Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘We go back, all of us. Reynard say no guns, but Piotr, he very excited. He run up the stairs to the room, bullets start shooting, the police come. It all go crazy.’ The Italian threw up his hands expressively. ‘Reynard take us out of sight, he wait until the next day and then sends me here with this box, he says it is important for you.’ The excited commentary drifted into silence. It was obvious that Deschamps had tired of listening to the breathless explanation. The Frenchman had picked up a brittle piece of paper, one side of it curled and blackened from David Starling’s attempt to destroy it. Papers plucked from David Starling’s fireplace just as the lumbering civil servant was trying to destroy them, Deschamps realised. Thank God that Reynard found them in time. It was enough to make Deschamps sweat – if Reynard had arrived a minute later, even these precious clues could have been lost and Deschamps’ search for the gold would have been set back months.

  The Italian watched with fascination as Deschamps’ pale blue eyes focused intently on the scrap of paper, turning it back and forth in an attempt to best read the spidery writing just visible in the morning light.

  ‘Fired Alder.’ Deschamps deciphered a pair of words at last. The Italian looked at him in mystification.

  ‘Fired Alder.’ Deschamps repeated the words, rolling them across his tongue as if savouring every letter.

  ‘Fired Alder…’

  He had heard a name like that before… but where? When?

  The foreign words turned slowly in Deschamps’ mind. What can it mean? A memory came like a shark rising from the depths.

  ‘Aldershot.’ He hissed. Jack Starling had been seen in Aldershot.

  The noise made the petty criminal in front of him start with nervousness. Ignoring him entirely, Deschamps looked down at the collection of half-burnt scraps that were spread across the table.

  Not fired Alder, Deschamps thought to himself, but Aldershot. What can it mean?

  Similar scratches of text were visible here and there, sometimes charred, sometimes not. Deschamps allowed a triumphant grin to spread slowly across his face. He already had an email from the Termite, covering the search terms that Jack had entered into the internet café’s computers. Together with these scraps, Deschamps realised, he was closer to the gold than anyone in Britain knew.

  0630 hrs 15 June 2015, St James’s Park, London.

  GR 51.501980, -0.132455

  Jack looked at Andrew cautiously. How much had Andrew guessed? Jack liked the man and trusted him, but he was nervous. Cleo had warned that David distrusted COBRA, that there was someone in the department spilling information. Everything she had said had checked out so far; why else had David summoned Jack, if not to find someone he could trust. That meant even Andrew could be a mole – working for the Americans, or the Russians, or even for Deschamps himself. Jack frowned, then remembered the envelope. ‘Trust Andrew’. David had hidden that away and there was no reason not to follow his instructions. Unless Andrew had betrayed David. The stray thought flashed through Jack’s mind. In which case nothing he says can be trusted. Jack paused for a moment, mentally backing away from the paranoia such a comment invited. His own soldier’s instinct was telling him Andrew was trustworthy. Not a fighter like Jack, certainly, but a thinker who could be trusted to do the right thing without hesitation. That was enough for now.

  Without saying a word he reached into his pocket and pulled out David’s poem. The fold of the paper revealed only the first stanza and David kept the paper in his hand to ensure the other lines were hidden. He trusted Andrew, certainly, but his training in the SAS emphasised that secrets should be as secret as possible. Andrew looked down at the page and read the first stanza out carefully.

  ‘Coarse ogre you, oh European Bane

  In war and bloodshed wrote your name

  Though gilded Nike thou hold tight,

  You could not rule, who ruled by might

  All vaulted power comes to naught,

  It was alone your sole support.’

  Andrew looked at Jack curiously. ‘That’s all you’re showing me?’

  ‘For now,’ Jack nodded. He could feel the golden lapel pin sitting snuggly in his inside pocket. No need for Andrew to know about that, either. ‘Anyway, you’ve already seen the next stanza on the postcard,’ he explained. ‘Once first of London, etc., etc. That was actually the second stanza, but this one about the ogre comes first – and I’ve got as little idea about it as I did about Wellington’s statue.’

