Royal Heist (8 page)

Donnelly hesitated. “Am I missing something here? You say you’re Mr. Moreno’s business adviser, but you don’t sound like you’re employed by him, more like you’re . . .”

“Handling a tricky situation. I refer to myself as his business adviser, but it’s rather more complicated. I’m taking over his business because of his mounting debts, some of which are owed to me. I am making sure this development is completed, so I also get what is owed to me.”

“You want me to get Moreno here?”

“Correct, and I suggest you do not mention I’m here. We don’t want to make him feel like he’s being ganged up on.”

Donnelly punched the buttons on his phone and spoke briefly to Moreno, who said he would be at the site the next morning at nine. He hung up and told de Jersey what had been said.

They shook hands, and de Jersey, returning to his car, watched Donnelly instruct the workers to quit for the day.

De Jersey dined at a sushi bar in Sag Harbor. It was almost seven when he returned to his room and placed a call to the Maidstone Arms, which was virtually opposite his hotel. He was told that they were expecting Mr. Moreno to check in after ten.

At close to 11:00
P.M.,
de Jersey called the Maidstone Arms again; Mr. Moreno had just checked in. He identified himself as Mr. Donnelly and left a message asking to move the morning meeting up two hours, to 7:00
A.M.

De Jersey woke at five and, refreshed, checked out at six fifteen. He was on the site at six thirty and used a crowbar to open Donnelly’s Portakabin. He was confident no workers would show up now that Donnelly knew Moreno’s money had run dry. At seven on the dot the Lexus turned into the drive, and the immaculate Alex Moreno stepped out. He walked toward the cabin, stepping gingerly over the debris, afraid for his Gucci loafers. He entered, surprised to see de Jersey.

“Donnelly’s not here. Sit down, Alex, we need to talk.”

“Excuse me, do I know you?”

“No, you don’t, but I know you.”

Something about de Jersey’s manner, his strangely soft voice and steely eyes, made Moreno hesitate about leaving. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

“How many people did you take down when the company liquidated?” de Jersey asked.

Moreno shrugged. “Oh, this is about leadingleisurewear. I don’t know. Investors are investors. Sometimes they win and sometimes they lose.”

“Not everyone is a good loser, Alex,” de Jersey said quietly.

“If this is some kind of scam, then screw you! I don’t know you, and whatever you lost is not my problem.”

De Jersey reached out and gripped the collar of Moreno’s cashmere coat. “It
is
your problem, and I won’t go away until you solve it.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Moreno stammered.

“I work for someone who invested millions in your company, and he is not a happy man. He wants compensation.”

Moreno pushed away de Jersey’s hands. “I’m cleaned out. We went into liquidation and there’s nothing to be done.”

“Wrong. My friend wants this house, plus the lease on the Central Park apartment.”

“What?”
Moreno asked.

“You heard. I have some agreements that will transfer your rights in those properties. Just sign here.”

“Fuck you,” Moreno said.

De Jersey walked to the door, blocking Moreno’s exit. “It’s you that will be fucked if you don’t agree. Sign the papers and you walk out of here intact.”

Moreno hesitated. He glanced at them. “My, my, you’ve done your homework,” he said.

De Jersey picked up a pen and handed it to Moreno. “Just sign and no one will get hurt.”

Moreno’s hand was shaking. “I don’t understand all this,” he said.

“It merely instructs funds to go into the necessary numbered accounts.”

“You work for the guy with these accounts?”

“Yeah.”

Moreno bit his lip. “Why don’t you and me do some private business? I can cut you in. When this place is finished, I’m gonna ask fifteen million. You’d get a nice bonus and walk away from”—he glanced at the document—“this guy, whoever he is. Screw him and you’ll be a rich man. You could just say you never found me.”

“Sign the papers,” de Jersey said.

“He pays you that well, huh?” Smirking, Moreno tapped the desktop with the pen.

“Sign the papers.”

