Royal Heist (29 page)

“How the hell do we get in there?” Driscoll asked.

De Jersey opened his cigar case and offered it to Driscoll and Wilcox, who shook their heads.

“Have another look at the information on the CD,” he said. “The warehouse where we’ll be is just a hundred yards from the safe house, but its cellar extends beyond the actual warehouse space. It’s almost next to theirs. All these properties were supplied with coal using the same chute. If we enlarge the small chute door in our warehouse’s cellar, we’ll have access to the room at the bottom of the chute. At the other side there should be a similar door leading into the safe house’s cellar. We open up our side and gain access to their cellar through this coal chute. We can’t do it any other way. Marsh tells me they test the alarms every day at nine. After that we disconnect the lines. We will have only a short time because we’re moving out the convoy at ten twenty-five, but at least we’ll know that anyone pressing a panic button is not going to worry us. What do you think?”

“It might be the only way,” said Wilcox.

Heartened, de Jersey outlined how long it would take and what equipment they would need, and both men agreed the idea was workable. They would use a high-powered laser gun to cut soundlessly through the cement, but as they would have to go brick by brick, their nights from now on would be busy. All he had left to work out was how to disconnect the alarms without them going off once they were inside. For this he would need Marsh again.

They turned to the getaway plan—they hadn’t yet worked out the fine details of their own escape. They had to get rid of the Royal vehicles, then get themselves and the jewels away from the scene as quickly as possible.

By late evening, they believed they had a plan, but they wouldn’t know until the day of the robbery whether it would work.

Christina was in the kitchen sorting through some of her mother’s old letters and photographs when the phone rang.

“Could I speak to Edward de Jersey, please?” said an unfamiliar voice.

“He’s not here. Can I take a message?”

“Where is he?”

“Who is speaking?”

“Sylvia Hewitt. Who’s that?”

“Christina de Jersey. Do you want to leave a message?”

“When do you expect him back? I need to see him.”

“In a few days. Does he have your number?”

“Thank you, and yes. Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. de Jersey.”

Christina hung up. She didn’t know why, but the call unnerved her. She’d never met Sylvia, but she knew she was Helen Lyons’s sister. She had been so abrupt, almost rude. She jotted down the message on a yellow Post-it and stuck it on the phone.

Liz Driscoll had just returned from a manicure when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”

“Could I speak to Mr. Driscoll, please?”

“He’s not at home. Who’s calling?”

“Sylvia Hewitt. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He’s out on business.”

“When do you expect him?”

“Sometime this evening. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Just say I called. I think he has my number. Sorry to disturb you.”

Liz hung up. This was the second time she’d taken a call from the woman, and if Tony was up to his old tricks again she’d really have it out with him.

Marsh was pleased with the new equipment. He had spent thousands in computer stores across London. The skimmer was well worth the five thousand he’d paid for it. He’d given his wife carte blanche to go shopping at Harrods with the fake credit cards he’d had a pal create using several numbers he’d got from the skimmer, and she had departed, leaving him to take care of their child.

De Jersey had traveled by public transport to Marsh’s house. It was almost five thirty when they met. They discussed the phone conversations between Scotland Yard and the safe house. Marsh was still confident they would have no problem in gaining the IRA code word for the second of May. He played the tapes he had recorded of numerous IRA informants calling in to give the day’s code word. It was usually an odd name, sometimes a place or object. The tapes reassured de Jersey that Marsh was as good as his word, and they played them again so that de Jersey could practice an Irish accent. Marsh also confirmed that there had been no changes in the Queen’s official diary and the fitting date remained fixed. The Royal party was to depart from Buckingham Palace at ten that morning.

De Jersey looked around the room. “You’re certainly spending the money I’m paying you. Perhaps you should slow down a bit. You don’t want to make anyone suspicious about all this equipment you’ve got. You couldn’t buy it on your wages.”

“I’m watching my arse, don’t you worry.” Marsh swiveled round in his chair and looked at de Jersey. “Come on, what is it? There was no real need for you to come and see me today. What else do you want?”

