by Guy Roberts
Jack kept focused, ignoring his rising anger. ‘You don’t even know where I am.’
‘Mr Starling!’ The voice used his name with a bubble of genuine amusement. ‘A little thing like geography will not keep me from you. You have information that I want. Bring it to me and you will live to see another day.’
‘Deschamps.’ Jack spoke calmly. ‘I don’t care who you are, or what you think you can do. You killed my brother. The only way you’ll find me is when I hold a gun to your head.’
‘Mr Starling.’ The voice interrupted swiftly. ‘Do not think I am a fool. Forget your sunglasses and your cheap hoodie. Forget hiding in your back alley internet store. My people are already watching you.’ Jack’s blood ran cold. How could this man know where he was hidden, what he was wearing?
‘Yes.’ Deschamps continued. ‘I know where you are after all – think about this little proof of my power…’
Jack’s eyes narrowed as he looked into the webcam placed innocently atop the computer. The reach of modern surveillance equipment was almost beyond belief – and Jack realised his internet search on David Starling, Deschamps and Napoleonic Gold was specific enough to let any electronic watcher narrow his location down in an instant. Although the webcam seemed inactive, Jack was in no doubt that somehow it was transmitting his image to Deschamps.
‘Deschamps.’ Jack spoke with cold precision, staring at the webcam furiously, willing his opponent to feel his rage. ‘I’m going to find you and then I’m going to beat you and then I’m going to drag you to a prison and see you locked up till the end of time.’ He cut the connection on the cell phone, knocked the webcam backward and strode out of the internet café.
0900 hrs (0800 hrs GMT) 14 June 2015, Rue de Passy, 16th Arrondissement, Paris.
GR 48.857847, 2.280398
Deschamps wordlessly bent his cell phone shut and slipped it into the breast pocket of his linen jacket. It was morning and he was sitting on the balcony of his Parisian townhouse, his designer sunglasses in place and his blue eyes looking out across the rooftops of the city. The Eiffel Tower glinted to the north east. Deschamps sucked at his teeth for a moment. It had been an interesting encounter. Perhaps Jack Starling would be as tediously stubborn as his brother. But perhaps… Deschamps allowed a wolfish smile to wrinkle its way across his face. Perhaps Jack Starling was also searching for the gold. In which case, the longer he were to roam free, the closer to the gold he would lead Deschamps.
The Termite had done well in a short amount of time – the unique search terms Jack had used in the internet café had indeed acted as a red light to Vano Gilauri’s hunter pattern programs, revealing Jack’s internet address and real world location within seconds, as well as letting him know that David Starling’s cell phone had been activated and was within ten square metres of the same location. The remote activation of the webcam on Jack’s computer had delivered a live image of Jack directly to Deschamps’ cell phone. The best part, however, was the Termite’s last piece of information. Deschamps chuckled at the thought. That triumph was worth the 100,000 Euros deposited into the Termite’s untraceable bank account. Deschamps savoured the heat of the morning sun on his face, happy with his life and power. Let Jack Starling run here and there across London. Deschamps was content. Let Jack Starling splutter and snarl and search for the gold. Whether it was found by Jack, or by Reynard, it would come to Deschamps eventually. Thanks to the Termite, Deschamps now owned a source within the very centre of the British National Security Establishment.
0820 hrs 14 June 2015, Borough of Islington, London.
GR 51.566613, -0.110027
Jack walked away from the internet café as quickly as he could, eyes down, face obscured by his hoodie. His mind was in a whirl. Now he had a genuine foe: Pierre Deschamps, the man behind his brother’s death. For all his languid elegance, Deschamps had spoken with the calmness of certitude, had been able to track him down to the internet store in minutes. The threats had fallen short, however. Jack smiled coldly, remembering the comments Deschamps had made. If any of the Tommies from Jack’s SAS squad had seen his eyes at that moment, then they would have known action was coming.
The cell phone in his pocket suddenly rang again, breaking Jack from his reverie. He pulled it out in surprise, wondering if Deschamps had actually called back. In his experience, arrogance and stupidity often walked hand in hand. He flicked the phone open and pressed it to his ear.
