Royal Heist (20 page)

She burst into tears. He held her close. “Get your things packed. We’ll put you on the first plane out to see your family. There’s not another woman in the world I would so much as look at.”

He arranged for his pilot to fly her to the airport. He knew he must take greater precautions from now on, especially since he would need to spend more time away from the estate. It was already early February, and if they were to go ahead on the second of May, they had to work fast.

Wilcox called from Paris just after four o’clock. He and Rika had caught the same plane as Dulay and had followed him to the Ritz.

“I had to book in, Eddy, just for a night. Anyway, it got Rika out of my hair. Dulay didn’t check in. He went straight to the desk. They handed him the house phone, he spoke briefly, then went into the coffee bar. About ten minutes later this huge guy appeared. Looked like Odd Job man in the James Bond movie. He had a few words with Dulay, then they went out to the foyer.” Wilcox explained how he had followed Dulay out of the hotel, where he had had a conversation inside a parked Mercedes with another man, presumably their buyer.

“He’s tall for a Jap,” Wilcox said. “’Bout five eleven, well built, snappy dresser. Odd Job was hovering around, so he’s got to be the bodyguard.”

“Jimmy, did you get his address? Who the fuck is this guy?”

“I got it from the porter. He’s a regular guest. Comes over five or six times a year. He’s a computer giant. His company’s worth billions, and he’s based in Tokyo. His name is Mr. Kitamo—”

“That’s all I need to know right now.”

“That’s what we should have put our money into, computer software.”

“Well, we didn’t! Talk to you later—”

“He’ll probably have a Web site—”

“Jimmy, get off the phone.”

“Try searching the Web for Kitamo triple K computer software and—”

“Jimmy, go screw your girlfriend!” de Jersey snapped, ending the call.

De Jersey spent the rest of the day with his jockeys, trainers, and managers. The cost of the heist so far was straining his resources. It would be paid back by the Moreno sale, but that was still not liquid. He gave instructions for two more horses to be sold, which hurt him and perplexed the managers and trainers. Looking over the accounts later, he saw that even with the sale of another eight racehorses and two brood mares, he could not keep the estate going for more than four months. It was imperative that he pull off the heist.

That afternoon Fleming took Royal Flush out on the gallops for de Jersey to watch. He was in stunning form. However, that night de Jersey couldn’t sleep. He was overtired, with a head full of plans. He went to his study for some brandy. Eventually he walked outside.

It was a clear, cold night, and his breath steamed. He was jolted out of his dark reverie by Fleming, who was hunched in his overcoat.

“Can’t sleep?”

De Jersey shook his head.

“Me neither,” Fleming said.

They walked in silence for a while, then stood against the fence that surrounded the grazing paddock.

“You have problems, haven’t you?”

De Jersey nodded.

“It’s obvious with the pick of your crop being sold off. It’s breaking my heart.”

“Mine too, but I’m in a deep hole.” He paused. “I have a friend in Ireland, Michael Shaughnessy, not a big breeder but a good man.”

“I don’t think I know him,” said Fleming.

“He keeps a low profile,” de Jersey said. He wondered how Fleming would react to what he was about to propose. He guessed that he’d have to make it worth his while with cash. It usually came down to that.

When he quietly suggested to the trainer what he had in mind, Fleming was so shocked he could hardly speak.

“We’d get a nice kickback—in fact, a blinding one. She’s the best filly I’ve ever had.”

“Sweet Jesus! He’s the best too. You know what this could do, sir. Illegally covering a mare is a terrible risk to take.”

“We keep him separated directly afterward, then push his training up.”

“It could be disastrous.”

De Jersey kicked at the ground. “You’re right, forget it.”

But Fleming put his hand on de Jersey’s arm. “We’ll need three of us. My son’ll help, but we have to keep this quiet. We’ll do it at night, when the yard’s silent. If it ever got out . . .”

De Jersey put his arm round Fleming’s shoulders. “Well, we hope
some
thing will come out, and I guarantee Shaughnessy will most definitely want something out of it.”

It was almost one in the morning. The two men talked for another half hour, then shook hands. Fleming would receive ten thousand in cash, but the mare had to be in foal or there was no deal. They would ship the filly out to Dublin for Shaughnessy to collect and stable, de Jersey said. No one would know. They shook hands a second time. Both men knew that what they were doing might spoil the chances of the greatest horse de Jersey had ever possessed. They returned to their beds, depressed.

