by Guy Roberts
The driver at the front of the vehicle looked like a typical down-at-heel Parisian worker, clad in the overalls of a house painter, complete with a touch of dried white paint smeared above his eyebrow. Despite his shabbiness, the man spoke three continental languages perfectly, had served three tours in Afghanistan and could beat a professional rally car driver without breaking a sweat. A loaded PP-2000 sat next to him on the passenger side, hidden from casual view by a pile of newspapers, paint brushes and, more prominently, a dog-eared and out-of-date Playboy magazine. In five years’ operating across France, the vehicle and its occupants had been stopped only twice – in both cases the local gendarme had been satisfied with confiscating similarly placed magazines, waving the truck onward imperiously when the driver protested with a grumbling accent that deceptively identified him as a citizen of the troublesome Lower Bocage on the Western coast of the Vendée. Now, however, the man’s eyes were narrowed as he whipped and sawed the van through the afternoon traffic of the most visited capital city of Europe, a minute transmitter in one ear relaying precise instructions to him from the COBRA command room. His encyclopaedic knowledge of the roads and laneways of Paris moved him toward the Gare du Nord faster than the Metro trains rumbling far below ground. The heavy rain beginning to fall made no difference to his driving skill and the ominous rolls of thunder overhead were utterly ignored. His face betrayed emotion only once, his eyes narrowing intently as Highgrove mentioned the target’s name.
It was rare to catch a traitor after the act, the driver knew, but it looked as if he and his little team of operatives might just deliver some good old-fashioned British justice on this stormy summer afternoon.
2115 hrs (2015 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Gare Du Nord, 10th Arrondissement, Paris.
GR 48.881047, 2.355502
‘Sit.’ Deschamps’ command was accompanied by a rude hand shoving Cleo roughly downward. She struggled for a moment then accepted her place, disoriented by her opulent surrounds. The luxurious train carriage was a glamorous homage to the Art Deco movement, carefully fitted out with shaped walls and light fixtures of black ebony and glowing gold leaf. Cut crystal decanters sat in an exquisite bar to one side of the room, while a heavily tinted window showed a dim view of the concourse outside. As Reynard stepped watchfully behind her, Deschamps made himself comfortable. Cleo could feel Deschamps’ eyes settle upon her like a faint stench, the Frenchman savouring her discomfort from the luxury of an incongruous yet elegant Louis Quinze armchair. A brandy balloon was gently clasped below his face in one hand while the other gently fondled the tip of a Gauloises cigarette. Cleo had found being transported into the carriage had been humiliating enough, strapped into a wheelchair and pushed across the concourse of the Gare du Nord with an oxygen tank, sunglasses and tennis visor all combining to hide her face from view. A voluminous blanket had covered the handcuffs chaining her to the wheelchair and the overall image was that of an eccentric dowager recovering from surgery, wrapped head to toe from the sight of others. Amusing, perhaps, but innocuous. Deschamps and Reynard had lifted her into the carriage with ease, oxygen tank and all. She had barely stood up from the wheelchair before Reynard was at her back, pushing her down to comply with Deschamps’ demand.
The red-headed Frenchman watched Reynard tie her into place, his legs stretched out luxuriously, his nose inhaling the fumes from the brandy with sensuous grace before gesturing around the chamber with his cigarette. ‘Surprised, Cleo? An old Train Bleu carriage, lovingly restored to its 1920s perfection – with a few modern touches: bullet proof windows, a cutting edge communication system, air conditioning…’ he waved a hand around the room. ‘It belonged to a business opponent of mine,’ he smiled, ‘a minor Saudi prince, found garrotted in the toilets of the Monte Carlo Casino. Judged a suicide, of course.’ Deschamps shrugged, then settled deeper into the armchair.
‘In a few minutes we depart,’ he declared quietly. ‘I am looking forward to sharing this last journey with you.’
