by Guy Roberts
Jack tasted bile in his throat and black spots danced against his vision. The pain wrapped around him and threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. A dull fear flashed through his mind of what his monstrous torturer might do to Cleo should that happen.
‘Enough,’ Jack whispered with a gasp, barely able to push the word out of his mouth. ‘Enough,’ He had no cards left to play. The creature that squatted on his chest with a fancy suit and a bloody knife had beaten him at last.
‘Let us go,’ Jack whispered, ‘please.’
‘Let you go? In time.’ Deschamps smiled. ‘Perhaps. When I see the gold with my own eyes. Not before.’ He swooped upward, vanishing from Jack’s sight. Reynard was suddenly there, hauling Jack and his chair upright. Cleo sat nearby, eyes dull.
‘So,’ Deschamps hung his hand over the golden tablet. Jack felt sick, seeing a line of his own blood smeared across Deschamps’ forehead where the Frenchman had brushed back an errant strand of hair. ‘The first clue from the poem, found under the statue of Napoleon at Apsley House.’ He pulled the notebook from his pocket and began stabbing his thick finger down onto the golden keys. ‘The keys are stiff.’ He glanced up at Jack warningly.
‘It’s old,’ Jack whispered. ‘Be careful.’
Deschamps stared at him for a moment, then nodded. As the final number was entered, there was a sudden click and four tabs popped out of the top of the tablet.
‘It works,’ Deschamps declared. ‘Eight numbers entered, four numbers emerge. Lucky for you.’ Reynard stepped forward and wrote down the numbers, carefully shielding them from Jack’s view.
‘And I think…’ The Frenchman’s nail-bitten hands were surprisingly gentle as he slid the four tabs back into the body of the golden device, then slowly pressed down a knob that had risen in response. ‘A reset device,’ he declared. ‘What brilliant craftsmanship. A clockwork computer of the 1800s.’ Jack was left forgotten, bleeding silently in his chair as Deschamps and Reynard entered the rest of the combinations.
‘A grid reference.’ Deschamps declared at last. ‘It must be – the final location of the gold!’
‘There is a topographical map in the bookcase, get it for me now,’ Deschamps ordered. Reynard quickly obeyed and the pair busied themselves poring over maps for long minutes. There was an excited gasp from Deschamps and he looked at Jack with a triumphant smile on his face.
‘The arrogance of you British people quite simply takes my breath away.’ He grinned. ‘Conspiracies and clues and numbers and codes…. yet all this time the gold is hidden under our very noses.’ He leaned down and patted Jack’s uninjured shoulder consolingly.
‘It seems you gave the correct answers. We will go and see whether the tablet is telling the truth. You will stay here, under Michael’s watchful gaze. We may need you yet. But if not…’ Deschamps stared warningly into Jack’s eyes.
‘If I do not find the gold, Jack, then I will assume that you have lied to me and our conversation shall resume,’ he gestured toward Cleo, ‘with her eyes in a saucer in front of you. Think on that.’
The Frenchman rose and stalked from the room dismissively, Reynard following behind with the golden tablet clutched in one hand. The door swung gently shut behind the pair.
Jack sat there for a moment in silence, doing what he could to push down the rage and pain. Eventually, he angled his head to look down at his savaged shoulder. Roped into place, there was nothing he could do to quench the trickling flow of blood from the stab-wounds, yet Deschamps’ villainous thrusts had skilfully avoided any major blood vessels. Despite the agony of the attack, Jack’s field medical training was enough to assure him that there was no permanent damage – although that entire arm would be weakened for some time as the wounds healed. He looked across to the table.
Cleo remained where she had been before, eyes shut. Whatever Deschamps had done to him in the last hour, somehow Jack knew that Cleo had suffered more. The fear in her eyes had been overwhelming. She had said that David had sent her to investigate Deschamps. It was clear that the Frenchman had realised what she had been up to – and that Cleo had suffered at his hands before returning to London. A dull roar of a car engine came from outside, followed by a spray of gravel as a car launched itself into the distance. Jack shut his eyes in frustration, desperate to find a way they could escape.
1230 hrs (1130 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Drontheimer Strasse, Berlin.
