by Guy Roberts
Jack nodded. ‘Better in public than anywhere else. Not even Deschamps would risk drawing attention to himself right next to Napoleon’s tomb.’
‘Are you sure?’ Cleo looked at him nervously, ‘Do you have a plan?’
‘Better than that.’ Jack smiled and lifted his fists into the air between them.
‘I’ve got these.’
Jack turned and walked across the chapel toward the steps leading to the basement. Again, his mind was entering the Zen-like trance of a warrior. He slipped past the black-columned altar and down the marble stairs toward the central crypt, moving unnoticed past oblivious tourists. The steps led him into a circular underground corridor built around the central space occupied by Napoleon’s grand sarcophagus. Regular gaps in the wall allowed tourists to wander in and out around the different memorials. Niches built into the walls were filled with statues, golden eagles and engraved monuments to Napoleon’s victories at the Pyramids, Marengo and Austerlitz.
His breathing steady, Jack paced cautiously along the passageway, stalking Deschamps as the Frenchman paced around the sarcophagus scribbling down the brass letters spaced around the central pedestal. Marble statues of Peace and Victory stared imposingly down at Jack, but his concentration was focused upon the moving souls around him – the tourists, the school children and, above all, the redheaded figure by the sarcophagus. After a long moment, Jack saw his chance. Cleo was the only witness as Jack swept out from the shadows like a shark, striking at the Frenchman as he turned toward this unexpected threat. Jack’s fist connected unstoppably with Deschamps’ jaw, knocking the Frenchman senseless in a clean and powerful punch. Jack’s momentum carried him forward and he bundled the stunned Frenchman across the crypt and back into the shadows of the outer ring before any of the other tourists knew anything had occurred. For Cleo, the attack was over in an instant, and her breath was taken by how quickly Jack had moved.
Jack took the stairs back up to the main chapel two steps at a time, the heavy bag containing the golden tablet swinging from one arm. He could not help the smile on his face. Unnecessary violence he abhorred. Necessary violence, however, was something else entirely. The punch he had landed on Deschamps’ jaw went some way to repaying the aching wounds Deschamps had left in his shoulder. The heavy weight of the golden tablet felt good and he was already wondering what genuine location it would reveal. He sprang soundlessly from the crypt stairwell and walked smartly across the marble floor toward Cleo. He grinned as she turned toward him. ‘Miss me?’
Cleo looked at him helplessly and Jack felt his blood run cold, the smile vanishing from his face as if it had never been. Reynard stepped out from behind her, a hand thrust deep into the pocket of his jacket. Jack could see the circular tip of a pistol outlined in the fabric between them.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Starling,’ Reynard smiled salaciously. ‘Ah-ah,’ he hissed gently as Jack swayed forward minutely, ‘Nothing foolish now.’
The three of them stood like a tableau for a long moment, Jack and Cleo aware of the pistol hidden in Reynard’s pocket. A teacher moved into the space between them, blithely unaware of the silent tension between each member of the trio. Jack and Reynard remained stationary, neither moving a millimetre. A crocodile line of children followed their teacher, each child dutiful trailing along. Cleo’s breath caught in her throat as the children’s heads passed one by one in front of Reynard’s hidden pistol. The seconds passed with torturous slowness, Reynard’s wintery blue eyes revelling in the terror of the moment. The last child moved out of range and Cleo felt her heart begin to work once more.
A heavy tread nearby heralded the arrival of Deschamps. A dirty bruise was already visible on his jaw and he cast a look of rage in Jack’s direction. Jack stared at him for a moment, nonplussed. A punch like the one he had given Deschamps was usually enough to leave an opponent senseless for an hour or more.
‘She has a gun, in her left pocket,’ Reynard said calmly. Careful to avoid crossing his sidekick’s field of fire, Deschamps plucked the pistol from Cleo and hid it under a fold of his jacket.
‘Let’s step outside.’ Deschamps declared. ‘The two of you in front. Reynard’s pistol will be pointing directly at Cleo’s back. Try to run and he will shoot. Remember this fact.’
Wordlessly, Jack slowly turned and walked toward the exit, Cleo pacing at his side. Somehow her hand crept into his.