There was silence.
‘Hello?’ Jack finally spoke.
‘Jack?’ A British voice spoke timidly.
‘Who is this?’ Jack demanded.
‘Um, my name’s Andrew.’
Jack froze mid-step, remembering the words written onto the back of the envelope. Trust Andrew.
‘Listen, if this really is Jack Starling, then you’ll understand what I’m about to say.’ Something in the voice made Jack keep quiet and listen intently.
‘The pub you were chucked out of, on your 16th birthday…’ Andrew’s voice sounded like he was reading from a note.
‘What?’ Jack interrupted despite himself.
‘The pub you were chucked out of, your 16th birthday.’ The voice sounded as confused as Jack. ‘I’ll meet you there at 12.30 this afternoon. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, but…’ The phone went dead before Jack could ask a question. He snapped the phone shut and thrust it back into his pocket. The pub he was chucked out of on his 16th birthday? What sort of game had this become?
0900 hrs 14 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.
GR 51.503721, -0.126270
‘Right, your attention please!’ Brice’s loud voice filled the COBRA room with a deep rumble. Security staffers turned from their computer monitors and stared at him dully. It had been almost ten hours since David Starling’s body had been discovered and each one of them had been working without pause, doing what they could to avenge their former comrade. The arrival of the morning crew had simply meant more people were ready to join in the hunt.
‘Your attention please!’ Brice repeated the demand. His enviable height meant that he could every person in the room. The white noise of conversation gradually faded.
‘Now, we all knew David Starling, or knew of him.’ Brice spoke matter-of-factly. ‘He was a strange one, but he was damn smart. Used to work in this very room, I know. Some of you called him Mycroft, apparently.’ Brice rubbed his palms on the sides of his trousers, suddenly uncertain where he was going with his speech. ‘But however strange he was, he was one of us. One of ours. It’s our job to find out who killed him, and why, and bring his killers to justice. We know David’s brother, Jack Starling, was there last night when David was murdered. Finding Jack Starling is the priority… and that’s what we’re going to do.’
Brice nodded in conclusion then stepped back, satisfied with the effect of his oration. Silence dominated the room for a long moment, as uncertain staffers looked at one another then slowly returned to their work. Brice moved to the conference table and lowered himself into the black, leather-clad office chair at its head. His private view of David Starling was far more critical. Used to being the tallest and biggest man in a room, Brice had always been annoyed by David Starling’s own shambling size, as well as Starling’s way of staring at him as if he were a mere curiosity. It angered Brice intensely that David had thought nothing of his ambitions or family connections. The infuriating thing, however, had been that Brice always found himself blustering inanely when talking to David, while the older man had silently peered at him like a naturalist observing a disappointing specimen. Brice pushed the unpleasant memories away. He had the Prime Minister’s permission to investigate David Starling’s murder. He would do it right. The conference table was ringed with security officers, each one looking at him expectantly, while Sir Johnathon sat on his immediate left, watching him patiently.
‘So,’ Brice cast his eyes around the table, ‘from the top. What do we know? Who, where, what, when and why?’
There wa
s silence for a long moment, until Highgrove cleared her throat and began to speak.
‘London Emergency Services received a telephone call at 2355 hours last night, reporting gunfire. Officers responded and were fired upon by unknown assailants, who managed to escape in a grey van. Officers entering the location found two bodies on the top floor, one identified as David Starling, the other still awaiting identification. A vehicle matching the description of that used in the incident was found at 0600 hours this morning three miles outside Chelmsford – torched and effectively untraceable.’
Brice grunted. ‘All right, so that was the getaway. What about the brother?’
Highgrove nodded. ‘Jack Starling flew into Heathrow Airport that evening.’
‘Interesting.’ Sir Johnathon leant forward. ‘I had an alert tag on Jack Starling. I should have been informed the moment he tried to buy an air ticket, let alone pass through Immigration and Customs at Heathrow.’