Moreno took a deep breath but still toyed with the pen.

“Sign the papers,” de Jersey snapped. “Now.”

Moreno dropped the pen. “This is fraud,” he said.

“It’s called paying off your debts.”

“I don’t have to pay a fucking dime. There were a lot of investors. It was a new business. The investors knew the risks. It wasn’t my fault they plowed in more funds.”

De Jersey pushed Moreno’s face roughly into the desk. “Sign the papers!” he thundered.

“No need to get nasty. I’ll do it, okay? I’ll do it,” Moreno said. When de Jersey released his grip, Moreno put up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You’ve won, okay? You get this place and the apartment.”

Moreno signed each document de Jersey placed in front of him, flicking glances at him. “All signed. Okay? You wanna try on my suit for size?” he asked sarcastically.

De Jersey inspected each signature calmly, then placed the documents in an envelope.

Finding his way clear to the door, Moreno crossed the room. He yanked the door open, turned, laughing. “Listen, you son of a bitch, if you think those papers would stand up in any court of law, you’re wrong. My attorney will have them laughed out of court, and I’ll have you fucked over for kidnap and extortion.”

In his eagerness to make a quick exit, he caught his sleeve on the door handle. He tripped and fell down the iron steps, cracking his head against the side of the railing. After he rolled onto the ground, his body jerked for a few seconds; then he lay ominously still.

Coming rapidly behind him, de Jersey felt for a pulse but without success. His mind raced. This wasn’t the outcome he had intended.

He dragged Moreno back into the cabin, where he unbuttoned his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He walked outside, picking up a spade on his way, and jumped into the half-finished swimming pool. He dug feverishly in the deep end until he had a hole big enough for the body. Then he returned to the Portakabin and emptied Moreno’s pockets. In one he found a wad of cash in an envelope addressed to Donnelly. De Jersey quickly counted the money and discovered that it would cover the outstanding invoice. He removed Moreno’s personal effects, dragged him from the cabin, and rolled him into the pool. Jumping down, he pushed the body into the newly dug grave and was filling it in when his watch alarm sounded. He climbed out of the pool. Next he drove Moreno’s Lexus into a nearby lane out of sight, then returned to the pool. To be extra sure no one discovered the body, he used the compressor machine to level off the ground. He finished cleaning himself up and was double-checking that the gauze of the wig was in place when Donnelly drove up.

De Jersey immediately crossed to his car, smiling. “I want to take you to breakfast,” he said. “There have been some new developments. Moreno isn’t coming. Where do you suggest?”

At Marty’s Diner, Donnelly had eggs over easy and a side of pancakes, while, opposite him, de Jersey sipped black coffee. He handed over the envelope. “That should cover your last invoice. You will see that it includes a bonus for the problems you’ve had to deal with.”

Donnelly’s face showed his relief.

“As of now,” de Jersey went on, “I am monitoring the project and controlling the payments. I have here postdated checks to cover work for the next two months, and I assure you that I have funds to cover them. You are to complete the house, and I want the gardens landscaped. You know a good company?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve worked with them before.”

“Good. So I can leave that with you to arrange?”

“Sure.”

“We want the estate finished, if possible, by early summer.”

“We were scheduled for completion by June.”

“Good. I’ll have someone, if not myself, come to the site at various times, but I’ve also hired a solicitor to take care of all payments due. It’s a local firm called Edward and Maybury. They will deal directly with you and liaise with me. I require photographs and reports of work in progress to be sent to the solicitor, who will subsequently pass them on to me.”

“So what’s happened to Moreno? Will he be coming around?”

“He’s gone to South America—keep that to yourself—and he’s turned over the day-to-day running of his finances to me. I will be handling the sale of the property. As I mentioned, Mr. Moreno owes me a substantial amount, and this way neither of us suffers an adverse loss.”

“He’s not going to live here?”

“He can’t afford it, and I will arrange a real estate agent to view the property when it is near completion.”