GR 52.561948, 13.377329
‘That is the end of it,’ the Termite declared, a shining white smile on his cherubic face. ‘Mr Jack Starling has been safely delivered to our client, and our task is complete.’ He raised a flute of champagne and saluted Vano and Nyx. ‘Congratulations,’ he declared expansively. They both had flutes of their own, Nyx holding hers with elegance, Vano holding his with nervousness. The glassware tinkled together awkwardly, the Termite careful to lock eyes with both companions in the German style. The three of them were in a side room of the factory, a private space where Vano could be more easily manipulated by the other two.
‘Congratulations,’ Nyx and Vano replied together. The young hacker’s eyes flickered downward as he sipped the champagne, missing the calculating glance shared between Nyx and the Termite. That sip would be the first of many, the Termite knew. Nyx would lead Vano on a merry chase for the next few days. Alcohol, drugs and lust would mix, Nyx would flirt and challenge in turn and Vano would be goaded toward a pinnacle of sexual and psychological frustration from which death or breakdown was the inevitable result. And if, the Termite thought to himself, she decided to take a more active role… well, every morning young men are found dead in the streets of Berlin, drugs in their veins and tears in their eyes… He smiled to himself. Vano’s disposal will be particularly pleasing. He knows much and suspects more. Nyx will earn her pay tonight.
‘I must say something,’ Vano spoke up, putting the champagne flute to one side. The Termite was surprised. Most of the boys were too nervous to think straight when this close to Nyx’ alluring presence.
‘What is that, Vano?’ Nyx looked at him indulgently, like a mother paying attention to a needy son.
‘I am thankful that you took me on here,’ Vano began formally, his Georgian accent heavy with concentration. ‘There were no jobs for me in Tbilisi, no opportunities, no hopes. To find out your name, to be chosen to come here and work for the Termite…’ the boy looked up at them for a second, ‘it was a great honour...’
The Termite watched him carefully. It was. The boy is smart enough to recognise that, at least.
‘…and so I feel ashamed,’ Vano looked down once more, ‘to disobey you and to have looked into the details of our client.’
The Termite took a sip of his champagne, careful to hide his sudden disquiet. Deschamps had his own cyber-protection – the man had controlling interests in a dozen IT companies at the very least. The Termite knew his own hackers were far beyond such workers, but he dreaded to think what Deschamps might do if he discovered such an invasion of privacy. More than that, the Termite cursed to himself, a breach of faith. What has the stupid boy done?
‘I know I should not have,’ Vano spoke quickly, as if seeing the Termite’s mind hardening against him, ‘but I could not help it. I have to tell you how weak he is…’
‘What?’ the Termite stared at Vano, eyes narrowed. ‘What did you do? What do you mean, how weak he is?’
‘With our link in COBRA, I could ask questions, search databases’ Vano babbled, ‘and how they are moving against Deschamps, moving to arrest him. They have so much evidence against him. The investigation against him is nearly complete…’
‘No,’ the Termite breathed, ‘No one would dare such a move against Deschamps,’
‘But he’s weak,’ Vano insisted. ‘The kidnapping of Jack Starling was the final straw. The UK has made demands to the French Government… Deschamps will be arrested tomorrow, his assets frozen, his assistants taken in for questioning…’
‘We don’t concern ourselves with
the real world,’ the Termite shouted, smashing his champagne flute against the floor. ‘We work in the shadows, in the digital world. That is our realm, Vano, that is our strength.’ The Termite was furious. Every effort he had taken to remain hidden from the authorities was at risk because of this foolish boy.
‘But sir,’ Vano flinched backward, ‘the gold!’
‘What of it?’ the Termite narrowed his eyes. ‘Starling knows where it is, and Deschamps has Starling.’
‘But not for long,’ Vano stressed, ‘when he is arrested, who will find the gold then? Jack Starling? Why not us?’
‘What?’ The Termite stared at him aggressively. ‘What do you mean, us?’
‘The gold is nearly found,’ Vano explained. ‘Deschamps has been talking to his servants on the phone. He is returning to Paris. Between their telephone calls and emails and texts, I know where they are, what they are saying… I know everything they do.’
‘You do?’ the Termite looked at him carefully.