The afternoon sun spread over them once more, a welcome balm after the chill of the great chapel. Momentarily blinded, Jack resisted the urge to turn and fight back against their captors. The risk was too great. They walked southward away from the ornate chapel, then stopped at Deschamps’ command. Jack took a deep breath, eyes scanning the courtyard for some avenue of action. A great wall of storm clouds was coming from the west, their shadows beginning to creep across the broad courtyard of Des Invalides. A long limousine drew to a smooth halt in front of them and Deschamps nodded cordially at the driver.
‘Now, turn to me,’ he instructed. Without a word, Jack and Cleo turned toward him like prisoners awaiting execution.
Jack looked at the wounded Frenchman levelly. ‘I’ll give you the tablet back right now, if you let us go unharmed.’
Deschamps eyebrow rose. ‘You actually seek to bargain with me? Now, here, in Paris? With what?’
Jack slipped the golden tablet from the knapsack and held it out in the air, the golden rectangle dangling six feet above the ground.
‘Let us go, or I’ll drop it,’ he swore, looking Deschamps straight in the eyes. ‘It’s 165 years old. If I let go then every gear and sprocket in this thing will shatter into a thousand pieces. You’ll never put it back together again.’
Deschamps went still.
‘What if I just shoot the two of you instead?’ His voice was quiet and speculative.
Jack gritted his teeth. ‘Not even you could get away with shooting us here in broad daylight. Not even you.’
Deschamps looked at him and laughed. ‘Oh no? Not even me? You still need a lesson in life. Hold that bag carefully, Jack, while I show you my power.’ He turned, looking around the square. ‘You there,’ he shouted at a Parisian policeman on the far side of the space. ‘You, come here!’ The policeman turned at the noise, then began walking over with a ponderous mixture of dignity and suspicion. Deschamps turned and smiled at Jack.
‘Coming into Paris was a mistake,’ he smirked. ‘When you escaped from my chateau you should have kept running all the way back to Britain.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I came here to stop you.’ His arm began to ache from the strain of holding up the heavy golden device.
‘To stop me?’ Deschamps smiled, his eyes fixed on Jack. ‘I know your ways Jack. You are a gentleman. An Englishman. You do not kill in cold blood and you protect women no matter the cost,’ he smiled, raising up the pistol he had taken from Cleo and pointed it at her face. ‘Such limitations make you vulnerable,’ he continued conversationally, ‘whereas I do whatever I want, no matter the cost.’
Jack went cold. The policeman stepped to their side and looked at the four of them. The tall young man said nothing despite the sight of the gun Deschamps held.
‘Policeman, what is your name?’ Deschamps demanded.
‘Pierre Saule, Monsieur.’ The man spoke with a quiet voice filled with sadness.
‘And do you know me?’ Deschamps eyes stared soullessly into Jack’s.
‘Oui, Monsieur Deschamps, I know who you are.’
‘And what will you do, should I shoot this woman in cold blood?’
There was a long silence. The policeman gave a heavy sigh. ‘Nothing, Monsieur,’ he admitted shamefully.
‘There you are, Mr Starling.’ A cold satisfaction settled upon Deschamps’ face. ‘The words of a policeman of Paris. He knows my power. This little creature… he has a little wife… little babies, perhaps, or little parents… and he loves them, and fears for them, and wants them to live a little longer.’ The policeman looked at the ground, ashamed at the naked
contempt in Deschamps’ voice. ‘And so he will do as I command, because he is wise beyond his years. Give me the tablet and I will let you go… drop it… and Cleo will be dead before it hits the ground.’
Jack threw a desperate glance at the policeman. Shoulders slumped, the man slowly turned and walked away.
Jack felt the weight of the tablet in his outstretched hand. His shoulder ached where Deschamps’ knife had carved into his flesh. He took a long look around the square, drinking in the beauty of the old buildings of Paris. The Eiffel Tower stretched upward in the distance, its thin spire defying the gathering storm. Beyond it, the afternoon sun smiled benevolently. Even as he watched, the storm clouds raced forward, blocking out the sun and throwing a twilight gloom across the courtyard.
Jack slowly lowered the golden box to his side, then held it out for Deschamps’ waiting hand.
‘Well done.’ Deschamps smiled cruelly.
Jack said nothing. The tablet was Deschamps’ once more, but Jack and Cleo were still alive. That meant that every second that passed could be an opportunity to escape.
