by Guy Roberts
‘There are men in Brussels, France and London who would pay dearly to know you are here, James Watts.’ The cold blue eyes pinned him into place. ‘And each one of them would have you share with them your knowledge of Jack Starling.’
Watts’ throat clicked drily as the man stepped forward, only to hold a beaker of water to his lips. It took a moment for Watts to work the moisture into his nerve-parched mouth.
‘That’s better,’ the man spoke soothingly. ‘Now.’ He looked down at Watts with considerate eyes. ‘Your Renault van is somewhere along the train line between Paris and Brussels, full of illegal weapons. It will be found by the police soon enough and their enquiries will lead them here.’ The doctor gestured to a muted TV in the corner of the room, showing a breaking news story from the local Belgian TV station. A live feed was coming from the Brussel South Train Station, where a smoke damaged train carriage was surrounded by guards. A furious looking man with red hair was seen glaring at the media.
‘That man is Pierre Deschamps,’ the doctor spoke almost conversationally. ‘The man who killed David Starling. Many police work for him. When they find you, they well tell him, and when he hears that of you and your Renault, his vengeance will be terrible.’
Watts returned the man’s gaze steadily, trying not to betray the nervousness he was feeling.
‘However,’ the man tilted his head for a moment. ‘I can get you delivered to the British Army base in Elmpt very quickly indeed, if you are willing to share what you know of Jack Starling and his quest.’
Watts’ face tightened. If Deschamps was truly after him, the British forces at Elmpt on the German border might be the best shelter he could find. But he wasn’t going to betray Jack Starling a second time.
‘Who are you?’ Watts demanded.
The doctor stared at him for a long moment, then pulled the surgical mask down from his face. Watts felt his blood run cold.
‘Sir Johnathon,’ Watts whispered nervously, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Jack Starling,’ Sir Johnathon spoke quietly, ‘I want him,’
Watts’ jaw firmed and he turned his head away. ‘You’re not getting him from me.’
‘It is good to protect your friend, Sparky.’ Sir Johnathon looked down at the wounded soldier knowingly. ‘But Jack Starling needs help. He had it from you. Now he needs it from me.’ The former civil servant reached out a hand and clasped Watts’ in his own.
‘You must let me find him.’
The challenge hung in the air for a long moment before Watts shifted to look at Sir Johnathon. The old man’s eyes were pale and sincere. After a long moment the wounded solider give him a tiny nod of assent.
‘Good.’ Fairchild nodded, squeezing Watts’ hand in approval. ‘Begin.’
0630 hrs (0530 hrs GMT) 18 June 2015, Berendries, Belgium.
GR 50.713159, 4.239739
The warmth of the early morning sun on his eyelids slowly pushed Jack into wakefulness. He lay still for a long moment, cocooned within the glowing heat of the horse blankets and surrounded by the earthy smells of barn and animal. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, savouring the diverse aromas. Amid the heavy smell of horse that suffused the blankets was a lingering scent of fragrance. Jack breathed it in carefully, stripping away the barnyard smells until he could identify the rare, delicious scent of Cleo Draycott. He shifted carefully and opened his eyes. The day outside was sparklingly fresh, washed clean by the vigour of last night’s storm. The forest on the far side of the field was visibly battered, while steam from the rain-drenched fields was pluming upward beneath the already powerful summer sun. Cleo was leaning by the open barn door, dressed fetchingly in a simple white shirt and the riding jodhpurs she had liberated from Deschamps’ chateau. The combination showed off her figure to great advantage, while the morning sun lit up her hair like an angel’s halo. Cleo saw his eyes had opened and gave him an indulgent smile. Jack gave her a slow nod and rubbed a hand across his face, trying to shake off the last of his sleepiness.
‘You’re very cute when you sleep,’ she declared, ‘although you snore like a chainsaw.’
‘Ugh,’ Jack grunted. ‘You. Didn’t I leave you on a train somewhere?’ His mouth felt grimy and disused. He worked his tongue around his gums and cleared his throat before speaking again. ‘What time is it?’
‘About six.’