‘So what happened?’ Brice stared at him suspiciously. ‘Why didn’t it work?’
Sir Johnathon frowned. ‘Apparently David Starling removed the tag last week without my knowledge. All security checks against Jack were lifted – meaning that he was able to enter the country without being stopped or identified. If we had not just searched for his name after David’s death then we would still think Jack Starling was in America.’
‘David lifted the security tag on his own brother?’ Brice frowned, ‘The man who killed him?’
Sir Johnathon looked at Brice mildly. ‘We do not know that yet.’
Brice cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Well, what was David working on then? What reasons are there for him to be murdered?’ Brice turned the conversation down another path.
Highgrove spoke with well-briefed authority.
‘The current Russian situation. David was intimately involved in the negotiations with Russia, Latvia, Estonia and America.’
‘How much was at stake?’
‘Billions in natural resources, national pride, Russian troops outside Russian lands. The usual, really. The initial indications are that David was drawing it toward a peaceful conclusion.’
‘And the Russians knew he was involved?’
Highgrove nodded.
Brice thought carefully for a long moment. ‘Not everyone in Russia would be happy with a peaceful conclusion. Some extremist elements of the Government would be very unhappy – to put it mildly.’
Sir Johnathon furrowed his brow. Brice was right – many Russians nationalists wanted a return to the mighty days of the Soviet Union – any compromise with a foreign power would be hateful in their eyes and the Government itself knew how useful international tension was in quelling internal dissent. A staffer walked up to the table and slid a piece of paper across to Highgrove. She scanned it briefly then looked up at Brice.
‘The second body has just been identified. Piotr Evgeny Kossoff, 34, Russian national. He’s got recorded affiliations with the Russian Mafia and the Pamyat extremist organization’
Brice leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘There we are then. The last thing extremists from the Pamyat group want is a peaceful outcome. Any sort of a compromise is weakness to that lot. Hijacking the peace talks is exactly what they want. Clearly they used Jack Starling to get his brother.’
‘Are we sure that’s the only context?’ Sir Johnathon sounded sceptical.
Brice thought for a moment. ‘We know Russia is going through a lot at the moment and the current crisis is a source of strength for the Kremlin. The longer it goes on the more Putin can rattle his sabre and the more his police can crackdown on dissidents. It’s classic tension strategy; make a crisis outside, to keep control inside.’
‘But murder?’ Highgrove asked quietly.
Brice nodded. ‘That fits. The Americans don’t need to, the Estonians and Latvians wouldn’t dare to. Only the Russians would spill blood for a short term advantage – and let’s not forget their old tradition of killing people they don’t like. This Kossoff character got what was coming to him – and no doubt the Russians want to give Starling the same treatment.’
‘But where does he fit in?’ Sir Johnathon remained unconvinced. ‘Are you suggesting he would turn up and murder his brother for Russian money?’
Brice shrugged. ‘So far, who knows? I’ve been reading his file, I know he didn’t like David Starling or you – something to do with his being captured by the Taliban in 2002. After ten years in the USA maybe he saw an opportunity to come home and get some money into his bank account. At the end of the day, this whole case is just another disgraced soldier working for Vladdy Putin and his Moscow bastards, with a little bit of fratricide mixed in to throw us off the scent.’
‘But David Starling took Jack’s name off the security lists.’ Sir Johnathon persisted.
Brice nodded. ‘Yep. Who the hell knows why? Maybe Jack tricked him, said he wanted a family reunion – or maybe David made a mistake. We don’t know. But we do know Jack Starling was there, last night, right where his brother was murdered. And that means Jack Starling is our lead. Find him and we can find out what happened to David.’
Brice paused for a moment, a thought coiling its way through his mind. ‘Find him and perhaps we can find out what else the Russians are planning to do. In fact…,’ he clicked his fingers, ‘find him and we can show the world exactly what Russia is up to.’ Brice leaned back from the table, blinking rapidly. Thoughts were flicking through his mind: Jack Starling’s capture and confession; Russia humiliated on the international stage, criticised and attacked for their murder of a British national in the middle of London; Vladimir Putin kicked out of office for his acts of international terrorism. A broad smile twitched across Brice’s face as a final thought floated through his head. Anthony Charter Brice, mastermind of international relations, the new Mycroft of the British Government. This will show them, he thought, this will show them I know what’s best for Great Britain! His attention snapped back to the waiting room.
