Royal Heist (9 page)

De Jersey became immersed in the Crown Jewels. He printed off some photographs. The article stated that the gold for the magnificent St. Edward’s Crown might have come from the Confessor’s crown. It was set with 444 semiprecious stones. The breathtaking Imperial State Crown was set with over 3,000 precious stones. Then he stared at the Koh-i-noor, set in the Queen Mother’s platinum crown. Last he looked at the little crown made for Queen Victoria, studded with over 1,500 diamonds. A response to a letter in the Web page’s mailbox stated that the last attempted robbery of the Crown Jewels had been foiled in 1671. These gems were kept closely guarded in the Tower of London and were seen by millions of tourists every year. A crown jeweler was responsible for their maintenance and cleaning. The Queen had last seen them in 1994, when the new Jewel House was opened.

De Jersey was so deep in thought that Christina called him numerous times for dinner. He appeared at last, smiling, and produced the printed information about theater and attractions, assuring her that he would come to everything with them.

“Darling, just a few dinners. I know you hate theater.”

“Well, in return for you letting me off theater dates, I will personally take them to the Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels.”

Once Christina had fallen asleep, he returned to his study and accessed more sites about the spectacular jewels. Their history was fascinating. Edward the Confessor and his successors had accumulated most of the regalia, but much had been sold off or melted down by Oliver Cromwell between 1649 and 1658. The current hoard dated from Charles II’s coronation in 1661. The foiled attempt to steal the gems had been instigated by a Colonel Blood, who had almost got away but was trapped at the East Gate of the Tower. De Jersey remained in his study until dawn. He went back to bed, tired but elated.

He woke feeling well rested, then changed into riding clothes. He rode hard for a good hour on an old favorite, a big eighteen-hand gray called Cute Queenie. At fourteen she was no longer racing but, having produced some good colts, she was kept for de Jersey’s personal use. He brought her to a halt, snorting and tossing her head. They looked across the downs.

“Good girl,” he whispered affectionately, and he pushed her to trot, then canter, finally coaxing her into a full gallop. It was like opening the throttle of a fine old racing car. The big gray tore up the wet morning grass, her breath steaming. He had not felt so alive for years. The adrenaline buzz stimulated every part of his body—confronting danger had always been his preferred drug, and after the Moreno business he craved more of it. As the next audacious heist formed in his mind, he felt as he had on receiving the tip-off about the gold bullion at Heathrow. And now he was contemplating stealing the Crown Jewels. But contemplating it and pulling it off were worlds apart.

CHAPTER

6

T
ony Driscoll arrived home from his holiday, tanned, jet-lagged, and exhausted. He contacted David Lyons’s office straightaway and spent two hours on the phone. He was sitting in a stupor, staring at the walls, when Liz barged in.

“Tony, have you unpacked?” she asked.

“You know I haven’t,” he snapped.

“Well, you can’t skive in here. You have to put out your dirty laundry for Mrs. Fuller. I’m not going to do it.”

“I’ve got a few business problems to take care of.”

“Can’t they wait? We only just got home.”

“I guess they can,” he said, standing, but when she left the room he sat down again. Until now he had maintained a positive attitude, sure that some money could be salvaged. Having been told bluntly by Lyons’s assistant that there was no hope of recouping a cent, he felt sick.

James Wilcox had discovered the same thing. The family had arrived home in Henley only to learn that his basement was flooded. Now he stared at the mounting bills. His numerous maintenance checks to his ex-wives were months overdue. Rika, irritable from the long journey, kept asking him to arrange a grocery delivery from Tesco, but he couldn’t think straight. One minute he had been worth millions, the next peanuts. He had not anticipated it would be this bad.

Rika slapped the grocery list down in front of him.

“This is gonna cost a fucking fortune, Rika. We’ve got eight different types of cereal here!”

“Vell, that is vat they eat!”

“From now on they’re all gonna eat the same one.”

Rika glared at him and slammed out of the room.

He was in real trouble. He had even remortgaged the house to throw more money into leadingleisurewear. He began to contemplate how he would react if de Jersey suggested another heist. It had been easy to agree with Driscoll to walk away, but now—with six kids, four ex-wives, a Ukrainian mistress, and only a garage full of vintage cars as collateral—he was heading for bankruptcy. If things got any worse, he would be hard-pressed to say no to anything de Jersey suggested.

