Royal Heist (12 page)

Wilcox stared at the kid’s young, concerned face. He relaxed. “That’s okay, Dan, no problem. Let’s go check out the car.”

Rika was looking for Wilcox. She headed into the garage and, finding it empty, walked into his back room, where she found the mirror. She licked her finger and tasted the cocaine. She shook her head. It was bad enough him using it, but to leave it out in the open for the children to find was something she would not tolerate. Rika found him with his mechanic, leaning over the open bonnet of the smoking Ferrari on the track. She marched straight up to Wilcox and pushed him away from the car. “Ve got to talk.”

“Not right now, I’m busy.”

“You have to collect the twins from school. I told you diz morning, you are late for them now.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I have an appointment wid my dentist. I tell you diz.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get them.”

“No you von’t.”

“What?”

She faced him, hands on her hips. “You look at yourself in the mirror you leave in ze garage?” she asked. She threw the mirror at his feet. “I’ll get them, but I von’t have diz near to de kids. You should be ashamed of yourself, a man of your age. Vat you think you are playing at? And vipe your nose, it’s running. You sicken me.”

Wilcox gripped her arm and frog-marched her to the side of the track. “You never speak to me that way, you hear me? Especially not in front of someone like Dan.”

“Why? Because he’d lose respect for you? Don’t kid yourself, James. Everyone around you knows vat you are doing; ve can’t miss it! You vant to kill yourself, I no watch you do it! I am leaving you and your kids.”

Rika stormed back across the field, and Wilcox wiped his nose with the sleeve of his overall. If he had felt shame before, he now felt it doubly, and upon his return he could not meet the eyes of the young mechanic, who tried hard to appear as if nothing had happened.

Wilcox patted the boy’s shoulder. “Can I leave you to finish up here?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied shyly.

Wilcox let himself into the house through the mudroom, which was cluttered with kids’ skates, Wellington boots, fishing rods, and skateboards. Racks of kids’ clothes hung in various sizes and lengths, along with overcoats, raincoats, riding hats. Wilcox kicked off his muddy shoes and stripped off his overall, adding it to the pile of clothes discarded in a corner. The phone rang as he passed the big pine table in the kitchen already set for tea. Four of the six kids were expected, and that meant their friends too. His house was always jammed with kids of every shape and size. They had an entire floor to themselves, with a big games room full of equipment, computers, and computer games, but seemed to prefer running wild, wrecking the place.

He snorted another couple of lines in the en suite bathroom upstairs, then lay down on the quilted bedspread. Deep down he knew the cause of his anguish; with de Jersey having lost so much money, his plans to regain it would be illegal. Wilcox knew he was already involved. Loyalty and need ran too deep to say no.

The swelling had gone down, but Royal Flush was still lame. The vet was observing him in the indoor exercise arena.

“What the hell is the matter with him?” De Jersey was beside himself with anxiety.

The vet was at a loss. “I’ve X-rayed him, checked and double-checked, but I can find nothing that would stop him putting weight on that leg. It might be psychosomatic—he avoids using the leg because he remembers the pain it caused.”

“So what do we do?”

“Encourage him until he forgets. Next time he does a good run, make a fuss of him.”

De Jersey stroked the horse’s head. “You old so-and-so. Need a bit of love, do you?”

The horse pushed his head into de Jersey’s chest. He was after peppermints, and de Jersey slipped him one.

De Jersey went to Fleming’s office in a darkened mood. The vet had apologetically requested that he cover his quarterly bill; the usual check had bounced.

When de Jersey expressed his indignation to the bank manager, inquiring why he had not been contacted about this refusal of payment, the man suggested they discuss the matter in his office. De Jersey persisted and was horrified to hear how far his account was into the red. Of course all he had to do was transfer funds from his other major account, but the incident demonstrated just how quickly money was draining away.

He still had his account in the Caymans, and he could keep the yard running, with a few cost-cutting exercises, for another six to eight months, but he would have to prepare for the money running dry altogether.

