Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘It’s classified.’ Sir Johnathon sighed, a drawn look on his face. ‘He was deemed potentially compromised. No longer reliable as an officer of Her Majesty.

  ‘Well, what happened at the debriefing?’

  ‘The transcript of the debriefing is in appendix C, Mr Brice.’ Highgrove interrupted helpfully.

  Brice huffed for a moment then shuffled through the back pages of the document.

  ‘More redaction,’ Brice muttered, but began reading through the partly-censored transcript, interested despite himself.

  ‘Good God.’ Brice looked up with a queasy expression on his face. ‘He broke the debriefing officer’s arm halfway through the briefing?’

  ‘That’s clever.’ The Naval Commodore spoke up suddenly. ‘Half way through and half way through.’

  Brice ignored the interjection, stabbing a finger at the page as he turned his attention to Highgrove. ‘This thing actually says, and I quote, ‘Debriefing officer accuses Starling of cowardice. Indistinct scuffling. Officer’s arm is broken.’

  ‘I transcribed that interview, Mr Brice.’ Highgrove spoke up, meeting his eyes reasonably. ‘It was my first assignment. It was a very distinctive crack. The breaking of the arm, that is.’

  Brice’s lips twitched and he threw the dossier onto the table in contempt.

  ‘So you have a well-trained solider with lethal experience, a dishonourable discharge and, you say, a grudge against you personally.’ He peered at Sir Johnathon suspiciously. ‘Perhaps we really should give you a security detail, in case he decides you’re next.’

  Sir Johnathon frowned. He had made the same point minutes before.

  ‘But the fact is,’ Brice continued, ‘no matter what mysterious things happened in the past, it’s not revenge. It’s the Russian angle that counts. How is that going?’

  The Commodore cleared his throat. ‘Comparatively well. The Russians are protesting that David Starling’s death means the deal is no longer on the table, but Latvia and Estonia have both changed their minds and are now calling for the agreement to be signed. Certainly, negotiations have been set back, but we have been able to make some progress.’

  ‘Well, it’s all still serious enough to talk to our cousins about.’ Brice scratched one cheek for a moment, thinking how a conversation with the CIA could enhance his own position. ‘After all, this is a serious business. They need to know the Russians are involved with the murder of one of our own.’

  ‘Might be involved,’ Sir Johnathon cautioned.

  ‘Might be,’ Brice conceded reluctantly. ‘Find me Jack Starling and we’ll find out for sure. Right. The meeting’s over.’ Brice pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I’m going down to the mattresses. Send me a message the moment anything comes through – and I mean anything.’ With that the lumbering public servant pushed himself upright and barged out of the room. The other officers around the table collected their papers and moved back to their workstations.

  Sir Johnathon and the Commodore remained at the table, looking at one another with resignation, each allowing a slight smile to play around their lips.

  ‘Did you see how green he was reading that report?’ The Commodore couldn’t help himself.

  ‘At least we did not play the recording of the interview to him. The crack of that debriefing officer’s arm was truly unsettling.’ Sir Johnathon’s lips twitched for a moment before returning to their usual inscrutability.

  ‘Jokes aside, Anthony Brice is a smart and capable man,’ he continued seriously. ‘His submission to the Exchequer helped save billions during the 2008 stock market crash and he’s done valuable Party work in the Prime Minister’s office since then.’

  ‘So remember,’ Sir Johnathon leaned forward, and looked at the Commodore with a formidable gaze, ‘the Prime Minister put Brice in charge of this investigation, and COBRA will support that decision. Despite his bluster, Brice is doing a good job and he is actually quite right. We need to find Jack Starling as soon as possible.’

  ‘Are you saying Starling is a traitor?’ The Commodore looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

  ‘Not yet,’ Sir Johnathon shook his head, ‘but if he is… I fear many more lives may be lost before this is done.’

  2000 hrs (1900 hrs GMT) 14 June 2015, Drontheimer Strasse, Berlin.

  GR 52.561948, 13.377329

  ‘It’s funny,’ Vano Gilauri declared.

