Royal Heist (7 page)

“He moved those gold bars around,” Driscoll said. “Turned them into cash.”

“I don’t know how he bloody did it,” Wilcox said.

“He used assumed names and identities. He told me he’d worked out a system of depositing cash into high-street banks, in amounts as large as eight hundred grand.”

Wilcox unwrapped his hamburger.

“It wasn’t just us he took care of. Those ‘soldiers’ who were picked up, he looked after them. They never put any of us in the frame.” Driscoll tried to open his ketchup packet; he swore as the ketchup spurted over his T-shirt.

Wilcox remained unimpressed by the argument. “Well, they wanted their payoff when they came out of the nick.”

Driscoll peered at his hamburger. “You know Scotland Yard officers recovered eleven melted-down bars in 1985. None of the remaining stolen ingots has ever been found. Have you got a raw one? This is like old leather.” Wilcox passed over his untouched hamburger, opening another miniature vodka instead.

The two men fell silent, Wilcox drinking, Driscoll stuffing french fries into his mouth.

Under de Jersey’s orders, Wilcox and Driscoll had split up and moved to Canada, then to Los Angeles. De Jersey covered their tracks; he had given them fake passports and instructed them to be constantly on the move—and apart—until all was quiet. They were not due to receive the big payoff for another few years. They showed how much they trusted their “colonel” by their patience. The laundered money eventually ensured that all three men could lead a life of luxury. By now they had growing families and flourishing businesses. De Jersey himself emerged as a racehorse and stud-farm owner.

Driscoll looked up suddenly. “Why did you come here, Jimmy?”

“Thinking of writing my memoirs,” Wilcox replied.

“You’re here because you’re worried about what he’s gonna suggest, right?”

“Well, you keep saying how much you’re in debt to him, so I guess whatever he suggests, you’ll be up for it.”

“And you don’t feel like you owe him?”

“Like fuck I do. It was his idea to back that Internet company.”

Driscoll opened a half bottle of white wine.

“Okay, let’s be honest with each other.” He sat back, watching Wilcox open another miniature. “Reason you’re here is that you’re scared shitless.”

“Listen, I’m not scared of anything; I’m just being realistic. No way do I want to spend the rest of my life in some nick.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a wife and two kids. I feel the same way.”

“You do?”

“I can get by, like I said. I’ll have to sell off everything. Liz will go bananas, but hell. Ain’t gonna starve.”

“When we meet what are you gonna say? We should get it worked out between us.”

“I know.”

“But whatever he suggests we both walk away from, and this time we don’t let him wear us down. If we stand up to him together . . . Tony?”

Driscoll took a gulp of wine, then another, draining the bottle. “I agree,” he said. “I hope they serve better stuff than this at the Ritz, because I know I’m gonna need a few drinks to face him.”

“Yeah, but if we do it together it’ll be better.”

“It’s agreed, then?”

“Yeah.” They shook hands, but neither could meet the other’s eyes. They felt as if they were somehow betraying de Jersey.

Liz sat, surrounded by boutique bags, when her husband reeled in. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked, buffing her nails.

“I do, my love. I’ve been out on the golf course.”

“No, you haven’t. Your golfing shoes are still in the wardrobe.”

“Well, I lied. I’ve been at the Pink Flamingo bar,” he said as he tottered off to their bathroom.

“Who with?”

“Brad Pitt, and if you think I’m plastered you should see him.”

“Tony!” she yelled, but he slammed the door behind him.

Driscoll knew it was going to be very hard for him to say no to the Colonel. It would be even harder for Wilcox. He remembered Wilcox’s face when de Jersey had insisted they all have no further contact with each other. Since leaving Sandhurst, Wilcox and de Jersey had hardly been apart. Wilcox could not believe that his friend really meant it. He’d joked that maybe they could at least have a drink sometime.

“No, Jimmy,” de Jersey had said. “When I walk away, that is it. You don’t know me, we never meet up again. It’s the only way we will protect each other.” Then de Jersey had hugged Jimmy tightly. After he’d gone, Wilcox was in tears. “I feel like I just lost my brother,” he said.

Driscoll had felt sorry for him. “He’s just looking out for us Jimmy, like he’s always done.”

“Yeah, yeah, good-bye then.”

“Good-bye, Jimmy. You take care now.”

