by Guy Roberts
‘How do you know that?’ Jack stared at him belligerently. ‘We were still looking for it when your dog Reynard knocked us out in London.’
Deschamps looked down at Jack. A hint of amusement glittered in the depth of his cold black eyes. ‘Because I know everything you have done. We have contacts inside COBRA who tells us everything. I know you have found all the clues in the same way I discovered you were at Freemasons’ Hall itself.’
Jack felt his jaw clamp shut. David was right. There was a traitor in COBRA.
Deschamps’ eyes were glittering as he savoured the moment of triumph. ‘When they found you on the Embankment, they traced your movements back to Trafalgar Square. Whatever secret you found on Nelson’s Column will be shared with me soon enough.’
Jack took a deep breath and steeled himself. He had been tortured before and had seen the lust for power in the eyes of the cruel. He knew that after all those words, violence could not be far away.
‘When I find the gold, Jack, it will be thanks to you. You have found all the secrets and you have found this.’ Deschamps put one be-ringed finger onto the golden tablet and held it there.
‘Now… explain what this is for.’ He spoke quietly, without a hint of stress or intimidation. It was as if their explanation would come as a matter of course, without a moment’s resistance to his demand. Jack looked away. Deschamps drummed a finger on the golden artefact for a moment, pondering his next step as if surprised that such consideration was necessary. A moment later he had stepped away from the table, vanishing from Jack’s field of vision.
‘Why are you helping them, Jack?’ Deschamps’ voice hissed quietly in his ear as a masculine fragrance reached Jack’s nose.
‘I know you, Jack,’ Deschamps whispered. ‘I’ve seen the reports, the assessments – even the emails that your brother sent to the Americans, begging them to leave you hidden away in the dungeons of the Sheik.’ He moved back into Jack’s vision, leaning casually against the table to stare down at him. ‘You are such a formidable warrior, but for what?’
Jack looked away stoically.
‘You’ve spent the last few days fighting for Queen and Country… but did you need to? Did they ever fight for you?’
The silence stretched out.
‘A thoughtless attack dog.’ Deschamps smiled to take the sting from the words. ‘David’s words, not mine, I assure you – but as wrong about you as he could possibly be.’ He had moved behind Jack once more and his heavy hands gripped tightly at Jack’s shoulders.
‘In the last forty-eight hours you’ve avoided and escaped every trap and snare of the British security establishment. You’ve outsmarted my men in London – a dozen of them are in jail, or dead, because of you. You have managed to find every clue David left for you,’ his hands clamped onto Jack’s shoulders painfully tight. ‘That is the work of a very clever man – not a thoughtless dog.’
Deschamps shifted suddenly, coming around Jack’s shoulder to smile down at him like a tolerant, forgiving uncle. ‘But to what end? We both know what this is really about. Gold – Napoleon’s gold, an unbelievable amount. Gold means money and money means power. You are fighting against me Jack, which means you are fighting to let the British establishment seize millions of pounds worth of gold. They will use that gold for nothing but their own desires.’ Jack looked away, trying to ignore Deschamps’ words. ‘What, you think they will use that money for? Hospitals?’ The Frenchman’s words were filled with scorn. ‘Schools? Charity? Do you think they will even admit that the gold has been discovered? I know you are not that naive!’ The Frenchman’s voice was rich with passion.
‘So what will you use it for then?’ Jack challenged. ‘Corruption, buying votes, getting your own power?’
‘Of course I will use it, yes!’ Deschamps threw up his hands. ‘To buy votes, yes! To build power, yes, but for change! Don’t you see? To make a change in this world!’ He grabbed at Jack’s shoulders and thrust his face close. ‘You and I are not like them, Jack. We have fought the world, as men should. Not for us childhoods of privilege, of silk sheets and nannies and sugared treats. We are not like that old man, that Johnathon Fairchild, trading on friendship and secrets and school ties to steal from the poor and give to the rich!’ Deschamps’ eyes bore hungrily into Jack’s, urgent with passion. ‘I will use the gold to fight against the system – to fight all the way across Europe and put an end to the privilege and the hypocrisy of the fat politicians and kings and CEOs.’ Deschamps leaned even closer, one hand almost stroking Jack’s head. ‘I will use that money to remake Europe for the brave, for the proud, to cut away the fat, the useless, the blind. To break the rich and powerful and let the people feel their own power once again. Imagine it, Jack. A Europe where people like you and I can succeed, where power is held by the right people, the strong people, the honest people – not just the rich people who have spent generations bending the rules to keep themselves on top.’