Cleo looked around desperately. The tinted windows which looked out over the travelling crowds stopped any casual observer from looking in and Reynard’s smouldering presence behind her clearly indicated that any attempt to escape her bonds would be short-lived. Her body, with all its strength and flexibility, was useless in this luxurious den ruled by two cold-blooded villains. Somehow she needed to escape, to get loose and rescue Jack. Her brain began to race desperately.
‘You’re fleeing the country,’ Cleo suddenly realised, ‘you’re just a rat fleeing a sinking ship. Paris is too hot for you.’
Deschamps threw back his head and laughed heartily, showing a sweep of fillings covering his back teeth.
‘Paris is too hot for anyone at this time of year,’ he smiled at his own joke, but Cleo could see by a narrowing of his eyes that her comment had struck home. Her green eyes met his stare for stare. Deschamps snorted a breath of contempt, but his eyes flickered away for an instant as he inhaled a lungful of the bitter Gauloises nicotine.
‘Someone convinced the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure to issue a warrant for my arrest.’ He conceded at last. ‘Kidnapping you and Starling in London was a necessity, although a matter of impolitic timing. Now the French secret service is after me, least your presence on French soil becomes a diplomatic embarrassment. A pity I never thought to extend my influence into France’s internal security services.’ He threw a castigating look at Reynard. ‘Interpol has also issued a warrant for my arrest.’ He shrugged. ‘A worthless gesture. No real Frenchman would arrest me in a million years.’
‘Because they love you?’ Cleo scornfully raised an eyebrow.
Deschamps banged the brandy balloon onto a table, shattering the delicate glass. The rich scent of spilt brandy wafted upward from the ruin of broken glass.
‘Because they know their families will be dead if I were touched.’ He flicked the ashen tip of his Gauloises into the puddle of alcohol. A kernel of flame in the ash ignited the spilt brandy and dancing blue flames leaped up from the tabletop.
Deschamps put out his hand and the flames leapt onto the brandy on his palm. He stood in the gloom for a moment like a dark wizard, the flames dancing eerily across his hand.
‘I leave for Brussels,’ Deschamps snapped, ‘like Napoleon 200 years ago, all of Europe lies before me for the taking.’ His eyes grew pensive for a moment, as if remembering an old friend who had passed away. ‘The only man who could stop me is being frozen to death in my own home.’ He gave her a slow smile of assured triumph. ‘And when I return to Paris, I shall be fêted as a conqueror. Money and power will flow from my coffers like golden rain. Politicians, magnates, generals, Royalty – every one of them will chase my favour.’ His smile hardened as his hand curled into a fist, extinguishing the flames in an instant. ‘It will be an apotheosis.’
‘Don’t count on it.’ Cleo pierced the bubble as brutally as she could. ‘Jack Starling outsmarted you before; he’ll do it again.’
‘It has been 30 minutes since we left my home.’ Deschamps leaned forward, his eyes roaming across her face, hungry for any titbit of emotional weakness. ‘He’s no longer Jack Starling. He’s Jack Frost. Frozen solid and dead, dead, dead.’ Cleo felt tears pricking behind her eyes and strained back against her bonds, trying to evade Deschamps’ face as it gloated over her own.
The carriage gave a sharp jerk as the train engine began to pull it from the station. The muscles in her jaw jumped and she could feel her teeth grind together in frustration. The concourse outside began to slide away as the carriage was pulled onward. A flush of fury wrapped around her. She owed David Starling a favour, to keep Jack alive until the gold was discovered and Deschamps put away at last. Yet now Jack was in real trouble and all she could do was strain against the ropes tying her into place.
‘The only thing is that I haven’t quite decided what to do with you.’ Deschamps continued with a smile. ‘You played such an important part in helping find the gold, it’s only fitting you should be
there when it is retrieved. But what then?’ His face tilted to one side, blue eyes gazing curiously. ‘When we find it, shall we leave you there? Tied and gagged and alone? Shall we leave clues so that your body will be found two centuries from now? Or is a quicker death more suitable? Perhaps Reynard will bludgeon your pretty face apart with one of those gold bars you were so hungry to find?’