  ‘Ok.’ Andrew nodded, a crease appearing across his forehead as he concentrated on the new challenge. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Well,’ Jack weighed his thoughts carefully. ‘The opening lines have to be about Napoleon,’ he decided. ‘The other stanza was about Wellington, so it seems logical that this one should be about Napoleon. That’s what David was interested in, after all.’ His companion nodded as Jack thought his way through the puzzle. ‘Napoleon was called the Corsican Ogre – David has written coarse ogre here, which basically sounds the same, and Napoleon tried to take over all of Europe and caused lots of bloodshed, so that would fit as European Bane, as would as ‘In war and bloodshed wrote your name’ … so this whole first section must be talking about Napoleon.’

  ‘Coarse ogre you, oh European Bane.’ Andrew repeated the phrase and nodded. ‘It makes sense. But what about Nike?’ Andrew looked at him in confusion. ‘He’s holding a shoe?’

  ‘No… well, actually, maybe,’ Jack shrugged. Anything was possible with his brother. ‘But I remember David telling me once that Nike was the Greek goddess of victory.’

  ‘Napoleon holding victory tight?’ Andrew frowned. ‘So… one of his battlefield victories?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jack searched his memory. ‘Marengo, or Austerlitz? I don’t really know,’ he shrugged. ‘We’ll have to google it.’

  ‘If that works.’ Andrew was dubious. ‘I think David might have been smart enough to take a search engine into account. I don’t think I could have found where the Statue of Wellington was by googling from Arch inverse to fired Alder.’ They lapsed into a moody silence. A small chime sounded and Andrew looked at his watch in alarm.

  ‘It’s getting close to work time. I’ve got to get to the office and you should probably get under cover. We can meet again this evening – but somewhere more inconspicuous.’

  Jack smiled. Andrew was right. It had been a foolish decision to meet at St James’s Park, a homage to his father’s career in the Secret Service. Such romanticism had no place in the modern surveillance state and Jack could not risk returning to such an open spot.

  ‘Here’s my number.’ Andrew slipped a business card across to Jack. ‘Don’t use it unless you have to.’

  Jack took the card reluctantly, aware of the risk Andrew was taking.

  ‘Are you sure Andrew?’ He looked across at the IT staffer in concern. ‘If I get caught and they find that on me then you’ll be ruined – they’ll think you’re complicit in David’s murder.’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound. I owe David that much. Just say that you found it in his study. If you do call me, for God’s sake, don’t say it’s Jack. Say you’re from the nursing home, calling about my dad, Peter.’

  They stood up to leave and Jack grinned in thanks and shook Andrew’s proffered hand. The two of them were of equal height, Jack realised and perhaps just as heavy, although Jack’s weight was accounted for by hardy muscle, while Andrew was carrying the paunchiness of office life. It was rare to meet someone who could match Jack’s frame and he was oddly comforted by the slightly bearlike nature of the shambling analyst. There was, he suddenly realised, a touch of David about the young man.

  Jack remained standing for a moment, watching Andrew walk off toward the mysterious passageways of Whitehall. He would have to get under cover soon and spend more time thinking about what the next line of the poem could mean. If necessary, Jack knew he could spend all day searching through the internet for some cryptic clues, but somehow that would not
be what David had intended. There had to be some sort of personal connection in the clues, he was sure of it – something which he himself would know. The postcard with the picture of the statue had been an obvious hint, but Jack knew he could not rely on such crutches for the rest of the poem – only the words would be useful, hiding clues that David must have known Jack would understand. Indeed, if it had not been for David, how else would Jack have known that Nike meant victory?

  Jack frowned.

  Where had David told him that?

  The memory came flooding back.

  He ran after the vanishing Andrew, grabbing him by the arm at the edge of the park. Andrew looked at him in surprise, but Jack gave him no chance to speak.

  ‘A tuxedo, do you have one?’

  Andrew looked at him uncomprehendingly, but did not waste time asking questions. ‘Of course, but it’s in the wardrobe at home.’

  Jack grinned. ‘I’ll need it for this evening. I’ve got a party to attend.’

  0705 hrs 15 June 2015, Sloane Square, London.

