Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure
Page 43
GR 51.503721, -0.126270
‘I don’t understand,’ Brice shouted in disbelief. ‘What do you mean the Tintin teams aren’t responding? What the hell is going on?’
Highgrove hunched her shoulders away from Brice’s rage, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she tried to establish what was going on. Her throat was dry. The seconds of anticipation after Brice’s order to move in had been thrilling, but the abrupt radio silence of both Tintin teams was unexpected and terrifying. On top of that, the Dragon of Downing Street had taken Brice’s dismissal rather personally, scorching Highgrove over the telephone before abruptly terminating the connection.
‘We’re trying to re-establish contact,’ Highgrove spoke quickly, ‘but there’s no response.’
‘What…’ Brice stared around the room. ‘What happened to my soldiers?’
The lights flickered overhead for a moment. Highgrove opened her mouth for a moment, then closed it silently. She glanced down at the telephone nervously and then looked toward the guarded doors at the far end of the room. Something is coming. She glanced across at Brice, to see a look of look of intense fear flood across his face.
The main door to the COBRA room crashed open as if blasted by artillery fire. The Home Secretary stood in the portal bristling like the wrath of Zeus, his bald head incandescent with rage.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ The Home Secretary’s heavy Welsh lilt was thickened to the point of incoherence. ‘I’m about to sit down for a late breakfast after a piss-filled night when I get a call from the Prime Minister’s Office telling me a 12-year old moron is busy fucking the country.’ The Home Secretary stormed into the room like a bull elephant in musth.
‘Ah, er, Doctor Llewelyn-Jones, sir, how nice to see you,’ Brice blustered, attempting to push himself forward like a man battling a gale.
‘Oh no,’ the Home Secretary snarled as he stomped forward, Brice wilting backward as the Secretary approached. ‘I’ve heard quite enough from you, boy.’ The Welshman’s eyes blazed ferociously. ‘Bloody shootouts in central London, bloody landmarks getting destroyed, the bloody CCTV network of London packing it in and bloody British Special Forces running around Paris without a by-your-leave.’ Veins were popping out in the Home Secretary’s neck. ‘And now I hear you’ve got the Foreign Secretary out of his camping holiday and the Chief of Army telephoning Europeans in the middle of the night… And don’t forget the attempt to arrest that bloody celebrity on the M4!’
Brice opened his mouth and a strange, wordless sob squeaked dryly out.
How could this be happening? Brice could feel sweat gushing out across his body. Why isn’t he saying I’m right? I found out about Sir Johnathon, we were about to trap Jack Starling!
‘And on top of all of that,’ Llewelyn-Jones swung out a finger and jammed it painfully against Brice’s chest. ‘You’ve had the bloody, bloody, bloody stupidity to dismiss Sir Johnathon Fairchild from this bloody office. The one man in this godforsaken government basement who might have made some sense of what’s going on.’
‘But he’s a traitor…. a Russian spy!’ Brice protested.
The Home Secretary stopped short, his face mottling in outrage.
‘He’s a traitor…’ Brice repeated into the sudden silence, his mouth trembling uselessly as the Home Secretary’s eyes narrowed.
‘May God have mercy on your soul, Mr Brice,’ The Home Secretary’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper, his slow lilt hypnotising the room, ‘because I swear that I will not.’
‘But, I…’ Brice stammered gormlessly, a tiny droplet of urine appearing on the crotch of his trousers. The rest of the room was motionless, watching the spectacle unfold with a mixture of fascination and horror.
The Home Secretary grabbed Brice’s iPad from where it sat on the table.
‘You, guardsman,’ Llewelyn-Jones snapped at the security guard standing by the opened door. ‘Get this thing over to the lab. The CIA just phoned my office, this damn machine has been spilling COBRA secrets out to the world for the last five days.’ He tossed the iPad to the soldier dismissively. Brice’s crestfallen face broke still further as he realised the extent of his failure. A moment later he had staggered from the room as if close to collapse.
