Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  They soon passed signposts telling them they were entering the village of Mont-Saint-Jean and Jack could feel his heart quicken as a great conical hill hove into view above the quaintly-tiled rooftops. A majestic statue of a lion had been built at the top of the hill.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Cleo exclaimed.

  ‘The Lion’s Mound!’ Jack was excited. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  ‘You know it?’ Cleo looked at him curiously.

  Jack grinned. ‘We had to study the Battle of Waterloo during officer training at Sandhurst. It might actually be something I know more about than you do!’ Cleo pouted at him as he continued. ‘That hill is called the Lion’s Mound – or the Butte De Lion, if you’re French.’

  ‘So is it French?’ Cleo looked confused. ‘I thought the lion was a British symbol.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘That’s a Belgic Lion,’ he explained, ‘the symbol of the Netherlands. King William the first had it built after the Battle of Waterloo, to mark where his son, the Prince of Orange, got a bullet in the shoulder.’

  ‘I thought the Battle of Waterloo was between Britain and France,’ Cleo tilted her head quizzically. ‘Why would the Dutch get involved?’

  ‘Well, it was Britain and her allies against France and her allies.’ Jack explained. He was surprised how much had stayed in his memory since studying the Napoleonic campaigns as an officer cadet. ‘There was the French Army of the North, led by Napoleon, with just over 72,000 troops, against Wellington, who was leading a combined army of British and European troops – about 68,000 altogether. There was a third army, about 50,000 Prussians under Field Marshall Blücher, marching to join the British forces. Napoleon planned a sort of one-two punch, taking out each smaller army before they could combine and overwhelm him through sheer numbers. Instead, Wellington held the line, keeping the French back until Blucher arrived on his left flank and saved the day.’

  ‘So the British weren’t the winners?’

  ‘Oh, the British won, all right,’ Jack smiled, ‘They chose to fight because the Prussians were coming, and the Prussians were coming because they knew the British would fight. The battle started at 11.30 in the morning and by 11.30 that night Napoleon’s armies were defeated and his dreams of empire ended once and for all. He was packed off to St Helena, and Wellington eventually became the British Prime Minister.’

  Jack grinned as he looked at her. ‘It all makes sense if you look at it from the top of the Butte – it has the best view of the battlefield you could wish for.’ Even at this distance, Jack could see a swarm of tourists were laying siege to the hill, marking their territory with blankets and deck chairs awkwardly pushed against the steep incline.

  ‘In fact…’ he frowned and looked across to the black bag slung over Cleo’s shoulder. ‘What was the line from the poem on the back of the Tablet? About the tower?’

  Cleo thought for a moment, then recited the lines. ‘Then by tribute to a fallen power, Seek guidance from the Ares tower.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Jack stared up at the hill excitedly, ‘the Lion’s mound is the clue! It’s the only thing here like a tower, built because of the war, in tribute to the wounding of the Prince of Orange. That’s the clue, that’s where we need to go!’

  0715 hrs (0615 hrs GMT) 18 June 2013, E134 Motorway, Hoge Kempen National Park, Belgium.

  GR 50.965376, 50602383

  Sir Johnathon slammed the rear of the old Toyota LiteAce shut and watched the battered van slowly lumber away from him onto the E134 Motorway. His breath plumed out into the cold morning air as he watched the vehicle gathering speed, carrying James Watts eastward toward the British Garrison at Elmpt. After a few moments the LiteAce reached a curve in the road and disappeared from view.

  The quietness of the national park descended on Sir Johnathon and he was suddenly aware of those quiet sounds of nature that fewer and fewer people ever hear; unseen animals foraging, birds calling and the wind rustling past the pine trees that surrounded the little rest spot next to the motorway.

  He stamped his feet for a moment on the side of the road and balled his fists. Though his hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a heavy anorak, the morning was still cold enough to set painful twinges of rheumatism stinging at his knuckles. He stamped his way across to the other side of the highway. With the Toyota LiteAce out of sight he allowed himself the liberty of checking his wristwatch. 0720 hrs… plenty of time, I hope.