Jack nodded. It was early, but they had to be on the move as soon as possible. He could tell that every muscle would scream in protest, but he gritted his teeth and pushed himself out of the blankets in one swift movement.
‘Well!’ Cleo smiled archly, as Jack collapsed back into his nest in an embarrassed huddle. He had forgotten that she had stripped him bare during the night – the bandage wrapped around his shoulder was the only concealment he wore. He threw her a dark look. ‘My clothes?’
‘What do you need clothes for?’ Cleo grinned. ‘You look perfectly fine without them.’
‘Thanks, Cleo,’ Jack glared, refusing to let himself blush at her teasing.
‘Most of your clothes are still wet from yesterday,’ Cleo shrugged, ‘and more than a little charred from the fire on the train as well.’
‘Damn,’ Jack frowned, hugging the horse blanket close. ‘We can’t track down the gold and stop Deschamps if I’m stuck in my birthday suit.’
‘So we’re still hunting Deschamps?’ Cleo looked at him seriously, amusing repartee discarded. ‘After everything he’s done to us?’
Jack nodded coldly. ‘You bet we are,’ he declared. ‘We have to. We’ve upstaged him twice. A man like Deschamps wouldn’t forget such an insult – if we don’t fix him now then we’ll forever be looking over our shoulder in case he comes calling.’
‘Good.’ Cleo nodded. ‘So how do we stop him?’
Jack shrugged. ‘All we can do is rely on what Sir Johnathon told us… take the gold before he can get his hands on it – that will be the best way to show the Europeans that he’s not invincible – and that should encourage them to act against him.’
Cleo nodded. ‘The authorities are on his tail for sure. That’s why he took me out of Paris – I think even his home base was getting too hot for him. Do you know where he is now?’
Jack sighed and reluctantly shook his head. ‘Brussels, as far as I know. Nothing more than that. Did he say anything to you? Did you see what the tablet said?’
She smiled. ‘I saw exactly where he’s going. The tablet gave coordinates for a few square fields of farmland… known to the world as Waterloo.’
‘Waterloo?’ Jack frowned. ‘As in… the Battle of Waterloo?
‘Where else?’ Cleo smiled, ‘and we’re only four miles away.’
Jack looked at her curiously. ‘How do you know that?’
Cleo grinned. ‘I’ve been awake for a while… once you get away from these fields there’s quite a bit of traffic going past… people were happy to tell me where we are. Turns out you chose a pretty good place to get off that train last night.’
‘But still,’ Jack reasoned, ‘once we get there… where do we look? It’s an entire battlefield, a huge area… there’s no way the two of us could cover it… and it’s not public enough.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. I was there as a kid on a school trip. There’ll be three old blokes on the top of the Lion Mound trying to out-general each other and a busload of bored kids writing graffiti on everything when the teachers aren’t looking. That’s not enough to stop Deschamps. He could just pick us off the moment we showed up. We’ll be dead meat.’
‘Not today, I think.’ Cleo’s lips twitched.
‘Why not?’
‘Because, Mr Starling, why do you think there’s so much traffic?’ Cleo’s suppressed grin won the fight and spread gloriously across her face like a mischievous sunrise. ‘Today is the 200th Anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo.’ Her smile was infectious. ‘There’ll be tens of thousands of people in attendance – and worldwide media. Deschamps won’t be able to touch us.’
‘Oh, and Jack,’ Cleo’s voice was rich with suppressed amusement. ‘Since you’re worrying about clothes, I’m afraid it’s time for some bad news.’ She held up a pair of faded farmers overalls and grinned wickedly. ‘For the next few hours, I’m going to be calling you Farmer George.’
0700 hrs (0600 GMT), 18 June 2015, Drontheimer Strasse, Berlin.
GR 52.561948, 13.377329
Vano yawned and leaned back in his chair, his spine clicking here and there as it shifted into the unaccustomed pose. The warehouse was cloaked in darkness, the only illumination coming from his computer screen. Vano’s face was ghostlike, his black shirt unseen in the shadows, his pale features rendered supernatural by the unhealthy light of the screen. Vano stretched out once more and rubbed his eyes. His feet lay ankle deep in empty burger wrappings and energy drink cans and his computer terminal was dusty and smeared with the detritus of fast food and processed snacks.