Donnelly drained his coffee, then put out his hand to shake de Jersey’s. “Thank God. I didn’t sleep last night with worry. I’ll get the men back working today.”

De Jersey signaled for the bill, then opened his wallet. “I saw they had begun work on the pool. When do they pour in the cement?”

“They’ll probably finish it today.”

“That’s good.” De Jersey paid for breakfast and left.

In East Hampton, he discussed property values with a real estate agent. They were eager to help: a property in such a prestigious area would sell quickly. Once development was complete, they assured him, they could start with an asking price of fifteen million. That sum, with the proceeds from the sale of Moreno’s apartment, meant that one small part of de Jersey’s, Wilcox’s, and Driscoll’s fortunes would be salvaged.

After returning his rental car, de Jersey ordered a taxi and went to pick up the Lexus, which he drove into Manhattan. With Moreno’s keys in his pocket, he was able to let himself into the apartment. Quickly, he packed most of Moreno’s clothes into suitcases and made appointments with three real estate agents to discuss selling the lease of the fully furnished apartment. He phoned the doorman to arrange transfer of the bags to the Lexus.

When the first agent arrived, de Jersey explained his asking price was way below the market value in order to ensure a fast sale. By the afternoon, thanks to the legally binding letters and the lease reversal with Moreno’s signature, a cash deal had been struck. Before he left the apartment, de Jersey unscrewed the back of Moreno’s computer and, producing an electric drill he’d found in a kitchen cabinet, drilled several holes through the hard drive. If he was unable to gain access to the files, he didn’t want anyone else to do so.

At 7:00
P.M.,
de Jersey parked the Lexus in the long-stay car park at JFK, leaving it unlocked with Moreno’s suitcases in full view, thus assuring their quick disappearance. At the Virgin Atlantic desk he used Philip Simmons’s passport and upgraded himself into first class. After boarding the plane, he changed into the courtesy tracksuit and slept for the entire flight. Once again, he spoke to no one. He was woken for breakfast shortly before landing.

After clearing customs at Heathrow, he returned to the men’s room, where he removed the wig and mustache, and combed his hair. He left the airport as Edward de Jersey.

He was home in time for New Year celebrations. He was confident it would be a long while before anyone started to ask questions about Moreno’s disappearance, and he was pretty sure that the body would never be found. The car would turn up, but it would be hard to prove that there had been foul play. It would be near impossible to trace de Jersey’s own movements in and out of New York. Once Moreno’s finances had been properly investigated, it would be surmised that he had done a runner.

The money from Moreno’s properties was a drop in the ocean compared to the losses the trio had suffered. But de Jersey calculated his share of the cash from the sale of the apartment alone would be enough to keep his estate running for the time being. It was almost a week since he’d left for New York, but in that time he had felt the adrenaline pumping, the old excitement at being on the wrong side of the law. It was a different enjoyment than his horses brought: more like the thrill of walking a tightrope. He was forced to use wits and cunning, and he liked that. He felt no regret for Moreno’s death. He was happy to use the accident to his advantage. The Colonel was back in business.

CHAPTER

5

T
he New Year celebrations were over, and Wilcox and Driscoll were due to return to London, but de Jersey had still not formed a plan. He had been spending much of his time learning about the Internet, a vast world of which he had known so little.

After surfing the Web, he realized that his criminal expertise was outdated. A modern criminal needed only a computer and a modem to carry out a lucrative heist. He also realized that nothing was secure in cyberspace. De Jersey was intrigued by the way information could be appropriated by criminal organizations. The May Day riots, which gathered protesters and support worldwide, had been almost exclusively organized on the Internet. Even the Mafia carried out cyber-meetings these days. Crime was committed behind a hidden web of corruption and orchestrated from a simple keyboard. A teenage hacker had broken into the U.S. defense system and another into the Bank of England. De Jersey was astonished that American institutions were so vulnerable and so accessible. In the aftermath of the recent terrorist attacks, there was more security everywhere, but the dangers in cyberspace continued unabated.

