Royal Heist Part 24

"She makes her living as her double."

"We kidnap her, then?" Wilc.o.x asked.

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

"I don't understand." Wilc.o.x 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.

Lord 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 G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.+ny from sweat. He had a coughing fit as their order was brought to the table. De Jersey poured coffee for them both and pa.s.sed 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 cus.h.i.+oned 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 ident.i.ties, 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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 ma.s.s 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.s 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 f.u.c.king 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 G.o.d the other guys know what the f.u.c.k 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 a.s.sume 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 Wilc.o.x, 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 Wilc.o.x, 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.

"I get a bit of work here and there. Been with this company for a few years, but I'm a reserve. They pull me in when they need extra hands, like for this kind of gig." He gestured to the wedding remnants around him.

"Did you stay clean?" Driscoll asked.

Hall shook his head, laughing softly. "I tried for a while, but when you've got a wife and three kids, you've gotta do what you've gotta do, know what I mean? I got my fingers burnt a few times more. I've only been out ten months."

Driscoll reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Hall laid a hand on his arm. "Oh, no, I'm not looking for a handout. I just wanted to thank you."

"Fancy a drink?" Driscoll asked.

"Not while I'm on duty."

"Who's to see you? Besides, I hired you."

They walked back to the bar in the marquee. Driscoll found a half-full bottle of brandy, picked up two gla.s.ses, and made his way to the corner of the patio. "Brandy suit you?"

"Yeah."

Driscoll divided the bottle between them, then proffered a cigar, and they lit up, sitting in the darkness with the music still banging away.

"I don't suppose you've got any work going?" Hall asked.

"Not really. I'm semiretired," Driscoll said, then gestured to the gardens and the house. "But don't think all this is safe and secure. I'm skint. I made a bad business deal and got screwed out of all my savings."

"I'm sorry," Hall said. "I've got a little sideline, though, if you need any heavy work-know what I mean? If these people that screwed you on this business deal need sorting, me and my pal Kenny Short, we do contracts. Not the really heavy stuff, but we certainly put some pressure on."

Driscoll remained silent.

"Hope you don't mind me asking. It was just a thought."