by Guy Roberts
‘You were right,’ she sighed and straightened her back. ‘We can fight him. I am the Cleo you met in London. I decide who I am, not him.’ She looked down at the slumbering guard and grinned. ‘Sufficient pressure on the carotid artery can cause blackouts in under ten seconds, if properly applied.’ She gave a tired smile, which was somehow an apology as well.
‘Well,’ Jack pushed a sheepish smile onto his battered face. It was too good to resist. ‘I always thought you were a knockout.’
Cleo groaned witheringly, but her smile shone through nonetheless and Jack was glad to see the crisis had passed. She knelt by Jack’s chair and pulled the knots loose. Jack forced himself upright, failing to stifle a groan of agony as movement returned to his wounded body. A moment later Cleo was by his side, probing at his shoulder wounds with searching eyes.
‘It’s fine,’ Jack muttered, ‘leave it.’ She gave him an exasperated look and left it alone – after poking at one bruise with a heavy thumb as she retreated. Jack gritted his teeth and ignored the provocation. She returned to Michael’s body, sitting casually on his back as she gathered up her shoes and socks and began to pull them back into place. The comatose giant gave a loud snore in response to her weight and Jack suddenly found himself looking anywhere in the room apart from her attractive feet.
He saw a whisky decanter and glasses on one shelf and hobbled gratefully across, knocking back a glass of the golden elixir and savouring the good burn of the Scottish malt. Cleo held out her hand for a glass and drank down a gulp with equal relish.
A moment later she was coughing and gasping weakly as a flood of emotions rushed through her. Jack watched carefully. He was familiar with the collapse that came after an adrenalin rush and knew it better to let her have it out in one go. She was tougher by far than many of the soldiers he had met over the years and he was proud to be at her side as she recovered. Without thinking, he reached out with one arm to gather her into him with a gentle hug. She leaned into him for a few minutes and said nothing, Jack keeping an ever-present eye on the comatose Michael. Eventually she leaned away, recovered, holding out the glass for another drink. This one went down far more easily. She cleared her throat after a moment and looked at the bottle inquisitively.
‘Laphroaig?’ she asked.
Jack nodded in agreement as he took another swallow. ‘I’m sure of it. But stronger than anything I’ve had before.’
Cleo thought for a moment. ‘Knowing Deschamps, it’ll be something most people can’t get their hands on. Laphroaig, but thirty years old at least, maybe forty.’
A stray thought wandered across Jack’s mind – both options meant that the whisky they had drank was older than her but younger than him. It was a disquieting thought and Jack wondered for a moment where it came from.
‘Now what?’ She had gone back to the table and was staring at him inquisitively. Jack took another swig of the whisky, washing it around his mouth as he collected his thoughts.
‘We could get out of here?’ He threw the thought across at her. ‘Call the French police, get Interpol onto him, let the authorities sort it out?’
‘The French police?’ She shook her head and looked him as if he were stupid. ‘He’s probably got the Directeur Général of the Police Nationale in his cell phone. Even if he didn’t, we’d probably be arrested first for what happened to him.’ She jabbed a thumb at the sleeping giant on the floor. ‘If nothing else, Deschamps would be underground before the authorities understood what we were talking about.’
Jack nodded. ‘Well then, high-tail it back to London?’
‘And let the gold go?’ Cleo looked equally unimpressed.
‘Well then…’ Jack left the sentence hanging. He looked at her expectantly over the rim of his whisky glass.
‘We go after him.’ Cleo’s eyes lit up.
Jack’s smile was answer enough.
‘I say we follow him, take the tablet and find the gold ourselves.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Except for two things.’ Cleo’s eyebrows raised expectantly.
‘One – we don’t know where in Paris Deschamps is going. Two – from the sound of it, he and Reynard are driving a pretty nice sports car. There’s no way we can get to Paris before him.’
A knowing smile flashed wickedly across Cleo’s face.
‘One,’ she replied, ‘we know exactly where he’s going.’ She tapped a finger on the atlas that Deschamps and Reynard had left open on the table. A single red circle showed where Deschamps had marked the page.
‘That’s the landmark?’ Jack was impressed. ‘Will they take it from there? The place will be packed.’