De Jersey told his wife he would be away for a couple of days on business, staying at his club. Soon he would have to make his plans from a new location; it was too dangerous to work at home. He flew by helicopter to London, and by midmorning he was seated in a student lecture hall attending a computer-programming seminar. Afterward he approached the young lecturer and asked him to list some books that would assist in his training.

Armed with two bulging carrier bags, de Jersey went to the St. James’s Club and sat in the lounge reading the complex manuals. Realizing that he still needed assistance, he hurried off to St. Catherine’s Church for the lecture suggested by Elvis in the chat room.

The hall was small and freezing, inhabited by a clutch of nerdy figures with plastic coffee cups and cling-wrapped sandwiches. A plump blond girl munching on a Mars bar collected five pounds from each of them and handed out a computer printout of the evening’s agenda; the session was to be conducted by someone called Raymond Marsh. “You been here before?” the blonde asked de Jersey.

“No.”

“You got a contact who got you here?”

“Yes.”

“The name? I’ve got to fill in the attendance list.”

“Elvis,” De Jersey said, feeling rather foolish.

“Okay, then. Sit down. He won’t be long—baby-sitter didn’t show up. What’s your name?” She was ready with her pen.

“Philip Simmons,” he said.

By eight thirty, sixteen people were hunched in thick coats over tiny laptops as they waited on plastic chairs. De Jersey glanced to the rear of the hall; he saw a strange apparition. This was Raymond Marsh, but it was clear he was known otherwise as Elvis. As Marsh reached into the cardboard box and pocketed the cash, de Jersey deduced that the blonde was his wife.

It was hard not to stare at Marsh’s thin, pointy face, with its protruding chin and slanted cheeks. The hair, combed in from both sides to form a quiff, was held in place by thick layers of lacquer. He wore a worn black leather jacket, skintight drainpipe trousers, and winklepickers. He checked that the computer was running correctly through the overhead projector. “Right. We’re all set. I’ve done some printouts that should answer yer queries from last week, right? I gorra bit worried about last session, so any questions needin’ going over like, now’s the time to do it.” He had a thick Liverpudlian accent.

A tall, thin man in the front row put up his hand. “We were talking last week about hacking techniques being employed to protect computer systems rather than for criminal purposes. Could viruses ever be used for protection?”

Marsh swept a hand over one side of his head. “Well, there has been talk of creating good viruses in the future that, as with human diseases, will increase the host’s immune system.”

When a large, jolly-looking woman asked a question about the approaching DEFCON conference in America, Marsh launched into an enthusiastic description of the underground hacking convention. Much of what was being discussed was alien to de Jersey. He paid close attention to Marsh; he obviously had a high IQ, but his manner of speaking and delivery seemed to suggest low social skills. De Jersey wondered if the man worked in the information technology industry.

Raymond Marsh was employed as a telephone engineer but hacked and explored the Internet in his spare time, so de Jersey hadn’t been too far off the mark. He was so deeply immersed in his analysis of the man that he jumped when he heard another audience member asking about identity protection and creating fake identities on the Net.

“Of course, mate, it’s stupid to use your own details,” said Marsh. “You can build up all kinds of identities in loads of countries and create plausible histories for all of ’em. One of my own Net IDs is an Australian schoolboy. He gets up to all sorts! This morning I hacked into a school in Adelaide, registered him, and created school reports for him. Gave him straight A’s. I’ve traveled all around the world under dozens of different names, but I’ve never even left the country. I’m a grandmother of five in Russia, an S & M enthusiast in Ireland, and a fish farmer in Alaska. And there’s no way they can catch me because I have a satellite linkup courtesy of work, which I use whenever I’m on the Net so I can easily break the link. Working for a telecommunications company comes in handy when you’ve got this hobby!”

Everyone in the audience chuckled, but de Jersey sat mesmerized. This was perfect for his needs. He had to draft Raymond Marsh to help. The question was, Could he trust him?

At the meeting’s end, de Jersey slipped out, mind reeling. It was pouring, and he caught a taxi. Back in the club, he sat in the reading room going over the handouts from the meeting, which included Marsh’s e-mail address, home phone number, and address.

