by Guy Roberts
Jack ran his eyes around the column. The outline of rough bricks could be seen under a layer of white paint. ‘This is it,’ Jack decided, ‘a central column to hold up the weight of the statue.’ Cleo nodded, her eyes flashing like emeralds with the tension of the chase.
‘There!’ she pointed. One of the bricks at knee level was flat and smooth, its surface properly finished, unlike the rougher bricks surrounding it. Jack ran a hand across the cool brickwork and gave it a sharp wrap with his knuckle.
‘Hollow,’ he confirmed.
Cleo nodded, then looked at him questioningly. ‘Any ideas about how to open it?’
‘Open it?’ Jack looked at her in surprise.
‘Well,’ she looked at him expectantly, ‘There’s nothing on the pillar telling us where to go, so whatever we’re looking for must be in there.’ She tapped the smooth patch of brick impatiently.
Jack looked around for something strong enough to break through bricks and mortar but had to shake his head. The far door opened with a bang and waiters started rushing in, grabbing at trays of food and rushing them out to the hungry masses upstairs. Clearly the speeches were over. The room was soon filled with the din of hard work, the workers on the far side of the room ignoring them both.
‘Ok,’ Cleo smiled over the racket, ‘that rush of workers is a good thing actually. That means there’s no need to be quiet. This should only take a moment.’ Jack looked at her with a curious eye as she slipped off the chunky bracelet and knelt by the statue. The bracelet was a series of narrow oval stones, perhaps an inch across but extremely thin, held together by a thick thread. Even as Jack watched, Cleo snapped one of the ovals in half and he saw the thin oval of stone was a mere shell containing a grey putty-like material. Cleo smiled at his surprise.
‘C-4.’ She explained. ‘Specially designed. Always be prepared for mayhem and destruction. It’s a useful attitude in this crazy world we live in.’
Jack raised his eyebrow in impressed acknowledgement. He had guessed she had a shadier background than most people, but her access to bespoke C-4 explosives was genuinely surprising. There was little for Jack to do but scan the room quietly as the hospitality staff went about their business.
‘By the way,’ Cleo looked up at him curiously, ‘do you have an escape route?’
Jack frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Cleo tilted her head and sighed. ‘Jack, dear, I’m about to use a highly dangerous type of tactical explosive material to blast a hole into a pillar supporting three tonnes of Napoleonic marble in the middle of a hoity-toity cocktail party half a mile from Buckingham Palace. What part of that sentence does not involve jail time? We might need to get out of here in a hurry. Do you have an escape route?’
Jack was impressed once more. She had come far better prepared than he. Jack had hoped to find the code and vanish back into the London night; he had not thought that the clue might be hidden inside the statue. If their plan went wrong, then merely walking away into the night would be an impossibility. He grinned. ‘I don’t. But since we’re partners and all…’
She gave a tolerant smile. ‘All right. If things go wrong, just stick by me and act naturally.’ With that she turned back to the pillar. Jack was left scanning the room, hoping that no waiter would come too close and notice their ‘domestic’ was taking a very unusual course.
Suddenly Jack’s eyes snapped back to the entrance of the underground chamber. Amid the flurry of black-clad waiters, an elegantly dressed guest had smoothly worked his way forward, wandering along one wall and inspecting each display cabinet in turn, the chaos of the nearby wait staff utterly ignored. Jack stifled a gasp and felt his face go tight with rage. The look on his face was so dark that Cleo swooped up from her brickwork to follow his gaze.
‘You know him?’ Cleo looked at the slight figure of the older man.
‘Of all the luck.’ Jack’s voice was terse to the point of fury and he could feel his jaw creak with pressure. ‘He and my brother left me to rot in Afghanistan.’
Cleo looked at the man sceptically. He seemed harmless. ‘He’s coming this way,’ she warned urgently in a low voice. ‘You should hide.’
Jack nodded, eyes cold and unwavering, then reluctantly stepped out of sight, leaving Cleo to stand awkwardly by the pillar, obscuring her half-assembled bomb kit with one leg. The man suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell-phone that he placed to one ear. The racket by the door behind him drove him deeper into the basement toward Cleo and he threw her a look of apology as he approached, cell-phone pressed to one ear. Cleo heard him mutter a quick ‘Well, keep me informed’ before he snapped the phone shut and slipped it into a pocket of his elegant dinner jacket.
