Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘Never forget, Jack,’ Sir Johnathon’s voice was choked when he spoke, ‘one true man can make a difference, no matter what. The Duke of Wellington proved that true two hundred years ago and today you proved it true again. The terrible ambitions and greed of one man thwarted by the courage, tenacity and decency of another.’ He shifted slightly, eyes watering.

  ‘My dear boy, I am proud of what you have done this day.’ The old man’s voice choked with emotion. Jack did not answer. He had turned away from Sir Johnathon’s praise and was holding Cleo tight, kissing her passionately in the afternoon sun as Napoleon’s armies fled.

  2300 hrs 18 June 2015, Office of the Prime Minister, 10 Downing Street, London.

  51.503358, -0.127913

  It was late at night. Sir Johnathon stood ramrod straight before the desk of the Prime Minister in Downing Street, patient as time itself, as the last pages of his classified report were examined by the Prime Minister’s searching brown eyes. His military uniform had been discarded and he was once again dressed in the discreet, well-tailored pinstripe suit of a senior civil servant. His cologne carried a light scent of Trumper Skye, replacing the gunpowder and horse sweat that had characterized the fields of Waterloo. Fairchild’s faded blue eyes watched calmly as the Prime Minister turned another page of the report.

  Highgrove had excelled herself, summarizing the events of the last week and delivering the printed and bound report to Sir Johnathon the moment he stepped onto the tarmac at RAF Northolt. That report now sat in the Prime Minister’s hands, bound in black with the words ‘Napoleon’s Gold’ printed on the front in large gold letters. The ticking of a mantelpiece clock and the deliberate turning of pages were the only sounds in the room. From time to time the Prime Minister’s steely eyes flickered up from the page to scan Sir Johnathon’s face, but the civil servant endured the scrutiny with ineffable calm. Confident in the contents of the report, Sir Johnathon instead admired the orderly piles of paper built up across the broad oak desk like city blocks. Some Prime Ministers used their desks as a moat, protecting themselves from civil servants or the public by as wide an expanse of wood or leather as they could get. The current one, however, used it like a parade ground, hundreds of pieces of paper being moved left or right, or back or forward, with absolute geometric precision – an initial here, an authorisation there, a polite refusal or cautious approval, as needed. Efficiency and decisiveness were two valued qualities of leadership, Sir Johnathon knew. This Prime Minister had both – and used them to formidable effect.

  ‘All this…’ The Prime Minister’s voice drifted across the table like a suspicious wind. ‘As well as bringing the Russians back to the table over their latest border dispute?’

  ‘I was able to make some calls to acquaintances in the Kremlin, Prime Minister.’ Sir Johnathon nodded. ‘They eventually recognised the benefits of negotiation.’

  ‘Representing Her Majesty’s Government while on the run from it as well? A bit presumptuous, Sir Johnathon, even for you.’ A note of amused admonishment had entered the Prime Minister’s voice.

  Sir Johnathon bowed his head. ‘It seemed better to resolve the issue as quickly as possible, without bothering you during your visit to the United States. I have one or two old friends who still wield influence among the Moscow Oligarchy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Prime Minister nodded, ‘the news that the Russians were returning to the table was timely. The Estonians and Latvians are in our debt, and Washington is extremely glad that an international incident was avoided. David Starling would have been pleased at the outcome.’

  Sir Johnathon nodded mournfully, ceding the victory to his fallen colleague. Silence returned as he waited for the Prime Minister to finish the report.

  ‘James Watts?’ The Prime Minister asked the question without looking up.

  ‘He was delivered to the British Barracks at Elmpt, outside Dusseldorf,’ Sir Johnathon explained smoothly, ‘then flown to RAF Northolt, and from there by air ambulance to Royal London Hospital. He has been placed in a private ward with Colonel Millar, who is recovering well from his neck wound. I have no doubt the two of them will be perfectly happy exasperating the nurses until they are fully recovered.’

  ‘Hm,’ the Prime Minister sounded unimpressed, ‘and Reynard’s body?’

  ‘Buried an hour ago in an unmarked grave in a Belgian cemetery,’ Sir Johnathon replied, ‘officially recorded as an unknown foreign tourist, victim of a hit and run accident.’

  ‘Better,’ the Prime Minister drily noted, continuing to read through to the end of the report.