Nearly there, he thought to himself, nearly there… he knew the dangerous moment was coming closer. The Termite and Nyx had their game, he had his… and he wanted to make sure his game was the one that mattered. It was time to send the next message. Vano pushed his chair back and stood up, fumbling his way through the darkness toward the shabby toilets hidden at the back of the factory. Behind him the computer screen stood in the darkness like a lonely beacon. There was a creak of a doorway as Vano found the passageway toward the toilets and then the dark chamber was still.
A moment later, Nyx emerged from the shadows and sat on Vano’s seat, her eyes wide as she scanned through the complex codes of programming Vano had left on the screen.
Like a moth to a flame, Vano smiled to himself as he walked toward the toilets. The terrible diet of energy drinks he had consumed over the last few days was good for something, at least – he had outlasted both the Termite and Nyx, forcing them to operate in shifts during the night – one awake and watching him while the other grabbed a few hours of precious sleep. Vano had no doubt the toilets were rigged with a hidden camera – the Termite was too careful not to embrace such surveillance techniques around his young servants. But at this time of night, when every other hacker had been sent home, Vano’s trip to the toilets would give his watchers the opportunity of peeking into his computer to see what secrets could be found. An easy distraction. Even the most rigorous search of his computer would be pointless – everything he had done on there was to further the Termite’s ambitions. It was his cell-phone, currently in his hip pocket, which was the important tool for the next few minutes. While his watchers scanned the computer, Vano would have a few seconds of peace as he walked to and from the toilets. Plenty of time to send a message, Vano thought happily. Plenty of time to hammer another nail into the Termite’s coffin.
0700 hrs (0600 GMT) 18 June 2015, Berendries, Belgium.
GR 50.713159, 4.239739
‘So where did you find these overalls?’ Jack was hidden in a stall, pulling on the old clothes.
‘They were here last night,’ Cleo declared. ‘Hanging up on the wall. This is a working farm after all.’
‘Right,’ Jack nodded, emerging from the stall dressed like a farmhand. ‘Well, let’s get out of here before the owner turns up and asks us what we’re doing.’
Cleo nodded. ‘Two horses to go, gotcha.’
They set to and within a few minutes had two of the horses saddled up. Jack was of little help. He had had little experience with horses, even though he liked them and they seemed to instinctively like him in return. Cleo, however, moved through the stable with a quick and capable surety, moving him out of the way as she slipped the harnesses and bridles into place. Within moments she was making sure the girth straps were properly tightened. She led them out into the morning light and then mounted the slighter of the horses in a swift and fluid movement and cast a look down at him.
‘Three years of riding school well spent,’ she declared imperiously. Jack smiled in admiration, then pushed his foot into a stirrup and hauled himself into his own saddle. The horse moved calmly under his weight and he patted its shoulder nervously.
‘Two adventure pony rides at twelve and sixteen,’ he replied doggedly. Cleo threw back her head and let a peel of laugher echo into the morning sky. Jack noticed her carrying a black knapsack over one holder.
‘What’s in the bag?’
Cleo looked at him and smiled. ‘I was wondering when you’d notice that,’ she declared, sliding the bag under one arm and unzipping it a little. A flash of gold caught the morning sun and Jack felt a grin burst out across his face.
‘The tablet.’
Cleo grinned happily. ‘I thought I’d do something useful while you were busy smashing a way out of the train carriage.’
Jack shook his head in admiration. ‘You’re amazing,’ he smiled. ‘Once we find the clues on the battlefield we can use the tablet and leave Deschamps and Reynard in the dust.’
‘You might have won this for us,’ he spoke seriously, ‘you know that, right?’
Cleo blushed for a moment and shook her head. ‘It’s only won when we have the gold and Deschamps is in jail.’ The two horses pranced for a moment, sharing in the excitement of their riders.
Jack nodded soberly. She was right. If Deschamps escaped jail then they’d have to spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders, whether they found the gold or not.
‘How do you feel?’ She asked eventually.