When Fleming came back to the office, de Jersey dropped the bombshell. “Sell off the east wing,” he said. “Contact Tattersalls and add our entries to the next catalog. I’d like you to contact some bloodstock agents about selling privately. I made a bad investment, but I should recoup my losses shortly,” he said, feigning confidence.

“Is there anything I can do?” Fleming asked tentatively. “I’ve got a few thousand saved, and if it’s just a short-term problem . . .”

De Jersey put his arm around him. “It is, but I want to be careful. I don’t want to get into real financial difficulties. We just have to ease the strain for a few months until I can release some more investments.”

“When you said to sell off the east wing,” Fleming said, “you didn’t mean that Cute Queenie should go too, did you?” He was referring to the old gray mare de Jersey always rode himself.

“Yes, let her go. Get whatever you can for her.” He clenched his fist, wanting to punch something, anything.

“Whatever you say.”

Christina had hardly seen her husband recently; he spent more and more time in the City. So she was happy when he suggested they go to Monaco for a week. For de Jersey, the trip meant they would be away when the east wing horses were led away. Christina would not be privy to what was going on. While in Monaco he planned to attend a race meeting, check on the state of his offshore accounts, and touch base with Paul Dulay, alias Philip Christian, alias Gérard Laroque, alias Jay Marriot, alias Fredrik Marceau.

De Jersey and Christina flew to Monaco in a private plane. A suite at the Hôtel de Paris had been booked. De Jersey had been a regular customer over the years, and champagne, caviar, fresh fruit, and large bowls of glorious flowers welcomed them.

They hoped the weather would be mild, but it was almost as cold and wet as London. Christina had to unpack. They were going to the casinos that evening, so she needed to press her evening wear. She had also booked hair and manicure appointments and a massage. She felt like being cosseted, and de Jersey encouraged her to enjoy herself.

Telling her he would take a walk, he headed straight for the exclusive shopping malls not a hundred yards from the hotel. He carried an umbrella and, in his immaculate gray pin-striped suit and brogues, looked every inch the wealthy Englishman. He paused by Paul Dulay’s small, elegant jewelry shop in a corner of the arcade. The main window displayed a diamond tiara and matching necklace. A smaller display at the side boasted an array of emerald rings and earrings.

There was a camera positioned to observe the arrival of each customer at the entrance to the shop. De Jersey pressed the bell once, and the door buzzed open. The sales assistant asked if she could help him.

“Is Paul Dulay here?”

“
Oui,
Monsieur. May I ask who wishes to see him?”

“Philip Simmons.”

The assistant disappeared through a mahogany-paneled door. De Jersey wandered around the reception area. A velvet-covered chair stood close to a Louis XIV table on which lay a black leather visitors’ book, a white telephone, and a credit-card machine. A few display cases were visible, exhibiting even more opulent jewels than were in the window. De Jersey took note of the security cameras swiveling to keep him in focus.

In the back room, Dulay was selecting diamonds from a black velvet cloth. He used a jeweler’s magnifying glass and a pair of long, delicate tweezers.

“Monsieur, there is a gentleman to see you.”

He looked up, irritated.

“A Mr. Philip Simmons.”

Dulay removed the eyeglass. “Show him—” His breath caught in his chest. He found his voice and told her to take Mr. Simmons into the private showroom.

Sweat had broken out over his entire body. He packed away the stones, then gritted his teeth. He could not stop shaking. Approaching the inner door, he looked through the two-way glass and saw that it was indeed Simmons. His heart rate increased. Dulay took a deep breath and went in.

CHAPTER

10

P
aul Dulay, though no more than five foot nine, was broad-shouldered and had a large face. He had aged considerably since their last meeting in South Africa, where Dulay was buying stones for a top French jewelry design company. He had been at De Beers to negotiate for them. He and de Jersey had stayed at the same hotel in Pretoria. De Jersey was already using the name Philip Simmons and traveling on a fake passport. They had formed a loose friendship over a misunderstanding about their rooms. De Jersey’s purpose in South Africa was to make a contact who could move the stock of gold bullion he intended to steal. The confusion, however, benefited him.