  ‘An excellent outcome,’ the Prime Minister finally declared, shutting the folder with a crisp snap. ‘A murder avenged, the gold found and a Continental criminal behind bars at last. Three out of three, well done.’

  Sir Johnathon smiled calmly, tilting his head to one side thoughtfully. Far be it from him to keep Prime Ministers on their toes, but certain things had to be said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but I believe you meant five out of five.’ His tone was mild.

  ‘Oh?’ The Prime Minister raised a tolerant eyebrow at the implied criticism.

  ‘The first three are in the report.’ Sir Johnathon continued. ‘Vincent Reynard identified as the murderer of our COBRA Senior Analyst, David Starling. Over five hundred million pounds worth of gold recovered and transferred to the appropriate recipients and Pierre Deschamps on trial in Belgium for kidnapping, conspiracy and attempted murder, with further charges being drawn up in France. Interpol is coordinating the dismantling of his criminal empire and several senior French politicians have been surreptitiously dismissed. Hopefully it will be some time before another such Napoleon of Crime can arise.’

  ‘Yes, those are the three, well done.’ The Prime Minister shifted impatiently, more used to giving lectures than receiving them.

  ‘Fourth,’ Sir Johnathon continued, ‘the political destruction of Mr Anthony Brice, formerly of your Office.’

  The Prime Minister’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘I sent Mr Brice to coordinate the situation when I left for America. He was to coordinate with you, Sir Johnathon, not against you. I am disappointed that you did not provide sufficient mentoring to curb his impulsiveness. To be told of the near destruction of Cleopatra’s Needle during a tour of the New York Stock Exchange was most distracting.’

  Sir Johnathon shook his head. ‘I believe not, Prime Minister. If you had wanted Brice mentored, you would have informed me directly of the fact. As it was, for a Prime Minister’s staffer to be assigned such a high-profile responsibility, at such short notice, and in such a manner, was a clear invitation for that staffer to come a cropper.’

  ‘Was it?’ The Prime Minister’s voice was icy.

  ‘Indeed. The only alternative is that you truly trusted Brice’s judgement and hoped he would succeed.’ Sir Johnathon sounded faintly scornful of such a possibility. ‘The fact that his father is your most significant critic inside your own party was an additional consideration.’

  ‘And how did that factor into your… considerations?’ The Prime Minister was staring coldly at Sir Johnathon, brown eyes drilling into blue.

  ‘Brice’s father, Lord Leonard Brice, is one of the most formidable industrialists of the country. He is also one of the most ambitious. For his son, Anthony, to succeed in the matter of Napoleon’s Gold would help begin a political dynasty. Within a year or two Anthony would be in Cabinet, backed by his father’s money and contacts and therefore well on the way to party leadership, perhaps, the Prime Ministership itself. Such an outcome would be bad for you, Prime Minister, but also for the country, given Lord Brice’s particular political philosophy.’

  ‘Go on.’ The Prime Minister’s voice was razor sharp.

  Sir Johnathon tilted his head. ‘Instead, Anthony Brice is disgraced and Leonard Brice is tarred with his son’s ineptitude, weakening his political influence and giving you considerable scope to further your own agenda and position without interference.’
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  The Prime Minister’s grey eyes were cold pinpricks. ‘What you say is completely without foundation.’

  ‘Indeed, Prime Minister,’ Sir Johnathon bowed his head apologetically, ‘yet true, nonetheless.’

  The Prime Minister glared at him intently but could make no impact on the imperturbable civil servant. Silence stretched out as a battlefield of their wills.

  ‘And the fifth point?’ The Prime Minister asked grumpily.

  ‘Jack Starling has returned from exile.’ Sir Johnathon spoke with the simplicity of conviction. ‘If we had failed in every other task, then that alone would redeem our actions.’

  The Prime Minister raised a single eyebrow.

  ‘Is he that good?’