  The hacker sat hunched over the computer terminal, the pallor of his skin exacerbated by the white light emanating from the screen. Nyx lounged in the shadows nearby. Behind them, the Termite sat in his chair on the raised platform, looking down on them like Hades judging his underworld kingdom. The other hackers had departed one by one as the evening had approached and now only these three remained in the twilight darkness of the abandoned factory room.

  ‘What is funny?’ Nyx’s voice drifted out of the darkness by Gilauri’s ear, her voice languid.

  ‘The hunt for Jack Starling.’ Gilauri explained. ‘They have everything on him, except for where he is.’

  The Termite smiled. Gilauri had come round as expected, eager to show off his talents to the mysterious Nyx. She had a talent for persuasion and manipulation and the Termite had watched on with pleasure as Gilauri drew information on Jack Starling from the digital aether. The hacker had a genuine talent for electronic detective work, giving them real time information on the British hunt for Starling that was being delivered directly to Deschamps’ Parisian lair. Nyx had rewarded his breakthrough by rubbing one hand on Vano’s shoulder for several seconds, squeezing through his shirt to palpate the shoulder muscles and send tremors of excitement through his flesh.

  ‘So, they don’t know where he is either?’ The Termite frowned. It was unlike the British to be at such a dead end on their home turf.

  ‘Not a clue,’ Gilauri confirmed. ‘My contact shows that COBRA is totally stumped. He was registered at the airport but he’s been a ghost for the last twenty hours – no sign anywhere. It looks like COBRA thinks he’s tied up with a Russian assassination attemp…’

  ‘Vano!’ The Termite cut him off. ‘Our task is to find Starling – nothing more. We are not looking for reasons why he is being hunted. Just finding him is enough.’

  Gilauri subsided, glowering at the admonishment. He threw a quick glance of contempt up at the shadow-cloaked Termite. We’re not finding him, you weak Berliner, Gilauri raged to himself. I’m finding him… and knowing why he’s being hunted will make my job easier. Nyx circled the shadows behind his chair and the scent of her perfume trickled alluringly into his senses. It was enough to focus him once more. I’ll hunt Jack Starling. Gilauri silently promised them. And then, ‘Termite’, I’ll hunt you.

  2200 hrs 14 June 2015, Aldershot Station, UK.

  GR 51.246480, -0.760516

  Jack allowed himself to merge into the small stream of passengers drifting from Aldershot Station. The sun had set but there was still a lingering summer warmth and he was glad to be stretching his legs. The hour-long train ride from central London had been a calculated risk, but the hoodie and his sunglasses had carried him through, slumped like a teenager in the corner of a carriage. The risk of public transport was nothing compared to taking a taxi cab to Aldershot. Jack knew London cab drivers had a phenomenal memory – every driver carried the ‘Knowledge’; an encyclopaedic memory of the tens of thousands of London streets and alleyways which meant they never needed to consult a map to get around the city. The memory of a London cabbie had put more than a few terrorists and criminals behind bars and Jack did not want to risk it if the search for him became public. Even if he was caught on CCTV at the train station, he reasoned, the police would be unaware of his final destination. Aldershot was a garrison town, but the chances of Jack running into any of his old comrades was remote. The main SAS training centre was in Hereford, close to the Welsh border and it had been almost twenty years since Jack had last been in Aldershot. Overall, Jack trusted his hoodie and gla
sses to keep him under the radar of any electronic surveillance or casual bystander.

  The summer air felt good on his face after the grime and busyness of London and he relished the opportunity to walk down a street that was not crowded with shoppers and tourists. Jack’s long legs settled into a loping stride that carried him quickly from the station. He remembered that the statue of Wellington was northward, on a hill behind the old Garrison Church and his quick pace soon carried him through the town toward the church. At this time of night the gates of the church were locked but Jack was able to pause for a moment and enjoy the view of the red-bricked building, carefully illuminated to show off its best features in the evening dusk. He moved on, following a side road that curved around the church grounds. Night had fully fallen and Jack stalked confidently through the darkness, a wall of ivy on his left, the roadway and then dark parkland to his right.