One evening Dulay was in the hotel bar quite drunk, having just been fired by the Paris-based company. He refused to divulge reasons, just ranted at the bastards who would steal his designs. He rambled on morosely about his prowess with gold. Finally, gazing into his drink he said that, with a bad reputation, it would be hard for him to get into another legitimate company.

A few days later de Jersey introduced the idea of setting up Dulay with a store of gold that would make him a wealthy man. He knew by now that the jeweler had been sacked for switching real diamonds and fakes, and pocketing the proceeds. Dulay had protested his innocence, maintaining that most people wouldn’t know a real diamond from a zircon.

They had both made fortunes since that meeting and agreed never to make contact again. As he closed the door behind him, Dulay’s face showed clearly that he was very wary, if not afraid, to see Philip Simmons again. Dulay wore well-fitting black trousers and black shoes with white socks. His thinning hair fell to the shoulders of his collarless black shirt. Now he ran his stubby fingers through it. “Well, Philip, it’s been a long time,” he said.

Smiling, de Jersey shook hands. “Maybe fifteen years.”

“More. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?”

“No, thank you. Can we be overheard here?”

“No.” Dulay bent down behind the desk and opened a small fridge that was hidden behind it. “Do you mind if I do?” He took out a half bottle of champagne, then replaced it with vodka. As he poured, his hands shook so much the glass rattled against the bottle. After the Frenchman gulped down his drink, he poured himself more vodka. “To . . . old times,” he said softly. “Please, take a seat. Why are you here?”

“Possible business deal,” de Jersey said.

“I am legitimate now, Philip. I have a good business and a good life here, and I don’t want to lose it.”

De Jersey shifted his weight. “You married?”

“Again? Yes, I am, we have three kids. We live in a wonderful old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, which we’ve spent years renovating. You?”

“I have my lady friends.”

Dulay cocked his head to one side. “Apart from the other business, you were in real estate when we first met.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Well, I am not likely to forget you.” Dulay unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle again. “Please don’t draw me into anything.”

“I have never forced anyone into doing anything,” de Jersey said.

Dulay opened a leather cigar box. De Jersey refused, watching Dulay’s shaking hands pick up a long panatela, cut off the end, and light it. The blue haze of smoke circled his head like a halo.

“Have you ever seen the Koh-i-noor Diamond?” de Jersey asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you know about it?”

“It’s the biggest in the world.”

De Jersey’s hands indicated the size of the diamond. “When it arrived in England it weighed 186.1 carats and was set in a kind of armlet. It was recut in Prince Albert’s time. At that point it went down in weight to 105.6 carats.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dulay said quietly.

“You ever seen the Imperial State Crown? It contains over three thousand precious stones—sapphires and rubies that would make a joke out of your display windows. Costs almost twelve quid nowadays just to see them. I’ve been a frequent visitor over these past few weeks.”

Dulay said nothing. When de Jersey stared at the man, he smiled weakly back. “It’s a massive operation, but I know it’s possible.”

“You’re insane!” Dulay said hoarsely.

“You would not be involved in the insane part, just the aftermath. Just think about having access to those stones. Surely it must excite you.”

“It scares the living daylights out of me. Even to contemplate it is insanity. I won’t get involved. Even at the so-called safe end. It took years of planning and dealing and living on a knife’s edge to melt down that gold bullion and distribute it.”

“Yes, and you were fucking brilliant. You designed some spectacular pieces in eighteen-carat gold—bracelets, necklaces, earrings, rings.”

Dulay’s brow poured with sweat.

“And you were never found out. Even with the larger items: hubcaps and other motor vehicle accessories. You’re expert with gems, and cutting is your specialty.”

Dulay nodded. He had spent many months in South Africa before they met, being taught by the old De Beers masters.