‘I do,’ Vano nodded, ‘and the moment Deschamps is arrested, we will know it too.’
‘But what good will that do us?’ the Termite demanded.
‘Because after Deschamps is arrested,’ Vano smiled shyly, ‘the gold can be found. He does all the work, we take the reward.’
‘What?’ Nyx spoke up at last, her voice harsh. ‘We take the reward? What of COBRA and Jack Starling and the French police? You think they will sit back and let us find this treasure?’
‘But they don’t know everything,’ Vano looked between the two of them, ‘Jack Starling has been captured by Deschamps, and neither COBRA nor the French Police know anything of the gold. Apart from Deschamps and Starling, the only ones who know it all are us three, in this room… and once Deschamps is arrested… who else will even know we exist?’ He licked his lips nervously and looked down at the floor.
The Termite clenched his jaw. Such a risk, his mind shouted at him, it’s the real world, not the cyber world… the risk is too great. Yet Vano was right. The Termite had studied every shred of information they had dragged from COBRA, every telephone call they had intercepted. Apart from Deschamps, who else knew as much as they did?
‘Vano,’ the Termite turned around, a broad smile on his face. ‘I’m sorry I shouted, my boy,’ he patted the young hacker on the shoulder calmly. ‘The older I get, the stupider I become.’ He pushed Vano ahead of him, back toward the main room of the factory.
‘Sit by your computer for a little while,’ the Termite spoke calmly. ‘Nyx and I must have a little conversation about your suggestion. Stay close, though; we will need you soon enough.’ The Termite shut the door gently, sealing him away with his assistant.
The two of them missed the smile spreading across Vano’s pale Georgian face.
Greed, Vano thought to himself in contempt. Greed and the desire to profit from the labours of others. He sat down at his computer and began to dive into Deschamps’ secrets once again. My dear Termite, his smile broke out into a satisfied grin, your time is nearly done.
1400 hrs (1200 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Chateau de Mont du Richelieu, Loire Valley.
GR 47.388074, 1.044398
Jack sat still, cocooned in pain and roped into place on the stout wooden chair. Time passed. A slight tapping noise drew Jack’s attention and it was a long moment before he realised it was the drip of blood from his wounds.
‘I’m sorry Jack,’ Cleo’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘Are you ok?’ Jack forced his battered lips to work.
‘I’m sorry…’
‘Forget that.’ Jack spoke quietly. ‘Are you ok? Did he hurt you?’
‘Not this time.’ Her voice was like a lost breeze. ‘Not this time.’
‘Cleo, listen to me,’ Jack spoke urgently, his own pain forgotten. ‘It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. This isn’t the past, this is right now. You have to focus. This is our chance to escape, this is our chance.’
‘To do what?’ Cleo whispered dully.
‘To live, to stop him. Deschamps thinks he’s won. This is the moment we can strike - take the gold away from him, leave him exposed, let his past catch up with him and drag him down when he least expects it.’
Cleo’s eyes remained downcast. ‘After everything he’s done, you think we can stop him?’
‘We can stop him,’ Jack spoke with quiet passion. ‘Cleo, you and I. We can.’
Cleo looked across at him and Jack felt his heart break for the pain and loss in her eyes.
‘He hurt me,’ Cleo whispered. ‘David sent me here to find out what Deschamps knew. I thought I could seduce him… but he’s a monster. I barely escaped with my life… I can’t challenge him. We can’t beat him.’
Jack shut his eyes, tortured by what she must have experienced.
‘We can beat him, Cleo.’ he whispered. ‘We can fight.’
Cleo shook her head. ‘No, Jack. You can fight. You’re alive. You live, you breathe. You can fight him, Jack...but me…’ Her eyes were weary with fear and pain. ‘I’m done.’
‘Cleo.’ Jack looked into her eyes. ‘If you really think that… then you’re not the Cleo Draycott I met in London.’ Cleo looked at him silently.
A measured tread came from the door and Jack looked across to see the doorway filled by a heavy-set man, tall and bearded, who stared at them dispassionately. The deep sigh of his breathing filled the room like the sound of a distant ocean as he gazed at Jack’s beaten frame. A length of rope swung in his grasp as he began to measure it out.