The next morning, when he phoned, a rather laconic female voice replied, “He’s at work.”

“Is there a number I can contact him on? It’s important.”

“His work don’t like him taking personal calls. If you gimme your number, I’ll get him to call you, or he’ll be home about six.”

“I’ll call later, thanks.”

It was almost six o’clock when de Jersey took the Tube to Marsh’s home in Clapham. It was a small semidetached house with a bright pink Cortina, sporting two large, fluffy dice in the windscreen, parked outside. De Jersey walked up the path and rang the doorbell. The blond woman from St. Catherine’s Church answered.

“Is he back yet?”

“You the bloke what called earlier?” she asked, glancing back to where a baby was screeching.

“Yes. I’m sorry if this is inconvenient.”

“Well, it is a bit, he’s not home yet.” Suddenly she looked past de Jersey and waved. “Tell a lie, he’s behind you.”

De Jersey turned as Marsh, wearing an overall under a thick tweed coat, walked up the path. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Dunno, come to see you.” He kissed his wife before she ran to the baby.

De Jersey passed him one of his Philip Simmons’s “Computer Electronics Inc.” business cards.

“What’s this about then?” he asked de Jersey.

“A job you may be interested in.”

“Already got one, mate.”

“I need information and help with a project I’m working on.”

“Information? I got plenty of that. My mind’s full of it, but dunno if it’s the stuff you’re looking for.”

“It would be helpful to know your experience,” de Jersey said.

Marsh settled himself on the doorstep. “I work as a phone engineer now. Got into phone hacking in the early eighties, phoning everywhere long distance for free. Then I progressed to computers. This company hired me out to local firms to set up their networks, but the job bored me rigid. So me and my wife packed up, came to London, and I went back to phones—all legit now, of course. It’s all computerized anyhow. Like to keep the computer hacking for my spare time. Is this the kind of stuff you want to know?”

“Yes. Go on.”

Marsh was obviously not going to invite him in. “You wanna sit with me in me car?” he asked.

Marsh leaned back in his seat, stroking the Cortina’s white leather steering wheel. The more he talked about himself, the more arrogant he became. An undercurrent of danger hung about him, an anger whose source de Jersey couldn’t determine.

“So, Mr. Simmons, what is it you’re after, then?” he asked.

“You,” de Jersey said.

“Well, I don’t come cheap.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

Marsh took another look at the business card.

“I was there last night at St. Catherine’s. I’d like you to help me build a fake identity and make it seem as real as possible.”

“Anything’s possible, mate.”

Acting on Marsh’s detailed instructions, de Jersey withdrew 130,000 pounds from his depleted accounts. He set up a post-office box and topped up the account in the name of Philip Simmons. From now on he would carry out all his financial transactions on-line.

While the bank assessed his details, de Jersey waited, and when everything was cleared, he rented a flat in Kilburn on-line. The company sent his keys to his post-office box, and de Jersey arranged for the domestic bills to be paid via the Net.

Two days later he returned to London, collected the keys, and traveled by bus, an experience he hadn’t had in years, to Philip Simmons’s new abode. The flat was two flights up and as seedy as he had expected for the price he was paying. It had that stale-food smell and orange-colored, foam-filled furniture. At least the bathroom and kitchen were clean and in working order. He had purchased two mobile phones in the name of Simmons, via the Internet, and another computer. The deliveries arrived within half an hour of each other. Now all de Jersey needed was a link to his own computer that could be destroyed at a moment’s notice. For this he would have to have more help from Raymond Marsh.

By the time de Jersey returned home, Christina was in bed. He got in and nuzzled her neck. “Sorry I’m so late. It’s been another day of meetings. David Lyons certainly left me in a mess.”

She turned sleepily. “Tell me about it in the morning.”

“I love you,” he whispered.

CHAPTER

7

D
e Jersey played the perfect host to his in-laws. At the Tower of London, when they followed the guide into the main chamber where the jewels were on display, de Jersey was so eager to hear the guide’s description that he kept stepping on the man’s heels. Then he stopped dead. There, in all its glory, was the Queen Mother’s platinum crown with the dazzling Koh-i-noor Diamond. Ahead, he noticed an empty case and a small plaque stating “In Use.” A thought struck him: the jewels were occasionally taken out of the Tower. He hurried to ask the guide.