“I look around, Paul, and see that you are doing very well.” De Jersey gestured expansively. “With all that gold and your knowledge of diamonds, you produced some of the finest exhibitions in Europe, and now this chic little shop right next to the Ritz. Great location. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you. But it’s taken hard work, Philip. My name—”

“Your name. Yes. For the last fifteen years your name has been synonymous with class and beauty. Your work is featured in
Vogue
and
Ell
e
; your jewels are worn by the rich and famous. See? I have followed your career with interest, my friend.”

“I’ve opened a Paris shop, in the Avenue des Beaux-Arts.”

“Close to Chanel, YSL, Christian Dior, and Cartier. Very good position again. Is it doing well?”

“The usual teething problems.”

De Jersey plucked at the crease in his trouser leg. “Any way you look at it, though, Paul, the gold bullion, used sparingly over the years, has made all of this possible.”

“I am legitimate now, Philip. I want to stay that way.”

“But you weren’t always so straight. You laundered tons of gold bullion for me,” de Jersey said.

“It aged me ten years. If I got involved in this jewel heist, it would kill me.”

De Jersey collected his thoughts. “If it aged you then, you’re looking good now. Must be the great lifestyle.”

“I don’t need any more, Philip. I’m looking to retire in a few years. I’ve got responsibilities.”

“Understood. No hard feelings.” De Jersey stood abruptly and offered Dulay his hand. “I protected you. You would have nothing if the Colonel hadn’t taken care of you. You never had to live life looking over your shoulder because there was never so much as a hint of your involvement in the bullion robbery. That is what the Colonel promised you. That was his deal.”

“Philip, I have always appreciated it. I mean, I would do anything within reason, but what you are asking is—”

“Just a possibility at the moment,” de Jersey interrupted. “Until I have more details. But, as in the old days, I like to be prepared, and you were top of my list. You weren’t the only fence for the gold bullion. And you are not the only craftsman I’d trust with gems of this size and value, but as we had a good relationship, I came to you first, to give you this chance.”

“Thank you. It goes without saying you can trust me.”

“I always have.”

“Good. No hard feelings, then?”

“No hard feelings.”

Dulay crossed to buzz open the security lock on the side door.

“Do you have a workroom here?”

“Yes, at the back. Would you like to look around it?”

“I think I would, thank you.”

Feeling less pressure, Dulay was quite animated as he led de Jersey down a narrow corridor into a large back room. There were two steel vaults, which held all of the gems, and at the rear was a small kiln for melting down gold, silver, and platinum. A white-coated lapidary was hard at work at a long trestle table on which equipment for cutting the stones was laid out. He was shaping a magnificent pink diamond.

“This is my pride and joy. It’s a piece that’s been commissioned by Prince Rainier.” Dulay crossed to the table. “The tiara had been in their family for generations, but the band was bent and the stones loose, so we’re resetting and replacing a few missing ones.” He held up the work in progress. “It’s a beautiful piece but intricate work. The filigree between the stones is so old and fine it’s very easily broken off. To match the design and make it sturdier is not as easy as it sounds. I’m making platinum bars first, then coating them in eighteen-carat gold so it’ll have more strength and durability. The fire in the diamond is astounding.”

De Jersey bent over the table. “Never ceases to amaze me that a man with such big hands can do such fiddly work.”

Dulay nudged him in an overfamiliar way. “You know what they say about big hands?”

De Jersey laughed. “But earlier you were shaking badly. Shaping these tiny stones into settings must take a steady hand.”

Dulay blushed. “I admit I was nervous to see you again.”

De Jersey looked at his watch. “I’d better go. You can call me on this number, should you change your mind.”

“Thank you. You must come to dinner and meet my family,” he said.

“Another time perhaps.”

Dulay watched Simmons on the surveillance camera monitors. He saw him exit the building, then pause a moment to glance at the window. Then Simmons suddenly looked up, virtually into the eye of the camera.