‘Darn things,’ Sir Johnathon smiled at Cleo, ‘they can even find a body in the Duke of Wellington’s basement.’ Cleo liked his easy manner, but decided a frigid response would be the best way to get him to move on. She gave a cold nod.
‘Johnathon Fairchild,’ he gave a slight bow of introduction.
‘Rebecca Shedley.’ Cleo gave the false name without a moment’s hesitation, but delivered it in frosty terms. Sir Johnathon smiled at her, a curious look on his face.
‘Do I know you?’ His smile gradually faded and alarm flashed across his face for a moment before his geniality returned. Cleo felt her blood run cold.
‘Excuse me.’ He smiled and stepped back, one hand slipping toward his pocket. Before he could reach the phone, he tensed and spun around at Jack’s approach.
‘Jack Starling.’ Sir Johnathon hissed the name in surprise. The Beretta pistol was in Jack’s hand, thrust from the shadows liked a poised viper.
‘Fairchild.’ Jack bit the name off scornfully. Sir Johnathon turned back to Cleo.
‘Rebecca Shedley be damned, young lady. You were at the British Library this morning!’
Cleo raised her eyebrows at his scolding tone.
‘Quiet,’ Jack snapped, angling himself so that the gun was hidden from the oblivious caterers nearby.
The civil servant bristled at Jack imperiously, but remained still. From the entrance to the cellar they looked like three guests to the party, deep in conversation – but the illusion would only last as long as the caterers stayed near the door.
‘Take his phone,’ Jack snapped. Cleo plucked the phone from the old man’s suit, slipping out the battery and placing the suddenly useless equipment into her black clutch.
‘So you killed your brother and now you are going to kill me.’ Sir Johnathon’s eyes blazed with indignation, though his hands moved to fiddle nervously with his wrist watch.
‘What?’ Jack’s eyes narrowed.
‘Do not stall then, boy, your father raised you better than that.’ Sir Johnathan squared his chest. ‘Unless you want to pull a knife on me instead?’ He glared at Jack witheringly.
‘You old fool.’ Jack’s voice was taunt with derision. ‘You’ve finally lost it. I didn’t kill David, it was some bastard from France.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘I don’t care what you believe.’ Jack’s jaw clenched. ‘Especially if you’re stupid enough to think I killed David. I didn’t bloody touch him. I’m not like you. I don’t play chess with people’s lives.’
Sir Johnathon’s eyes narrowed and his hands lowered back to their sides, indignation was under control and his formidable brain dispassionately analysing Jack’s response. ‘So you are not working for the Russians?’
Jack held his eye for a long moment, working past the rage he felt toward this slight man in an attempt to match his analytical coolness.
‘I’m not working for anyone. I’m trying to find the bastard who killed my brother.’
‘Excuse me gentlemen.’ Cleo interrupted the reunion, kneeling forward toward the pillar with the explosive bracelet extended between each hand. She quickly pushed the discs of the bracelet against the pillar in the shape of a square around the edge of the hollow brick.
‘What the devil is g
oing on?’ Sir Johnathon snapped.
‘Shut up,’ Jack said brusquely, staring down at the bracelet with fascination. Four of the bracelet’s discs had been broken apart, Cleo shaping the putty into long strands of explosives as thin as a pencil, which she pushed into place around the edge of the smooth brick. Strands of detonation wire no thicker than dental floss ran between the explosives to the fifth disk carefully held in Cleo’s hand. She looked up with a smile. ‘Four of the discs have shaped explosive charges and the fifth carries the detonator and spool,’ she spoke quickly. ‘Perfect accessory for the discerning criminal.’
‘Jack Starling, tell me the meaning of this,’ Sir Johnathon exclaimed in exasperation, utterly undaunted by his situation. ‘Are you trying to blow up the building and kill us all?’
Jack ignored the question – his eyes locked on Cleo’s. Her eyes were shining with excitement as she smiled at him.
‘Make a noise Jack, in three… two… one.’
