Royal Heist Part 34

"Yeah, and he didn't like me asking him to meet you. You know what these guys are like about honor. You have to do a lot of bowing around the guy. He's something else. And he's got this other guy that breathes down your neck the whole time."

"Odd Job."

"What?"

"Nothing. Is this guy his bodyguard?"

"Yeah. He's got a driver-c.u.m-heavy as well. I said we'd meet him this afternoon at the Louvre. He's also into art. Do you know that if a j.a.panese person buys a painting and holds on to it for two years, it becomes his property even if it's stolen goods."

"No, I didn't. I want to meet him alone, Paul."

"What?"

"You heard me. The less we're seen together the better."

"I arranged the meet, for Chrissakes!"

"I know you did. But I still want to meet him alone." He reminded Dulay to anchor a good distance off the coast the day of the robbery. De Jersey also instructed him to test the watertight crate he had told him to acquire. They spoke for another few moments, then de Jersey left.

He caught a taxi back to the airport and hired a twin-engine plane to fly to Paris. He picked up another taxi and arrived at the Louvre just after two thirty. He had half an hour before his meeting with Mr. Kitamo.

Mr. Kitamo hardly ever looked directly at de Jersey. He maintained a slow walk, pausing at various paintings, sometimes stopping to read a plaque, then stepping back to gaze at the picture. He appeared to be interested only in the art on display and let out a soft sigh when they stood in front of the Mona Lisa. The bodyguard kept a discreet distance behind them.

Kitamo finally broke the silence. "To possess a painting of such beauty is very desirable, but there are many rumors that her enigmatic smile is whispering, 'Fake.' I will require one of my own people to check over the merchandise. Although I trust our mutual friend, I will accept the terms only if I am satisfied that the said item is authentic. We have agreed on the price, and I understand you wish to have a show of my intention." Kitamo turned his expressionless black eyes toward de Jersey. "One million U.S. dollars."

"Correct," de Jersey said.

"Agreed. Our friend will receive it as soon as I am informed that the item is in his possession. I will, perhaps, be prepared also to negotiate a price for certain smaller valuable pieces." Kitamo ended the conversation as quickly as he had started it. "I have enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Simmons." He gave a small bow, as if to conclude the meeting, and turned back to the Mona Lisa.

De Jersey, however, remained where he stood. Kitamo hesitated, then clicked his fingers to his bodyguard. Kitamo moved off, and his bodyguard stepped in front of de Jersey, withdrawing from his jacket pocket a white envelope and pa.s.sing it discreetly to him. Then he joined Kitamo. De Jersey crossed to sit on one of the leather-covered benches and slipped the envelope inside the gallery's brochure as he opened it. It contained confirmation of a banking facility for over $250 million U.S. in Kitamo's name. It was issued by the Banque Eurofin. A contact number was provided.

De Jersey remained seated for a few moments. When he stood up and looked toward the end of the gallery, Kitamo, who had been watching him, gave a small bow. De Jersey inclined his head back and walked out. Mr. Kitamo, as Dulay had said, was a legitimate buyer and had the finance to purchase a good many of the jewels they were planning to steal. De Jersey was relieved to know this.

Back in England, the warehouse remained empty, but Wilc.o.x and Driscoll timed the journey from there to the safe house several times. The date on which they would move all the convoy vehicles and the equipment was still undecided, although de Jersey planned to do it at night, one vehicle at a time, so as not to raise suspicion. After months of planning, the heist was only five days away.

Christina was at home watching television when she received a third call from Sylvia Hewitt. She again asked to speak to de Jersey and seemed angry when she was told that he was away.

"Where can I get in touch with him?" she asked.

"He usually stays at his club, the St. James's, but I know he's very busy at the moment, so if you would like to leave him a message-"

"I already have. I'll call the club. Sorry to bother you, but if he should return, can you pa.s.s on these numbers?" Sylvia dictated her cell, office, and home numbers.