Every analyst remembered to breathe before freezing once again as the Home Secretary turned and swept his eye around the room.
‘Now,’ The Home Secretary turned around and stared down any eye that would meet his. ‘Who’s left to run the embarrassment that used to be COBRA?’
His eyes settled on the Naval Commodore, who had watched the storm unfold with only mild concern.
‘Well?’
The Commodore shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Home Secretary. This is a civilian office. Her Majesty’s Navy can’t assume control.’
‘Oh?’ Llewelyn-Jones’ voice was dangerous. ‘Is that so? Then who?’
The Commodore inclined his head toward Michelle Highgrove, whose eyes widened for a moment in sudden panic.
‘I recommend Ms Highgrove,’ the Commodore declared. ‘With Sir Johnathon and David Starling both overboard, she would have been running the show from the start, if not for Mr Brice.’
‘Right…’ Llewelyn-Jones stood for a moment, eying Highgrove pitilessly. It was clear he was wondering whether she was up to the task. Highgrove straightened her back and forced herself to meet his gaze without flinching.
‘Right, woman,’ the Home Secretary nodded brusquely, ‘if you haven’t got this shit sorted out by five pm, then you’ll be joining Brice in the gutter. Do you understand me?’
Highgrove paled for a moment then nodded in assent. Llewelyn-Jones watched silently as she pushed herself upright, walked solemnly past the Commodore and slid into the chair that Brice had abandoned in disgrace. Highgrove’s shoulders squared as she took a determined breath.
‘Right,’ Highgrove spoke firmly, her eyes flashing, ‘get Andrew Freeman back in here, call Interpol and patch me through to NATO, now. Get through to the Tintin team now. Kill orders are revoked. I want Starling and Fairchild alive.’ The troops at Waterloo have to respond. She stared at the map of the battlefield in despair. Jack Starling and Johnathon Fairchild… what have you done?
1055 hrs (0955 hrs GMT) 18 June 2015, Battlefield of Waterloo, Belgium.
GR 50.6733366, 4.399264
‘Jack!’ Cleo’s voice was panicked as she stumbled knee deep into the mud. Jack grabbed under her arm and hauled her upright, desperately aware of the French cavalry riding toward them. Individual riders at the front might see them and alter course, but they would surely be trampled by the riders at the centre of the charge.
‘Come on!’ Jack snarled, dragging Cleo bodily toward the farmhouse. They could hear a trumpet signal the charge and a thundering broke out across the field as a thousand horses swept toward the British lines.
‘Run,’ Jack swore, pulling Cleo and the bag along, willing them to safety as the trembling of the earth grew into an overwhelming crescendo. Jack could see the wall of the farmhouse ahead and he focused on a narrow doorway set in the crumbling brickwork. Cleo’s hand in his, he pushed his body onward, forcing his legs through the churned mud as the earth vibrated around them. Not daring to look at the oncoming threat, he pushed forward across the final steps and heaved himself bodily at the doorway. The ancient wood splintered beneath his weight and he fell through to safety, hauling Cleo inward as she landed on top of him. They lay on the ground for a moment, stunned by the impact, the earth trembling around them as wave after wave of horsemen galloped past on the other side of the wall.
Jack shut his eyes in relief, blood ringing in his ears as he sucked mouthfuls of air into his exhausted lungs. Cleo rolled off him and pulled herself upright. A few seconds later Jack forced himself back on his feet as well, refusing an outstretched arm from Cleo. Every part of him was aching, bleeding, covered in mud or all three at once. Jack tried to scrape some of the mud from his once resplendent uniform, but gave up after a few sec
onds. He leaned backward, hands on hips, feeling the aching muscles along his spine pop and grumble as they stretched.
‘You ok?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Still alive,’ Cleo declared. Jack looked across at her – she was even muddier than he was; only her green eyes were recognizable, peering out from a dirt-covered face. He smiled at the sight as she too began to scrape the mud away quickly.
