Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘Ok,’ Cleo agreed. ‘But the clue at Nelson’s Column was about dates – numbers, not letters. Did we miss something?’ Cleo looked at him in alarm. ‘Do we need to go back?’

  Jack leaned back in his chair, squeezing at his temples as he turned the problem over in his mind. ‘No, it can’t be; it has to be something in the poem, some clue, or hint.’

  ‘Ok, wait,’ Andrew spoke up. ‘Nelson’s Column. It needs a letter attached, but it’s probably not anything obvious, like an N or C and neither of you saw anything there which would help.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘We figured that the clue was in the dates of the pictures around the base of the column.’

  ‘So let’s have a look at the poem itself.’ Andrew leaned forward. ‘There’s got to be something there. Jack sorted through the papers he had put inside the leather jacket and finally spread out the correct lines of poetry.

  ‘Bold Cyclops, master now the air

  Victorious death became your share

  Upon no land your battles fought

  Their order is the key so sought.

  If taken seventh, eighth, fifth and nought,

  Four times less one your visage found

  And this will let her be renowned’

  ‘Ok,’ Andrew nodded, ‘so the first three lines are about finding Nelson’s Column and the clues on the base. We’ve done that, so the rest of the poem must be about deciphering the clue, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Jack nodded, enjoying the sight of the usually timid Andrew taking charge of a purely intellectual contest. Jack would not have wanted to play chess against the IT staffer.

  ‘Well,’ Andrew spoke slowly, clearly thinking through the problem as he spoke. ‘The clues from the statues and the Needle were all seven numbers long... but the clue from Nelson’s Column is sixteen numbers long.’

  ‘Too long?’ Cleo asked.

  ‘Well,’ Andrew sighed, ‘it just doesn’t fit is all… what about the next line? If taken seventh, eighth, fifth and nought. Maybe that’s the clue.’

  ‘Ok,’ Jack looked down at the table quickly, ‘so the numbers from the Column are 1797, 1798, 1801 and 1805, corresponding with each of Nelson’s victories… but if we take the seventh, eighth and fifth numbers… we’re still left with 13 numbers… and how can we take the ‘nought’ number?’

  ‘No, wait,’ Cleo shook her head, ‘it’s not the order of the numbers… it’s the numbers themselves!’ she smiled quickly. ‘Don’t take the seventh number… take all the number sevens… don’t take the eighth number… take all the eights!’

  ‘And the fives… and the nought means all the zeros,’ Andrew nodded in agreement, catching on to her point. ‘If we take the sevens, eights, fives and zeros, then what do we have left?’

  ‘1919111,’ Jack looked up in confusion, ‘can that be right? So many ones and nines?’

  ‘There’s seven numbers there,’ Andrew counted, ‘just like the other clues.’

  ‘So that leaves the last two lines,’ Cleo frowned. ‘Four times less one your visage found,’ Cleo repeated the poetry slowly. ‘and this will let her be renowned. We figured out that the first part ‘Four times less one your visage found’ meant four panels, times four, minus one. Which means 15. But how does that connect to the next line?’

  A stray memory floated through Jack’s head. ‘Let her be renowned? Could that be HMS Renown?’

  ‘HMS Renown? A boat?’ Cleo looked at him with mystification.

  ‘A ship, that Captain Hornblower sailed on in the Hornblower series,’ Andrew mused. ‘Maybe it’s another clue like the Creeping Man – we need to look at a copy of the Hornblower series – thrice times your visage found – perhaps we need to see how many times Nelson appears in the text.’

  ‘No, that’s too sketchy.’ Jack shook his head decisively. ‘Especially since David preferred the Aubrey Maturin novels over the Hornblower series.’

  ‘Oh,’ Andrew subsided reluctantly.

  ‘Something else then,’ Cleo kept at it. ‘The meaning has to be there… we just have to find it. Everyone just listen to the words and think. Four times less one your visage found and this will let her be renowned’

  Something sparked in Jack’s head. ‘Say that again,’ he urged.