  Seconds later a gunmetal grey BMW X5 skidded to a stop by his side. Perfect timing. Sir Johnathon allowed himself a guarded smile of recognition, the pain in his fingers forgotten. The old boy network delivers once more.

  A tinted window slid open and a silver-haired, matriarchal woman stared at him stonily.

  ‘Vielen Dank, Generalmajorin,’ Sir Johnathon said in faultless German as he climbed into the passenger’s seat. ‘Das ist sehr nett von Ihnen.’ The woman nodded, her eyes hard. Without a word she drove the BMW back onto the freeway and accelerated westward.

  0715 hrs 18 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  ‘Anything?’

  Highgrove jerked her head up and peered tiredly at the computer screen. Days of chaos and adrenaline was finally catching up with her.

  ‘Nothing,’ she turned in her chair and looked across the COBRA room to where Brice was staring at her impatiently. After the Commodore’s pep talk, Brice had expected that something would have happened, yet Starling and Fairchild seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

  I don’t get it, Brice frowned, why haven’t Fairchild or Starling been found? And why hasn’t the Belgians arrested Deschamps like I told them to? Don’t they know what’s at stake?

  His iPad vibrated for a moment and Brice looked down at it curiously. An email had arrived, sender unknown.

  Odd, Brice thought. He clicked it open.

  ‘Anthony,

  Just a quick message. You’ve upset a few of the bigwigs here at the Ministry of Defence. They’re trying to stop you from catching Starling, Fairchild or Deschamps. But I just found out that ALL THREE are meeting together this morning, during the anniversary of the BATTLEFIELD OF WATERLOO…’

  ‘Sir,’ Highgrove spoke up. ‘We have an unconfirmed report that Johnathan Fairchild has been seen in Liège, Belgium,’ she paused for a moment, ‘and another sighting, in Waremme. He’s driving west on the Belgian E40.’

  ‘Put that on screen,’ Brice ordered. A map of Brussels flashed onto the monitors. Brice felt his heart pump with excitement. Liège, Waremme…where is he going?

  ‘Scan the map to the left.’

  ‘Sir?’ Highgrove stared at him expectantly. ‘I can send out an extraction team from Brussels to intercept him on the road, or we can contact the Belgian government.’

  ‘Wait,’ Brice ordered, ‘give me a second.’ He looked down at the email once more.’

  ‘…that ALL THREE are meeting together this morning, during the anniversary of the BATTLEFIELD OF WATERLOO. Don’t try and call me about this or you’ll get me fired. Best of Luck, Ben Igles, MOD.’

  Biggles. Brice blinked, cautious optimism racing through his mind. He’s finally told me something useful – and this time he really has put his neck on the line!

  ‘Sir!’ Highgrove was waiting for instruction.

  Brice looked up, a smile on his face and his jaw firm.

  ‘No need to contact the Belgian Government, Ms Highgrove,’ he declared. ‘And no need to have the Tintin squad intercept Sir Johnathon on the road either. I know exactly where he’s going and where to pick up Starling and Deschamps as well.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘Scramble the covert team in Brussels,’ Brice grinned. ‘Send them… to Waterloo.’

  0900 hrs (0800 hrs GMT) 18 June 2015, Route du Lion, Belgium.

  GR 50.680098, 4.404271

  The crush of tourists and troops were getting ever thicker as Jack and Cleo approached the Lion’s Mound. Eventually the
y had to dismount and walk the horses along the crowded Route du Lion toward the mammoth man-made hill. By now they were enveloped by the hordes of tourists. Jack smiled as he heard a wealth of accents from across the British Isles. They pushed through the throngs and lashed the horses to the chain fence at the foot of the man-made hill before pushing their way up the steps of the Lion’s Mound, bypassing the fatter, slower tourists who were huffing and puffing through the morning air. After a few moments he and Cleo reached the viewing platform directly beneath the mound’s peak. They paused for a moment, drinking in the broad view before them.

