by Guy Roberts
‘What matters,’ Sir Johnathon continued, ‘is that you were right. There is a cache of gold and Deschamps is after it. Come with me and we can sort this out once and for all – find the gold, help bring Deschamps to justice. Trust me,’ Sir Johnathon’s voice was earnest. ‘Help me fix the last few days. The more you run and hide, the deeper the pit you are digging yourself.’
‘No,’ Jack shook his head with relish. ‘Right now you’ve got nothing – you’re as much in the cold as I am, Sir Johnathon. You come here with a relic of the Boer War as your muscle and expect me to help you to fix the situation?’ Dusty bridled at the insult but kept silent. ‘I know what sort of tricks you’d pull to ‘fix’ something. You were just as responsible for keeping me in Afghanistan as David was, remember and don’t think I’ve forgotten that fact.’
‘Jack,’ Sir Johnathon’s teeth were bared in frustration, ‘this is bigger than what happened in Afghanistan. Yes, that was the wrong decision, yes, David and I regretted it ever since. Your experiences as a prisoner in Afghanistan were terrible – terrible. We knew what was happening to you. Your own brother read each report himself – you know he was not the most emotional of men, but it tore him apart every day. But you have to let it go, Jack. Now, today. Your country demands it. We need to fix what is happening right now, not what happened nearly 15 years ago.’
‘You don’t get it.’ Jack shook his head in wonderment. ‘It wasn’t 15 years ago, it was yesterday for me. The Sheik and his albino torturer standing over me laughing. Knives cutting me down to the bone and those bones broken one by one… and it tore David apart?’ Jack could feel rage pulsing through his body. The scars had mostly faded, but he could feel them nonetheless and his fingers were clutching at the air as if looking for a neck to throttle. Somehow he had risen and was shouting down at Sir Johnathon, looming over the slight old man like a great wrathful thunderstorm over a tiny, weather-beaten tree.
‘Get back in your seat,’ Sir Johnathon ordered frostily, the barrel of the PPK thrust painfully into Jack’s midriff.
‘Now listen,’ Sir Johnathon continued once Jack had returned to his seat, ‘we do not have any more time for self-pity and rage. David and I were responsible for your imprisonment at the hands of the Sheik, but we were powerless to act – had we tried, you would have died. Believe me, you were not the first he kept… you were only the first he kept alive. If we moved against him it would have been as if we signed your death warrant ourselves.’
Jack looked away in disgust.
‘But if you will not forgive me,’ Sir Johnathon’s voice was steely, ‘then at least listen to me. Last night you told me a man named Deschamps was to blame. I did not believe you at the time but the last few hours have proved me wrong. I appreciate that he is responsible for David’s murder.’ Sir Johnathon looked at Jack calmly. ‘The Duke told me the secret at the heart of the matter. A treasury of gold hidden in Europe. Deschamps seeks that treasure. He must be stopped.’
‘Oh?’ Jack eyed Sir Johnathon suspiciously. ‘What’s the urgency?’
‘Europe.’ The civil servant sighed. ‘He wants all of Europe.’
‘And all it takes is a pile of hidden gold? Please.’ Jack dismissed the preposterous statement.
‘Think, Jack.’ Sir Johnathon’s eyes narrowed. ‘The Duke believes the gold might be worth more than half a billion Euros. Think what that could mean. Five hundred million Euros. Untraceable, untrackable… Two million here will buy a Senator in Romania. Three million there will run an oil pipeline through Hungary. Ten million will secure energy contracts for France, Germany, Switzerland. Suddenly he can turn the heat off in the middle of winter – which politician would challenge such power? He could control half the politicians in Europe for only fifteen million Euros. Now imagine what he could do with the rest of that gold. The tottering leaders of Europe would bend to his will like school children and he would be the hidden master of lands stretching from Lisbon to Moscow. He would be a second Napoleon. Deschamps would make the Russian oligarchs look like street corner hoodlums.’
‘All that with a pile of gold that’s been hidden for 200 years?’ Jack was impressed. He hadn’t quite realised the possibilities of the gold, and had thought that Deschamps wanted the gold out of sheer greed… The ambition of such a scheme however… Jack swallowed, surprised that his mouth had suddenly gone dry.