‘We can figure that out later, Jack.’ Cleo smiled. ‘We just need to get there first.’
‘But Deschamps is already on the way.’ Jack frowned. ‘How could we possibly catch up?’
Cleo grinned. ‘That brings us to point two. Yes, he does have a very fast car indeed – a Maserati. But it doesn’t matter.’ Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise, waiting to hear her explanation.
‘It’s simple,’ Cleo declared. ‘He’s trying to drive from the Loire Valley to the centre of Paris. It doesn’t matter how fast his car is. The streets will be choked with traffic. We can take a train and get there in half the time.’
‘The train?’ Jack raised his eyebrow. Cleo nodded.
‘The TVG Atlantique to Gare Montparnasse, then the Metro.’
Jack smiled in appreciation at her skill. ‘You’re incredible.’
She smiled warmly as she acknowledged his praise. Jack grinned, marvelling at her recovery.
‘A final problem.’ He pointed a thumb at Michael. The giant guard was showing signs of coming around.
She held up some of the rope from the floor and then gestured toward the stricken foe. ‘Knock yourself out.’
The rest of the escape was quick. Michael was carefully tied up and the giant guard awoke to find himself bound hand and foot to the same oak chair that had held Jack throughout his ordeal. The coldness of Jack’s eyes convinced the guard to answer their questions quickly. The most important was that the rest of the Chateau was deserted. Knowing they were alone, Cleo had insisted on a detour through Deschamps’ bathroom and wardrobe. A few minutes under a shower had made a new man of Jack. The Frenchman’s extensive wardrobe was a pleasure to behold and Jack found he was a near perfect fit for the suits and shoes on display. A bundle of hundred Euro bank notes at the back of a sock draw had been a welcome find. Cleo had improvised with the clothes, ending up looking impossibly chic in an ensemble that included a man’s business shirt and riding jodhpurs. They had even found the room where their belongings had been stashed and Jack thankfully found the golden pin and his handful of notes, which he slipped into a pocket while Cleo sorted through her handbag carefully and reapplied a layer of red lip gloss. She studiously ignored Jack’s surprised stare. ‘It makes me feel in charge,’ Cleo warned him defensively. Overall, they had made a stylish pair, even driving Michael’s ancient Citroën to the local station. Their luck held as a Paris-bound train lifted them from the station seconds after they arrived. Michael’s pistol sat against the small of Jack’s back, a small but lethal equaliser for almost any situation.
‘Let me have another look at your shoulder,’ Cleo instructed once they had settled into a private first class cabin. Jack paused, hesitant to admit that he was anything less than fine.
‘Jack,’ Cleo looked at him sternly. ‘No one will see – and we’ve got nothing else to do until we arrive in Paris. Let me have a look.’
Jack sighed, knowing he was trapped, before reluctantly levering the suit jacket from his wounded shoulder and unbuttoning his silk shirt. Sheets from Deschamps’ linen closet had turned into tightly fitting bandages that crisscrossed his shoulder and chest. Cleo gave a guarded nod. ‘No blood has come through. I think it’s clotted enough to stop bleeding. You’re fit as a fiddle, clearly.’ Jack snorted. His body was a collection of aches and pains, all centring on his wounded shoulder. Luckily, the
suit they had liberated from Deschamps’ wardrobe was of such quality that no one at the station had looked twice at him as he bought two tickets to Paris. Jack smiled despite himself – perhaps the rich did live in a different world – because everyone else let them. Jack had slipped the golden pin into the reverse side of the suit’s lapel, where it was unnoticeable to all but the closest of inspections. He had a sneaking suspicion about why his brother had left it hidden in his study all those days ago, but he was not yet prepared to let Cleo into the secret. Instead, he leant back and let the countryside of France roll past as Cleo expertly adjusted the bandages across his chest.
‘So what’s the plan?’ he asked eventually. ‘I feel as though I’m in your hands now more than ever.’
Cleo nodded. ‘We’ll get to Paris around 1 o’clock, track down Deschamps and take the tablet. There is no use trying to get the police to stop him in Paris, they wouldn’t dare. All we can do is outsmart him.’