  ‘What?’ Cleo’s brow wrinkled curiously, but she complied. ‘Four times less one your visage found and this will let her be renowned’

  Jack heaved a great sigh of relief. ‘I’ve got it.’ He grinned, slapping the table with excitement. ‘It’s not let her be renowned,’ he explained, ‘it’s ‘letter’ be renowned. Four times less one your visage found and this will letter be renowned.’

  ‘Of course!’ Cleo smiled. ‘It’s tied to Nelson’s column – four pictures of Nelson, times by four means sixteen, minus one means fifteen… and the fifteenth letter of the alphabet is…

  ‘O.’ Jack finished her sentence. ‘The third clue is the letter O.’ He frowned for a moment. ‘Just like the clue from Cleopatra’s Needle. Can that be right?’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’ Andrew’s look of worry matched Jack’s own. ‘A-M-O-O-something. I think we’re on the right track…’

  ‘Ok,’ Cleo nodded, then smoothed out the fifth poem once again.

  ‘You creeping man and weakest link,

  half man half beast all out of sync.

  After year each time place in order true,

  Then fourth and ninth and fifth take you

  By titled end is letter deign

  And poem’s end is searchers gain

  ‘Well,’ she looked across at them expectantly. ‘If we go by the same reasoning, the first few lines are about the numbers, leaving the last two as the clue to the letter.’

  ‘So all we need to figure out is the last line,’ Andrew agreed, ‘And poem’s end is searchers gain.’

  ‘Dammit.’ Jack sighed in a flash of exasperation. ‘Why does this have to keep being so difficult? Why couldn’t he have just bloody written it down?’ He slumped into a chair in frustration. Cleo tutted. ‘Come on Jack, don’t give up yet, we’re nearly there.’

  ‘No, wait, we are there.’ Andrew spoke out confidently. Jack looked up at him, hope rising once again.

  ‘It’s written right there.’ Andrew spoke with quick excitement. ‘By titled end is letter deign

  And poem’s end is searchers gain.’

  His audience looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Titled end!’ Andrew explained with a grin. ‘This clue is about a Sherlock Holmes story – and what’s the title? ‘The Adventure of the Creeping Man’. The end of that title is the letter N.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jack could feel hope rising in his breast despite his scepticism. ‘But what about the next line?’

  ‘Confirmation.’ Andrew was brimming with confidence. ‘And poem’s end is searchers gain’. That sentence is the end of the poems leading to the clue… and the letter ‘n’ is at the end of that sentence. That’s the final clue that David left. It’s the letter N!’

  Cleo frowned. ‘No, it couldn’t be that simple. Could it?’

  Jack grinned. ‘I think so.’ He could feel the excitement bubbling upward. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  2130 hrs 16 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.

  GR 51.503721, -0.126270

  A tense atmosphere had filled the COBRA office. Even the impeccable Highgrove was looking tired and out of sorts. Brice sat silently at the head of the table, his lips and jowls pushed into a pout of stubborn resentment. His mind was a lurching abstraction of determination and unease, turning over the events of the day again and again. Beneath that was a deeper fear – that Johnathon Fairchild was a Russian agent. Raised by his nanny on stories of British greatness, the idea of a traitor angered Brice down to his very core.

  The possibility of espionage overshadowed everything. The awkward arrest of a beloved national celebrity on the M4… the terrible collapse of Cleopatra’s Needle… all of it would be ignored at the news of a mole at the very heart o
f the British establishment. Brice had grown up hearing of the Cambridge Five – the traitors who passed information to the Soviet Union during and after World War 2. One of the five, Anthony Blunt, had been Surveyor of the King’s Pictures. The damage to the government of the day had been considerable. Likewise, Brice couldn’t help going over what he knew of the Profumo Affair in the 1960s, which triggered a Prime Minister’s resignation and a change of government the following year.