He took a deep breath, pale blue eyes staring into Jack’s own grey ones from a distance of mere inches.
‘You killed my brother,’ Jack muttered contemptuously. ‘You and that knife-wielding coward behind you. Everything you say is shit.’
Deschamps sighed regretfully and let his face slowly distance itself from Jack’s.
‘Oh yes,’ he conceded, ‘brothers are important. Family is important.’ He nodded. ‘My parents died when I was very young. I have no brothers, no wife, no sons. I made a family from those men around me that I trust, those who I have cared for and fought for. My family has grown strong, even in a Europe where the rich stay rich and the poor stay poor. I have brothers like Reynard and I trust them with my life, as they trust me.’ He looked at Jack pitifully.
‘But your family, Jack? Your brother left you to rot in Afghanistan, to be beaten and tortured, to have the blood of your body spilt in a barren land of murderers and thieves. I killed your brother, you say? I say he was but a coward who left you to rot in a far off land. I spit on the idea that such a creature could ever make any claim of brotherhood.’ Deschamps swept forward and whispered into his ear. ‘And so do you, Jack.’
‘What?’
Deschamps gripped Jack’s shoulders tightly. ‘You are a soldier, Jack, you have a code. You fight another man face to face like a warrior. You do not stab in the dark like a coward. I can see that. I respect that. But David Starling? He used you. He didn’t care about such things that you care about. He treated you like shit he stepped on in a street, left you to be tortured, to have you whipped for the amusement of a barbarian. And all that time, he knew your own code, your warrior code, would leave you helpless to seek revenge.’
Jack was silent.
‘What can a man of honour do against the treachery of those he is honour-bound to respect? Against his own brother? Nothing. And so, because you could not fight him, you fled your home, your country.’ Deschamps smiled. ‘When Reynard took your brother’s life, in that instant he gave you your freedom. He gave your honour back to you. You are a man once more, because of us. We have taken away he who took your life. So what now? You have found your strength again, Jack. You know what I seek in return… I ask my due, that is all…’
Jack looked away without expression on his face. Deschamps remained still, watching Jack for any reaction.
‘No?’ he asked eventually. ‘Honour will not suffice? What about power?’
Jack was motionless.
‘I told you, Jack,’ Deschamps continued. ‘It has been a pleasure to see you operate. Alone, pursued by the authorities, challenged by my agents, you have persistently escaped, laid plans, struck out against the world. The entire machinery of the corrupt British state was against you and you survived – you even escaped Reynard here for more than 48 hours.’ Reynard shifted by the wall, but Deschamps did not shift his eyes from Jack’s. ‘I want that skill, Jack, I want that power. I will find the gold and when I do… I want you to be there at my side.’
‘What?’ Jack’s grizzled voice w
as filled with the scorn of disbelief and he met Deschamps’ gaze at last.
‘That’s right.’ Deschamps stared into his eyes. ‘Join me and you won’t just be surviving from one day to the next, on the run, in hiding… you will thrive, with power and money and freedom like you have never experienced before.’ Deschamps leant back with a broad smile. The scar was noticeable for an instant, a red line like the crayon mark of an angry child.
‘I want you to work for me, Jack.’ Deschamps smiled. ‘Together, we’ll find the gold and put it to work. With that gold we can reach our hands into every corridor of power, every banking house, every boardroom, every Parliament in Europe. You will be my captain.’ Deschamps leaned forward and spoke slowly. ‘I will make you the most powerful man in Great Britain. You will serve me, and rule.’
‘You would trust me?’ Jack asked the question slowly, his voice low and weary.
‘Once you see what I have to offer? Of course.’ Deschamps stood up and walked toward where Cleo sat staring straight ahead. ‘Money… power… women… the essence of life itself.’ He looked down at Cleo.