  GR 51.492544, -0.157894

  One and a half miles to the south west of St James’s Park, Anthony Brice was staring in tired frustration at the ceiling of his fashionable bedroom. The morning traffic was well underway and normally Brice would be eating his way through a hearty cooked breakfast or sharing a crafty pre-work beer with some university friends who worked near his own government lair. This morning, however, Brice lay in bed, exhausted and nervous, pushing away a sense of impending doom. Jack Starling. Brice cursed the name for the thousandth time. Where is he? What is he planning? Brice had crowed in triumph only hours before, when the computers had identified Jack’s face as he emerged from a train carriage in Aldershot. After that it had been pure adrenalin, police officers rushing to the scene looking for Starling, everyone in COBRA on tenterhooks. The minutes had slowly ticked by and Brice had felt the excitement drain from his body second by excruciating second, until Brice had to admit that Starling had vanished once again. Finally Brice left COBRA at 2am, filled with sullen despair. Sleep had eluded him and he spent hours in bed with his eyes wide open. Every moment Jack Starling was loose was another moment for the Russian Government to threaten British power and prestige on the European Continent. Every few minutes Brice had opened his iPad, eager for the latest information from COBRA. Nothing new happened, no matter how many times Brice checked.

  Once again Brice pulled up a picture of Jack on his iPad and stared at it resentfully. How this violent thug could escape his grasp was beyond him. A tiny muscle in Brice’s eye began twitching annoyingly. It was a simple lack of sleep, Brice tried to tell himself, not at all related to the manhunt he was trying to oversee. Brice rubbed a hand across his sweaty face and pushed himself out of the bed. He would have to get back to COBRA soon, to make sure everyone knew that he, Anthony Brice, was doing his utmost to find that dangerous criminal Jack Starling. It was clear that Sir Johnathon Fairchild was no longer the legend he had been: if anything, his constant questionings was a wilful obstruction of Brice’s efforts to bring the Russians to justice for their hand in the murder of David Starling. One thing Brice knew; if Starling escaped, it would not be Brice’s fault and it would not be Brice’s fall. He would make sure that others got the blame – after all, people like Sir Johnathon Fairchild had been around far longer; that’s where the dead wood was. Brice knew the Russians were behind everything – they’d been trying to drag Britain down since the Russian Revolution in 1918. When the time came, Brice would be there to push them back – he knew he had the connections and the influence to make a real contribution to Britain’s future. He wouldn’t let that future be hijacked by Jack Starling and his Russian gangster friends. Starling might escape the authorities – but he wouldn’t stop Brice’s climb to the top. Mollified somewhat, Brice tossed the iPad back onto the bed and strode heavily toward his marble-tiled shower. Today, he promised himself, would be the day he caught Jack Starling.

  1100 hrs 15 June 2015, British Library, London.

  GR 51.529901, -0.127833

  ‘Miss Corday,’ the library assistant approached Cleo Draycott hesitantly, a look of sympathy on his face. ‘Terrible to hear about Dr Starling’s death. Terrible.’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ Cleo Draycott nodded in response. ‘It’s such a tragedy, he was such a wonderful professor. The faculty is in a terrible state of confusion.’ The words came easily. No doubt, she thought to herself, the faculty was in a terrible state of confusion. She just wasn’t there to see it for herself. ‘David was like a father figure to so many of us,’ Cleo continued smoothly, ‘and undertaking such important research.’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine.’ He paused for a moment in silence. ‘Please, follow me. His study space was this way.’ He gestured out of his small office.

  Moments later the two of them were walking along a gantry walkway that hung suspended above the main Reading Room of the British Library. Around them was a bright wash of light-filled space, walls smooth and white, while the desks and seats far below were a pleasing contrast of orange pine. Below ground, Cleo knew, was level after level of book-filled storage space, just one part of the mammoth collection the British Library oversaw. Scholars were scattered on seats here and there in the hall below them and a pleasant, studious hush filled the hall. Cleo enjoyed the view. It reminded her of an ant farm: clearly something important was happening, something completely foreign to her, completely silent, yet terribly important for the people involved.

  ‘This is a beautiful building,’ Cleo said artfully. ‘You must enjoy working here.’ She was dressed in a casual combination of jeans and print shirt, looking like a fashionable student from one of London’s trendier universities.