Realising her intention, Jack let out a loud ‘achoo’ that echoed around the basement like a brief thunderclap. That noise, combined with the racket of the kitchen staff, acted to completely cover the dull crack as the charges were detonated. Jack looked down in surprise as a wisp of brick dust drifted away from the pillar. The square was still in place, but cracked into three or four pieces, sitting in the wall like a ceramic jigsaw.
‘Somebody, please.’ Sir Johnathon’s frustration was clear. ‘Just tell me, what’s going on?’
‘Hush,’ Cleo muttered and knelt down to extract the pieces of brick from the wall. There was a slight clink of brick on brick as she eased away the pieces of broken masonry.
‘There’s a recess,’ Cleo muttered, then reached one hand into the aperture. She grunted, face scrunched with concentration, then slid her hand back out, bringing out a slim wooden box no larger than the palm of her hand.
‘What on earth?’ Sir Johnathon whispered. Jack kept his eye on his opponent even as he reached out and plucked the box from Cleo’s hand and held it up in Sir Johnathon’s face.
‘David was killed for that,’ Jack spoke quietly. ‘It’s not revenge. It’s not the Russians. He was murdered by a Frenchman called Pierre Deschamps. The man’s a vicious criminal with delusions of grandeur. He found out David was searching for Napoleon’s hidden gold and killed him for it.’ Jack’s voice was firm and cold as he slipped the box into a pocket of his tuxedo.
‘Napoleon’s hidden gold?’ Sir Johnathon looked at him in bafflement. ‘Jack, if your brother was killed, why not come to me?’
Jack snorted in contempt.
‘I lived through five years in hell because of you and David. You think I’d come running to you for anything in this life? For all I know, Deschamps could be working for you.’
‘You think I would…’ Sir Johnathon paused, remembering with shame how he and David had indeed conspired to leave Jack languishing in the prison of a sordid Afghani warlord. At the time he had agreed with David Starling that Jack’s imprisonment was a necessary sacrifice in the great game – a terrible decision, but one in Britain’s interest. Jack Starling was right to treat him with suspicion and contempt.
‘Perhaps you are right to doubt me.’ Sir Johnathon conceded as if discussing an obscure point of cricketing technique. ‘But you are wanted for your brother’s murder nonetheless. Give yourself up to me right now and we can clear up this mess tonight.’
‘No dice,’ Jack declared shortly. ‘By then it’ll be too late.’
‘Jack,’ Sir Johnathon entreated, ‘let me help. Let me help you. Whoever murdered David – this Deschamps, the Russians, or anyone else… we can investigate, we can sort it out.’
‘You’ll help me?’ Jack’s face was grim as he asked the question.
‘Of course, Jack, anything. Whatever this is, let me help.’ A tightening of Fairchild’s face was the only sign of the pressure he felt.
‘Then find Deschamps,’ Jack said grimly. He grabbed Cleo’s wrist in one firm hand and stalked away through the crowd of caterers, the pistol slipping unnoticed into a pocket as they fled.
Sir Johnathon breathed out slowly, his expressionless face watching calmly as they vanished from sight. The moment they had turned the corner out of the basement he plucked a second phone from his jacket and auto-dialled the number for COBRA. He stood calmly as he waited for the phone to connect, his old limbs trembling from the stress of the confrontation. He rubbed one hand across his tired face. It really had been an enjoyable few minutes, browsing the treasures of Apsley House in relative quiet before the surprise encounter. Sir Johnathon had visited the museum several times previously, always lingering longer than he planned. Meeting Jack Starling, however, had broken that tradition. Sir Johnathon stifled a sense of frustration at the pounding of his heart. It was such a tiresome thing to grow old, he realised. If he had been a little quicker, he might have had the gun out of Jack’s hands before the young fellow had known what was happening. But such was life. Sir Johnathon’s eyes fell upon the scattered chunks of brick that Cleo had blasted from the wall and he squatted down to turn them over curiously.
‘COBRA.’ A quiet voice spoke into his ear.