Cleo looked away silently, trying not to betray her fear. She could remember meeting Deschamps for the first time, when David had sent her to spy on his mysterious competitor. Deschamps had seemed so alluring at the time – the dangerous, mysterious Frenchman, so powerful in mind and body. He had seen through her deceptions all too quickly and she had barely escaped Paris with her life. Now his dark psyche was plain and she could see him for what he was: crueller and colder than the depths of space. To feel his eyes upon her was to feel the touch of the devil. He could do anything to her that he wanted. A fearful voice in her mind whispered that he probably would. Deschamps smiled as the train pulled them smoothly out of the Gare du Nord. Heavy drops of rain enveloped the carriage as it left the shelter of the station. The dark clouds outside matched the gloom on Cleo’s heart.
‘I have phone calls to make,’ Deschamps declared, pushing himself from the armchair with an air of apology. ‘Enjoy this last view of Paris. You will not live to see it again.’
2200 hrs (2100 hrs GMT) 17 June 2015, Rue de Passy, 16th Arrondissement, Paris.
GR 47.387844, 1.043409
The Renault screeched to a halt outside a narrow, elegant townhouse near the Gare du Nord. Six doughty workmen spilled out of the battered vehicle and rushed up to the grand doorway, paint-splattered overalls and safety masks obscuring their faces. There was a sudden crack and the door swung open, the men flooding inside like sticks whirling along in a torrent of water. The street was empty again within seconds. Within the building, the sour-faced housekeeper was caught in the kitchen, finishing a final cigarette before turning around to see an Atchisson Assault Shotgun inches from her face. She and her new companion remained stationary while the five other men washed through the building, weapons out and eyes watchful.
A moment later the house was secure and the leader of the team returned to the kitchen, casting a critical eye over the truculent housekeeper. He knew enough of civilian life to appreciate the sheer terror that such a devastating home invasion should trigger, but the old woman was staring at him with open contempt – clearly she moved in more violent circles than the average French domestique. His eyes narrowed as he holstered his PP-2000 and pulled out a cell-phone from one pocket. The phone was connected to a world-spanning database of top secret information amalgamated by the National Security Agency of the USA and accessible – with limitations – by the secret services of American allies around the world. Tapping on the screen brought up a Google Maps style image of the suburb and the soldier was able to zoom into the layout of the street, then the house, then an architect’s drawing of the room he and his team were filling. It was rumoured that full access to the American database could, if required, have provided real time thermal heat signatures of each individual. He was not quite sure if he believed such total surveillance had been achieved – and the thought was a little disquieting. Today, however, his attention was drawn to a red dot gleaming in one corner of the drawing. He looked around the room itself, to see a woman’s handbag in a corresponding location, tucked to one side of an industrial-sized freezer. He plucked it up and put it on the table, sorting through it methodically. The huddle of armed men ringing the handbag was slightly absurd, but everyone in the room, including the maid, was focused on the contents of the bag. After a few moments the leader pulled out a slender black cell phone. The screen activated, showing a security lockout. The man’s eyes flickered around the room sharply, coming to settle on the old maid.
‘Ils étaient là.’ He stated in flat, menacing French. ‘Où ils sont allés?’
The woman turned her face to one side in a scornful display of Parisian insouciance.
He ignored her for a moment, considering his options and casting his gaze around the room. Time was of the essence. His eyes settled on the dull steel of the freezer door.
‘Did you check the freezer?’ His query and eyes were mild. The man with the shotgun shook his head minutely.
‘Do it.’
The maid sniffed contemptuously as another soldier swung the wide door open, gun at the ready. A figure inside sat motionless, bound to a heavy chair. A layer of frost lay across his body like a glittering shell. A soldier ducked forward, feeling for a pulse against the carotid artery in the figure’s neck.
‘Still alive,’ he reported after an expectant silence.