De Jersey put his hand into his pocket and took out a thick envelope. “I need your help with something. Take a look at this. It’s D’Ancona’s visual display, the alarms, the panic buttons.”

Marsh grinned. “You’re something else, man, you really are.” He took the CD and put it into his computer. “Fuck me! How did you get hold of this?” he exclaimed.

“Inadvertently via you. You set the cat among the pigeons when you tried to hack in, so they had to check all their files, and I have my contacts.”

“This must have cost.”

De Jersey smiled. “Not really.” He tapped the screen. “My problem is this. I know how to get into this area here”—he pointed to the coal chute—“and I know that’s where we can get access to the panic alarms. But I don’t know how to deactivate them.”

Marsh’s mouth turned down as he peered at the screen. He scrolled down, then back up again. “Well, it’s simple enough to unplug lines from boxes—it’s just a matter of pulling them out.”

“I can tell there’s a
but
coming,” de Jersey said.

“There is, and it’s a big one. The second you pull any one of those plugs, all the others will activate and notify the call center. You’ll have every copper in London down there in a jiffy.”

“What do you suggest?”

Raymond tugged nervously at his cuffs. “I haven’t a clue. You’ll need to find a way to pull out all the plugs at the same moment. A fraction of a second out and it’s bye-bye Crown Jewels!”

There was a moment’s silence as the two men contemplated their predicament. Marsh clicked, and the interior of the safe house came up again on his screen. The silence was broken by his daughter, who started howling. He left the room, and de Jersey could hear him cooing and talking to her.

Then Marsh charged back in carrying the child. “I’ve got it! I think I know how we can do it—but she’s filled her nappy so I gotta change her.”

Rika had just put the twins to bed and was thumbing through the
TV Times
when the phone rang. She hoped it would be Jimmy. He’d been gone all day.

“Is Mr. Wilcox there?”

“No, he not back yet.”

“My name is Sylvia Hewitt. Could you ask him to call me? He has my number. Tell him it’s quite urgent, would you?”

“Who?”

“Sylvia Hewitt. Are you expecting him this evening?”

“Yes, I tell him you call. Sylvia who?”

“Hewitt. Please give him the message.”

Rika got a pen and notepad. She started to write down the message then crumpled the paper and threw it into the bin. She was sure this Sylvia Hewitt was after her man. She had spoken so rudely, as if Rika was the maid.

De Jersey left Marsh’s house grinning from ear to ear. A taxi passed him, slowing down. The inside was lit, and de Jersey saw that the blond-haired Mrs. Marsh was paying the driver. She had a vast array of boxes and bags, all with the Harrods logo. He watched until she had entered the house, and then, as the cab made a U-turn, he stepped out and flagged it down.

He asked to be driven to Wimbledon Station, and the driver beamed. “That’s lucky. I’ve just come from Knightsbridge. Didn’t reckon I’d get another fare back.” He switched on the clock.

“That was some shopping your last fare had,” de Jersey said.

“Don’t know where they get the dosh. Took two Harrods doormen to load me up. Said her husband had made a killing on the horses. Wish he’d give me a few tips.”

De Jersey sat back against the seat as his driver gave a monologue about his lack of luck on the tracks. “You a racing man?” he asked eventually.

“No, I’m not,” de Jersey replied.

“Best way to be. It’s a fool’s game,” the driver said, then turned to glance at de Jersey. He was sitting in the shadow, his face virtually in darkness. “Not a gambling man, then, eh?”

“No.”

“Don’t take risks, eh?”

“No, I don’t like risks.” He closed his eyes.

CHAPTER

21

D
e Jersey was loath to do it, but he cut down on some more staff and sold six more horses. The yard was rife with rumors. All were concerned for the stable’s future and their jobs, so no one felt it odd that just as the racing season was starting de Jersey was spending more and more time away. Fleming had told them only that he was in financial difficulty. However, de Jersey was monitoring Royal Flush as diligently as ever: he was now relying on the great horse to achieve big results. Luckily he had consistently improved during training, even if his temperament in the stable had not. If he felt like it, he could fly on the flat, but he was often a slow starter, not kicking in until halfway through the run, when Mickey said he could feel the animal’s mood change. One moment he was sluggish, the next Mickey could hardly hold him. There was not a horse in the yard that could keep up with him.