‘All that, and more,’ Sir Johnathon sighed. ‘The Ministry of Justice in Paris is building a case against him, but if he gets the gold then he will be too powerful for them to take down – any government official who would act against him would be blocked by their own leaders. But…’ Sir Johnathon’s eyes suddenly gleamed hard and sharp. A hunter’s eyes, Jack realised. ‘If we can get to the gold before him, if we can cut him off – then he will have stretched his neck out too far and he will be vulnerable at last. The French will finally be able to act.’
‘So if we succeed, he fails?’ Jack narrowed his eyes, cautious that Sir Johnathon might be manipulating the two of them for his own ends.
‘Indeed,’ Sir Johnathon nodded. ‘We can avert a threat to Great Britain and bring your brother’s killer to justice. That is why I want you to come with me back to COBRA.’ His eyes grew stern. ‘Stopping Deschamps is beyond either of you. He’s too smart, too powerful and too violent. Only I can stop him.’
‘Only you can stop him?’ Cleo spoke up, looking at Sir Johnathon doubtfully. ‘How can we believe that?’
‘We need to secure the gold,’ Sir Johnathon explained, ‘once that is found, I will be able to leverage Deschamps out of his defences and see him brought to justice.’
Cleo looked at Sir Johnathon cautiously, a faint gleam of hope in her breast. This old man could really lock up Deschamps? Really? She swallowed carefully, aware of the battle of wills between Jack and Sir Johnathon. I think he could… but if David didn’t trust him… can I?
Jack shook his head rejecting Sir Johnathon’s comments entirely. ‘You just said that you’re off the grid. How can you stop Deschamps in Europe if you’ve lost all influence in Britain?’
‘I still have some tricks up my sleeve,’ Sir Johnathon replied, unperturbed.
‘And who’ll get the gold instead of Deschamps? The Old Boy Network?’ Jack needled him.
‘That will be taken care of.’ Sir Johnathon kept the urgency from his voice. These damn stubborn Starlings… it doesn’t matter if it’s Jack that finds the gold or me… COBRA or the Kremlin… just so long as it stays away from Deschamps!
‘I don’t buy it,’ Jack shook his head. ‘We found the clues, outsmarted Deschamps and his men, outsmarted COBRA and found the golden tablet. You really think we need your help?’
‘I’m not offering you my help, Jack, I’m telling you what to do.’ Sir Johnathon’s voice was stern. ‘Deschamps has already killed your brother. I will not let him kill you too. Your parents were dear friends and I will not let Nigel and Kitty Starling’s last living son be murdered by a French hoodlum. If you do not give me the tablet and come to COBRA right now, then I will shoot you in the kneecap and have you taken in anyway.’
Jack looked away in disgust.
‘Jack,’ Sir Johnathon’s face turned cold, an expressionless professionalism settling across his features. ‘I have a car waiting outside. You’re getting into it. Now.’ The pistol was pushed toward Jack’s face, then very deliberately lowered to point at his right kneecap. Jack’s eyes narrowed and he could feel Cleo’s body tense at his side.
Silence stretched out into long seconds.
An unseen rifle cracked in the darkness and a plume of red mist exploded from Dusty’s neck. The old man fell from the podium like a lifeless rag doll.
0010 hrs 17 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.
GR 51.503721, -0.126270
The door to the COBRA office banged open and Michelle Highgrove marched into Brice’s lair with a look of urgency on her face. Andrew trailed pathetically in her wake, a security officer guarding him with an SA80 as
sault rifle pointed close to Andrew’s spine.
‘What the hell is this?’ Brice stared at the trio in bemusement, his arms caught up in pulling on his jacket. After an hour of giving commands on tracking down Sir Johnathon, Brice had been seconds from leaving for his Knightsbridge apartment and his thoughts had been fixated on a late night curry from the shop next door.
‘We’ve got it all backward.’ Highgrove spoke quickly, eyes wide. ‘It’s not the Russians, it never was.’
‘What?’ A look of scornful irritation pasted itself across Brice’s face. ‘Bollocks it’s not the Russians, everything fits.’
‘But it’s still wrong.’ Highgrove swung around and pointed her pistol at Andrew. ‘Tell them!’
‘Jesus,’ Brice flinched as the pistol swung around the room. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘The Armoury downstairs.’ Highgrove frowned. ‘But that’s not the problem. Listen to what he has to say.’ She gestured toward Andrew once again. ‘We’ve been chasing up the wrong tree since David died. It’s not the Russians, it’s a Frenchman named Deschamps, he’s trying to find a pile of Napoleonic gold and David was in his way – David was killed by a Frenchman, not the Russians!’