‘Women,’ he repeated, a strange undercurrent of hunger in his voice. ‘The finest possession for a man of power.’ He circled one hand around Cleo’s neck, his eyes flicking back to Jack’s. ‘Delicate, desirable…’ Deschamps’ eyes lowered down to Cleo herself. ‘Defiant…at first’ His gaze met Jack’s again. ‘To break such women to your will… to have them as you wish, as your servants of the flesh whenever you desire.’ His hand slid down Cleo’s neck, inside her blouse and cupped one firm breast. ‘That is power.’
Jack met Deschamps’ eyes unflinchingly, though every fibre in his being was incandescent with rage. A smile played on the Frenchman’s lips as he squeezed Cleo’s body with one cruel hand. Jack breathed out slowly, trying to keep control as Cleo sat like a marble statue. Not a sound had escaped her lips.
‘And if I still say no?’ Jack asked levelly.
Deschamps paused. His tongue extended from his mouth, touching the exact centre of his upper lip, then vanished back into its lair.
‘I am a proud man, Jack. I will not extend a hand of friendship again.’ His hand slid from her blouse like a rattlesnake. ‘I have offered you dignity, revenge and power. These things should not be cast easily aside. Tell me of the tablet now, Jack.’
Jack looked at him for a long moment, weighing up their situation and whether Deschamps could be trusted.
Eventually Jack shook his head and spoke a single word.
‘No.’
Deschamps’ face went still. ‘We both know you will tell me… eventually.’ The import of Deschamps’ pause was obvious.
Jack smiled stubbornly, his fate decided. ‘I’ve been tortured before.’
‘I’ve seen the file, I read the hospital reports.’ Deschamps’ lips curled up with a sneer. ‘Tortured by an Afghani Sheik and his pet albino savage. What would such scum know of the arts of pain? What you experienced was as close to torture as a hamburger is to cuisine… and we Frenchmen love our cuisine.’ Deschamps licked his lips for a moment and Jack remembered Cleo’s warning, that this civilised library of panelled wood and polished floors was where Deschamps would kill.
Deschamps fished a little pocket knife from his pocket, opening it to reveal a tiny blade barely two inches long, yet flashing with sharpness.
‘So I grow tired of talk, Jack.’ Deschamps sounded matter-of-fact. ‘Join me in the power of a new Europe, or stay in the shadows and be forgotten.’
‘You give me no choice, Deschamps.’ Jack spoke carefully, considering each word, ‘and I say this in full knowledge of your power and strength…’
Deschamps leaned forward eagerly. Jack spoke the insult with deliberate firmness, his eyes never leaving Deschamps’ face.
‘Fuck you.’
Reynard moved forward from the wall, his forearm snaking under Jack’s throat and choking him cruelly. Deschamps was there as well, swinging a powerful fist into the side of Jack’s face. Stars exploded in Jack’s eyes as the punch pushed him and the chair onto the ground despite Reynard’s grip. Deschamps followed him downward, throwing two more punches at Jack’s head.
‘Fuck me? Fuck you, Englishman!’ Deschamps screamed. ‘Fuck you! I’ve killed dogs worth more than you, fucking dogs, with my own bare hands. How fucking dare you insult me!’ Deschamps staggered back to the table, blood splattered across his linen suit, a shred of Jack’s flesh and hair caught in the bezel of one ring. Cleo let out a sob at the sight.
Head spinning, Jack forced a laugh. ‘After all that, Pierre,’ he used Deschamps’ Christian name for the first time, ‘all that talk of equality, of freedom…’ He paused, staring at Deschamps to let his words sink in. ‘You’re just a cheap little thug with a Napoleon complex.’
Deschamps stared down at him for a long moment and Jack could see the pupils of his eyes contract into mere pinpricks in a sea of dangerous blue. The knife reappeared in Deschamps hand. Without a word, he turned and strode to where Cleo still sat, grabbed her hair and pulled it back, exposing her throat. Jack tried to get up but Reynard’s heavy foot was suddenly there, pressing down on his collarbone with painful force.
‘Give me the answers, Starling,’ Deschamps snarled, ‘or the girl loses her eyes.’ The knife glittered over Cleo’s straining eyeball. He shifted his grip and twitched the blade closer still, then swung the knife down so that it was pressing beneath her eyelid. A dull whimper of fear escaped her mouth. Deschamps stared across at Jack with an eager challenge in his eyes. Jack knew that Deschamps would do anything he threatened – not just for the gold, but for the sick enjoyment only a sadist knows. Deschamps’ breath was whistling through his nose with excitement, but even as Jack watched he saw the Frenchman regain his self-controlled poise and bring his rapid breathing under control.