“The empty display back there, what’s the crown being used for?” he asked.

“The Queen has gone to Norway and will be wearing some of the jewels.”

“Could there be an occasion when they are all in use?”

“I doubt it. There’ll be a few cases empty for the Golden Jubilee celebrations, but if there’s not a good enough selection, we offer reductions.”

“What crown will Her Majesty be wearing for the Jubilee?”

The guide shuffled impatiently. “One of the smaller ones. That one”—he pointed to the crown with the Koh-i-noor Diamond—“weighs a ton. There’s over a hundred carats’ worth of diamond in that one big stone alone. Would you mind moving on now, sir? The next tour is coming through.” He moved on toward a display case. De Jersey barely glanced at the sumptuous crown as he walked away.

James Wilcox arrived at the Ritz early. He was wearing one of his designer suits. Over the years he had become fastidious about his clothes and accessories. He ordered a vodka martini at the bar. De Jersey had booked a suite on the second floor under the name of Simmons, as usual. Wilcox ate the cashew nuts provided and unwrapped a cigar.

“How you doing, my old son?” Driscoll said, plonking himself down on a stool next to him.

“I’ve been better. I’ve been over it all with that assistant at Lyons’s office.”

“Tell me about it.” Driscoll ordered a chilled glass of Chablis.

“I’m skint. You able to salvage anything?”

“I’ve got a few thousand here and there, own some property, but . . . yeah, bulk went into the leading fucking leisurewear.”

“Fuck me. Pair of us must have been crazy. I remember Ronnie Jersey saying to me once, ‘Tony, learn from these punters coming in day after day. You might get lucky once, but you’ll have ten nonrunners and it’s not worth throwing hard-earned money away.’ I kept on pouring everything I had into that damn company.”

“Schmucks the pair of us.” Wilcox drained his martini.

“I remember one day at Ronnie’s, we’d got a surefire winner. In those days there was none of the TV sets in the betting shops, and we listened to the radio.”

“Don’t start the Ronnie Jersey stories again,” Wilcox moaned.

“I’m not, I’m not, I am just saying—”

“I’m not in the mood.” Wilcox sucked on his olive.

“Oh, excuse me for living.”

They sat in silence a moment.

Driscoll looked at Wilcox’s suit. “What’s with the satin lining?”

“I like it.”

“Bit bright, isn’t it? Suit’s a good cut, though. Pity to ruin it with the cuffs turned back like that.”

“I ordered the cuffs that way!” Wilcox snapped.

“How much that suit set you back then? Go on.”

“With thirty-odd million, I wasn’t quibbling over how much a friggin’ suit was going to set me back. Change the subject.”

Driscoll took out a slim cigar. “You want one of these?”

“No. You want another drink?”

Driscoll nodded. Wilcox signaled the barman.

“You see that race then . . .”

“Tony, I don’t wanna hear about fucking Ronnie and—”

“I’m not talking about the old days. I’m talking about Ascot; the Colonel’s horse romped home. Royal Flush. It’s called Royal Flush.”

“You know something that you do,” Wilcox said. “You’ve always done it. You repeat things twice.”

“I do not. I don’t.”

“Yes you do, you just did it then.”

“I didn’t. No, I did not.”

“You just did it again!”

Driscoll then leaned in close. “He’s here. Shit, he looks good. See him talking to the doorman?”

De Jersey was a hard man to miss, in his brown trilby and a brown tweed suit. He looked very much the racing gentleman, right down to his checked shirt and brown brogues. He made his way to the restaurant and disappeared.

“What’s he doing? Isn’t he goin’ up to the suite?”

“Looks like he’s gonna have lunch.”

At the entrance to the Ritz restaurant, de Jersey was chatting with the maître d’. Then he returned to the lobby as if to leave the hotel. But instead of going toward the front door, he turned sharply and headed for the stairs.

“He’s putting himself about a bit, isn’t he?” Driscoll said softly.

“I reckon it’s time we went. Split up as usual, okay?”

