by Guy Roberts
They crossed the broad stone courtyard and entered the chapel through a huge blue door gilded with golden cherubs, military helmets and fleur-de-lis. Jack heard Cleo gasp slightly as they stepped through into the interior of the chapel. The room inside was impressively ornate, vast and cool, a pleasant contrast to the warm sun outside. The ostentation on the outside had been replaced by a sense of sacredness, every surface made of lovingly polished marble. Even the throngs of children were hushed. On the far side of the room stood a heavy altar of twisting black marble columns edged with gold, topped by a heavy gold baldachin. Every side of the cavernous chamber held alcoves and monuments honouring French military heroes. Jack recognised monuments to Vauban and Lyautey, while one chamber held the mammoth tomb of France’s World War 1 hero, Ferdinand Foch, the Commander-in-Chief of the allied forces during the last days of the Great War. Even the ground underfoot had significance, with coats of arms worked in marble across almost the entire floor. The assorted sightseers moved here and there with sombre gravity, the whispered conversations from different people bouncing back and forth throughout the domed chamber. The acoustics of the chapel were deceiving. At times the room seemed almost silent, before a conversation between two distant people popped suddenly and intimately into their ears.
Jack’s attention, however, was drawn to the centre of the chamber, where a railing had been built around a great circular pit, the aesthetic mirror of the ornate dome floating overhead. In the centre of the hollow stood a huge red sarcophagus on a base of green granite. Cleo came to his side and wordlessly slipped her arm inside his as they looked downward.
‘Napoleon’s tomb,’ Cleo said quietly. Engraved into the marble around the foot of the granite block were brass letters spelling out the names of the Emperor’s great European victories, from Rivoli to Moscow. Jack’s stomach turned as he wondered how many lives lost were represented by each little brass letter.
‘It’s such an imposing building… but why did they put his tomb down there?’ Jack asked. ‘Every visitor is looking down on it. It’s more humble than I expected.’
Cleo smiled. ‘It’s much more impressive if you’re down there, next to the sarcophagus, looking up.’ She gestured down to where tourists were drifting around in the exposed marble crypt around the solid tomb. ‘But it’s not as humble as you think. When it’s placed down there like that, it means that everyone who comes in to look at it has to bow their heads downward, as a salute to Napoleon’s majesty.’
‘Oh,’ Jack nodded, ‘I get you. Not humble at all.’
‘Pretty much,’ Cleo nodded. ‘It made Hitler laugh in 1940.’
Jack raised an eye brow. ‘Hitler was here?’
‘Hitler visited all the sights in Paris after the Vichy Government turned belly up,’ she explained. ‘When he visited this tomb, one of the guides mentioned this story to him, as he was looking down at the grave.’
‘Wow,’ Jack was impressed. ‘What did he do?’
‘Laughed and walked out,’ she shrugged. ‘Paying tribute to Napoleon would be the last thing he would have wanted!’
Jack thought about it for a moment, bowing his own head as he looked down at the red sarcophagus as well. A moment later he frowned as a stray thought crossed his mind.
‘Wait!’ he looked around at her. ‘What was that?’
Cleo raised her eyebrows. ‘About Hitler? Simply that paying tribute to Napoleon would be the last thing he wanted to do.’
Jack’s eyes lit up as the words came back to him. ‘Cleo, that’s it… the poem, on the back of the golden tablet! Then by tribute to a fallen power.’ Deschamps used the clues on the tablet to get to Des Invalids… and now the poem explains the next step… you have to bow your head and pay tribute to Napoleon!’ He could not help but grin, though he was careful to keep his whisper low. ‘Those cheeky sods!’
‘That means the rest of the poem must be about something in here as well!’ Cleo declared. ‘Seek guidance from the Ares tower, and by this sacred earthly space, will be the golden resting place! Deschamps and Reynard were right! There’s got to be some sort of tower here, or outside.’
Jack looked around the great room. Almost every corner had potential clues; dates, names, Latin inscriptions or Roman numerals. Any one of them could be the necessary clue to be entered into the tablet. He frowned. ‘Without the tablet we’re lost. We have to get it back from Deschamps and Reynard somehow. If they’ve already left here with the clues, then we’re lost.’