So they had all gone their separate ways. They had each been lucky and enjoyed a good life.

He sighed, sitting on the toilet looking down at his feet and his leather sandals. They reminded him of the ones he had worn when he was a kid. Outside the bathroom his wife was dripping with diamonds, and she had no doubt spent a fortune at the boutiques. The good life had softened both men, and Wilcox was obviously as afraid as he was of being drawn into another robbery. They would have to say no.

CHAPTER

4

D
e Jersey needed a big injection of cash to keep his estate afloat and to fund a follow-up to the bullion robbery. His first target was Alex Moreno. He had set the wheels in motion by hiring a private investigator from an advertisement in
The New York Times.
The man had a lead on Moreno, and de Jersey would fly to New York to confront him. In his study, as his wife slept, de Jersey removed the top right-hand drawer of his antique desk, then reached over to the side of the desk and pulled a section of the edge toward him. A hidden compartment slid open. He walked round the desk to the front false drawers and opened a four-shelved cupboard. First, he removed an envelope and put it on the desk. Next came a large, square makeup box, and last a plastic bag containing two wigs and a false mustache and eyebrows.

He settled back in his chair and shook out four passports from the envelope, all in different names. He laid them side by side, then shredded the one that carried an out-of-date photograph he could never match. The other three were in the names of Philip Simmons, Edward Cummings, and Michael Shaughnessy. He returned the last passport to the envelope and put the other two into his briefcase. Though he had bank accounts and credit cards in all three names, none of them held a substantial amount of money, just enough for emergencies.

De Jersey selected a few items from the makeup box, then placed them in a wooden pencil box. The wigs smelled musty but were in good condition. The glue and cleaning fluids were usable and the wig meshing clean, so these he placed in his suitcase, locking it afterward. He’d always traveled in disguise using his aliases with confidence, but now he’d have to be extra careful. Since the September 11 terrorist attacks in the United States, security at the airports, especially in and out of New York, had been stringent.

On December 26 de Jersey left home and booked into a small hotel close to Heathrow airport as Edward Cummings, an art dealer. The following day, using his British passport, he traveled Virgin, economy class, to New York. When he landed at JFK and booked into the Hotel Carlyle, he looked nothing like Edward de Jersey. His wig was dark and curly with flecks of gray, and de Jersey winced as he eased it off. He used a Pan-Stik suntan makeup base to darken his face and hands, then switched his watch, which had belonged to his father, for a flashy Rolex. He added a thick gold chain, a large diamond ring, and a gold bracelet. His suit was expensive but a shiny, light gray silk. The shirt was white with a pearl gray tie under the stiff collar. Adjusting the pale blue silk handkerchief in the top pocket, he stared at his reflection. The suit was now a little tight, but this added to the persona he wanted to create. Now he took out the other wig: a reddish color, with matching mustache and eyebrows, which had been made for him many years ago by a theatrical costumier. He trimmed the sides of his own hair so the wig would fit tightly and show no gauze. He had arrived as Edward Cummings, but now he was Philip Simmons, and he called the Ritz-Carlton hotel to arrange his first meeting.

“I’d like to speak to a Mr. Donny Baron, please,” de Jersey said.

“One moment, sir. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Philip Simmons.”

There was a short wait; then Baron was on the line. “Mr. Simmons, did you have a good flight?” he asked.

“I did—came out on the red-eye from Los Angeles. Can we meet up?”

“Sure thing. Come for breakfast. I think I have what you need.”

“Good. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be in a back booth of the Jockey restaurant. Just look for a short, bald guy.”

“Be there in about fifteen.”

De Jersey stared at himself in the mirror over the small telephone table. The game had begun.

He left by the side entrance to the hotel. Shortly afterward he entered the Jockey restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton. Most of the diners were young and rowdy, dressed in an odd assortment of designer clothes—the hotel was a known haunt of rock stars and their managers. So it was relatively easy to find the only short, balding man in the room. Donny Baron provided security for a mediocre band that was usually the support act for bigger names. As de Jersey approached he tried to stand, wipe his mouth, and hail the waiter at the same time, but de Jersey gestured for him to remain seated. “I’ve had breakfast, but please, carry on eating.”

“Mr. Simmons” had spoken to Baron numerous times after seeing the advertisement the detective had placed in
The New York Times
upon leaving the NYPD. Private investigation work did not yet provide a steady income, so he had recently taken on the job with the rock group.