Restricted information could be accessed through password-sniffing programs. Hackers disguised their computers rather than themselves to acquire sensitive information. Computer credit-card fraud was big business. De Jersey was concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear Christina walk in. She was carrying a shirt. “What on earth is this on your cuffs?” she asked. “It’s on the collar too.” She held up the shirt he had used as Philip Simmons, and he couldn’t think what to say.

“It looks like makeup to me,” she said suspiciously.

“You’ve caught me out,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s fake tan.”

“What?” she said, taken aback.

“Well, I looked so bloody pale I tried it out, but it turned me orange so I washed it off.”

“Well, it’s ruined the shirt.”

“Chuck it out, then.”

She flicked it toward him. “You silly old sod—wait till I tell the girls how you were trying to impress this banker. No, don’t tell me, he was a woman!”

“No, but he was twenty years younger than me.” He laughed.

“You
will
be pale and feeble if you keep yourself holed up in here,” she said. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Moving into the high-tech world. It’ll cut down on all that paperwork.”

“Will it? But you don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“I’m learning,” he said.

“You should get Tom to help you, he’s doing a computer course.”

“Tom who?”

“The vicar’s son—Tom Knowles.”

De Jersey looked at his computer. “Maybe you should get him to come over—sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll do it now, then,” she said and left the room. De Jersey tapped the desk. He should have dumped the shirt before he came home. He would never have made a mistake like that in the past.

A few moments later Christina was back. “Tom is ready, willing, and able. I said you’d pay him per hour.”

Tom Knowles was training as an information technology tutor at a local college. He was small and skinny, and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He arrived promptly each morning at nine o’clock and stayed for two hours.

One day he opened his laptop as usual and said to de Jersey, “Right, sir, last session you wanted to look into Web privacy. The best way to keep your personal data personal is by not giving it out in the first place. So, if I wanted total electronic privacy, I’d start with a made-up name or nickname for my e-mail account, using Hotmail or Yahoo!, for example. They’ll ask you for personal information, but there is nothing to say that you have to tell them the truth. Always skip any optional fields. If, however, you want to order things off the Net, you’ll have to give your address. If this is a concern, you can get a post-office box.”

De Jersey nodded.

“You may think that surfing the Net is an anonymous activity, but every Web site you contact keeps a record of your computer IP address. Combine that with your ISP’s logs, and you’re right in the spotlight.”

De Jersey pursed his lips. “Are there ways to cover your tracks when you’re on-line?” he asked, staring at Tom’s small screen.

“There are ways to hide behind someone else’s IP address, but I don’t know much about that. You’d have to talk to someone who’s more knowledgeable in that area.”

“And what about these ISP logs? Can’t you just delete those from your computer?”

“Yes, but it’s not as simple as deleting. Many people think that when they send documents to the recycle bin they’re gone, but they’re not. And even if you take the next step and delete the contents of your recycle bin, they’re still on your database. Private detectives and police investigators could still use programs such as EnCase and FRED to recover evidence from parts of your drive.”

“So you’re telling me that if I, for example, had something sensitive, let’s say illegal, and pressed delete, or put it in the recycling bin, it’s always going be on the hard drive?”

Tom nodded. “Exactly. Which is why the police have been able to arrest so many pedophiles. The evidence of their illegal activities has been retained on their hard drives, even when they thought they had deleted it.”

“Is there anything you can do to remove something completely from your computer?”

“There’s something called Evidence Eliminator. It’s the equivalent to a government-level wipe that people say can deep-clean your computer of sensitive material. I have never used the program myself, though, so I don’t really know how efficient it is.”

“Interesting,” de Jersey said. “What about e-mail?”

“Well, an e-mail travels through several servers on its way to its destination. This means it can be intercepted and read. You never know who might be reading your e-mail. At the moment, police are monitoring the Net for terrorist communications. Numerous people have been arrested here that way.”