Wilcox tapped on the door and entered. The spacious suite was furnished with elegant, Regency-style furniture and thick gold curtains. A polished mahogany table displayed salmon, cheese, and a large bowl of fruit salad with cream. De Jersey was opening a bottle of champagne.

“Tony’s coming up via the stairs,” Wilcox said, closing the door. “You look fit—all that riding, I suppose.”

“You’re in pretty good shape yourself,” de Jersey said. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“So am I.”

De Jersey popped the cork and placed the bottle in the ice bucket. “Good to see you, Jimmy.”

“Yeah, we go back a long way, you and me.” Wilcox crossed the room to hug him.

Driscoll came into the room as Wilcox was accepting a glass of champagne.

“Christ, my knees. I tell you, I’m falling apart. I got to the second floor and thought I was having a heart attack.” He shook hands with de Jersey. “Still holding up well. How do you think the years have treated me, then?” Of the three men, Driscoll showed his age the most.

De Jersey poured him a glass of champagne, then made a toast. “To meeting under better circumstances next time.”

When de Jersey sat down, they followed suit, chatting relaxedly about their families, then enjoying their meal. Driscoll remembered to congratulate de Jersey on his win at Royal Ascot.

“It’s the Derby next,” de Jersey enthused. “He’ll do it. He’s the best colt I’ve ever had. Oh, I meant to ask. Did you ever know someone called Harry Smedley? He came up to me at the racetrack. Said we were at school together, but I can’t for the life of me remember him.”

Driscoll was wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah, I remember him. He was at the comprehensive with us—well, with me. He’d have been in the class below me. Little kid with a big head.”

“I still don’t remember him,” de Jersey said.

“You might remember his mother, Margie, though. Gawd, she was a case. She’d go an’ collect her social dosh in the morning and lose it by the afternoon. Ronnie tried to stop her gambling, but every day she’d be in the shop, soon as the doors opened, shilling each way. She was a tough old boiler.” Driscoll waved his fork. “She was there when those heavies came in with the sledgehammer. Got herself under a table when it was all going down. All the while, the racing commentary was coming out over the Tannoy. As soon as they left the shop, up she pops and tells Ronnie he’s got to pay out on the bet she was about to place. She says it was a pound on the nose, a twenty-to-one outsider called Danny Daly.”

Wilcox got up. “Which is the bathroom?”

De Jersey pointed to a door close by. “There’s that one, or another one off the bedroom.”

Wilcox went into the bedroom and closed the door.

“What did my father say?”

“He says, ‘Mrs. Smedley, you haven’t put paper on a runner in here ever, but just for your bottle, I’ll pay out,’ and he did. He was some fella, your old man.”

De Jersey still had no recollection of mother or son.

Wilcox returned. “Has he finished, or is he just drawing breath?”

Driscoll gave him the finger.

De Jersey passed the cheese board. Wilcox poured more champagne and returned to his seat. They continued to chat about old times. Finally Driscoll pushed aside his plate. “Our luck ran out, though. This latest venture has done me over good.”

De Jersey started to clear the dishes. “Let me explain how we lost our cash. You must know by now that the Internet crash has affected a lot of people even worse than us. Lots of companies have gone down. Ours was just one of many.”

“I spoke to that bloke at Lyons’s office, and he said that if we could contact this fella Alex Moreno he might be able to salvage something,” said Driscoll.

“Not a hope in hell,” de Jersey replied. “Leadingleisurewear has been liquidated, and Alex Moreno, the managing director, has disappeared.”

Driscoll banged the table with the flat of his hand. “I’d like to get him by his scrawny neck and throttle him.”

“He’s been trying to form another company.”

“The little shit,” Wilcox blurted out while de Jersey opened another bottle of champagne.

“I’ve done what I could,” de Jersey replied.

“You’ve been over there and seen this Moreno guy?” Wilcox asked, surprised. De Jersey remained silent. “I’m not bleating, Colonel, but I’m only just keeping my head above water right now. I’m going to have to sell my homes, my cars . . . I’ve got six kids, four bloody ex-wives. I’d like some kind of retribution from this arrogant son of a bitch.”