‘Put the gun down,’ Brice spoke slowly, his eyes bulging nervously as Highgrove complied. ‘Now listen. We’ve been at this for a long time and we’re all getting tired. It was a shock to everyone that Johnathon Fairchild was a traitor, but the sooner we find him, the quicker we can sort this out.’
‘Listen to what I’m saying.’ Highgrove spoke quickly, willing him to understand. ‘It’s not the Russians we’re after, it’s a Frenchman and we’re letting him get away. David Starling wasn’t killed by his brother, he wanted Jack’s help – David invited him back to the UK. The CCTV system going down this afternoon wasn’t Sir Johnathon’s fault, it was part of David’s plan. Andrew wrote the code that knocked the system out.’
Brice’s ears pricked up. ‘He did it?’ His eyes narrowed to dagger points as he looked Andrew up and down.
‘Yes, that’s what I’m trying to explain…’ Highgrove tried to interject.
‘Right,’ Brice stared at Andrew aggressively. ‘I knew it, I knew Johnathon Fairchild wasn’t working on his own. He must have had help. Get him down to the cells.’ He watched the guardsman pull Andrew away by one arm, then turned his attention to Highgrove.
‘Listen,’ Brice patted her on the shoulders, ‘you’ve done well catching Andrew out, but anything else is just your imagination.’ He took a deep breath and leaned toward her confidingly. ‘If Johnathon Fairchild is innocent, then why has he vanished? Remember the picture of him in Russia! He has to be a traitor, or he’d still be sitting at home waiting for his name to be cleared.’ Brice shook his head dismissively. ‘Instead he’s on the run, and the soldier we had guarding him is missing. Once we capture Fairchild we’ll have this all sorted out. It’s past midnight, just head home and have a nice hot bath and you’ll see things much straighter tomorrow.’
Highgrove’s hackles raised at the patronising tone that had oozed into Brice’s voice.
‘A nice hot bath?’
‘That’s right,’ Brice nodded soothingly. ‘You’ll see that this talk of Deschamps is nothing more…
‘No Sir, I know where Jack Starling and the girl are.’ Highgrove interrupted. ‘Andrew Freeman has been helping them. I don’t need a bath, Mr Brice, I need you to find Jack Starling and help him outsmart Pierre Deschamps, the man who killed David Starling in the first place. Jack Starling is at Freemasons’ Hall right now. I need you, sir, to do your job.’
Brice stared at her in astonishment.
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘you need your head checked. We know who killed David Starling – it was Jack Starling, working for the Russians, on Sir Johnathon Fairchild’s orders. You saw the records, you know what’s going on. Perhaps David was about to uncover Sir Johnathon and got killed for his trouble! We’ll find that out eventually. Now, I’m glad to see you’ve outsmarted this character,’ he threw a glare at Andrew, ‘but seriously, woman, get a grip, you’re on the wrong bloody page! You think he’ll just tell you where Jack Starling is?’
‘Mr Brice,’ Highgrove exhorted him in amazement, ‘he already has! Jack Starling is at Freemasons’ Hall right this minute.’
‘Ok, enough, enough.’ Brice raised both hands and glared at her. ‘We need to track down everything, no matter how silly. We’ll send a police car to inspect Freemasons’ Hall. Will that do?’
‘Fine.’ Highgrove’s voice was witheringly cold.
Brice turned back to the room and opened his mouth to speak.
‘Sir,’ a staffer looked up from his monitor, interrupting Brice before he could begin.
‘What is it?’ Brice snapped.
‘We have reports of gunfire sir, at Great Queen Street.’
‘Great Queen Street?’ Brice frowned. ‘What’s there?’ He frowned, already knowing the answer to his question.
The staffer glanced across to Highgrove before he replied.
‘Freemasons’ Hall.’
0010 hrs 17 June 2015, Freemasons’ Hall, London.
GR 51.514983, -0.121556
Dusty’s wounded body fell jerkily to the ground, the report of the rifle shot echoing through the space of the Grand Temple. Another shot rang out, splintering the arm of the golden throne.