De Jersey’s mind was racing with ways to use the new technology to his advantage. “I read an article about hacking recently. How does that work?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, if someone wanted to hack into a company’s files, how would they do it?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I have a basic understanding of what’s involved, but I’ve never done it myself so I couldn’t tell you. Some of the things hackers have done are pretty funny, though.”

“Like what?” de Jersey asked, not very interested.

“A few years back, two hackers rigged a radio station’s phone system during a phone-in show to let only their calls through.” He laughed. “They won two cars, trips all round the world, and twenty thousand pounds!” Tom noticed that his pupil’s attention was wandering.

“You know what, Mr. de Jersey; the best place to get hold of this information is the Net itself. You should start using the chat rooms, get on-line with some guys who know what they’re talking about.” Tom checked his watch.

“Could you show me again how to get into the chat rooms? Then we’ll call it quits for the day,” de Jersey said. “Why don’t we use your computer?”

Tom began tapping away. De Jersey didn’t want to take any risk, however small, that someone might trace anything back to his computer. He thought it prudent from then on to use Tom’s laptop exclusively.

“Okeydokey,” Tom said. “Anything in particular you’d like to chat about or discuss?”

De Jersey gave it a second’s thought. “Yeah, how about something like those kids that hacked into the radio show?”

Tom tapped away for a few seconds. “If we get someone on-line who doesn’t have the information we want, he can direct us to a more specialized chat room. Here we go.”

Tom typed away in search of information about hacking, then asked what de Jersey wanted to call himself.

“Erm, how about Bill Haley?” he said. Tom did not react—he was probably too young to remember the old rock-and-roller. He simply typed in the name. Then they watched the screen. Within moments they had received a message. “Good God, that was quick,” de Jersey said, fascinated.

“Well, some of these guys spend all day on there.”

A short message on the screen told them that its author didn’t know anything about hacking but that he had lost the password to his Toshiba and did anyone know the break-in starter password for this computer?

Tom tapped the screen with his pencil. “Get out of this one. I’d say this guy has a stolen computer, that’s why he doesn’t have the password.”

“My God, I’ve got a lot to learn,” de Jersey said, intrigued.

Just then they heard Natasha return from riding. De Jersey glanced at Tom, who looked flustered.

“Excuse me,” he said, “may I use your toilet?”

De Jersey nodded. “Say hello to Natasha before you come back,” he teased. Every morning when his daughter came in, the boy needed to use the bathroom.

Tom slipped out of the room, so he missed the next message that flashed across the screen.

It was from someone calling himself Elvis who suggested that Bill Haley attend a public course on the Internet and thoughtfully listed numerous lectures taking place in colleges across London.

De Jersey asked which Elvis thought would be best.

“I hear St. Catherine’s Church Hall, Lisson Grove, Notting Hill, Tuesday, eight fifteen
P.M.
is pretty good” came the response.

“Thank you,” de Jersey replied.

Tom returned just as his watch alarm rang to herald the end of the session. He watched as de Jersey closed down his laptop for him, then delved into his rucksack. “I got you this. It’s a novel by a guy called Douglas Coupland. It’s a terrific read.”

“
Microserfs.
Thank you.”

De Jersey walked Tom to the door and, as an afterthought, said for the next few weeks he would be abroad on business. Tom looked disappointed but perked up when de Jersey handed him an envelope containing two hundred fifty pounds. “That’s for all your help. I’ll get in touch when I need you again.”

De Jersey had enough knowledge now to come to grips with identity protection. If he was going to plan a robbery utilizing the Internet, he had to know how to avoid being traced. He would prefer not to involve anyone else, so he’d start by attending the lecture Elvis had recommended.

He spent the rest of the day in chat rooms. He used various names—on the Internet he could be whoever he wanted without the need for a disguise. Physical attributes, age, and gender were irrelevant; the only truth was what he chose to write on the electronic page.