‘Michael,’ a voice whispered from across the room. Jack and the guard both looked across to where Cleo sat. Not only was she now sitting upright in her seat, but her entire posture had changed. Even as Jack watched, the last of her uncertainty and despair was being pushed aside. The terrified prisoner had vanished, replaced by an elegant, demure schoolgirl. The ropes tying her to the chair seemed a bizarre accessory, especially designed to emphasis her innocence.
‘Michael,’ Cleo repeated the guard’s name nervously, then cleared her throat and tried it again, this time with a hint of excitement and promise peppering her words. ‘Michael… I remember your eyes on me from before…’
The guard exhaled a snort of air. ‘Too late for that, Cleo. I’m here to make sure you two stay tied up.’
‘Oh?’ Her eyebrows raised innocently. ‘Tied up even more? Are you scared?’
Michael snorted again. ‘Scared of what?’
Cleo said nothing, staring at him levelly. She breathed in slightly and her breasts rose up alluringly. Somehow, Jack realised, she had managed to work her shoes and socks off her feet and her long brown toes peeked out demurely from under the ropes holding her legs in place.
Michael took another deep breath, but this time it carried a strange huffing excitement.
Cleo’s legs twitched, as if eager to be untied.
‘You like my feet,’ she declared it as a statement. He nodded a silent agreement.
‘Take off my ropes.’ She commanded. The man hesitated for a moment.
‘Come on, Michael. You know I’ve always liked you.’
With a sudden huff, the guard fell to the floor by Cleo’s feet, his fingers fumbling at the rope binding her ankles to the chair. Jack stayed silent, his muscles bunching silently as he tried to work a way out of the ropes binding him into place. The knots around Cleo’s ankles came loose and she brushed the side of one foot against Michael’s beard.
‘Now the arms,’ she whispered. The guard hesitated, but a flash of Cleo’s eyes made him obey. He leaned over her carefully, working the knots loose as quickly as he could. Freed at last, Cleo rose from the chair like an imperious queen. Michael reared back on his knees, looking up at her hungrily.
‘Down, now,’ Cleo snapped. The guard turned to one side, casting a venomous look at Jack.
‘No,’ she whispered huskily, ‘he’s tied up. Let him watch.’ Michael turned back to grovel at Cleo’s feet. She loomed overhead, haughty and imposing, gazi
ng at him as if he were an insignificant insect. An electric tension filled the air. Cleo’s gaze bored into the guard and her nostrils flared with a strange hunger. One foot stretched out before him.
‘Worship me,’ she demanded.
The guard bent forward, hands and face rubbing over her foot in ecstasy. She let it continue for an instant. ‘Roll over.’ Her voice was filled with equal measures of command and contempt. The guard rolled over onto his back in an instant and she lifted one foot to hang suspended over his face. Her foot was shapely and elegant, with a slight tan that gave it a soft brown hue. Despite himself, Jack had to admit she did have nice feet. She lowered the foot to one side of his head, the guard passionately slobbering over toes, sole and ankle as they flashed past. She took a stance directly over his head and the guard let out his breath in one explosive gasp as he looked upward.
‘Like a dog,’ she command in a breathy whisper. Michael flopped himself around to kneel on all fours and Cleo delicately sat herself on his shoulders, her thighs sliding downward past his ears. She gave a little hum of encouragement, while Michael started giggling uncontrollably. Cleo looked across to Jack and shrugged innocently. A moment later her face tightened in concentration and the trap sprang shut, her legs closing around Michael’s neck like steel clamps. He gave a muted gurgle of pleasure, then roared incoherently as the realisation struck home that she was no longer at play. His arms fumbled helplessly at her legs which were locked beneath his chin and she rode the thrashing giant with a grimace of determination. He rolled to one side then the other, knocking chairs away in his fury. Despite the manoeuvre, her grip around his neck did not slacken. The guard flopped on the ground like a freshly-caught fish before his struggles slowly diminished. After maintaining the hold for a moment more, Cleo pulled her legs free from beneath the comatose giant and pushed herself upright. Jack stared at her with an open mouth, momentarily stunned. She looked at him and gave a gentle smile.