  After a few more steps, he paused. The equestrian statue of Wellington had come into view, placed on a small man-made hill above a car park. The famous profile of the Iron Duke was instantly recognisable, one arm gesturing forward, a Field Marshal’s baton in his hand. A single street light threw an arc of lightness down onto the car park and Jack circled it carefully as he made his way forward.

  After a few moments Jack reached the foot of the shrub covered hillock. He looked up at the statue and forced back a sigh of frustration. A sense of the ridiculous had suddenly descended and Jack cursed himself for following his brother’s directions toward the great inanimate statue. It was like something out of a Monty Python sketch. Jack scorned the idea that a two-hundred-year-old statue could offer any clues to his brother’s death. Still, here he was and there was no point in getting so close and then giving up. Gritting his teeth at the situation, Jack looked around furtively then began to clamber through the waist-high shrubs toward the summit, following a minute dirt track. Clearly others had also wanted a closer look at the great commander – even if their pilgrimages had not been quite as strange as Jack’s. Jack quickly reached a tiny iron fence, less than a yard high but topped with rusted points. Beyond that, a thick chain hung from a ring of white bollards surrounding the statue was the final obstacle. Jack gave another sigh. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He scissored his legs over both barriers and crouched by the red stone pedestal base. Bronzed horse and rider towered overhead, the black shape of Wellington’s face gazing impassively into the twilight. Jack shook his head at what he was doing, then turned back to the task at hand. Pulling a small Maglite from inside one pocket, he passed the narrow beam rapidly across the surface of the pedestal. There was a small plaque on the front of the statue, commemorating the installation of the thing in the 1880s, but apart from the word Wellington emblazoned on the side of the pedestal, there was nothing to provide any clue as to why David’s postcard had sent him on this lonely chase. Frustrated, Jack turned off the light and leaned back against the pedestal, considering his next move. His mind ran through the postcard’s poem once more.

  Once first of London over see,

  From arch inverse then fired Alder flee,

  Satyr’s service held thee fast and proudly of his daughters cast,

  To shadow victors every breath, yet rode this rider after death

  Again, he could see nothing in the poem that unlocked the secret of why he was there. The bark of a fox echoed out from the nearby parkland. Jack’s sense of the ridiculous was replaced by a towering frustration.

  There was a crunch of gravel and then headlights washed across the surface of the statue. Jack remained motionless in the shadows at the statue’s base. The lights dimmed and Jack leaned forward to look down to the car park. A red Aston Martin was visible below, parked directly beneath the solitary street light. Jack scratched his jaw thoughtfully. It made his inspection of the statue more difficult – whoever was down there might call the police if they saw him clambering around on the statue and the last thing he needed was discovery by some lucky local Aldershot police officer when he was wanted for questioning about his brother’s death. Jack shifted his weight soundlessly and crept back away from the light, moving over the barriers and into the foliage like a great and silent wolf. He settled carefully onto the ground and took a slow breath. His army training ensured that he could wait patiently for hours in any situation. It was only a matter of time before the car would leave and Jack could resume his search. He began to monitor his breathing, a calming meditation exercise taught to him by a burly Scottish sergeant in the mountains of Bosnia.

  A faint noise echoed through the night air as the Aston Martin’s door was gently opened and closed. Jack remained still, but the brief meditation had put a keen edge onto his senses. His ears could easily detect the sound of stealthy footsteps crossing the car park and clambering up the hillock as Jack had done minutes before. Once the footsteps reached the summit, a small penlight was switched on and the figure began patrolling the statue. A minute later they stepped back in clear frustration and Jack heard a single word float through the air.

  ‘Shit.’

  It was Cleo Draycott. Jack’s eyes narrowed.

  There was a scrape of heel on stone and a muffled grunt. She was trying to climb the statue. Jack swept out of the darkness and over the two fences before looming over her like an avenging wraith, plucking her from the statue with ease. There was a moment’s vicious struggle, her muscled body stronger than Jack had anticipated and then Jack had her pinned against the pedestal wall, one hand across her mouth. Jack shifted his stance, avoiding an attempt to drive her high heels down his shinbone.