De Jersey was amazed how easily he could contact other criminals on the Web. Many even had their own Web sites, paying homage to their crimes. He looked up the Metropolitan Police’s list of Most Wanted criminals and allowed himself a satisfied smile; none of his many pseudonyms were mentioned.

He had not yet formed a plan but was storing away information. As he became more proficient, he ordered a higher-powered computer and arranged for it to be delivered and installed. As he completed the order form on-line, he noted with interest how many personal details he was asked to provide. Edward de Jersey was now a known entity in cyberspace.

Christina became increasingly frustrated. Her husband worked all day at the stables and then shut himself in his study every evening after dinner.

At breakfast she asked him what had happened when he was in London just after Christmas.

“Why do you ask?” He was reading the Internet novel Tom had left with him while he ate.

“Since you came back, you’re always in front of a computer. You’ve stopped talking to me, you pay no attention to the girls.”

He shut the book and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“I won’t have my parents stay if you’re going to continue.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember? They’re coming for a week’s holiday. They only come once a year, and they want to see the girls before they go back to school.”

De Jersey was upset by her anger. “I’m sorry. Why don’t we go for a walk?”

“No, I’m going to do some baking.”

“I guess I just got caught up in my new toys, and I’ve been working a lot too.” He slipped his arms around her. “Let me make it up to you.”

But she moved away. “They’ll want to do all the touristy things. I know you hate anything like that, but it means a lot to them to be here.”

“I’ll drive them, fly them, and entertain them twenty-four hours a day, I promise,” de Jersey said.

“You don’t have to go that far, but they look forward to coming.”

“I’ll make it a trip for them to remember. I’ll arrange tickets for shows, guided tours, Windsor Castle, you name it.”

“They went to Windsor Castle last year,” she said. “They said they’d like to go to the Tower of London this time and maybe see London Zoo. Perhaps we can go by barge up the Regent’s Canal.”

He slipped his arms around her again. “When do they arrive?”

“In a week’s time.”

“That gives me time to get it all sorted out. You sure you don’t want to come for a walk?”

“Okay, then,” she said, turning in his arms to kiss him.

Later that afternoon de Jersey made his presence felt, talking, as he always had, to each member of staff in the yard. He leaned against Royal Flush’s stable door as the sweating horse was hosed down after his exercise and wrapped in a thick blanket.

De Jersey walked from stable to stable with the trainers and lads, examining all the working horses and the brood mares, the foals and yearlings. It had taken twenty-five years to build up a stable of such caliber, and Moreno’s money would not last long. He needed a vast injection of hard cash to keep going, and de Jersey was not prepared to fire one employee or send one horse to auction. He had coveted and created this life, and no one was going to take it from him.

He entered the kitchen from the yard. Christina was cooking dinner. As he passed her she caught his arm. “Are you going into your study again?” she said.

“Just to book some theater and the tourist attractions. I’ll join you for dinner the moment you call me.”

In his study he logged on to the Internet. When he had bought more theater tickets to West End shows than he had evenings to fill, he started to book London tours, ending up at the Tower of London’s Web site. He was not really paying attention as he printed off the information, but articles about the spectacular jewels on display captured his interest. The gems included the Second Star of Africa, part of the Cullinan Diamond, the Koh-i-noor Diamond, St. Edward’s Sapphire, and the Black Prince’s Ruby. He leaned closer to the screen as the page went on to describe the magnificent pearls worn by Elizabeth I and the Stuart Sapphire from the time of Charles II. Over the years the regalia had been altered to suit various monarchs. Queen Victoria’s hand had been too small for the coronation ring, so a copy had been made. Edward VII had not worn the St. Edward’s Crown as he was ill at the time of his coronation and it was deemed too heavy. Likewise, the arches on the Imperial State Crown had been lowered for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation as she was so tiny and the crown such a weight.