‘This is T-R 112,’ Sir John said quickly. ‘I just encountered today’s priority target, location Apsley House, 149 Piccadilly. Get a police perimeter in place ASAP. I want a forensic team here now and CCTV footage from the building piped through immediately. Priority target was accompanied by the Library target, tall, blonde, very striking. Have an APB on them both immediately. Armed and Dangerous.’ He held the phone away from his head for a moment as he pushed one last piece of brick into place with a finger. The pieces of brick lay together in their original shape like a child’s jigsaw puzzle. Sir Johnathon had assembled it with the white exterior face down on the floor. He rocked back on his haunches slowly, staring down at the back of the brick, where a single symbol stood out in relief from the unpainted red brick. It was a stylised square and compasses.
Sir Johnathon looked down at the emblem for a long moment then brought the phone back to his head. ‘Get me a car,’ he spoke heavily. ‘Now.’
2230 hrs 15 June 2015, Apsley House, London.
GR 51.503379, -0.151931
Jack and Cleo dashed hand in hand from the porticoed entrance of Apsley House. The summer heat had gone and a cool night breeze now thrilled their skin as they ran across Piccadilly. Cleo was suddenly in the lead, pulling Jack toward a car parked directly opposite the stately home. Jack had time to recognise it as the same Aston Martin she had driven the night before.
‘My God, that was a blast!’ Cleo laughed. Before Jack could say a word she had tossed the keys to him then slid herself across the bonnet of the car and into the passenger seat, leaving Jack to scramble into the driver’s seat as fast as he could. Jack gunned the motor and pushed the Aston Martin into the traffic. A cabbie blared his horn in protest as Jack punched the car into the narrowest of gaps, weaving down Knightsbridge as fast as he could. The engine growled happily and Jack allowed himself a brief smile in appreciation of the car’s performance. He knew Sir Johnathon would be throwing a police cordon around the district as soon as he could – and even if they escaped that net, then their images would be picked up by the ‘ring of steel’ – the thousands of CCTV cameras spread across the city. Jack knew evading the CCTV network would be a far more serious challenge. He could only hope that Cleo would follow through on her claims of an escape route. He glanced across the cabin, to see her staring intently at her cell-phone, thumbs dancing across the screen as she sent a message off into the night. Jack blinked, hoping she what she was doing. If her plan was simply driving out of the city, then this could be a very short ride indeed. Jack pushed the thought to one side. She had been one step ahead of the game so far.
2234 hrs 15 June 2015, Apsley House, London.
GR 51.503379, -0.151931
Jack and Cleo had barely vanished from sight before Sir Johnathon emerged from the front door of Apsley House in a
genteel rush, slipping directly into a government car that had arrived seconds before. The travel from Apsley House to the COBRA offices under Whitehall was swift, the government car tearing from one location to the other with wailing sirens and flashing lights. Sir Johnathon’s mind was ticking over rapidly, the mental equivalent of the finely-tuned automobile that was carrying him to the innermost depths of government power. Sir Johnathon barely registered the views of Buckingham Palace and St James’s Park as he was carried past, his attention focused solely upon the actions he could take to snare Jack and Cleo before another minute had passed.
There was an excited hum as Sir Johnathon entered the central COBRA room – his call from Apsley House had electrified the staffers. Brice sat at the head of the briefing table, eyes watching the monitors impatiently, one hand drumming a tattoo on his ever-present iPad.
‘Anthony,’ Sir Johnathon bowed his head in a formal nod.
Brice waved a hand in a gesture of permission. ‘Go for it.’ Hostilities were suspended in a moment of genuine excitement.
Sir Johnathon turned back to the staffers awaiting instructions.
‘Fingerprint this now, please,’ he ordered, placing the tiny detonator of Cleo’s bracelet bomb onto an intelligence officer’s clipboard. The man nodded without question and carried it swiftly from the room like a waiter bearing the choicest of wines.
‘CCTV footage from the basement?’ Sir Johnathon asked the room mildly. Michelle Highgrove spoke up from her monitor, her elegant frame impeccably dressed in an ironed shirt and smart blazer. ‘We’re into the Apsley House security software now.’ She spoke precisely, brown eyes slicing through the information on screen with the calculating intensity of a born huntress. ‘Patching through now – this is about five minutes old.’