‘He’d better stay that way,’ their leader spoke swiftly. ‘Bind his hands and put him in the truck.’ Two guards swooped in, cut the figure free from the chair and dragged him bodily out to the waiting car, carefully surrounded by the other soldiers. The leader lingered a moment, eyeing the house cleaner balefully. She remained in her chair, examining the far wall in an uncompromising effort to deny his existence in the world. The man sighed inwardly. Even in the world of covert action there were limits to what the British Government allowed. The safest thing to do would be to take this wizened gremlin back to the embassy, he thought, but that doesn’t fit in with my plans. Still, he decided, we can’t leave her free to cause more mischief. The man shook his head for a moment and sighed, tucking the cell phone away in his overalls. The woman sneered at him triumphantly before he pulled a dart gun from a different pocket and fired it at her chest without warning. She gave an indignant squawk and then slid to the ground, eyes rolled upward in her head. The man checked her pulse for a moment, then plucked the dart from her chest and followed his troops out to the waiting van.
Jack was heaved into the back of the van, his hands lashed together and tied to a ring in the centre of the floor, while a variety of high-tech thermal blankets and old drop sheets were draped over his immobile form. The leader cast a quick eye across his new captive and nodded approvingly. Justice was ready to be served. He raised one hand to his ear and tilted his head, as if listening to fresh instructions from London, then turned and looked at his team.
‘Change of plans.’ His words were quick. ‘Stow the weapons and relocate to site B, separate movements.’ The five troopers nodded without question, ducking forward to clip their weapons onto the walls of the van before jumping out of the vehicle and splitting up in different directions. Their leader watched them depart, eyes narrowed, then swung the doors shut, slipped into the driver’s seat and launched the Renault down the quiet Parisian street as if pursued by all the devils of hell.
Pinioned to the car floor, Jack felt life slowly restoring itself to his frozen body, aided by the thermal blankets and the heaters that the driver had put on to maximum once the car had started moving. The rolling jerks of the van pushed him back and forth, but he could feel his internal temperature rising degree by torturous degree. His body was beset with uncontrollable shivers as circulation returned, but Jack could feel his mind and body slowly shaking off the deadly effects of his time in the freezer. Rain was hammering on the roof the Renault and Jack’s body was being thrown back and forward as the car twisted and bucked through the traffic. Jack was slowly beginning to make sense of his near-death escape when the car stopped with a sudden jerk. There was the sharp creak of the handbrake being pulled into place and then the sound of the driver’s door opening. Jack listened intently, following the sound of footsteps squelching toward the rear doors and he looked on helplessly as they swung open to reveal a looming figure. A flash of lightning filled the interior of the car and Jack narrowed his eyes at the sudden light. All he could see was the outline of a man, a combat knife held steady in one hand. Jack shifted uselessly in the huddle of blankets, bound into place by the ropes lashed around his wrists. The figure’s eyes narrowed as he advanced into the van, knife lowering toward Jack’s chest.
2200 hrs 17 June 2015, CO
BRA, Whitehall, London.
51.503721, -0.126270
The mood in COBRA was a heady mixture of relief, with the officers and analysts taking their mood from Brice. The news that Jack Starling had finally been captured by the British strike force in Paris was a welcome piece of good news, triggering a wave of backslapping bonhomie from all sides. Someone had managed to find a bottle of champagne, and a rousing cheer filled the room as Brice triumphantly fired the cork across the room. Flush with victory as he led the celebrations, Brice was loudly telling everyone in the room that Jack Starling’s arrest and interrogation would quickly lead them to Sir Johnathon and an end to the chase which had begun with David Starling’s murdered body. At the same time, a team of COBRA investigators was searching through Sir Johnathon’s small Whitehall apartment for any further of Fairchild’s treachery. It seemed that Brice’s moment of ascension was finally at hand. Highgrove was at her desk, feeling disconnected from the general bonhomie. Instead, she stared at her computer screen, a small frown growing on her forehead.
‘Sir,’ Highgrove’s quiet voice carried through the general hubbub, the note of uncertainty in her voice piercing Brice’s satisfaction.