Deschamps passed the bag to Reynard and smiled like a crocodile. ‘Now,’ he thrust the pistol forward. ‘Get in the car.’
The limousine doors opened automatically and Jack let Cleo enter first, sheltering her body from Deschamps’ pistol as best he could. They were hustled to one end of the cabin while Deschamps and Reynard sat together by the door. Reynard immediately pulled his own pistol from his jacket and rested it on his knee, the muzzle of the gun pointing steadily at Cleo’s midriff. The limousine remained stationary, the air conditioner blowing cold air across Jack’s face and making Cleo shiver.
Jack looked at his foe for a moment and smiled. ‘How’s the jaw?’
Deschamps’ face flushed red with anger, then he flipped the golden tablet over and carefully read the words on the back.
‘Then by tribute to a fallen power,’ he smiled. ‘I understand the method of these clues. Tribute to a fallen power clearly means our good friend Bonaparte,’ he smiled at his captive audience, enjoying himself, ‘and what better tribute than the names of those victories that Napoleon had won.’
‘Let’s see what they were.’ He consulted his notes, reading out the list of victories that were written on the floor around Napoleon’s tomb. ‘Rivoli, Pyramids, Marengo, Austerlitz, Iena, Friedland, Warsaw and, last but not least, Moscow. Too many words… let’s begin with just the first letters… R, P, M, A, I, F, W and M.’
Jack watched stolidly as Deschamps’ raw, nail-bitten index finger gently pressed on each letter, a minute click sounding out as each panel was pushed into place. As the final M was pushed there was a louder click and a series of tabs popped out of the top of the tablet.
‘Ah, success,’ Deschamps peered at the little tabs excitedly. ‘A 2, a point, and another 2 and the letter K. What do you think that means?’
Jack and Cleo looked away, ignoring his patronising chatter.
‘A distance, perhaps. 2.2 kilometres.’ Deschamps smiled at them for a moment, his eyes glittering. ‘Yes, we are in France, of course it would be kilometres. But 2.2 kilometres in which direction? We have a distance, but now we need a bearing. What will the tablet tell us next? How can we convince it to give up another secret?’
Deschamps stared across the cabin blankly for a moment, then his eyes lit up. He pressed carefully on the button on the side and the various tabs receded into the machine.
‘Why, of course. Then by tribute to a fallen power has two meanings… not just Napoleon’s victories, but Napoleon himself? Perhaps the emperor himself is part of the game. Let us try… N… A… P… O… L... E… O… N… Voila!’
As the final letter was entered, the rectangular golden device again pushed out a series of tabs. Deschamps looked at Jack mockingly. ‘Once you understand, this game is not so hard.’ He looked down at the tabs. ‘The numbers are 057, then a space, then two zeros, then a space, then 03. A compass bearing, I believe – 057000’03. But from where should it be drawn?’ He thought for a moment and then looked at Jack and Cleo with another triumphant sneer. ‘The Champ de Mars. I should have guessed – ‘Seek guidance from the Ares tower’. Where else in Paris but the Eiffel Tower, built on the Field of Mars – or, to use his Greek name, the field of Ares! ‘And by this sacred earthly space will be the golden resting place’. I think we’re nearly there, my little friends. Let us put them all together.’ Jack swallowed, cowed by the ease with which Deschamps was working his way through the clues.
The Frenchman fished into one pocket and pulled out a small bevelled compass and a folded map of the city. Resting it on his knee, he twisted the compass around for a moment and then looked carefully at the map.
‘Let us see,’ Deschamps was enjoying himself. ‘From the Eiffel Tower we take a bearing of 057000’03, reaching out 2.2 kilometres and what do we find?’ He squinted at the map and then glared at Jack with a dissatisfied expression on his face.
‘The British Embassy on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.’ Deschamps announced sourly. ‘That was Wellington’s home in Paris after Waterloo, purchased from Napoleon’s own sister. It seems he did not hide the gold very far away at all…’
Jack swallowed. It seemed his thoughts about the pin might have been premature. Perhaps the gold was there still, hidden somewhere in the Duke’s old residence.
‘Non.’ Reynard’s voice was cold. Jack felt his heart sink as Deschamps looked across at his sidekick in surprise.
‘Non?’