De Jersey placed an envelope on the table. “You track him?”

“I’ve got a few pals still in the game, you know, guys I was in uniform with. These days, with computers, tracing’s a hell of a lot simpler.”

De Jersey glanced around covertly. Then he patted the envelope, impatient to get his five hundred dollars’ worth.

“He’s here in New York,” Baron said, chewing a mouthful of omelet. He took a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his crumpled, navy blue suit. “Phone number . . . An address not far from here. Doorman. Prewar building facing the park. Second floor. Pretty impressive. Must have cost a couple. He’s got a place in the Hamptons under renovation: new pool, guesthouse. He goes out there most weekends to walk around the site, check it out. Frequent resident of the Maidstone Arms hotel.” Baron handed de Jersey the slip of paper. “These are my extras: gas receipts, phone, and a couple a meal tabs, and here’s a recent photo—our man’s a sharp dresser.”

De Jersey glanced at the photograph and slipped the paper into his wallet.

“I think you’ll find that’ll cover anything extra.” He smiled and pushed the envelope across to Baron. “I’m glad you were available.”

“Yeah, well, the band I take care of has been doing a recording here before we go on a twenty-city tour.” He smiled ruefully.

“Nice to meet you, Donny. Thanks.” And with that, de Jersey left him.

He walked to Moreno’s apartment building, then stood in the shadows cast by the trees in Central Park, watching the comings and goings. A uniformed doorman stood outside the entrance, leaping to the curb when any of the residents or their guests drew up.

Then suddenly he was tipping his cap and holding open the glass-fronted door. De Jersey’s eyes narrowed when Alex Moreno walked out. He was smaller than he’d expected, about five eight, and wore a full-length navy overcoat with a yellow scarf loose around his neck. He smiled at the doorman, who accompanied him to a gleaming black Lexus sedan and opened the door. Moreno tipped him and drove off. De Jersey checked his watch: ten fifteen. At ten thirty a white stretch limo pulled up. The doorman was kept busy carrying parcels and luggage back and forth as two women and a small child entered the complex. De Jersey moved fast; he crossed the road behind the doorman, entered the complex unseen, and headed upstairs.

He rang the bell of Moreno’s apartment and waited in case a housekeeper or someone else was at home, but no one answered.

At the end of the corridor, a large window with heavy curtains opened onto a ledge, less than a foot and a half wide. The window looked down on a small, square garden; de Jersey noticed that, further along the ledge, which ran the length of the building, there was an open window in Moreno’s apartment. He climbed out and moved sideways along the ledge until he reached the window.

He slipped through it, turning to face the reception room. It was a high-tech space with high ceilings and a minimalist feel: stripped pine floors, brown leather furniture, leather-and-chrome reclining chairs around a large plate-glass table, and a wide-screen TV. On the table was a heavy glass ashtray filled with cigarette stubs, the open window no doubt an attempt to air the smoky room.

The Bang & Olufsen stereo units had chrome cases holding hundreds of CDs, but they were dwarfed by a couple of huge oil paintings, both depicting a full-frontal nude man. The fireplace had been sandblasted and treated to resemble rough red stone; fake logs were stacked in the grate. De Jersey took it all in. Moreno was a man of undeniable wealth but questionable taste. In the hallway more paintings and large photographs of handsome men adorned the walls. Beyond, he located a shining state-of-the-art kitchen with a black-and-white checkered marble floor, a large island, and a restaurant-sized sink unit and fridge-freezer. It all looked as if it had never been used.

De Jersey moved into the office, where a bank of computers lined one wall and massive television screens hung from the ceiling. The leather swivel chair was well worn, the waste bins overflowed, and a large shredder basket was full. The desk, running the length of the room, was stacked with documents, loose papers, notebooks, more dirty ashtrays, and used coffee cups.

De Jersey examined everything, then went through the filing cabinets, gathering as much information as possible. He failed to open the computer files, which were protected by a personal password. His wristwatch alarm went off at twelve, as he had set it, and by one fifteen de Jersey was back in his suite at the Carlyle.

He sat down at the small antique desk and read the hurried notes he had made. When he felt that he had a pretty good assessment of Alex Moreno’s personal life, he went to shower. On his return he began to familiarize himself with Moreno’s business activities. His bank statements made obvious the soaring costs of developing the Hamptons property but not where the money was coming from to pay for it.