‘Yep, we’re still here.’ Jack agreed as he inspected their surroundings. They were in a walled garden, the main buildings of the farmhouse a little further eastward, wrapped in a haze of gunpowder smoke. The sounds of warfare were audible in the distance; a bass drum of artillery accompanied by the rattle of musketry. Heavy rainclouds glowered overhead, threatening to bring another deluge onto the battlefield.
‘You two all right?’ A young man was looking at them with concern, dressed in the trim uniform of an 1815 Coldstreams guardsman – a red jacket, white trousers and a black shako hat. ‘What on earth were you two doing, running across that field during Ney’s charge?’
‘During what charge?’ Jack looked at him curiously.
‘Bloody Marshal Ney, the French cavalry leader,’ the man explained happily. ‘It’s the last great charge of the French.’ He peered out through the broken doorway. ‘Look over there,’ He gestured. Jack and Cleo limped to the doorway and looked out toward the north side of the valley. The British lines had formed into squares of tightly-packed men that stood shoulder-to-shoulder three ranks deep. The flood of French cavalry swirled around the squares like a river around boulders. Beyond the struggle lines of tourists sat avidly watching the battle unfold.
‘He was Napoleon’s bravest general,’ the man explained, ‘but Ney led his charge without artillery or infantry support, which meant it didn’t do anything to threaten Wellington’s troops, or even disable the British cannon.’ Cleo could see the British squares were edged with bristling rows of bayonet-tipped muskets. No horse would ride against that steel wall.
‘Anyway,’ the man turned and looked at them, ‘what the heck were you guys doing running across the field like that? You could have been killed!’
‘Well, look,’ Jack sighed and looked at the man closely. ‘Does the name Deschamps mean anything to you? Or Johnathon Fairchild? What about COBRA?’ The man gaped for a moment and shook his head. He looked genuinely mystified – and Jack could see no sign of deceit in his honest face.
‘Good,’ Jack grinned, ‘then don’t mind us, we’ve got VIP tickets and we’re trying to find our tour group.’
‘VIP tickets?’ the man gaped at them then shook his head. ‘You two are a pair of idiots, if you think those VIP tickets mean you can run in front of a cavalry charge without getting killed!’ The man turned his back on them and stared resolutely out of the doorway at the British squares.
Jack and Cleo shared a smile, then turned and limped through the garden toward the courtyard of the Hougoumont complex. A familiar collection of mortar tubes were scattered here and there around the buildings, some already blackened with discharge. Given the building’s essential role in the battle, it was clear that the pyrotechnics would go on throughout the day. Scores of red-coated soldiers were lined up against the farmhouse walls, firing blanks through loopholes at the attacking French. Jack and Cleo paused by the side of the courtyard as a gate was thrown open with a resounding crash and dozens of French troopers burst inward chanting ‘Vive L'Empereur’ as they fired muskets at the defending Englishmen. At their head was a giant of a man, his blue uniform straining to contain his muscled form. A pioneer’s axe in his broad hand looked like a hatchet and Jack dreaded to wonder what damage the man could have done if the fight had been real, rather than the carefully balanced strokes and counter-strokes of the re-enactment.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Cleo asked.
‘The attack of Lieutenant Legros,’ Jack explained, his studies of the Battle coming back to him once more. ‘The closest the French got to capturing Hougoumont.’ The force of Frenchmen was putting up a good fight and Jack could see another column of Frenchmen rushing forward to flood through the open gateway. ‘Look!’ Cleo pointed excitedly. Jack saw a small group of Redcoats pushing through the melee toward the gate. ‘That’s MacDonell and Graham,’ Jack pointed, ‘they closed the gate behind Legros and trapped his troops inside Hougoumont.’ The two of them watched for a moment as the small band of Redcoats pushed the gate shut in the face of the approaching French column, trapping Legros and his handful of supporters alone in the courtyard, where they were theatrically hunted down and dispatched. The axe-wielding Legros gave a final bellow of Gallic defiance as a half-dozen Redcoats surrounded him, bayonets to the fore and carefully lowered him to the ground in a convincing display of deadly combat.