  ‘He is.’ Sir Johnathon frowned for a moment and showed a trace of uncertainty. ‘I am getting older, Prime Minister,’ he shrugged his shoulders resignedly. ‘I had planned for David Starling to replace me as Chairman of COBRA. His death was a sore blow to the competency of the British Public Service. Young officers like Michelle Highgrove are not yet ready to take on the burdens that our generation must inevitably bequeath,’ he smiled gently, ‘which is why I am glad that Jack Starling has returned. He is a bridge, between our generation and the next.’ He looked at the Prime Minister forlornly. ‘Once I am gone, there will be so few competent people in the bureaucracy. So few people with the wisdom to get things done the right way. To avoid mistakes, to preserve integrity…’

  ‘And Jack Starling will do those things?’ The Prime Minister’s voice was sceptical.

  ‘No,’ Sir Johnathon shook his head dourly, then looked at the Prime Minister firmly, his voice ringing with conviction. ‘But when we fail, a man like Jack Starling will set things right.’

  ‘Not the prevention, but the cure?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Sir Johnathon nodded. ‘I have hopes for some of the younger staff members, but Jack leaves them all behind for sheer stubborn British decency.’

  The Prime Minister looked at him steadily, then gave a slow, calculated nod, of one expert to another.

  ‘I hope your assessment is correct, Sir Johnathon.’ The black folder was placed onto a pile on the right hand side of the desk with precise deliberation, while a mauve folder was picked up from the left.

  ‘Because something came to my attention while I was in Washington.’ The Prime Minister’s brown eyes looked at Sir Johnathon searchingly. ‘If what you say of Jack Starling is correct, then we have a need for him after all. Sooner, rather than later.’ The folder, marked Top Secret, was thrust into Sir Johnathon’s hands. ‘Read that and you’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘Prime Minister.’ Sir Johnathon nodded in acceptance.

  ‘Furthermore,’ the Prime Minister continued. ‘We want Starling back in shape. Retract his dishonourable discharge, reinstate his rank as Major in the SAS and bring me the paperwork recommending him for a George Cross. Give him one week of rest and relaxation. Then put him back in play.’

  The civil servant nodded and walked calmly to the door.

  ‘Oh, and Sir Johnathon.’ The civil servant paused, hand on the doorknob and looked back to where the Prime Minister sat weighed down with the duties of leadership.

  ‘You were correct,’ the Prime Minister’s smile carried the merest hint of embarrassment. ‘Five out of five. Well done.’

  Sir Johnathon’s eyes twinkled with respect and friendship, then the slender civil servant inclined his head.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  Sir Johnathon carefully shut the door to the Prime Minister’s Office and walked down the staircase to the ground floor, passing one by one the portraits of the great and noble Prime Ministers of the past. Another staircase led him to the Downing Street basements, while a third deposited him in the long underground corridor stretching beneath Whitehall, from Number 10 Downing Street to COBRA and beyond. A guard checked his ID before opening COBRA’s door and another checked it again before he was allowed to enter. Michelle Highgrove, Andrew Freeman and the Naval Commodore were standing at the conference table. They inclined their heads respectfully as he approached. Acknowledging their salute with a kindly smile, Sir Johnathon took his place at the head of the table and gestured them to sit. All around the room, the analysts of COBRA looked at him in anticipation. A slight pressure on a switch made a panel on the table recede and a keyboard slid upward toward Sir Johnathon’s waiting fingers. He typed a few commands and the opening chords Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 began to pipe gently through the room. Sir Johnathon placed the folder on the table and looked at his protégés, examining each of them carefully. Each one of them was washed and refreshed, Andrew recovered from his incarceration, the Commodore as immovable as ever and Highgrove watching him expectantly, as professional, capable and confident as ever.

  ‘Very well,’ Sir Johnathon declared at last as he opened the folder, ‘let us begin.’

  As one, the officers and analysts of COBRA leant forward and began to work through the night.

  CODA

  Following a tipoff from an anonymous caller, Bundespolizei of the German Government raided a disused warehouse on Drontheimer Strasse, East Berlin, at 12 noon on Thursday 18th June 2015. No one was found. There were indications that the warehouse had been recently used as a centre for a series of European-wide cyber-crimes.

  Anthony Brice’s letter of resignation was delivered to the Prime Minister’s Office at 9 am on Friday 19th June, 2015. It was accepted.

  David Starling was buried alongside his parents in Tibenham Cemetery, Norfolk, at 2pm Friday 19th June. A number of high-ranking national security officials attended the ceremony, as well as Jack Starling and Cleo Draycott.