“Who was that?” the shop assistant inquired.

“Just a buyer,” said Dulay, unnerved. “Wanted a birthday gift for his wife.”

“What did he buy?”

“Nothing.”

“Will he be coming back?”

“No.” He hoped to God it was true.

The bank manager laid a thick file in front of de Jersey. “A deposit was made recently from a U.S. bank account for one point five million dollars.” He uncapped his fountain pen. “The transaction was cleared two days ago.”

De Jersey studied the documents. This was the money from the sale of the lease of Moreno’s apartment.

“I will need to make a substantial withdrawal,” he said.

“No problem. We can have the money transferred within the hour.”

De Jersey looked up. “Now, I’d like the details of my discretionary trust.”

The manager turned to the relevant pages, and de Jersey was stunned to see that the balance of the offshore account in the Caymans stood at only a few hundred pounds. He flicked back through the pages, checking the transactions as the truth dawned on him. David Lyons had abused his position as a named trustee in the discretionary trust to withdraw nearly every penny from the account. All de Jersey had left was the money he had taken from Alex Moreno.

“That seems to be in order,” he said without emotion as he stood up and shook the bank manager’s hand. “Thank you very much.”

De Jersey tilted up his head, and jets of ice-cold water from the shower pummeled his face. He was angry that he had so misjudged David Lyons, angry that he had not retained more control over his finances. He made himself focus on Dulay. He had presumed that a man with such a passion for the profession could not resist the lure of the Koh-i-noor Diamond. But Dulay had turned him down. Wilcox and Driscoll had turned him down too.

De Jersey dried himself, then lay down on the bed. His whole fortune was gone. Worst of all, he was unable to do anything about it. But he refused to allow himself to dwell on such disastrous events. He closed his eyes. He adored Christina and his daughters. He loved his life and his champion, Royal Flush.

He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “All or nothing,” he whispered. That was what made him different from the others. He would take the risk, with or without them.

The extensive gardens were lined with olive trees; they forged avenues bordered with thick clumps of lavender. Tall, pointed conifers like slim sentries towered above the old stone walls. The vine-covered terraces were winter bare. Dulay parked his Jeep outside his villa and hurried inside. The kids were playing in the sprawling back garden. His wife, Vibekka, was gardening, wearing old jeans and a sweater.

“Hi, you’re home early,” she said, stretching her arms wide for a hug. Her silky black hair was twisted into a thick braid down her back. Even at forty she had a taut body and was naturally beautiful without a trace of makeup. “I’ve had a really lazy day. The kids and I just hung out here all afternoon. Then when it rained we watched TV.” She was six inches taller than her husband and hooked her arm around his square, solid shoulders. “We have that big party tonight,” she reminded him. “You want me to fix you a sandwich or something?”

“No, I need a shower. I’ll eat later. Do we have to go?”

“A lot of your customers will be there, and it’ll be good for business.” She ruffled his hair.

“Don’t do that.”

“You’re in a nasty mood.”

Dulay walked to the house, stepping over the steel straps of the pool cover. All he could think of was Philip Simmons. Your past always catches up with you, no matter how many years go by, he thought.

After dinner Christina and de Jersey had decided to have a quick flutter at the tables. They didn’t do well, so they returned to the hotel. The following morning de Jersey could muster little enthusiasm for shopping and returned to the hotel alone. By the time they met for lunch, Christina was carrying several boxes and two suit carriers.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, smiling.

“I met a girlfriend I haven’t seen for years, not since I was a model, and she lives here. We’re invited to a big charity function this evening,” she told him. “So I decided to buy something new to wear.”

“I thought we might go to Longchamp,” he said. “I want to meet up with a breeder who’s been recommended to me and see his yard.”

“We can go another day,” she said. “Vibekka’s lovely, and she’s very high up in society here. All the Monaco Royals will be at the ball.”

“In that case we’ll go to the stables another day,” he said, feeling frustrated; he did not have the time for frivolous charity events.