‘Every Frenchman in the attack was killed,’ Jack explained, ‘except for the eight-year-old drummer boy.’ He pointed to where a young boy in Napoleonic blue, drum hanging from a white belt around his torso, was being led into one of the sheds by a fatherly Redcoat. The dozens of motionless bodies on the floor of the courtyard suddenly pulled themselves upright and wandered into the main barn of the Hougoumont complex, red and blue jackets mixing together in a happy camaraderie.
A round of applause rang out and Jack and Cleo looked up to see every window of the long farmhouse building was crammed with tourists, each one thrusting out a camera or cell phone to record the scenes below.
‘I hope they enjoyed the show,’ Cleo said.
‘I heard the seats up there were two thousand quid a ticket,’ a ‘dead’ Redcoat spoke to them as he walked toward the barn door, blood leaking from a very real cut above one eye. His voice betrayed a hint of scorn. ‘All that and they still don’t know what’s going on!’
‘You’ve studied this a lot then?’ Cleo asked.
‘Oh yes,’ the man’s face lit up. ‘I’ve been a Wellington enthusiast for years! You see, the personality differences between Napoleon and Wellington explain so much about European and British politics…’
Cleo cut him off smoothly. ‘Is this farmhouse still the same as it was back then? Do you know what was destroyed or left standing, or what’s been rebuilt since then?’
‘Oh.’ The man paused for a moment’s thought. ‘Well, the main Chateau was destroyed in the fire during the battle, of course, but that stood where we are right now. The rest of the farm looks like it did at the time, although the wall around the whole thing is about two foot lower now than it was in 1815.’
‘So there’s been no building work or excavations since then?’
‘Well, not really!’ the man smiled. ‘The Chateau itself burnt down during the Battle and wasn’t rebuilt – it would be between us and the garden if it were still here. For the rest of it, well, there were a lot of renovations done over the last year or so, to repair the buildings in time for today, but really, what you’re seeing around us exactly as it was two hundred years ago. This chapel, for example,’ he slapped the white brick wall of the building next to them, ‘was originally attached to the main chateau – but looks exactly the same today as it did then.’
‘Untouched for all that time? No hidden rooms or cellars?’ Cleo couldn’t help herself.
The man looked at her strangely for a long, awkward moment. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he continued eventually. ‘It’s an old farmhouse, not a haunted mansion. There’s not an inch of the place that hasn’t been studied and examined by military historians and archeological experts. Apart from the destroyed Chateau, everything else at Hougoumont is as it was two hundred years ago – right down to the fresh coat of white paint on this chapel.’ He slapped the brickwork of the building next to them with a satisfied air, then winced as another mortar shell discharged into the air nearby. The clouds grumbled overhead, as if answering the cannon-fire with thunder of their own.
‘Anyway, if you’ll excuse me,’ the Redcoat smiled at them, ‘I need to get into the barn for the post-fight drink with Legros and his boys! Cheerio!’
The space within was clean and bright, an intimate, U-shaped room of whitewashed brick, illuminated by two small windows, high on opposing walls. There were a pair of narrow pews and a small stone altar opposite the door. Against one wall hung a six-foot-high wooden crucifix, the Christ lovingly polished, though the figure was missing the right leg below the knee and had suffered some charring on the left foot. That must have been when the Chateau burned down, Jack realized. The floor beneath them was made of solid slabs of stone, closely fitted pavers that could not easily be moved. Jack looked around for a moment, savoring the peace and quiet. The sounds of battle outside had receded once they entered the chamber and even the sound of pouring rain sounded distant and calming. The room carried a sense of quiet spirituality and Jack could not help but think of those thousands that had died here so many years before.