‘And they are such beautiful eyes,’ Deschamps taunted.
‘All right.’ Jack closed his eyes in resignation, ready to fall back to the next level of defence. ‘You win. I’ll tell you.’
‘Oh yes?’ A faint smile crossed Deschamps lips, though the knife did not waver from Cleo’s eye.
‘For safe passage out of here, for both of us,’ Jack bargained. He had little hope it would work. Once Deschamps had the gold he would be bound to kill them both, just as a matter of tying up loose ends.
‘You would expect me to let you go so easily?’ Deschamps smiled. ‘I cannot think you are so naïve.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Once you find the gold, why would you need to kill us? That would be the act of a petty criminal, not a new Charlemagne.’ Jack swallowed, his mind racing to outwit the deadly Frenchman, to appeal to Deschamps’ arrogance as well as his greed. It would be a kingly act, after all, to pardon those who gave him a kingdom. If nothing else, their bargaining pushed back the minutes before any potential execution.
‘Take the tablet and leave us here. Once you find the gold, simply let us go. If you kill us now… and discover I lied to you… then the gold is lost for ever.’
The knife was suddenly thrust against Cleo’s cheekbone and her gasp of terror echoed around the room.
‘Hurt her and I’ll never say a word.’ Jack’s voice was steely. ‘David died before he told you. I’d do the same. Just let us go untouched and you’ll have everything you need.’
‘Perhaps you are right.’ Deschamps looked at him carefully. ‘But remember, if you play me falsely I will come back here and carve her breast out to its root.’ The knife glittered in his hands as he pressed it against her face. ‘And then burn out her eyes as well.’ His eyes narrowed as he stared at Jack. A moment later the knife was gone, Cleo hunching back over the table with a gasp.
‘I have two of the codes,’ Deschamps spoke briskly. ‘One from the Wellington Statue, the other from Nelson’s Column. Tell me the rest.’
Jack swallowed for a moment, then nodded. Letter by letter and number by number he spelt out the codes that he and Cleo had gathered from across London. Descha
mps wrote each part of it down in a tiny leather-bound notebook, while Reynard loomed over Jack like a guard dog. Deschamps ran through the list once more to ensure he had it right.
‘Enter the codes into the tablet and they should lead you to the next step of the chase.’ Jack concluded. ‘Find that, then let us go back to Britain.’
‘That is a good arrangement, Jack. A lovely deal.’ Deschamps sauntered toward Jack and squatted elegantly by his side. Reynard’s boot heel ground deeper against Jack’s collarbone and he gritted his teeth, determined not to show pain. Deschamps leaned forward.
‘But remember what I said? The time of deal-making had passed, my friend.’ The knife snaked forward and plunged slowly into Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s teeth ground together and his face twisted in a silent snarl of pain. Deschamps held the knife still for a moment, then began twisting it slowly. There was a scratching sound as the little blade scraped against bone. Jack felt funnels of sweat running across his face at the exquisite agony. ‘You should have joined me, Jack,’ Deschamps whispered, then pulled the knife out and stabbed it back into his flesh again. The blade twisted, a rivulet of blood welling outward and soaking across Jack’s shirt. ‘I begged you to join me.’ The knife withdrew then pierced his flesh for a third time, cutting and scraping against nerves, flesh and bone. ‘You made me beg.’ Deschamps teeth pulled back in a startling grimace and through the pain Jack could see him licking his lips hungrily. The Frenchman was enjoying the torture. The blade twisted a little and Jack grunted with pain – only a supreme act of self-control stopped him from screaming. The blade had found the joint between his arm and shoulder and now Deschamps was prising the blade inward, levering apart the bones of Jack’s humerus and scapula. Tendons and nerve-endings sent desperate messages of agony into Jack’s mind and black stars plumed out across his vision as he fought to remain conscious despite the pain. Deschamps swallowed slowly, a red tongue flashing against pale lips as he gazed down at his victim. ‘If you have lied to me, Jack,’ Deschamps whispered, ‘then I will carve her apart.’