  On Tuesday 30th June 2015, a Letter of Understanding was signed by the Russian Federation and NATO regarding the Republics of Estonia and Latvia. The so-called Starling Accords laid the groundwork for a new era of peace and stability in the region.

  Pierre Deschamps was extradited to France and charged with murder, conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping and tax evasion. He was sentenced to 66 years behind bars.

  Fifteen members of the French and Belgian Senates, three members of the European Parliament and twelve chiefs of police from across the European Union were arrested on charges of bribery and conspiracy to kidnapping and murder in relation to Pierre Deschamps’ criminal activities.

  Jack Starling’s dishonourable discharge was revoked and he was reinstated as a Major (active) of her Majesty’s Special Armed Service. As he had not been a member of the military during his investigation of his brother’s murder, he was deemed ineligible for the Victoria Cross and instead awarded the George Cross, the highest gallantry award available for civilians of the United Kingdom.

  1400 hrs (1200 hrs GMT) 26 June 2015, Apella Beach, Isle of Karpathos, Greece.

  GR 35.603207, 27.159039

  The long strip of white Grecian sand wavered and danced in the afternoon heat like a dream. Jack Starling lay stretched out on a deckchair, the toned musculature of his body drinking in the healing power of the sun. A week of such relaxation had baked him to a brawny brown, which left the grey of his eyes a startling and attractive contrast. The wounds of London, Paris and Waterloo had settled into place, criss-crossing the older scars he had received in Afghanistan, Bosnia and other lands. The beginnings of a beard added to the image of a free, untameable outsider. An airport paperback was held in one hand, a glass of Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic in the other, its ice cold surface beaded with moisture. Cleo lay on a towel nearby, a long smudge of honey-coloured woman, as tanned and relaxed as Jack, the black line of her bikini bottoms a censorious bar on the beauty of the human body.

  A soft sigh of foot on sand made Jack look up from his paperback. Sir Johnathon stood before him in sandals, shorts and cotton shirt, a Panama hat and sunglasses topping off the image of a British tourist. The only jarring point was the slim briefcase in one hand. Cleo looked up from her beach towel to watch Sir Johnathon with immediate unease.

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��Apella Beach,’ Sir Johnathon declared, looking around with an air of immense satisfaction. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘It was.’ Jack replied flatly. He tossed the book to the sand and leaned back on his deckchair, sipping his gin and tonic as he stared at Sir Johnathon distastefully.

  ‘I hope you’ve had a good break,’ Sir Johnathon smiled warmly at Jack’s stony face.

  ‘What are you doing here, old man?’

  Sir Johnathon sighed. ‘I’m here for you. Vacation is over. You’re needed.’

  ‘I’m needed? Bullshit.’ Jack laughed sardonically, ‘I’m a nobody on a beach. Get someone else.’

  Sir Johnathon shook his head slowly, ‘There is no one else, Jack. No one like you.’

  He opened the briefcase and held out a slender folder. The words ‘Top Secret’ were emblazoned across the front in defiant red ink. The civil servant held it out to Jack wordlessly.

  There was a long silence, the outstretched folder held between them.

  ‘Jack,’ Sir Johnathon spoke after a long pause. ‘Britain needs you. Trust me.’

  Waves lapped languidly and Jack Starling did not move.

  ‘Where do you want me to go?’ Jack spoke at last, his voice cold.

  ‘Washington D.C., Philadelphia… perhaps New York,’ Sir Johnathon’s voice was gentle, ‘and perhaps Afghanistan.’

  Jack’s body tensed, muscles leaping to taunt alertness across his frame.

  ‘The Sheik is in Afghanistan.’

  Sir Johnathon nodded. ‘The Sheik… and Shahram Azar is there as well. The boy who rescued you, grown into a man who needs your help.’

  Jack looked away in bitterness. His eyes scanned the horizon for a long moment, drinking in the mesmerising blue of the Mediterranean in summer. There was a long silence between the two men.

  ‘Damn you.’ Jack spoke with quiet vehemence. He stuck out an open hand. Sir Johnathon passed him the folder, ignoring the outburst.

  ‘For you and for Britain? Damn your trickery.’ Jack clutched the folder in one hand and stalked from the beach, drink and book forgotten, tall and bronzed, strong of limb and stern of mind.