‘Non,’ Reynard stared at Jack coldly. ‘That is a false direction.’
‘What do you mean?’ Deschamps brow creased, a faint flush of anger appearing in his cheeks.
‘I overheard them in the chapel.’ Reynard spoke quietly, his words calm and unhurried. ‘The great dome gives the chamber very strange acoustics... you can stand in the corner of the chamber, and hear a whisper from the other side of the room. As I did, when I heard them whispering about the tablet.’
Deschamps looked at Jack and Cleo with mounting fury. ‘What do you mean?’
Reynard leaned forward and smiled venomously.
‘Empty your pockets.’
1800 hrs (1700 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Drontheimer Strasse, Berlin.
GR 52.561948, 13.377329
‘So they’re in Paris now?’ The Termite looked at Nyx with a hint of agitation in his eyes.
‘Apparently.’ Nyx’ voice carried a trace of disapproval. ‘But we shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not our usual procedure.’
‘It’s not our usual prize.’ The Termite’s eyes flickered across the factory hall to where Vano sat by his glowing computer monitor. ‘You doubt him?’
‘He’s very smart,’ Nyx conceded, ‘at computers.’
‘But that is not enough?’ the Termite’s blue eyes gleamed hungrily.
‘He’s managed to outsmart COBRA and Deschamps at the same time,’ Nyx mused. ‘He even knowns about the move against Deschamps by the French secret service. Vano has certainly proved useful and competent than any other hacker I can recall.’
‘Yes,’ the Termite frowned. ‘But enough of Deschamps… what about the gold?’
‘Millions of Euros in stolen Napoleonic Gold?’ Nyx looked at him doubtfully. ‘Do you really think it exists?’
There was a long silence.
‘I think so,’ the Termite said at last. Nyx could hear the hunger in his voice. ‘But only Pierre Deschamps and Jack Starling are hunting it… and we know as much about their movements as they do themselves.’
‘So what does that mean?’ Nyx frowned. ‘You really want to grab a spade and a pick axe and go chasing in their footsteps?’
‘If Vano is correct,’ the Termite smiled, ‘then Deschamps will get rid of Starling and the French Government will get rid of Deschamps. We won’t have to follow in anyone’s footsteps.’
‘But it’s still breaking our routine,’ Nyx protested. ‘Why not stay with what we know?’
The Termite looked
at her and smiled. ‘Because I do not want to be the Termite for ever.’ He spoke simply. ‘One day I want to walk away from these foolish children and their computers. I want to stretch out my limbs in the sun and smile. I don’t want to sit on my wealth and count coins like an old man. I want to enjoy the money while I can. In Monaco, and New York, and Kyoto.’ His blond-haired face broke into an earnest smile. ‘I want you there, my dear Nyx, to savour the delights of the world while you still have a sense of youth and wonder.’
She gave him a slow smile at the thought.
‘But to do that,’ the Termite’s face grew serious, ‘we need a royal haul – something that can set us up for life. Who better to help us with that than Vano… and Deschamps… and Napoleon himself?’
‘But the risk?’
The Termite’s eyelids fluttered for a moment as he smiled reassuringly.
‘There is no risk,’ he whispered, ‘not from Napoleon, not from Deschamps… and certainly not from Vano.’
‘Can you be sure?’
The Termite’s smile grew cruel. The two of them looked out across the factory to where Vano sat oblivious and alone.
‘I know your power over men like Vano,’ the Termite’s voice was satisfied. ‘Which means I can be very sure indeed.’
1900 hrs (1800 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Rue de Passy, 16th Arrondissement, Paris.
GR 47.387844, 1.043409
Deschamps had fumed in silence for the short limousine ride to his opulent Parisian townhouse, furious that he had been misled by the answers given by the tablet. Reynard was smug and silent, unperturbed by his master’s discomfiture, his pistol never wavering from Cleo’s midriff nor his eyes from Jack’s face. After a drive of only a few minutes, the long black vehicle disappeared smoothly into an underground car park and they were ushered into an elevator that deposited them into a well-stocked kitchen. A wizened old housekeeper observed their entrance into the kitchen with silent distain before moving to make a cup of tea for Deschamps. She now sat in the corner of the room like a resentful ghost, her narrowed eyes roaming across Jack and Cleo’s faces with withering contempt and suspicion.