De Jersey received a call from Pamela. Lord Westbrook’s health had deteriorated and she suggested de Jersey visit him. De Jersey thanked her and hung up. He swore under his breath. Just as he thought everything was under control, something else had gone wrong. Christina had mentioned a phone call from Sylvia Hewitt, and both Wilcox and Driscoll said the woman had called them.

“I had to fish the fucking message out of the bin. Rika’s convinced I’m fooling around with her,” Wilcox told them.

“Leave it with me,” de Jersey said. “I’ll go and see what she wants.”

“Maybe her money,” Wilcox suggested.

It was just over two weeks to go, and Raymond Marsh had been busy. So had his wife. His purchases ranged from two dozen handmade silk shirts, suits, and shoes to computer accessories, TV sets, and furniture. Marsh was preparing to leave the country. After the robbery, he would decamp to South America. His credit-card frauds were reaching ludicrous proportions, but he needed hard cash to ensure that his departure was paid for and he had funds in hand. His house was on the market. He had not thought of how his behavior might affect de Jersey. Only one of the stolen credit-card numbers had to be recognized for him to be arrested for theft.

De Jersey still had not made contact with Sylvia, and Christina took another call from her.

“This is Sylvia Hewitt. Mrs. de Jersey, would you please ask your husband to return my call? When I said it was urgent I meant it.”

Christina found her attitude most objectionable. “What is this about, Miss Hewitt?”

“Alex Moreno. Tell him I have some interesting information concerning a man called Philip Simmons.”

As before, Sylvia hung up abruptly. Christina couldn’t understand why the woman had been so rude.

In Monaco, Paul Dulay was ready. His boat was crewed up, and the engine had been tested. The weeks before the Crown Jewels fitting dragged, but his workrooms were prepared. Everything was ready for the green light.

He was sitting outside a harbor café in Monte Carlo, on his third coffee, when de Jersey approached.

“You’re late,” Dulay said. “I’ve been here over an hour.”

“Sorry. I was looking over your boat.”

“She’s all set. Would you like to go for a spin in her?”

“I don’t have time. Did you arrange the meet?”

“Yeah. He’s only in Paris for two days.”

“At the Ritz?”

“Yeah, and he didn’t like me asking him to meet you. You know what these guys are like about honor. You have to do a lot of bowing around the guy. He’s something else. And he’s got this other guy that breathes down your neck the whole time.”

“Odd Job.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Is this guy his bodyguard?”

“Yeah. He’s got a driver-cum-heavy as well. I said we’d meet him this afternoon at the Louvre. He’s also into art. Do you know that if a Japanese person buys a painting and holds on to it for two years, it becomes his property even if it’s stolen goods.”

“No, I didn’t. I want to meet him alone, Paul.”

“What?”

“You heard me. The less we’re seen together the better.”

“I arranged the meet, for Chrissakes!”

“I know you did. But I still want to meet him alone.” He reminded Dulay to anchor a good distance off the coast the day of the robbery. De Jersey also instructed him to test the watertight crate he had told him to acquire. They spoke for another few moments, then de Jersey left.

He caught a taxi back to the airport and hired a twin-engine plane to fly to Paris. He picked up another taxi and arrived at the Louvre just after two thirty. He had half an hour before his meeting with Mr. Kitamo.

Mr. Kitamo hardly ever looked directly at de Jersey. He maintained a slow walk, pausing at various paintings, sometimes stopping to read a plaque, then stepping back to gaze at the picture. He appeared to be interested only in the art on display and let out a soft sigh when they stood in front of the
Mona Lisa.
The bodyguard kept a discreet distance behind them.