At 11:00
A.M.
Edward Cummings checked out of the hotel by phone. At eleven ten he left and, as Philip Simmons, caught the twelve o’clock jitney bus to the Hamptons, sitting in the back, where he read
The New York Times
and spoke to no one. At two thirty he arrived in East Hampton. He hired a car from Pam’s Autos and booked into The Huntting Inn, a B and B. From his room he made an appointment to see Moreno’s contractor at the site at 5:00
P.M.
As “business adviser” to Moreno, he had spoken of the need to oversee the progress on the renovations. He learned that Moreno had an outstanding invoice for $155,000.

Moreno’s property stood on a plot of land off the Montauk highway toward the luxurious and most sought-after district of Georgica. As he drove, he looked for Hedges Lane, finally locating it off Baiting Hollow Road.

De Jersey drove past the guesthouse, nearly complete. The main house was partially built. Massive plumbing pipes and air-conditioning vents were stacked beside it. Nearby stood a line of trucks, and on the far side of the skeleton building, he noticed a digger removing earth for the pool. It was freezing cold; the rain puddles were covered with ice, and the winter sun didn’t even begin to warm the air.

No one paid much attention as De Jersey parked the car. His anger grew. The pool alone was costing a hundred thousand dollars and the guesthouse $2 million. The final budget had to be around $7 or $8 million. By the time he returned to London, the property would belong to him.

“Mr. Simmons?”

De Jersey was confronted by a muscular, rather stocky man in his late thirties. “I’m Brett Donnelly.” They shook hands. “This is my team. The architect was around earlier. Did you want to see him? They’re all running from one deal to the next. It’s like a property bonanza. You live out here? Know the area?” Donnelly fired off questions seemingly without wanting answers. He pointed to various areas of potholes and planks as they made their way to his trailer. He banged his boots clean at the door; de Jersey entered close behind him. The heat was overpowering. Donnelly took off his padded jacket and hard hat and picked up a coffeepot. “Cream?” he asked, fetching mugs.

“Just milk,” replied de Jersey.

Donnelly unhooked his phone, put down the coffee, then sat in his office chair, rocking back and forth.

De Jersey said coolly, “I think it all looks very impressive here.”

“Yeah, it’s been a big job. The East Hampton Village Zoning Board has been driving us crazy. We waited three months due to a variance with the land on the west side, and a further two weeks for the pool permits.”

De Jersey sipped the bitter coffee as Donnelly talked. It was fifteen minutes before the man finally fell silent, leaning back in his chair with a blue cloud of cigar smoke above his head.

“When do you fill the pool?” de Jersey asked.

“Any day now, it’s almost dug.” Donnelly gave de Jersey a quizzical look. “Are you Canadian?” he asked.

De Jersey smiled. He had never thought of the accent he was using as Canadian, but he nodded.

“How can I help you?” Donnelly asked.

De Jersey opened his wallet and proffered a card; he’d had the forethought to have it printed. “As I said, I’m Mr. Moreno’s business adviser.”

“Nothing wrong, is there?”

“We need to discuss my client’s financial situation.”

Donnelly opened a drawer. “You know we have an interim payment due?”

“Yes. It’s why I’m here.”

“That’s good. I’m just a local contractor, and I can’t afford to keep all these men on without the payments being met on schedule. I’ve got a few other projects, but this is the most substantial.”

“Mr. Moreno is broke.”

“What?” Donnelly was stunned.

“I have to tell you to halt the rebuilding until we have released certain funds. At the moment, Mr. Moreno cannot pay your last invoice.”

“What?” Donnelly repeated.

“I’ll see that it is paid, but you must stop work until further notice.”

“Jesus, God, I’ve got twenty-four men on this contract. I’ve gotta pay them a weekly wage. It’ll bankrupt me. I mean, are you saying the guy’s
totally brok
e
?”

“I am saying that there will be difficulties in meeting your last invoice. We could probably sell the property at a substantial loss, of course, but you would be paid eventually. The buyer might even retain you to complete the work.”

“Oh, my God, I don’t believe this!”

“This is an excellent piece of land in a prime position and with building permits already in place. I’m confident this is just a short-term situation, but you’ll want to get Mr. Moreno down here fast to sort it all out as quickly as possible. I’m sorry.”