  Brice thanked the gods that he had lost his temper and dismissed Sir Johnathon from the room. They would find Jack Starling soon enough, of course, but to uncover a traitor would be even better, no matter the political risk it might entail. The truth had to come out – Brice just had to find it. This will save me, Brice thought to himself. That will show that I was right all along. But still… could it really be Sir Johnathon? Brice’s eyes flickered down to the folder by his side. It had been delivered to him minutes before by an old school friend working in the Ministry of Defence. There was evidence in there to damn Sir Johnathon twice over, it was true, to show, if only circumstantially, that Fairchild had been working for other forces all along. Despite it all, however, Brice’s mind rebelled at the implications of that thought. An old fool, yes, but a traitor? The Chairman of COBRA himself! Imagine what secrets he had access to, what gifts he has given to Britain’s foes over the years.

  But who else could it be? Highgrove? She was competent and spunky, Brice had to admit that – but she had let the woman escape from the British Library. He couldn’t be sure. Who else? The Commodore? He was a decorated Naval officer, certainly, with a storied career in espionage… but the old warhorse was also a borderline alcoholic with a reputation for liaising with foreign women…. Surely no Kremlin mastermind would risk recruiting such an unreliable figure… unless…

  ‘Sir?’

  Brice looked up into the brown eyes of Michelle Highgrove. ‘What is it?’

  Highgrove slipped into the seat by his side without a word. Brice’s protest was stilled as she put a hand on his and pressed down.

  ‘Mr Brice,’ she spoke with quiet urgency. ‘The IT Deputy Chief has been going over the information from this afternoon’s CCTV breakdown.’

  ‘The deputy?’ Brice hissed. ‘What about that Andrew fellow? I thought he was in charge.’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘There was a family emergency this evening. His father is in hospital. I thought it best to speak to you privately before anyone else.’

  ‘Why?’ Brice felt another wave of nervousness crawling up his spine. What is it this time! ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Sir,’ Highgrove’s brown eyes bored into his. ‘The Deputy was working through the code used to disable our network and he discovered that the code is one of ours, from COBRA itself.’

  ‘From COBRA?’ Brice’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The Deputy identified an override authority in the programming that leads back to this office. That code was accessible by only two people.’

  ‘Who?’ Brice hissed the question.

  ‘The Chairman and Deputy of COBRA. Sir Johnathon and David Starling.’ Highgrove’s voice was wavering, as if she could not believe her own words.

  Brice nodded slowly, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. It was Sir Johnathon all along… this proves it. ‘It was Johnathon Fairchild. I knew it. I was right.’ His voice was soft, as if the depth of the revelation had left him unexpectedly forlorn.

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’ Highgrove stared at him anxiously, willing it not to be true.

  ‘I had a friend in the Ministry of Defence do a second investigation of Jack Starling, outside the COBRA loop.’ Brice’s voice was low. ‘This is what we found.’ He opened the folder and slid the pages across for her inspection.

  ‘When Jack Starling was six years old, he and his brother went on holiday to Moscow with their father.’ Brice continued inexorably. ‘Nigel Starling was killed in an accident on the Moscow Metro. He fell under one of the carriages. Right in front of Jack.’ Highgrove paled at the thought of a six-year-old child witnessing such a horrible thing.

  ‘Fairchild never told us about the accident.’ Brice leaned forward. ‘Because it wasn’t an accident. Jack’s father was investigating a mole in the British establishment, a Russian spy at the highest levels – the double agent known only as Serge. Nigel Starling got close. Too close, which is why he died.’

  He selected a black and white photocopy from the folder and pushed it into her hands. Highgrove looked down and frowned.

  ‘This is a copy of the Pravda newspaper article published the next day.’ Brice looked at her carefully as she frowned at the thick Cyrillic text.

  ‘I know you don’t speak Russian, Michelle. Look at the picture.’ Brice reached out a heavy finger and tapped it on the grainy photograph next to the article. It was a black and white image of two boys in obvious distress, Moscow policemen looming around them protectively. Highgrove recognised the childhood faces of Jack and David Starling. ‘That was taken only minutes after the accident.’ Brice’s voice was cold.

  He slid another picture from the folder, of the same image, but in colour and with a broader scene of action. Muscovites were in the background, grim and stony-faced. ‘The original, uncropped photo, taken from the Pravda archives after the fall of the Berlin Wall.’ Brice stared at her for a moment, then indicated one corner of the picture, where a slender figure stood in profile, one hand raised to block his face from the photographer’s gaze.