Kitamo finally broke the silence. “To possess a painting of such beauty is very desirable, but there are many rumors that her enigmatic smile is whispering, ‘Fake.’ I will require one of my own people to check over the merchandise. Although I trust our mutual friend, I will accept the terms only if I am satisfied that the said item is authentic. We have agreed on the price, and I understand you wish to have a show of my intention.” Kitamo turned his expressionless black eyes toward de Jersey. “One million U.S. dollars.”

“Correct,” de Jersey said.

“Agreed. Our friend will receive it as soon as I am informed that the item is in his possession. I will, perhaps, be prepared also to negotiate a price for certain smaller valuable pieces.” Kitamo ended the conversation as quickly as he had started it. “I have enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Simmons.” He gave a small bow, as if to conclude the meeting, and turned back to the
Mona Lisa.

De Jersey, however, remained where he stood. Kitamo hesitated, then clicked his fingers to his bodyguard. Kitamo moved off, and his bodyguard stepped in front of de Jersey, withdrawing from his jacket pocket a white envelope and passing it discreetly to him. Then he joined Kitamo. De Jersey crossed to sit on one of the leather-covered benches and slipped the envelope inside the gallery’s brochure as he opened it. It contained confirmation of a banking facility for over $250 million U.S. in Kitamo’s name. It was issued by the Banque Eurofin. A contact number was provided.

De Jersey remained seated for a few moments. When he stood up and looked toward the end of the gallery, Kitamo, who had been watching him, gave a small bow. De Jersey inclined his head back and walked out. Mr. Kitamo, as Dulay had said, was a legitimate buyer and had the finance to purchase a good many of the jewels they were planning to steal. De Jersey was relieved to know this.

Back in England, the warehouse remained empty, but Wilcox and Driscoll timed the journey from there to the safe house several times. The date on which they would move all the convoy vehicles and the equipment was still undecided, although de Jersey planned to do it at night, one vehicle at a time, so as not to raise suspicion. After months of planning, the heist was only five days away.

Christina was at home watching television when she received a third call from Sylvia Hewitt. She again asked to speak to de Jersey and seemed angry when she was told that he was away.

“Where can I get in touch with him?” she asked.

“He usually stays at his club, the St. James’s, but I know he’s very busy at the moment, so if you would like to leave him a message—”

“I already have. I’ll call the club. Sorry to bother you, but if he should return, can you pass on these numbers?” Sylvia dictated her cell, office, and home numbers.

“How is Helen?” Christina couldn’t resist asking, just to hear Sylvia’s response.

“Still grieving for David. So, will you pass these numbers to your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Sylvia said and hung up.

Christina had just settled down to continue watching television when Sylvia called back. “He’s not there, and they said he was not expected this evening. Have you a mobile number I could call?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know it. I’m so sorry.”

There was a pause. Christina could almost feel the woman’s impatience.

Sylvia sounded really angry when she asked again if Christina could get her husband to call her urgently. “Please make sure he knows that he really should contact me.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Christina went into her husband’s study to look for his cell phone number. She could never remember it. She had been worried to hear that he was not expected at the club that evening. She found the number and called it, but the phone was switched off. Frustrated, she called de Jersey’s club. A moment later they were speaking.

“Christina? Is something wrong?”

“No, darling. It’s just that David Lyons’s sister-in-law called. She said it was very urgent. It’s the third time. She’s really quite persistent. I said you were staying at the club, and I think she called there.”

“Oh, God, that wretched woman.”

“The porter said you weren’t there.”

He laughed. “That’s why I stay here. Good service!”

“Well, it’s good that I caught you. She wanted your mobile number, but I didn’t give it to her.”

“Thank you. She’s a real pain. Did she say why she wanted me so urgently?”

“Not really. Something about someone called Moreno, and I can’t remember the other name she mentioned. She left an array of contact numbers. Do you want them?”

“No, I don’t want to speak to her.”

“Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes. Just had a heavy day. Back-to-back meetings. I’m not raising funds as fast as I’d hoped.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really. I’m having dinner with an American banker this evening, so things may look better tomorrow. I’ll call you later and give you an update. And perhaps after all I’ll have the woman’s numbers. I’ll call and get her off my back.”