‘Hang on, Cleo,’ Jack cautioned. ‘Do we really want to do this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Deschamps and Reynard are dangerous men,’ Jack explained. ‘They’ve killed before, they kidnapped us with ease. Look what they did to David. Maybe it’s safer for me to call London and just let Sir Johnathon or COBRA handle it?’
Cleo breathed out slowly, looking at him with a strange mixture of surprise and candour.
‘Jack, I know better than most what Deschamps is like.’ She looked him levelly in the eye. ‘And you’re right. It would be safer to get out of the country, to call Britain and hope they can sort it out. But what then? Remember what Sir Johnathon said. There’s no justice in France for a man like Deschamps. He might be arrested, sure. He might even be put on trial. But he’ll never stop being dangerous… but if we can stop him from getting that gold, like Sir Johnathon said, then maybe he can be stopped. Maybe. But it starts with us, against him, today.’
It was Jack’s turn to be silent, to stare at her as he considered the options. He remembered the years he had spent in America, drifting aimlessly from bar to bar, taking on odd jobs here and there as a bouncer, or a bodyguard, months and years spent trying to forget who and what he was. Jack sighed. There was no turning back.
‘Ok,’ he nodded slowly, ‘let’s do it.’
1500 hrs 17 June 2015, Ministry of Defence sub-basement, London.
GR 51.505649, -0.129307
The cell deep beneath Whitehall was tiny and cold, a dank steel-lined square cut out of the earth. Andrew Freeman sat alone in the darkness, hands on his knees and a line of sweat trickling down his face. His shoes and trousers sat loosely on his body. His shoelaces and belt had been confiscated by a security officer before he had been thrust into the cramped container.
‘Don’t want you doing a suicide on us now, do we?’ the guard had said with a smile, swinging the heavy door shut, trapping Andrew in the darkness with his fears and self-doubts. That had been hours ago. Andrew had quickly lost his sense of time as his mind had run through the events of the last few days over and over again. Each time his thoughts had turned darker and darker, as the implications of his conduct were laid bare. He had ignored the proper chain of command, obeying orders from a dead man rather than reporting those instructions to his superiors. He had hidden his involvement in a computer virus attack which had disabled the COBRA surveillance of the city and, worse, he had actively helped Jack Starling escape. Andrew groaned in the darkness. He dreaded to think what his mother would say when she heard her eldest son was being held for treason. If they let her find out, the thought occurred to him.
The door swung open without warning, banging against the steel wall with a crash. Andrew recoiled from the noise, flinching backward from the sudden light with his hands over his eyes. A tall, overweight man stood in the doorway, a Ministry of Defence ID clip hanging from his shirt and a cold sneer on his face. Andrew trembled with fear.
‘Come on, traitor,’ the man ordered. ‘It’s time you tell me what you’ve been up to.’ He winked with lascivious cruelty and Andrew felt his spirits sink still lower.
1700 hrs (1600 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Varenne Metro Station, Paris.
GR 48.856136, 2.314891
The afternoon sun threw a gentle glow across the centre of Paris. After getting off the train at Montparnasse Station, Jack and Cleo had transferred to Line 13 of the Metro, exiting at Varenne Station. The pair had walked up the steps to find a pleasant, tree-lined boulevard basking gently in the heat of a Parisian summer. Jack and Cleo had spent the journey trying to look nonchalant as they passed elegant students and shoppers, all the while ignoring the machinegun-carrying soldiers idly patrolling the platforms. The gentle summer breeze above ground had been welcome after the tense underground journey.
‘We made it,’ Cleo breathed in the warm summer air and smiled at Jack. Dressed in her elegant costume, she seemed stunningly chic and beautiful, perfectly suited to a tree-lined Parisian boulevard.
‘Almost,’ Jack smiled. ‘Only a little way to go.’
They crossed the road and headed southward from the station, past one of the ubiquitous French cafés, as well as signs pointing to the Musée Rodin. The museum itself was hidden behind a six-foot-high stone wall topped with lush greenery. A crop of tourists wandered past on a guided walking tour of the city, the group including lines of foreign school children dressed in matching uniforms.