Driscoll and Wilcox were now taking turns monitoring the safe house. Wilcox found it tedious, irritating work, but Driscoll didn’t mind; it gave him something other than the escalating wedding costs to think about.

When Wilcox was not on surveillance he had been scouting out other locations for the vehicles to be parked. They would not be placed in the Aldersgate warehouse until the day before the heist. He eventually found a disused barn in the Surrey countryside. This was also where the team would gather to complete preparations for the raid.

Wilcox had discovered various costumiers around the country where he could hire authentic police-motorcyclist uniforms. He would pretend to be employed by a film company when he needed them. He had also acquired two motorbikes, which he was respraying to match the Metropolitan Police ones. Driscoll was assigned to find two shotguns and several small handguns. As he had a personal arsenal, he decided he’d remove the numbers from some of his own licensed guns so they could not be traced back to him.

Raymond Marsh arrived at the Scotland Yard telephone exchange at eight forty-five, as he had every morning that week. He had arranged to do the regular maintenance check on the exchange’s telephone lines. He would spend the next two weeks there, checking the main systems, and return at regular intervals to do spot checks. Scotland Yard’s telephone exchange handled the lines for the Yard exclusively. Marsh had been provided with the password, security code, and an electronic card to allow him access to all areas of the building.

The basement held the batteries and the equipment, the middle floor housed the computer systems, and the administration was on the top floor. The day after his last meeting with de Jersey, Marsh had gained access to the master computer and had quickly located the twenty-four lines responsible for all incoming and outgoing calls to Royalty and Diplomatic Protection. Today would be the first opportunity for him to set up a tail on these lines; all calls made and received by the department would be logged, with incoming and outgoing numbers.

Once he had set up the tail, Marsh began to monitor and record the calls. If he was caught he would be fired, or worse. By the start of his second week at the exchange, Marsh had worked out who was responsible for liaising with the Palace and confirming that security measures were in place.

When de Jersey received an e-mail from Marsh informing him of his progress, he had an adrenaline rush. They were a step closer to executing the robbery, and it was time for his second meeting with Lord Westbrook. His lordship answered the phone and gave an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God. I was beginning to think you’d got cold feet.”

“You received payment, though, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“We need to meet. Do you know Shepperton?”

“Yes.”

“Go to Church Square. There’s a bench in front of a small waterfront mooring. We’ll meet there, then go to the pub for lunch.”

“Fine. When?”

“Tomorrow, midday.”

When de Jersey called, Wilcox was in bed with a bad cold. “I’ve got something I need checked out.”

“I’m sick.”

De Jersey continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I want you to check out an address in Esher, but don’t approach the property, just monitor who’s coming and going. Mark it out, front and back, and ascertain if only the woman and her husband are living there. Then report back to me.”

“You want it done tonight, then?”

“Yes.” He gave the address.

“I’ve got a terrible cold. I’m in bed.”

“Then wrap up,” de Jersey snapped. Both Driscoll and Wilcox worried him, but he said no more and hung up. Then he went over his meticulous lists, ticking off each item he had dealt with. They still had no lady-in-waiting.

Wilcox was freezing. Number 23 was a neat house with a large pond in the front garden. A garage stood to one side with a clean red Toyota parked on the pink-and-white-squared drive. Wilcox walked past on the far side of the road first, making it look as if he was searching for a specific address. As he crossed the road to make his way back, the door opened at 23. A bald man was wrapping a scarf around his neck, shrugging on a camel coat, his car keys in his hand. Then a small woman, wearing a blue coat and a woolen hat, came out.

“Eric, did you lock the back door?” she called.

“Yes.”

She shut the front door and headed for the passenger door of the Toyota, which her husband held open for her. “I don’t want to stay too long,” she said. As she got into the car, her face was lit clearly by the streetlights. Wilcox’s jaw dropped, but he did not stop.

Eric started the engine, and they drove out past him. The woman was talking, looking ahead. He could hardly believe it; she was the Queen’s exact double.

Now, with the occupants gone, Wilcox was able to have a good look round. He headed up the path and rang the front doorbell, peering inside as if he expected someone to be at home. He even called, “Eric?” Then he went round to the back and did the same, checking the path, the kitchen, and the windows. He saw no one, so he returned to his car and called de Jersey.

De Jersey was alone, smoking, when his cell phone vibrated. He knew it was Wilcox from the hacking cough.