‘Well?’ he demanded heavily. ‘Jack Starling. I want a full briefing on him by midday and I want him arrested before that!’ The staffers around the table nodded and moved back to their desks. Brice sighed, watching suspiciously as the office buzzed with the hunt. Already the situation was sliding together in his mind. They would find Jack Starling and capture those responsible for David Starling’s death. He swiped on his iPad and pulled up the latest information on the Prime Minister’s visit to Washington. It was 4am in Washington, Brice saw. Well, he would have to have some good news waiting for when the Prime Minister woke up. Jack Starling tied up with a neat little bow would prove to the PM, and his father, and his friends, that Brice was a force to be reckoned with in the national security bureaucracy. After that, Brice knew his name would be on everybody’s lips, from Whitehall to Washington. He looked across the room to where Sir Johnathon was murmuring to a staffer. Some things would change, Brice swore. It was clear that Sir Johnathon Fairchild was getting too old and cautious. Some people would have to go – cut away the dead wood and make way for the next generation. Perhaps I should become the new Chairman of COBRA – a useful place to spend a year or two before entering Parliament. Brice mused the future indulgently. The 21st century has arrived and if Sir Johnathon doesn’t like it… Brice smiled, then he might just have to be retired sooner than he expects.
1230 hrs 14 June 2015, The Volunteer Pub, Baker Street, London.
GR 51.523982, -0.158606
The busy London streets were crowded with walkers, shoppers and tourists. Hoodie in place, Jack pushed his way past a throng of camera wielding tourists and ducked into the crowded pub on the corner. It was exactly 12.30pm. The place was full, but a quick scan of the room showed a table for two near the kitchens, its sole occupant waving at him discreetly. Jack slipped through the crush of diners and into the seat. The man opposite him nodded and slid a pint across the table. Jack looked at him carefully, wondering just who this Andrew really was. He looked well-dressed, yo
ung and black, his hair cut short and a discreet blue tie folded in a full Windsor. Jack smiled to himself. The man’s shirt was fitted, expensive and freshly laundered… but had clearly had few encounters with an iron. Smart, careful and rumpled around the edges, Jack thought. Just like David... This guy might be trustworthy after all.
‘You’re Jack,’ the man said quietly. ‘I’m Andrew Freeman. David showed me your photo. I’m glad you figured out where to meet.’
‘David was my brother,’ Jack smiled guardedly. ‘Only he would know which pub I got nicked in for the first time – and only he would use that as a way to organise a meeting!’
Andrew nodded, looking around the polished interior. ‘Nice place for a 15 year old.’
Jack grinned and reached for the pint. ‘Back then it wasn’t. It’s changed hands at the very least. When I came here it wasn’t so… clean.’
They sipped their pints for a moment, each weighing up the other.
‘This is just up the street from 221b Baker Street.’ Andrew eventually spoke.
‘That explains the tourists.’ Jack nodded. ‘Everyone loves Sherlock Holmes.’
‘David certainly did.’ Andrew smiled awkwardly, then realised what he had said. ‘Oh… I’m sorry… about your brother… he was a good boss.’
Jack stared at him suspiciously. ‘Andrew, I’m not here for commiserations. How did you know how to find me?’
Andrew looked Jack in the eye. ‘I got a priority email from him this morning.’
‘But how?’ Jack wondered. ‘He was already dead by then.’
Andrew’s shoulders flickered momentarily. ‘I know he was. The entire office is up in arms trying to find out what happened to your brother and then he sends me an email from beyond the grave. If I hadn’t been in charge of the IT shift then I would be under investigation right now, I’m sure of it.’
‘So no one in the office knows you’re here?’
Andrew put the pint down and looked at Jack sombrely.