De Jersey replaced the receiver, tense with anger. He thanked the porter and arranged a room for the night. The man passed him his room keys and told him about the call from a Miss Hewitt. “Thank you, John. If she calls again, tell her I’m in a meeting and can’t be interrupted, would you?”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, John.”

De Jersey showered and changed into a clean shirt, which he had brought in his briefcase. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He was relieved that he had decided on a whim to come to his club. It had been pure coincidence that he had walked in just as Christina called. He wondered what the wretched Hewitt woman wanted. It was almost eight, though, so he decided to go to Westbrook’s and deal with Sylvia Hewitt later.

De Jersey left the club unnoticed by the porter. He had already put a do-not-disturb message on his room’s phone-message recorder. He hailed a taxi in Jermyn Street.

Westbrook was leaning against the rail looking down at de Jersey as he came up the stairs.

“Hi there. When you left the message that you wanted to talk to me, I didn’t think you’d come in person. I was waiting for you to ring back,” he said.

De Jersey put out his hand. “Well, we’re pretty close to kickoff, so I thought it best to run over the finer details in person.” They shook hands.

“Come in.” Westbrook strolled ahead of him through the open door.

De Jersey didn’t show how shocked he was by Westbrook’s appearance. The man’s face was haggard, with a yellowish, sickly pallor, and his clothes were unkempt.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Westbrook asked.

“No, thank you,” de Jersey said, and his nostrils flared at the stench of alcohol and urine. “Stinks like a cat’s litter tray in here,” he said.

“I know, it’s frightful, isn’t it? There are two moggies. God knows where they are. I don’t see them much. Live under the bed most of the time. But they’re why I’m here. I agreed with my relative to feed them and empty their shitty bins.” Westbrook slumped on the unmade bed. “I’ve not been out today,” he said.

De Jersey sat on the edge of a once elegant, velvet-covered wing chair. On the mantelpiece stood rows of pillboxes and bottles. Stuffed between them were letters, postcards, invitations, and unopened bills.

“Have you not been out because you’re sick or because you can’t be bothered?”

“Bit of both. I’m sick as hell, so I’ve been staying in watching the soaps. They all have such dreadful lives, it sort of takes the heat off my own.” He laughed, and de Jersey saw that even his teeth were worse than he remembered, as if the cancer was rotting his gums.

“You’d better get yourself together. You smell as bad as the cats’ tray. What about clean clothes?”

Westbrook indicated an old walnut wardrobe, its door hanging off its hinges. Inside were racks of suits, plus sweaters and shirts on shelves. “Oh, I’m flush for clothes, thanks to you, old chap. It’s just getting up the energy to get dressed. It’s not been a priority.”

“Make it one,” de Jersey snapped.

Westbrook stared at him, then shrugged. “Yes, sir.”

“What do you need to get yourself together? We have four days to go, and from the look of you, I’d say you’re not going to make it.”

Westbrook swung down his legs and glared at de Jersey. “I’ll make it. I’ll take some booster painkillers and some high-quality speed. I won’t let you down. Believe me, this is all I’m staying alive for.”

“All right, but if you fuck me over, it won’t be your life I’ll go after. Do you understand what I am saying?” He nodded at a picture of Westbrook’s kids.

“I understand you perfectly.”

De Jersey looked over the array of medicines. “Morphine,” he said coldly.

“Yes,” said Westbrook. “It’s not prescription, but it dulls the pain. My old aunt Sarah used it for years for arthritis. Got to be careful not to take too much, though.”

“I’ll have it.” De Jersey pocketed the bottle.

“Do you fancy a glass of wine? There’s a reasonable wine bar on the corner up the road. Bite to eat on me?” Westbrook gave a wolfish smile.

De Jersey stood up. If he had been uneasy about Westbrook before, he was even more so now. “You use that money I’m paying you to eat, not to get pissed.” He looked down at Westbrook’s feet. He was wearing holey socks. “Use it to get some laundry done too, and a new pair of socks. And if you’ve got a toothbrush, use it. Your breath stinks as much as you do.”