‘Maybe not.’ Cleo whispered. ‘Remember the rest of the clues written on the back of the tablet.’
With London’s passkeys in your hand
Apply them to this golden stand
Then by tribute to a fallen power
Seek guidance from the Ares tower
And by this sacred earthly space
Will be the golden resting place.’
Jack frowned. ‘My God.’ He looked at her in consternation. ‘Golden resting place… you don’t think the gold is…’ He gestured down to the solid red sarcophagus below. ‘If it’s there it’s gone for good. Not even Deschamps could break it open.’
Cleo’s eyes widened for a moment. ‘He wasn’t buried here until 1840… it… could be…’ She shook her head for a moment, pushing the thought away. ‘But no,’ she decided at last. ‘The poem says ‘Seek guidance from the Ares tower’, not ‘X marks the spot, dig around the Napoleonic bones.’
‘Ok,’ Jack grinned. ‘So where is the Ares tower? Ares was the Greek God of War, I think… the Romans called him Mars.’
‘That’s right,’ Cleo turned to him, a grin on her face as she figured out the next step, ‘and a central part of Paris is the Champ de Mars.’
‘The Champ de Mars?’ Jack frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘No,’ Cleo smiled, ‘but I guarantee you’ve heard of what’s on top of it.’
Jack looked at her blankly.
Cleo’s grin widened. ‘The courtyard outside, remember it?’
Jack nodded.
‘Did you see anything in the distance?’
Jack thought for a moment. ‘The Eiffel Tower?’
Cleo smiled. ‘Exactly – Seek guidance from the Ares tower – and the Eiffel Tower is right on top of the Champ de Mars. What else could it be? We need to figure out the clues here in the chapel, and then use them at the Eiffel Tower. If Deschamps isn’t here – he’s there. We need to figure out a way to cover both places at once, otherwise he’ll find it first. Maybe we should split up.’
‘No need.’ Jack paused for a moment, fingering his jacket carefully. A cold look of calculation had settled onto his face. ‘Let them find the clue, I don’t think there’s much of a rush.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cleo looked at him in surprise, wondering if he had suddenly abandoned the pursuit.
‘The golden tablet,’ Jack smiled, certain he was on the right track. ‘It sent us the wrong way. It’s a trick.’
1600 hrs 17 June 2015, Whitehall Basement Cafeteria, London.
GR 48.854866, 2.312542
‘Hullo Biggles,’
‘Hullo Cheesy,’
Brice kept a grin on his face, ignoring the irritation he felt whenever his school nickname was used. Biggles shook his hand and looked Brice up and down. The two of them had been to school together, cordially despising one another without a thought. Yet their pampered upbringings had been nearly identical, and although they denied it, Brice and Biggles had felt anxious and unmanned by a wider society that cared nothing for their wealth or privilege. When they happened to rub shoulders one day in a Whitehall corridor they had greeted each other as old friends.
The two of them had managed to struggle upward, paying and repaying favours, exploiting weaknesses, taking credit and shifting blame. They told themselves that they were doing what was necessary to restore dignity and leadership to the ship of state – to restore the sort of leadership that they knew they possessed. Brice pretended to savour their memories of school and univer
sity, even though he had hated both places at the time. Biggles felt the same, and together they shared a false camaraderie that was shrugged off the moment the other had left the room. Through it all, however, Brice hated his nickname and Biggles knew he did.
The two of them stood close together in a quiet corner of a Whitehall basement cafeteria, two tall, overweight not-quite-young men, well away from Brice’s COBRA office and Biggles’ Ministry of Defence annex beneath Horse Guards.
‘So what happened?’ Brice was hungry for any information he could find. ‘How much could you get out of him?’
‘Your Andrew Freeman?’ Biggles scratched behind one ear. ‘He’s telling the truth. Or he thinks he is.’
‘How could you know, so quickly?’ Brice’s face looked a little pale, ‘Did you…’
‘Did I what, Cheesy?’ there was a hint of mockery in Biggles’ tone.
‘You know,’ Brice leaned forward, ‘torture him,’ he whispered.
‘Torture him?’ Biggles spoke so loudly that Brice flinched backward.