‘Stiff as a board, hungry as hell and ready for war,’ he grinned. ‘It’s time to teach Deschamps a lesson he won’t soon forget.’
Cleo’s smile lit up her face. ‘Well then, next stop, the Battle of Waterloo!’ She dug her heels into the horse’s side and spurred it eastward. Jack followed at a more sedate pace, catching up with Cleo at the gate at the bottom of the field. Cleo unhitched it expertly without dismounting and Jack gingerly clicked his stallion onto the bitumen road beyond. As Cleo had said, it was early, but there was a steady line of cars on the road – all heading in the same direction.
Cleo drew her horse alongside. ‘So, do you really think we have a chance at this?’
Jack shrugged. ‘You can never be sure… but I like our odds. There’ll be thousands of people watching, surprise will be on our side and Deschamps won’t dare do anything publically.’
She frowned. ‘What makes you think he hasn’t found it already?
‘He might have,’ Jack nodded, ‘but we left that carriage in a hell of a state. It’ll take more than a couple of hours to explain that to the Belgian police – even if half of them are in his pocket. And there’s no way they could have done anything in the downpour last night. Hopefully we can get there first or even catch him in the act.’
‘Unarmed?’ She sounded sceptical.
Jack smiled. ‘Not quite.’ He eased out the small Tomcat pistol from a pocket of his overalls. ‘I still have two shots left.’
‘Two shots from that?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Last night they were shooting at us with an AK-47. What will that little thing do?’
‘If we’re close enough, it’ll do enough,’ Jack stated confidently.
‘But what then?’ Cleo persisted. ‘Let’s say we capture Deschamps and Reynard – and however many goons they have – in a cellar with their hands full of loot. We can’t just hold a gun on them for the rest of their lives.’
‘No,’ Jack grimaced, ‘but you work with what you have, not what you want. This is the 200th Anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. There’ll be thousands of people there with cameras to act as witnesses and hundreds of people dressed as soldiers re-enacting the Battle itself. I’m willing to bet my life that some of them are actual British army troopers – which means we’ll have reinforcements c
lose at hand if we need it.’
‘With fake muskets?’ Cleo sounded sceptical.
‘Get close enough and a blast of gunpowder from a musket can be lethal,’ Jack warned, ‘whether the musket has a ball in it or not.’
‘What?’ Cleo stared at him incredulously. ‘So you’re saying we just ride in and tell a bunch of military nuts to follow us and they’ll do exactly what we tell them?’ Jack could hear the doubt in her voice, but he noticed that she did not pull the horse away.
‘Not military nuts,’ he corrected her, ‘patriotic Englishmen – they’ll have come to the Battlefield wanting to re-enact the greatest British victory since Agincourt. Tell them there’s a villainous Frenchman that needs stopping and they’ll follow me to the Gates of Hell.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her voice was still full of doubt. ‘Dressed like that?’
‘As sure as anything in my life,’ Jack declared firmly.
He suddenly realised that he was sure – he had commanded British troops in battlefields around the world and there were no other soldiers – man for man – who were braver, stronger or more decent. If he could find some British troops at the Battlefield then Deschamps would lose, he was sure of it. Jack found he was gritting his teeth with excitement, his blood pumping at the chance to take on Deschamps and drag him to the justice he deserved. Jack realised that he was itching to get back into a fight – a real fight, against a real villain. On this bright June morning, riding a horse into battle, Jack could feel his heart lift at the chance of striking a blow for Britain and for decency. He took a deep breath and sat erect upon the horse, enjoying the heat of the morning sun as it played across his face.
‘Ok,’ Cleo spoke quietly, looking at him with an impressed expression, ‘maybe we can do this after all.’
Jack grinned confidently, gripping the horse reins tightly as they passed a bus full of Chinese tourists.
‘The traffic’s getting worse,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s see what’s up ahead.’ He clicked his horse into a trot, jarring his teeth once or twice as he slammed against the back of the horse. He soon had the rhythm of the new pace, pushing himself out of the saddle in time as they trotted past the line of crawling automobiles and buses. The cause of the delay was soon apparent – a regiment of British Redcoats marching smartly along the roadway.