  The battlefield stretched out southward, a verdant arena beneath a deep blue sky. A ring of white clouds in the distance added to the bucolic scene. The storm had left no damage to the battlefield, but had washed clean every tree and plant as if specially cleaning them for the day of Anniversary. There was a steady hum of sound rising from the crowds of tourists sitting in roped off viewing areas on and along either side of the Lion’s Mound. There were already thousands in attendance, with even more arriving as Jack and Cleo watched. Regiments of volunteer re-enactors were drawing themselves into positions, long thin lines of red-coated soldiers stretched out east and west, formed up along the same ridgeline that Wellington had chosen as his battlefield 200 years before. It would not do to have the troops sheltering behind the ridgeline as they had at the battle itself – Jack realised that would deny the onlookers too much drama and pageantry. Instead, they stood forward of the tourists, in prime position to give a good show to the spectators. The far side of the gentle valley, no more than a mile away at most, was lined with similar numbers of troops and cannon in Napoleonic colours, though there seemed to be far fewer tourists on the ‘French’ side of the battlefield.

  Jack stole a quick glance at Cleo. He suddenly remembered the kiss they had stolen together on the train and the feeling of her skin against his as they lay wrapped around each other during the storm. Yet she had said nothing of it that morning. What that meant, Jack did not know, but part of him wanted to forget the chase for the gold and simply kiss her where she stood. I can’t read her, he thought to himself, but if she isn’t saying anything then it’s probably best that I don’t either.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ Cleo declared at last, looking at him expectantly. ‘Now what?’

  Jack pushed his thoughts away looked down at an embossed topographical map of the battlefield that was bolted to the balustrade of the Lion pedestal. Blue and red markers on the dull metal surface represented the different troop formations of the day.

  ‘There’s got to be something here,’ Jack spoke quickly, ‘some line in the poem that makes sense of where we are.’

  Cleo recited the relevant lines. ‘Then by tribute to a fallen power, Seek guidance from the Ares tower, And by this sacred earthly space, Will be the golden resting place’

  ‘Ok,’ Jack scratched his jaw thoughtfully. ‘So we’re on the tower, looking for a sacred earthly space.’

  ‘Any churches, or graveyards?’ Cleo looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Well,’ Jack thought for a moment, ‘there’s the old chapel at Hougoumont, to the west. That could be it.’ He frowned. ‘But that was built long before the battle, and I’m sure archaeologists have examined the site all over since then. Every clue we’ve followed was constructed after the battle, so maybe we’re looking for something like that.’

  ‘Maybe a statue, or a monument,’ Cleo suggested. ‘The Lion’s Mound itself? Or there must be some scattered across the battlefield.’

  ‘I think the Mound is the clue, not the hiding place,’ Jack thought carefully, ‘there’s a few monuments at Ferme La Haie Sainte,’ Jack remembered. ‘The farm house was in the centre of the battlefield, both sides fought over it the whole day.’

  ‘Ferme La Haie Sainte?’ Cleo looked across at Jack. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One of the farm houses in the battlefield,’ Jack tapped the map. ‘Why?’

  Cleo grinned. ‘Jack… if only you spoke French… Ferme La Haie Sainte – it means the farm of the sacred hedge.’ She smiled excitedly. ‘And by this sacred earthly space… Sacred hedge and earthly space – it must be there!’ She looked out across the field and a frown suddenly creased her forehead. ‘Except… how do we get there?’

  Jack followed her gaze. The battleground of Waterloo had been made ready, a vast space thronged by thousands of tourists penned safely in their designated places. The rest of the landscape was given over narrow ranks of uniformed volunteers stretching along both sides of the valley. There was no way they could ride to La Haie undetected. Jack looked behind them, at the crush of tourists and soldiers crowding the Route Du Lion. The Route was now thronged with tourists flowing around the various buildings. Jack recognised one cylindrical buildings as the Panorama Hall, where visitors to the battlefield were able to view a 360 degree painting of the battlefield as it had been on that eventful day. Beside that was a renovated Visitor’s Centre, replete with flags and pennants. Jack stared at it for a moment, an idea slowly formulating itself in his mind.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Jack smiled. ‘Follow me.’

  He took one last look across the valley, then glanced up to the regal lion statue that overshadowed their conversation. Jack patted the stone pedestal for luck. They would catch Deschamps red-handed, he was sure of it. Jack followed Cleo down the back of the hill, gently pushing past the crowds of tourists. Neither of them noticed the figure who had been standing nearby on the pedestal. He watched the pair making their way down the hill then lifted a small radio transmitter to his lips and began whispering urgently.