De Jersey blew a smoke ring above his head. “Moreno is taken care of. He had property in East Hampton. We should get at least twelve million for it, hopefully more, and he had a lease on an apartment worth a couple of million. I’ll split it three ways as usual, but it can’t be touched until we’re sure it can’t be traced, maybe in six to eight months’ time. Moreno himself is not a factor anymore.” De Jersey gave each man a cold-eyed stare. “He’s out of the loop. I’ve taken care of him. Understand me?”

They knew then that Moreno was dead, and not to press for details. After a strange, depressed silence, de Jersey went to the bathroom to wash and comb his hair. He was leaving shortly to collect his in-laws from their shopping expedition at Harrods, but he needed at least another hour with Wilcox and Driscoll.

He returned to his guests. “I’ve been thinking of something we could do. It’s—”

Driscoll was the first to interrupt. “Eddy, listen, I don’t want to hear. I’m too old. I’ve got responsibilities. I can’t go back to what I was like in the old days. I almost didn’t show up here this afternoon, because I reckoned you’d have arranged some kind of business to get us out of this mess—but nothing illegal, not for me. I can’t, I’m sorry.”

De Jersey reached out and touched his hand. “That’s okay.” Wilcox was staring at the table. “What about you, Jimmy?”

“Same goes for me. I reckon I’ve lost my nerve. I just don’t have the bottle for it anymore, and if, like you said, we’re in line for a few mill from the sale of the Moreno property, that’s . . . that’s enough for me.”

“I forget how old I am sometimes, and it was a crazy idea anyway,” de Jersey said. “You’re right. We’ll leave our separate ways, see each other again when we’re on walkers.”

De Jersey started to count. He reckoned that when he got to ten Wilcox would want to know more, but he was wrong: it was Driscoll.

“So come on, then. Just ’cause we’re not players doesn’t mean we’re not curious. What caper were you gonna line up for us?”

De Jersey faced them. “No, you’re right. Better if we just walk away now.”

Wilcox couldn’t meet his eyes. De Jersey continued, “No hard feelings. Now or ever. They broke the mold when they made you two.”

Driscoll said, “If we don’t come in, will you go it alone, whatever it is?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. But now I have to go collect my in-laws.”

“It’s not as if you can’t trust us. Why don’t you just run it by us?” Driscoll said stubbornly. “You know whatever you say to us won’t go any further.”

De Jersey put on his hat. “Not this time.”

“Come on, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Driscoll said, smiling.

“There’s a first time for everything, Tony,” de Jersey said.

Wilcox glanced at Driscoll, and their eyes met. They both wanted to know what deal they had just turned down.

“You let us decide, Colonel, that’s fair, isn’t it?” Driscoll said.

After a long pause, de Jersey returned to the table. He took off his hat. “You forced my hand.”

Both men waited, and de Jersey seemed to relish the moment. “I want to steal the Crown Jewels.”

“Not the ones in the Tower of London?” Driscoll asked, incredulously.

“The very same.”

“The fucking Crown Jewels!” Wilcox let out a loud laugh.

“He’s having us on.” Driscoll grinned.

De Jersey twisted his hat around on his hand. “It’ll take months of preparation. I’ve not formulated the details as yet, or picked out the people I’ll need.”

“You’re gonna break into the Tower of London?” Wilcox said.

De Jersey put on his hat and pulled the rim to the angle he liked. He walked to the door and unlocked it. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, considering our past connections. See you.”

“Edward!” Wilcox flew to the door. “Don’t do this. I’ve been grateful to you more times than I can remember, but this . . . You can’t expect us to take you seriously! This isn’t a serious gig, is it?”

Driscoll joined them at the door. “Like James just said, I owe you for everything and I won’t ever forget what you or your old man did for me, but no way am I going to feel guilty for turning this caper down. So come clean. Admit it’s a big joke.”

“No joke,” de Jersey said. “When I get the money from Moreno’s properties, you’ll get your cut.” He gave them a long, cold stare. They moved away from the door, and he opened it again.

“I have to go—I’m taking the in-laws for dinner at San Lorenzo. They’ll be waiting for me outside Harrods.” He closed the door silently behind him and walked down the thickly carpeted corridor. He passed the elevator and headed down the stairs. He didn’t feel let down, just foolish for believing that the three could pick up where they had left off. That was his mistake. Too many years had passed.

Still in the hotel room, Wilcox chopped a line on the table. He offered one to Driscoll.