  ‘Sir Johnathon.’ Highgrove whispered in shock.

  ‘He’s been a Russian agent for his entire career.’ Brice’s voice was tinged with weary disgust. ‘A traitor to everything that Britain stands for.’ Highgrove held a hand to her throat for a moment. Brice pushed the papers together and leaned back in his chair, certain that destiny had shined upon him once again. He gestured to the other papers in the folder. ‘It’s all there. Everything has fallen into place. Sir Johnathon’s visits to Russia during the 1970s and 1980s, his covert work across Eastern Europe and the Far East. Look at it one way, he’s just another spy fighting the good fight… look at it another way, and he’s revealed for the traitor he really is.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Highgrove whispered.

  ‘You don’t want to believe it, that’s all.’ Brice spoke with surprising gentleness. ‘Everything fits together… if you look at the file you can see him for what he really was. A traitor who killed a friend when his secret identity was threatened.’

  Highgrove looked at Brice in horror.

  ‘Johnathon Fairchild was Serge.’ Brice confirmed. ‘The simplest and most arrogant of code-names. The secret agent’s codename wasn’t just Serge… it was Sir-J. Sir Johnathon Fairchild himself.’

  Brice sighed disgustedly. He felt sick to his stomach at the secrets and lives that Sir Johnathon had betrayed. Nigel Starling… David Starling… no doubt Jack Starling would be killed too, the moment he had outlived his usefulness. But at least Sir Johnathon’s perfidy had been uncovered. A warm glow of righteousness was bubbling in Brice’s chest. They would find Sir Johnathon, and bring him to account at last. Brice reached out and patted Highgrove’s hand.

  ‘We found him,’ Brice smiled. ‘Everyone in this office, including you and me. Your news of the computer code is just the final nail in his coffin, and it explains everything that’s happened since David Starling was killed. Sir Johnathon is helping Jack Starling – that’s why they were both at Apsley House last night. Sir Johnathon has been playing us all for fools, because Sir Johnathon is the one who killed David Starling after all... just like he killed David’s father all those years ago. Your efforts in tracking down Serge won’t be forgotten, I’ll make sure of that.’

  Highgrove nodded slowly, still shocked at the revelation that her mentor had been a traitor to Crown and Country.

  ‘Commodore,’ Brice’s raised his voice, briskly confident now his hunch had been confirmed. ‘We have radio contact with the guardsman watch
ing the Chairman?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we do.’ The Commodore’s voice was equally sharp.

  ‘Good,’ Brice nodded in satisfaction. ‘Contact him right now. Sir Johnathon Fairchild is to be arrested immediately.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  Brice took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he pronounced sentence on his former colleague.

  ‘For conspiracy, treason… and murder.’

  The Commodore stared at him incredulously, but reached for the radio nonetheless.

  Brice smiled, pleased at his control of the room.

  ‘Sir?’ The Commodore’s voice was tight.

  ‘What is it?’ Brice frowned, a sudden thrill of unease touching upon his spine.

  ‘The man guarding Sir Johnathon…’

  ‘Well?’ Brice swallowed, panicked sweat flushing from his armpits.

  ‘His radio,’ the Commodore stared at him urgently, ‘it’s not responding…’

  2130 hrs 16 June 2015, The Shard, London.

  GR 51.0504491, -0.086312

  ‘Ok, let’s see.’ Jack picked up the poem that Cleo had brought from the British Library and placed it in the centre of the table.

  ‘If every hidden truth you hold,

  Then seek with humble step the hidden gold.

  Bronze and brick and written letters shown.

  That highest temple and its eastward throne.

  When found, I hope your quest of pain will cease.

  And brother, mine, I hope that we find peace.’

  ‘Ok…’ Jack cracked his knuckles. ‘The first three sentences are about the clues we’ve found – the hidden truths… written on bronze statues, or stone pillars, or written in the Conan Doyle story. So putting them together should show… ‘That highest temple and its eastward throne’… right?’