“It’s easy access both back and front, and I had a good look as the occupants left. Only the two of them live there. The back door’s hidden from the other houses by a big hedgerow. The front is visible to the neighbors.”

“Mmm, good. You still there?”

“On my way home.”

“You see her, then?”

Wilcox sneezed. “It’s freaky. She’s the image of her, identical.”

“She makes her living as her double.”

“We kidnap her, then?” Wilcox asked.

“No. We offer her a job first,” de Jersey said.

“I don’t understand.” Wilcox sniffed.

“She’s our way in, Jimmy, that’s all you need to know right now.”

De Jersey was exhausted, but before he went to bed he called Christina. She told him she’d have to remain in Sweden for some time as her mother had been diagnosed with a severe form of cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy. De Jersey offered to join her, but she refused. Although he wasn’t glad her mother was sick, his wife’s absence would leave him free to focus on the robbery.

CHAPTER

17

L
ord Westbrook was already waiting in Church Square at Shepperton. De Jersey was taken aback by the change in him: he was gray with fatigue. He sat on the iron bench by the riverbank, hunched in his coat, a cigarette dangling from his bluish lips.

“You all right?” de Jersey asked and sat next to him.

“Been burning the candle at both ends,” Westbrook joked, but his eyes—dull with exhaustion—betrayed him.

“I have a list of queries,” de Jersey said crisply.

Westbrook reached beneath the bench for his briefcase. “I have tried to ascertain all that you want to know.”

“Look, why don’t we go over to the George? They’ve a comfortable lounge there. We can order coffee.”

“Thank God, I’m freezing.” Westbrook stood up and dropped his case. De Jersey scooped it up under his arm. “Thank you,” said Westbrook.

In the pub de Jersey chose a window seat away from the bar.

“Shall I order some coffee, something to eat?” Westbrook asked.

“I’ll just have a coffee.”

De Jersey spread out Westbrook’s notes and studied them while Westbrook ordered coffee, cigarettes, and chicken sandwiches from the friendly bar staff, but de Jersey was watching him out of the corner of his eye as Westbrook went into the men’s restroom.

When he returned, his eyes were red-rimmed. He sat down heavily. “Fire away,” he said laconically, his face shiny from sweat. He had a coughing fit as their order was brought to the table. De Jersey poured coffee for them both and passed a cup to Westbrook. He took a few sips then bit hungrily into a sandwich, all the time holding his cigarette.

“Right, let’s get started,” de Jersey said.

Westbrook swung his legs onto the cushioned window seat. He continued to eat at an alarming rate. He then gulped at his coffee and lit another cigarette. “We do have a deal, correct?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve been thinking. I’d hate to snuff it and not get what’s due to me if you pull it off. I was wondering if you could draw up something for me in the name of my son. We are talking about big money here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but as you just said, it depends on whether we pull it off. So making out a contract is impossible. All I can give you is the agreed amount for the preparation. If we’re successful, you will get your cut.”

“You’re asking a lot on the old trust market.”

“Not really. We’re all protecting each other’s identities, so you’re not likely to be swindled.”

“All right. But if I snuff it, who will make sure my son gets my share?”

“I will.” De Jersey stared hard at him.

“Okay.” Westbrook swung down his feet. De Jersey drew his pages of questions toward him and unscrewed the top of his gold Cartier pen. “Who would accompany the Queen on such a visit?”

“An equerry. He’s a member of the small but select team responsible for the detailed planning and execution of the daily program. They support H.M. in her official duties and private life.”

“You can carry that off, be this equerry?”

“Oh, yes, that’s my background, absolutely. Good family connections and all that stuff. Equerries are seconded from the armed forces after three years. They wear a uniform during H.M.’s daytime engagements when they’re in personal attendance. I still have my uniform, so no worries there. Though often it’s not necessary. H.M. will say, “No medals today,” that sort of thing, so then it’s just a smart suit. Did I mention I was based in the Royal Mews at Buck House? I co-coordinated transport for H.M. Now, if it’s a state occasion, the ponies and traps are out, but for something like this, a fitting, it’ll just be her in a Daimler and another following.”

“And she would use a Daimler. You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes.”

“The mascot—” de Jersey began.

Westbrook slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Very important. The Queen’s vehicle has to have her silver St. George and the dragon on it.”

“I believe one of my team has already copied it. Who else besides the equerry would be with her?”

“Well, she’d have a lady-in-waiting, who deals with the handbag and flowers and acts as a part-time secretary, answering letters and so on.”