‘No,’ Biggles smiled, enjoying the effect he was having on Brice. ‘No, these days we don’t need to. Well, Ministry of Defence doesn’t need to, at least.’
‘You don’t?’ Brice looked at him sceptically.
‘Well, not really.’ Biggles looked around for a moment then opened his palm to show a tiny vial of clear fluid.
‘Something the boffins cooked up.’ Biggles whispered this time. ‘One injection leads to total hypnotic submission. Total honesty, perfect memory recall, the works.’
‘And?’ Brice was eager.
‘And it was interesting to hear about the fall of Cleopatra’s Needle,’ Biggles smirked. ‘Everyone in Whitehall is being told it was a maintenance worker who left the handbrake off a bulldozer. Instead, your little friend Andrew Freeman tells me exactly how long you sat there watching as Jack Starling slipped out of your fingers.’
Brice’s face turned purple with rage.
‘Calm down, calm down,’ Biggles put his hands up in surrender. ‘Your secret is safe with me, but it does add to the pile of favours you owe me. We both know secrets are currency around here and you’re in my debt.’
‘I know,’ Brice glowered quietly, ‘just tell me about bloody Freeman. Does he know where Jack Starling is? Does he know anything else about Johnathon Bloody Fairchild?’
Biggles smiled cruelly, savouring his little moment of power.
‘Well,’ he consented at last, ‘it was only a short interrogation, remember.’
Brice’s eyes narrowed.
Biggles face grew serious at last. ‘The long and short of it is this – if you can believe it. David Starling died because of a bloke called Pierre Deschamps, some sort of French criminal. David was chasing a pile of French gold and left clues for his brother to follow. Now Jack Starling is chasing the gold and trying to stay out of Deschamps’ way, and while Freeman doesn’t know anything about Johnathon Fairchild being a Russian spy, he did help design the CCTV virus for David.’
Brice stared at him speechlessly.
‘That’s it?’ he spoke at last. ‘A fucking treasure hunt?’
‘That’s it, Cheesy,’ Biggles shrugged. ‘David Starling sounds like he went a bit crazy before he got himself killed, setting up while goose chases around central London. Doesn’t mean Johnathon Fairchild isn’t a Russian mole, but that’s your call, not mine.’
‘Listen, you wanker,’ Brice hissed with malevolent fury, ‘you found those fucking pictures of Fairchild in Russia, you told me he’s got friends in the Kremlin and you fucking led me on about his bloody interest in Jack and David Starling. You’re in this up to your neck as well.’
‘Oh, no,’ Biggles shook his head vehemently. ‘This is all your shit, muppet, not mine. Ministry of Defence is secondary to COBRA in the chain of command – we’re just doing what you tell us to. You make the decisions, Cheesy, not me. Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ Biggles smiled sarcastically, ‘I need to get back to my actual job, instead of helping you do yours. Next time we catch up, the drinks are on you.’ He shouldered Brice out of the way and lumbered out of the cafeteria.
Brice watched him go, eyes narrowed. The news was not welcome. Freeman was working for Starling, not Sir Johnathon? Perhaps Biggles’ precious Ministry of Defence truth serum was wrong. Brice frowned. But if Starling IS chasing after a pile of gold… then why has Sir Johnathon vanished? Did we somehow flush him out by mistake?
Who to go for? Jack Starling or Johnathon Fairchild?
Brice swallowed nervously. A disgraced soldier chasing a mysterious pile of gold, or a traitor in the highest ranks of government? As an agent of the Crown he had to track down any threat against the government – which meant that the former Chairman of COBRA was the priority… but perhaps Jack Starling knew more about Sir Johnathon than anybody thought. Perhaps that’s why David Starling summoned his brother back to London… because David knew there was a mole in COBRA and no one could be trusted. It had been the investigation into Starling which had led them to this crisis, after all, Brice realised. Otherwise, no doubt, Sir Johnathon would still be burrowed under Whitehall, spreading his pernicious influence.
Brice swallowed, a thrill of fear racing down his spine as he considered the skills of the old patrician he had supplanted. He thought he had overreacted when he dismissed Sir Johnathon from COBRA after Cleopatra’s Needle fell… but clearly he had been right all along.