  ‘Oh, I do, Miss Corday, I do.’ The assistant smiled awkwardly, pride in the building suddenly overcoming his natural reticence. ‘It’s about knowledge, really. We’ve got books from all of history, from every religion and region in the world – all gathered under one roof for learning and study.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘You can’t help but enjoy being part of such an enterprise.’

  ‘Gosh, you must feel ever so important.’ Cleo smiled inwardly. Would he notice how thickly she was laying it on?

  His downy cheeks flushed crimson and he shook his head modestly. ‘It’s the books that are important,’ he smiled. ‘They last. The rest of us are only here temporarily.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he shrugged, as if such humility was out of place in the 21st Century. ‘We’re here.’ They had stopped at one of a series of doors that ran along one side of the third floor walkway. ‘David Starling’s private study carrel.’

  ‘Fantastic, thank you.’ Cleo smiled, but then purposefully gazed out across the balcony, giving the assistant a few moments to inspect her profile. ‘We’ll be glad to sort out Dr Starling’s work here – it might make sense of what he left in the rest of his office!’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he nodded in understanding. ‘And, er?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She slipped a piece of paper from her tote bag and passed it across. ‘A letter confirming my position as Dr Starling’s research assistant at University College.’ He began looking over the forgery carefully.

  ‘Is it true you’ve got stuff by the Beatles here?’ Cleo tilted her head curiously, leaning forward slightly over the balcony, a move that emphasized the curve of her bottom.

  ‘Oh, um, yes.’ He sounded flustered. ‘We’ve quite a few pieces of Beatles arcana, including the original manuscript of John Lennon’s Strawberry Fields for Ever.’

  She spun around and smiled at him winsomely, eyes wide, then glanced toward the locked door expectantly.

  Utterly charmed, the librarian smiled in return and unlocked the door. She smiled patiently, picking the papers from his hands and smiling in thanks as she moved into the chamber within. The small room was compact and utilitarian – an ancient monk would have felt right at home in the atmosphere of aesthetic research. The shoddy public computer would have been a mystery, of c
ourse, but Cleo was surprised by how few books or papers David had left in the little research space. A number of cardboard storage boxes stacked next to the table looked more promising. The air was fresh and clean – the work of an air vent in one corner of the room pumping carefully-filtered air, which, Cleo presumed, helped ensure that human breath did minimal damage to the millions of books kept throughout the building.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get a start on this, then.’ The assistant’s comment broke Cleo’s reverie.

  She looked up and beamed a smile at him. ‘That’ll be nice. Can you drop back after lunch? I should be packed up by then and we’ll be able to let someone else use the room.’

  He nodded eagerly and Cleo gently but firmly shut the door in his face. Once the shadow of his profile had vanished from the frosted glass doorway she turned around, cracked her fingers and set to work.

  The letter from David had arrived in her mail box at 9am that morning. Only David had known the house she was staying in and the information in the letter had led directly to this tiny study room in the British Library which David had been using as a discreet research space. The public computer she dismissed entirely – no security staffer would dream of doing sensitive research on such a vulnerable machine. Instead, she scanned quickly through the books and papers that were still on the desk. As expected, they were all on the French Revolution and Napoleon – David’s chosen hobby. Cleo quickly flipped through books by McPhee, Schama and Hunt, then settled into the chair and began to sort through the boxes of papers stacked next to the table. Five minutes later she sat back and frowned. Each box had been full of photocopies and transcripts of official French papers from the Napoleonic Era. It had been fascinating to see the crests of Napoleonic government departments and the handwritten reports directed to Napoleon himself – some calling him General, some First Consul, many titling him as Emperor – a quick lesson in his rise to power, Cleo concluded. Yet nothing relating to the gold. It made no sense. David wanted her on the chase – his letter told her something important was to be found here in this room. She slumped back into the seat, scanning through her options. She had to find it – the room was small, there were only so many places it could be, but a proper, page-by-page search would take hours. She rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment, thinking the situation through as David had taught her. It was a last ditch gesture before going through all the papers again to see what she had missed the first time.