“Would she be around the same age as the Queen?”

“Usually. She’ll be well-dressed, pleasant, nothing that sticks out. A fade-into-the-background type.”

They continued discussing the lineup, which became tedious as Westbrook went off on irrelevant tangents. However, sick or not, he was indispensable.

Later that day de Jersey called Christina to see how her mother was. The news was not good.

“She’s dying. I’m going to talk to my father about stopping the treatment altogether. She’s in such pain, and as the doctors don’t hold out much hope, it seems wrong to subject her to it.”

“It must be terrible for you. I wish I could do something to help.”

He hung up feeling depressed and went for a walk. His thoughts wandered to Lord Westbrook. He hadn’t looked good that morning. Just how sick was he? The equerry had to be fit and well to be convincing.

He headed for a public telephone kiosk and rang Raymond Marsh. His wife answered, and then Marsh spoke.

“Who is this? Mr. Simmons, right? About time. We gonna meet?”

“I hope so. You free tonight?”

“Yep, and have I got news for you! Can you come to my place?”

De Jersey followed Marsh down a hallway with carpet so thick he felt as if he was wading through soft mud. Marsh was wearing skintight drainpipe trousers with thick-soled suede shoes in a shocking pink. They matched his shirt, which he wore with a skinny strip of leather as a tie.

“Come upstairs.” He led the way up the stairs, past posters from all of Elvis’s films. At the end of the landing Marsh opened a door and gestured for de Jersey to walk in. Inside there were banks of computers, a mass of cables, overflowing ashtrays, and pizza boxes.

Marsh said, “This is my office. As you can see, it’s all state-of-the-art equipment, worth thousands.”

“How have you been getting on at the exchange?”

Marsh produced a cheap canvas bag and dumped it on his desk. “Good. I’ve made printouts for you to take away, plus tape recordings. The IRA call in every morning at a designated time. They have ten lines, which they use in a certain pattern. They call the first line one day, the second the next, and when they get up to the tenth they go into reverse. I think I’ve predicted which line will be used on the day of the heist as long as they don’t change their pattern—but we’ve got plenty of time to see if they do.”

“Good work. What about the link between Scotland Yard and the safe house? What conversations have already taken place? Who has placed calls and to whom?”

“No contact yet concerning security for the fitting, but the date’s still a long way off. I expect something soon.”

De Jersey was impressed that so far Marsh was coming up aces at every meeting. Marsh wouldn’t let go of the canvas bag, though, and said determinedly, “It looks to me like I’ve got a pretty hefty role in this, and I’m not doing it for the joy of hacking. We need to talk about my cut.”

“Okay. We now know that the main piece we’ll get our hands on will be sold for close to sixty million, and we’ll get more for the rest of the jewels,” de Jersey lied, knowing it would be considerably more.

Marsh wanted to be assured of at least ten million, plus the thousand a week, which de Jersey agreed to. Then Marsh tossed over the canvas bag, saying, “Closer to the day of the fitting, the commander of the RDPD will liaise with D’Ancona about security procedures. I can identify the line to the safe house, and I’ll be intercepting the call to notify them that the Queen’s visit has been canceled.”

The two continued working through the plan. Once Marsh secured the code word for the second of May, he would pass it on to de Jersey. De Jersey, posing as an IRA informant, would call the police using the code word and make a bomb threat that would be deemed genuine. Scotland Yard would call the Palace, and all Royal proceedings would halt immediately. Marsh would be waiting for the commander to call the safe house to cancel the visit, and when the call was placed, he would break into the line and answer it himself. The head of security at the safe house would still be expecting the Queen.

“I’ll get to the exchange before six
A.M.,
and I’ll stay there until about ten thirty, when you’ll be taking care of matters,” Marsh said. “I’ll keep a check on the lines just in case anyone has noticed anything dodgy.” He sucked in his breath. “Get out of the safe house as fast as you can; they won’t take long to figure it out. Palace security are gonna keep checking for clearance. You’ll have ten to fifteen minutes to pull this off.”

De Jersey knew Marsh’s physical presence in the exchange would be risky. “We’ll be as quick as possible,” he said. “Straight in and out. Any way you can get a layout of inside the safe house?”

“You’re telling me you’ve made all these plans and you still don’t know what the interior is like? That’s fucking nuts! It’s imperative you know what the layout is.”

“Why? We’re going in through the front door. There’s no problem. We just need to know where the vault is.”