But why did Sir Johnathon run for it? With David dead he would have been safe, unless… Brice blinked for a moment as illumination came. He must be after the gold for himself – or for Russia. That means Jack Starling might be his next target.
Brice frowned. Another reason to find Starling as soon as possible – to get him under police protection before Fairchild took him out. At least he had another name – Pierre Deschamps. An opponent of Jack Starling, but perhaps he would have information on Sir Johnathon as well. It should be easy enough get the man arrested and interrogated in Paris or London. Brice had the Prime Minister’s authority to back him up, as well as his own father’s extensive contacts in French industry. There was no way Brice would be outflanked on the question of a rogue Frenchman, at least.
1730 hrs (1630 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Hotel Des Invalides, Paris.
GR 48.854866, 2.312542
‘A trick?’ Cleo frowned. ‘How can it be a trick?’
‘Because of this,’ Jack whispered, folding back the lapel of his jacket to reveal the slender golden pin he had found in his brother’s study. ‘David left it for me at his home on Dorset Square… I’ve been carrying all this time, wondering why he left it for me.’
Cleo looked at it with surprise. ‘What is it?’
Jack slid it out of the lapel and passed it over. ‘Look closely,’ he whispered. Cleo examined the slender pin carefully.
‘It’s a lapel pin… but there are tiny grooves along the stem.’ She looked up at him curiously.
‘That’s right. And look at the head of the pin.’ Jack explained. ‘B&B, like on the back of the tablet – Babbage and Brunel.’
‘So what does that mean?’ Cleo frowned.
‘It means that this is part of the golden tablet!’ Jack whispered fiercely. ‘This is like a key – there’ll be some part of the tablet that you slide this into and the notches on the pin will alter the movement of the gears inside.’
‘You mean…’ Cleo looked at him in amazement.
‘That’s right.’ Jack smiled. ‘Without this key, the tablet is programmed to give the wrong answers. That’s what the opening line of the poem on the tablet means… With London’s passkeys in your hand, Apply them to this golden stand. The passkeys aren’t just the clues we’ve found. It’s this pin as well. The tablet doesn’t really lead hear to Napoleon’s Tomb, this is just a trick – a dummy setting designed to misdirect anyone who stumbled onto the clues without having the pin as well. We need to get the tablet back and re-enter the clues with this thing inserted in the right place.
Once we do that, then…’
‘We’ll get the right grid reference,’ Cleo whispered, her eyes shining.
‘And find the gold!’ Jack slapped the side of the railing in triumph. ‘We’ve got them,’ he whispered fiercely.
Cleo smiled, looking down at Napoleon’s tomb in triumph. Jack felt his own smile die away as her face turned white.
‘My God,’ Cleo whispered, ducking back from the railing as she stared downward. Jack followed her gaze and clenched his teeth. Deschamps had emerged from behind the red sarcophagus, stalking across the marble floor, staring down at the patterned mosaics that ran across the room. A heavy bag was slung over one arm and Jack could sense it contained the golden tablet. They looked down in silence, watching the redheaded criminal as he slunk back and forth across the marble floor of the crypt like a stalking beast. In one hand he held a tiny notebook into which he was scribbling furiously. Jack looked around the rest of the chapel with a hunter’s steely gaze. Reynard was nowhere to be seen.
‘I guess they beat the traffic after all,’ Cleo whispered nervously. She watched the Frenchman for a quick moment.
‘Then by tribute to a fallen power…’ she smiled. ‘He must think it’s the list of Napoleon’s victories around the base of the tomb.
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Jack smiled. ‘Whoever kept the secrets and built that tablet had some clever ideas up their sleeves.’ Jack surreptitiously pushed Michael’s pistol into Cleo’s hand without the movement being seen by any of the milling tourists. ‘The priority is to get the golden tablet back from Deschamps. Once we’ve done that, he and Reynard can stay here and stew.’
‘And how do we get it back?’ Cleo looked at him fearfully. ‘I guarantee you he’s armed and if he sees you, he’ll kill you.’
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Jack whispered. ‘You act as lookout. Stay here and keep an eye out for Reynard.’
Cleo looked at him with surprise. ‘But you’re going to take on Deschamps right here?’