  0830 hrs 18 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  ‘Sighted!’ Highgrove stood up, knocking her chair backward across the room. ‘We have visual confirmation of Jack Starling at Waterloo!’

  Brice nodded, his face stern. ‘I knew it. Tell me more, quickly! Where’s the action team from Brussels?’

  Highgrove leaned over the computer, her fingers racing across the keyboard. ‘Tintin is there, on the battlefield – it’s Tintin Bravo that has Starling in visual range. The Library Blonde is at his side. They’re descending from the Lion’s Mound, right next to the battlefield. We have Bravo Charlie and Delta in close support, the rest of the team are with Tintin Alpha, five hundred metres to the west.’

  Brice nodded, thinking carefully. ‘Tell Tintin Bravo to keep on Starling and the blond. Wait till Starling is away from any civilians, then Bravo, Charlie and Delta are to take them down…’ he paused, then looked across at the Commodore uncertainty. ‘These three from Tintin… they’re tough, right?’

  The Commodore nodded slowly and confidently. ‘Very tough.’

  ‘Right,’ Brice said, confidence restored. ‘Wait till Starling and the blonde are on their own, then take them down. Tintin Alpha can stay in reserve.’

  He looked across at Highgrove. ‘The cavalry uniforms for Tintin were a good idea,’ he admitted. ‘It’ll let them go anywhere they need to. Let’s just hope none of the reenactors realise our boys aren’t part of the show.’

  Highgrove smiled, glad to have her contribution acknowledged.

  ‘Sir,’ another analyst spoke up. ‘We have reports that Sir Johnathon has just been sighted five miles from Waterloo… on horseback.’

  Brice blinked in surprise before shrugging. The email was right – every one of them is falling into my trap! But… on horseback?

  Brice scratched at an earlobe, thinking intently how best to secure the prize. ‘Tell all of Tintin to be ready… now all we need is Deschamps.’

  ‘What about the other issues sir?’ Highgrove spoke up, ‘the foreign minister, the Russian Ambassador and the Chief of Army?’

  Brice grinned. ‘Keep them in play. I want COBRA in everyone’s face from now until the moment this whole case is written up and put on the Prime Minister’s desk. This is no time for second measures or backing down when Britain’s security is at stake!’

&n
bsp; He leaned back into his chair, eyes glued to the monitor.

  ‘Highgrove,’ his voice was intense, ‘remind Tintin that lethal force is expressly authorised.’

  0945 hrs (0845 hrs GMT) 18 June 2015, Butte Du Lion, Belgium.

  GR 50.678437, 4.404850

  Jack grabbed Cleo’s hand and pulled her through the crowds at the base of the Lion’s Mound. The roadway was now filled shoulder to shoulder with tourists. Scores of Union Jack and St George’s Cross flags were waving in the air, alongside flags from Germany, Belgium and a dozen other nations. Drums and fifes of three different military bands added to the cacophony. The horses were pacing nervously by the time Jack and Cleo were able to reach them and Jack had to yell several times to clear a way through the crowds.

  Jack found what he was looking for, turned around and thrust his horse’s reins into Cleo’s hands.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Cleo shouted over the crowds, doing her best to keep the horses calm.

  Jack grinned. ‘Trust me,’ he replied, ‘there’s no time to explain!’ With that, he turned and plunged into the crowd, pushing his way toward the Visitor’s Centre building to the right of the Lion’s Monument.

  ‘Jack, I…’ Cleo protested into empty air. Jack had vanished.

  ‘Shit,’ she looked around in frustration. A tourist drifting past raised his camera to take a photo of Cleo and the horses. ‘Oh, get lost,’ she snapped, glaring at him so venomously that he took a step backward and stumbled over a waste bin. The size of the crowd was beginning to get on her nerves – too much was happening and she felt over-exposed and vulnerable. A moment later a fire alarm began ringing out from the Visitors Centre and a flood of tourists spilled anxiously from the main entrance.