‘Hang on, look!’ Cleo declared, stretching up on her toes and looking across the street.
‘What is it?’ Jack asked, scanning the crowds for any sight of Deschamps or Reynard.
‘The Rodin Museum.’ Cleo strained her neck upward. ‘I can see something over the back fence. I think it’s the Thinker!’ Jack followed her gaze across the street, to see a distant curve of green bronze just visible above a spiked fence and green bushes. Even at this distance, he could see they were the weary shoulders of a man deep in thought.
‘Well,’ Jack declared, dismissing the distant statue in a single glance, ‘that saved the price of admission at least.’
Cleo frowned at him in mock disappointment. ‘Heathen.’ She declared.
‘Come on,’ Jack shrugged off her criticism with a smile. ‘When we find the gold, I’ll buy you a season ticket. We’re nearly there, if we can get past these tourists!’ Cleo followed him along the street, savouring the sights and sounds of summertime Paris.
‘Right here,’ Jack spoke eventually, turning along a broad street. An impressive building stretched out along the right of the thoroughfare, the grey white stone of the edifice a classic example of French Baroque architecture.
‘Nearly there,’ Jack declared. About a kilometre away, the iron latticework of the Eiffel Tower stretched upward, the elegant, eternal symbol of Paris. A few moments later they stopped walking, gazing in admiration at the huge building to their north. It looked more like a tiered wedding cake than a functional building, covered with columns and topped by a magnificent, gilt-covered dome. After a few moments, Jack realised it reminded him of a more ornate version of the US Capitol Dome. The courtyard between them and the entrance of the building was filled with bustling tourists.
‘Here we are,’ Jack turned to Cleo with a grin, ‘Les Invalides.’
‘Which is what?’ Cleo raised an eyebrow expectantly.
‘Erm…’ Jack looked at her suspiciously, sensing a trap. He had known enough of the Paris Metro system to get them here and his soldier’s sense of direction had led them onward from there, but somehow he sensed that Cleo knew far more about the building than he did. ‘A place for invalids?’ he hazarded.
‘Les Invalides… the home of the injured,’ she explained. ‘It was built by Louis XIV as a home for retired or disabled war veterans – like Greenwich Hospital. In 1789 the people of Paris seized weapons from the basements here before marching on the Bastille. Captain Dreyfus was kept under guard here…’
‘Did anyone ever mistake you for a guide book?’ Jack tried to keep his face expressionless.
Cleo ignored his attempt at humour.
‘And that,’ she pointed to the central dome, ‘is the Chapel of Saint-Louis-des-Invalides. Also known as Napoleon’s tomb.’
Jack took another look at the towering chapel building. ‘He’s in there?’ The ornate building seemed far too grandiose for a man who had, effectively, condemned a generation of Frenchmen to the horrors of war. Jack shook his head. He remembered that Napoleon’s invasion of Russia had begun with over 500,000 French troops and auxiliaries marching toward Moscow. Six months later less than a tenth of that number managed to struggle back to French territory. Napoleon had wiped out whole generations of Frenchmen, yet here he was, 200 years later, fêted as a national hero. Jack shook his head, dismissing the grand scale of the building and its magnificent dome. ‘And he was the loser?’ Jack asked.
Cleo looked at him curiously.
Jack straightened his back and sniffed. He was right, Napoleon had lost. The Battle of Waterloo had been the final nail in Napoleon’s coffin – beaten by the Duke of Wellington, Britain’s martial genius. Napoleon had gone into exile in the South Atlantic, while Wellington served his country as Prime Minister and elder statesman. Jack had visited the Duke’s tomb in St Peter’s Cathedral as a child and had been a little frightened by the austerity of the underground vault. Looking back on it, Jack saw that Wellington’s tomb was dignified yet proper in its humbleness and lack of ostentation. It was the very opposite of this gigantic wedding cake before them which housed Napoleon’s body. There was something about that thought which was so satisfyingly British that Jack smiled for a moment at his own vanity.
‘Well,’ Jack declared at last, ‘come on. Whatever’s in there, the sooner we arrive, the sooner we can find a way to outsmart Deschamps.’