  ‘Ms Draycott, what a pleasure,’ Jack muttered through gritted teeth. Her body paused for a moment, taunt and ready to fight on, before slowly relaxing into stillness. After a moment had passed he moved his hand away from her mouth.

  ‘Jack Starling.’ She managed to sound quite formal, considering the circumstances. ‘What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?’ Jack let her arms go and slowly stepped back.

  He smiled at the sarcastic greeting. ‘Same thing as you I suspect. Messing around in bushes, looking for trouble.’

  ‘I would expect nothing less from a Starling!’ She pushed him back a step and carefully rearranged her clothes. There was a long silence between them.

  ‘Well, I might as well be the grown up.’ Cleo broke the silence eventually. ‘I’m looking for a string of numbers that’s located somewhere on this statue, which will hopefully be the first step toward finding Napoleon’s gold.’ Jack felt a kernel of excitement ignite inside his chest. So David sent me on the right path after all! He could feel her staring at him in the darkness. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re here because you like jumping out of bushes at random passers-by.’

  Jack paused for a moment, thinking. She had been honest with him, he could afford to return the favour. Calling the police on her was certainly out of the question and she seemed to know a little more of what was happening than he did. She knew there was a string of numbers involved, for one thing.

  ‘I got here a few minutes before you,’ he explained at last. I couldn’t find anything... on the pedestal.’ There was a long moment’s silence as Jack looked up the great statue of Wellington. The clue must be somewhere up there, on the statue itself.

  Cleo turned to share his gaze and a quick scent of her perfume wafted through the night toward him. Jack breathed in, savouring her aroma without realising it, then shook his head to stay focused.

  ‘Me first,’ she declared confidently. ‘Heels off, I suppose.’

  Without a word being said, they were suddenly working together. They fumbled together in the dark for a moment, Jack eventually linking his hands into a stirrup. She leaned close, one hand on his shoulder and then placed her bare foot into his makeshift hoist. It was warm and dry to the touch and Jack marvelled for a moment that her feet could feel so soft and clean after having been trapped in shoes for any amount of time.

  ‘Well?’

  Jack coughed awkwardly to cover his dist
raction.

  ‘One… two… three.’ He heaved her upward, surprised for a moment by the weight of her body. She had the body of an athlete, he remembered, six foot tall and strong – far more durable than the skinny American bar girls he had known over the last few years.

  ‘And?’ he called up.

  ‘Hang on,’ she called out in reply and then a pale hand descended, barely visible in the darkness. Jack reached up and with her help was able to scramble upward onto the top of the pedestal. The size of the statue was such that they could both stand upright between the horse’s legs. Cleo’s penlight clicked on, blinding Jack for an instant, before angling to the side and running up and down one of the horse’s legs. Jack leaned a hand against one fetlock and felt the heat of the summer’s sun still radiating gently from the towering mass of bronze. There were a few moments of silence, both of them scanning their penlights across the surface of the statue in cautious arcs. The carefully-pressed bronze had been recently renovated, but there was no sign of any hidden clues.

  ‘What do we do if it’s not here?’ Cleo’s voice sounded a little apprehensive.

  ‘I’m not sure… look higher, I suppose.’ For the life of him, Jack could not see how they could clamber any higher up the statue.

  There was as a quiet click from below and suddenly Jack and Cleo were cowering together, blinded by the sudden illumination of the spotlights ringing the statue.

  ‘Well, there goes our cover,’ Cleo declared glumly. Jack nodded. The lights must have been set to illuminate at full dark. The result was that the two of them were literally caught in the spotlight, easily visible to any passers-by.

  There was a hiss of surprise from where Cleo squatted by the fetlock of one of the statue’s legs. ‘Look!’ she declared, thrusting her head close to the bronzed hoof. Jack followed her gaze, squinting to make out the details without being blinded by the spotlights shining up into his face. It was just visible, a string of numbers, each one no larger than a fingernail, moulded into the bronze behind the front left hoof of the horse. ‘This must be it.’ Jack declared. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and quickly scrawled the numbers along the inside of his arm.