‘Damn it all,’ Sir Johnathon swore in surprise, ‘get down!’ He threw himself to one side and rolled off the podium to seek cover behind a row of blue-covered chairs. Such was the old man’s style that even this desperate manoeuvre was completed with languid elegance. Jack pushed Cleo out of the chair and pulled her across the dais in the opposite direction. They rolled off the platform with a bump, coming up short against Dusty. The old man’s hands were clamped around his neck and he glared at them furiously as blood leaked from between his fingers. A fusillade of bullets erupted from the darkness, chewed into seats around them.
‘Help him,’ Jack snarled, then grabbed the rifle, knelt upright and fired a handful of shots into the darkened hall. There was a ripping noise behind him and Jack threw a quick glimpse back to see Cleo winding a length of her shirt around Dusty’s neck. Although bleeding steadily, the wound did not look too bad. Jack smiled – the ancient soldier was tougher than Jack had given him credit for – getting to that age clearly meant that Dusty was a difficult man to kill. Another spray of bullets came from the darkness and this time Jack was able to shoot back at the muzzle flashes on the far side of the chamber.
‘Jack, you idiot boy!’ Sir Johnathon’s voice rang out from across the aisle. ‘Get out of here.’
‘And leave you?’ Jack shouted back, his voice ringing out over the rattle of gunshots. The tension between them was forgotten, both now unified against the hidden attack.
‘Stop being a bloody fool!’ The civil servant popped up in a classic shooter’s stance, the Walther PPK clasped before him in both hands. The pistol’s distinctive crack rang out as he sent two shots flying into the darkness. There was a muffled curse and the counter volley halted for a moment. Sir Johnathon ducked back behind the chairs then looked at Jack, his eyes blazing.
‘The situation has changed, as of this instant. Get out of here, tell the police what’s happened – and stop that criminal Deschamps from finding the bloody gold!’ He flicked the pistol up and fired three shots in quick succession past Jack’s ears. Jack spun around to see a swarthy man slump to the ground, leaving a patch of blood smeared across the blue curtains behind him. An evil looking Vityaz-SN submachine gun slipped from his lifeless fingers to bounce harmlessly to the carpeted floor. Always check your corners, Jack admonished himself.
‘I’m all right, lass.’ A gravelled voice came from below, where the bandaged Dusty was pushing away Cleo’s ministrations and grasping for the discarded Vityaz submachine gun with a vengeful look in his eyes. Jack quickly scanned the darkness, firing three shots at a moving shadow.
‘Go!’ Sir Johnathon urged, ducki
ng his head down as another shot whistled past. Jack nodded and squeezed off several more shots of covering fire for the old man as he followed Cleo across the room and through the vast curtained doorway. He glanced back to see Dusty aiming his borrowed weapon upward to shoot out the light overhead in a single shot. The chamber was plunged into darkness, then a fusillade of shots rang out as both sides exchanged fire. The dull bark of the Vityaz was followed by an agonised scream.
‘Come on!’ Cleo exclaimed, grabbing at Jack’s arm and pulling him down the corridor. Jack reluctantly followed, the SA80 slotting into his arms as he took the lead. His body easily recalled itself into the soldier’s pose – a slight crouch, legs spread wide, rifle pushed firmly into his shoulder, eyes keen along the sights of the weapon. The gunfire behind them echoed in their ears as they hustled through the sombre masonic corridors. Display cases full of aprons and trinkets were ignored, as were the symbols carved into walls, doorways and archways. At one point they hid in an alcove behind an ornate masonic flag, the heavy embroidery concealing their presence as a handful of thugs ran past, guns clutched in their hands as they shouted to one another in a mixture of European languages. Jack cursed silently – the men could turn the tide against Dusty and Sir Johnathon. For a moment Jack considered jumping out from the alcove and engaging them from ambush, but he did not know how many rounds were left in his weapon and such a move would leave his back and flanks exposed to any other opponents in the vicinity. Highgrove killed trying to help Sir Johnathon would leave Deschamps free to find the gold. Jack ground his teeth in frustration, then led Cleo onward once the enemy’s footsteps had faded into the distance. After a few false turns they reached the back door which had been their original entrance. Jack tucked Cleo safely behind him and pushed his way out into the cold night air, rifle foremost. He scanned both sides of the road, then ran toward Andrew’s car, eyes wide for any threat.
Jack got to the car and fumbled out the keys. There was a discrete beep as the car unlocked itself. Cleo hesitated as she opened the door.