Marsh pointed a finger at de Jersey and said angrily, “This is an amateur’s night out, mate.”

De Jersey’s mouth tightened. “Not necessarily.”

“I just hope to God the other guys know what the fuck they’re doing. You can’t seriously contemplate busting into this place if you don’t know what’s gonna be waiting for you. Can you get to someone on the inside?” Marsh paused. “Listen, I might be able to help you out, but I can’t promise nothing. Maybe I’ll find something that shows their security system layout. If it’s on a computer somewhere, I can get to it.”

“How long do you need?” de Jersey asked, worried. Marsh’s remarks had hit home.

Marsh grinned. “How much are you prepared to pay?”

De Jersey sat pondering the plans. He didn’t feel much better after a good night’s rest. The interaction with Marsh had unnerved him. “Amateur?” His wallet was also hurting. He’d better come up with the goods after that last payment. De Jersey still had to find a suitable woman to assume the role of the lady-in-waiting and persuade the Queen’s look-alike to take part. He was also short of the two bikers. Perhaps he should use the Internet again. He sighed.

De Jersey caught a train back to his estate. He needed to unwind; the tranquillity of the house soothed him as he wandered from room to room.

He was sitting at his desk when Christina called. Her mother had died that afternoon. She spoke incoherently through her tears. Her mother had been only sixty-two. De Jersey was gentle and understanding. After he hung up, he contacted Driscoll to say the plans would be halted for a few days. Driscoll seemed relieved that the funeral would take place over the same weekend as his daughter’s wedding. Then de Jersey phoned Wilcox, now really sick with flu and unable to move. He too was relieved that de Jersey was taking time away. Neither man mentioned the heist, and de Jersey wondered if they were still having doubts.

The truth was, he had lost confidence that they would be able to pull this off. After his meeting with Marsh, all he could see were the holes, and what a weird mix his team members were: Driscoll, the cocaine addict Wilcox, the cancer-riddled Lord Westbrook, the pockmarked Gregory Jones, the egotistical Raymond Marsh, and the nervous Paul Dulay. Add to that the cost to date, and he felt sick.

Throughout the flight to Sweden the next day, de Jersey sat with his eyes closed, going over details that were now so familiar it was like turning the pages of a book he knew by heart. He was interrupted by the flight attendant offering refreshments and the newspapers. He took
The Times,
the
Express,
and the
Daily Mail.
In the
Express,
an article caught his eye. Two elderly spinsters had conned the equestrian circuit out of thousands of pounds. A picture showing them beaming into the camera, holding a winner’s cup and rosette, triggered a memory. He tried to calculate how old Pamela Kenworthy-Wright must be now. They had met in the seventies through a mutual friend. Pamela had been a RADA-trained actress and married a wealthy stockbroker, whom she had later divorced for his infidelity with a manservant. Afterward she had tried to resurrect her acting career and appeared in a couple of TV series, but in the late eighties she was arrested for shoplifting in Harrods, which resulted in a stint in Holloway women’s prison for credit-card fraud. He smiled to himself. Pamela might be just the woman he needed, but first he had to find her.

The funeral was a small affair with just the widower, Christina’s siblings, and their children in attendance. Though Christina was pale, she maintained her composure, apart from shedding a few tears. De Jersey was attentive and caring, and father and daughter were grateful for his support. When de Jersey proposed that Christina stay on to deal with her mother’s belongings and to help settle her father in a smaller house, both deemed it a thoughtful suggestion. He even offered to remain with her, but she knew he had pressing business in London and, as de Jersey had hoped, refused his offer. He loved Christina, but time was moving on. His team was still incomplete, and most important, he still did not have the layout for the safe house.

It was after midnight. Driscoll’s daughter was safely on her way to her honeymoon while her father sat by one of the specially installed outdoor heaters near his lily pond. It was full of streamers, confetti, and cigarette stubs, but he could have cared less. His head throbbed—he’d had too much to drink, though he didn’t feel drunk—and his gut was on fire.

“It’s Tony, isn’t it?” said the burly figure in the green security uniform.

“Do I know you?”

“Been twenty years, maybe more. I’m Brian Hall.”

Driscoll didn’t recognize the guy.

“Used to work for you, long time ago, when you had that waste-disposal company. You did me a big favor. I was on parole, needed work; you gave me a job, even though you knew I had a criminal record.”

“Sure. So, how’re things?” Driscoll asked, not really caring.