pistol fire ringing out across the room. A lighting nonce on the far side of the room shattered into pieces. Reynard staggered for a moment, shocked by the unexpected attack.

  Jack stood by the opened doorway at the end of the carriage, the smoking barrel of the Bizon PP-2000 in his hands, the weapon pointed directly at Reynard’s face. Rain water was dripping from every part of his frame. Lightning arced outside.

  Jack spoke three words with slow, deliberate contempt. ‘You French fucks.’

  Thunder rolled in support.

  ‘Well done, Mr Starling,’ Deschamps spoke at last, his face carefully neutral, ‘your determination is impressive. I am touched you have travelled so far to see me again.’

  ‘Stow it, dickhead.’ Jack snapped, then glanced at Reynard. ‘Cut her loose.’ The killer raised his hands in protest. ‘But I have no knife.’

  Jack smiled coldly then fired a single pistol shot past Reynard’s ear. The Frenchman recoiled, one hand cupping at his ear where the faintest sliver of skin had been removed by the bullet as it travelled past.

  ‘Cut her loose, now,’ Jack snarled. Reynard quickly slipped a blade from his pocket and sliced through the cords tying Cleo to the chair. ‘Now back off,’ Jack ordered, advancing in a shooters pose, the Bizon ready to cut down Deschamps or Reynard in an instant. He reached down one hand to Cleo and helped haul her upright. She swayed against him for an instant, clutching at his trunk for support.

  ‘What now, Starling.’ Deschamps smiled from his seat. ‘You’ve got the girl in your hands, but can you take her away? This train arrives in Brussels at any moment – into a station crawling with policemen and soldiers who will do as I say. You are in Europe, Starling. This is my land, not yours. You have nowhere to go.’

  Jack frowned. Their escape route was gone, the Renault van smashing into some hidden debris on the track just as he had leapt onto the train. He had managed to grab the railing at the rear of the carriage, nearly dislocating his arm as he swung helplessly through the storm. The crashed truck vanished behind him, smoke and fire billowing from the wreckage, the fate of Sparky left unknown. It had taken every shred of Jack’s strength to pull himself up onto the steps of the carriage and to wrench the doors open, only to be met the sound of Cleo’s tortured scream. The sound had driven him forward, pistol first, furious to confront the villainous Frenchmen. Now he stood in the centre of the stateroom, Cleo hanging from one arm, his foes in his pistol sights as the carriage delivered them onward Deschamps’ waiting men.

  ‘You can’t win, Jack,’ Deschamps goaded him mockingly. ‘It’s only a matter of time before this train arrives in Brussels and you’re surrounded. How long then, before a brave Belgian soldier guns down the deranged British murderer?’

  Jack kept silent, reviewing his options carefully.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Deschamps smiled, ‘It’s all coming together – you killed your brother, kidnapped a girl, broke into private property across London and Paris. To the outside world, you’re not a soldier on a mission, you’re a deranged psychopath suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. The world thinks you’re a rabid dog and they’re ready to shoot you down.’

  ‘Not if I shoot you first,’ Jack snarled.

  ‘No, Jack.’ Deschamps shook his head calmly. ‘We all know you’re a hero, a creature of Britain. Cricket, tea, fair play, Dunkirk. Even though you hate me, even though you want me dead… you’re too British to pull that trigger and prove me right.’ Deschamps slowly emerged from his armchair with a calculating smile. ‘That is the difference between you and me – and the reason why the gold is mine, not yours.’ He reached down to the table by his side and picked up the golden tablet. Jack felt himself almost hypnotised by the Frenchman’s calmness and poise. A bolt of lightning crashed down overhead. The train bucked and the lights in the stateroom went off.

  In an instant, both Frenchmen were twisting away like eels, Deschamps leaping to one side and Reynard dashing at Jack, knife bared low for a disembowelling strike. Jack stumbled backward, pushing Cleo to safety as he twisted desperately from the slashing knife. He felt the blade scrape against his body armour and then he clubbed his pistol against Reynard’s head, knocking the Frenchman back for a moment. The lights flickered back on as the assassin stabbed once more and Jack fended the blade off with a twist of the pistol, unable to bring the barrel of the gun against Reynard’s head and see him off for good. Instead, Jack tossed the Bizon toward Cleo, then wrapped both hands around Reynard’s, the two men twisting together in a bizarre embrace. The blade jabbed and flickered between them, each man struggling to plunge it into the other. The pair seemed evenly matched – Reynard quicker, Jack stronger, but Jack’s exhaustion was mounting quickly and the blade was twitching dangerously close. The train carriage rocked and suddenly Reynard’s blade was slicing across Jack’s chest, scraping against the steel plate. The combat webbing swung loose on Jack’s frame, the damaged Bizon magazine spilling bullets across the room like drops of water. Reynard shifted his stance and Jack was thrown against the window, bracing himself as the knife flashed toward h
is eyes.

  A savage smile of glee sprang out on Reynard’s face before switching to a look of terror. The Frenchman ducked backward in desperation, contorting himself away from the pistol held in Cleo’s hands. The bark of the pistol filled the room, a stitching of bullet holes spreading across the far wall and shattering the bottles of expensive alcohol in the bar. A random spark ignited the spilt alcohol and suddenly the shattered bar was ablaze, fire and smoke roiling out across the room. Jack recovered himself, looking around for the next attack. Reynard had vanished amid the confusion, but he saw Deschamps stepping into view at the far end of the corridor, a Kalashnikov rifle held ready in his hands. Jack grabbed Cleo and pushed her to the ground, covering her bodily as Deschamps’ bullets flew wildly overhead, shattering the bar still further. A bottle of rum exploded, spraying flaming alcohol across the room to ignite carpets and drapes. Cleo fired a burst at Deschamps from a prone position and he stepped back into cover. Jack looked around quickly. One exit was blocked by Deschamps, while Reynard was at loose somewhere in the chaos. Another bottle of alcohol ignited with a crash and the overhead lights shorted out.

  ‘What do we do?’ Cleo shouted in desperation.

  Jack looked through the smoke. The carriage was turning into a nightmare, the burning upholstery and bar lending a hellish illumination to the smoke and gun-haze. He caught Deschamps leaning around the corner with the Kalashnikov. Jack grabbed the Tomcat pistol from his waist and fired a shot toward Deschamps. The bullet gouged into the wooden stock of the rifle and Deschamps vanished once more. It was scant relief – Jack knew all that Deschamps had to do was fire another blind spray of bullets through the room and he and Cleo would most likely be dead. Reynard suddenly appeared, dashing through the smoke to vanish through the rear entrance to the room. Jack cursed to himself. They were boxed in.