"How is Helen?" Christina couldn't resist asking, just to hear Sylvia's response.

"Still grieving for David. So, will you pa.s.s these numbers to your husband?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," Sylvia said and hung up.

Christina had just settled down to continue watching television when Sylvia called back. "He's not there, and they said he was not expected this evening. Have you a mobile number I could call?"

"I'm afraid I don't know it. I'm so sorry."

There was a pause. Christina could almost feel the woman's impatience.

Sylvia sounded really angry when she asked again if Christina could get her husband to call her urgently. "Please make sure he knows that he really should contact me."

"I'll tell him."

Christina went into her husband's study to look for his cell phone number. She could never remember it. She had been worried to hear that he was not expected at the club that evening. She found the number and called it, but the phone was switched off. Frustrated, she called de Jersey's club. A moment later they were speaking.

"Christina? Is something wrong?"

"No, darling. It's just that David Lyons's sister-in-law called. She said it was very urgent. It's the third time. She's really quite persistent. I said you were staying at the club, and I think she called there."

"Oh, G.o.d, that wretched woman."

"The porter said you weren't there."

He laughed. "That's why I stay here. Good service!"

"Well, it's good that I caught you. She wanted your mobile number, but I didn't give it to her."

"Thank you. She's a real pain. Did she say why she wanted me so urgently?"

"Not really. Something about someone called Moreno, and I can't remember the other name she mentioned. She left an array of contact numbers. Do you want them?"

"No, I don't want to speak to her."

"Are you all right, darling?"

"Yes. Just had a heavy day. Back-to-back meetings. I'm not raising funds as fast as I'd hoped."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not really. I'm having dinner with an American banker this evening, so things may look better tomorrow. I'll call you later and give you an update. And perhaps after all I'll have the woman's numbers. I'll call and get her off my back."

De Jersey replaced the receiver, tense with anger. He thanked the porter and arranged a room for the night. The man pa.s.sed him his room keys and told him about the call from a Miss Hewitt. "Thank you, John. If she calls again, tell her I'm in a meeting and can't be interrupted, would you?"

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

"Good night, John."

De Jersey showered and changed into a clean s.h.i.+rt, which he had brought in his briefcase. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He was relieved that he had decided on a whim to come to his club. It had been pure coincidence that he had walked in just as Christina called. He wondered what the wretched Hewitt woman wanted. It was almost eight, though, so he decided to go to Westbrook's and deal with Sylvia Hewitt later.

De Jersey left the club unnoticed by the porter. He had already put a do-not-disturb message on his room's phone-message recorder. He hailed a taxi in Jermyn Street.

Westbrook was leaning against the rail looking down at de Jersey as he came up the stairs.

"Hi there. When you left the message that you wanted to talk to me, I didn't think you'd come in person. I was waiting for you to ring back," he said.

De Jersey put out his hand. "Well, we're pretty close to kickoff, so I thought it best to run over the finer details in person." They shook hands.

"Come in." Westbrook strolled ahead of him through the open door.

De Jersey didn't show how shocked he was by Westbrook's appearance. The man's face was haggard, with a yellowish, sickly pallor, and his clothes were unkempt.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Westbrook asked.

"No, thank you," de Jersey said, and his nostrils flared at the stench of alcohol and urine. "Stinks like a cat's litter tray in here," he said.

"I know, it's frightful, isn't it? There are two moggies. G.o.d knows where they are. I don't see them much. Live under the bed most of the time. But they're why I'm here. I agreed with my relative to feed them and empty their s.h.i.+tty bins." Westbrook slumped on the unmade bed. "I've not been out today," he said.

De Jersey sat on the edge of a once elegant, velvet-covered wing chair. On the mantelpiece stood rows of pillboxes and bottles. Stuffed between them were letters, postcards, invitations, and unopened bills.

"Have you not been out because you're sick or because you can't be bothered?"

"Bit of both. I'm sick as h.e.l.l, so I've been staying in watching the soaps. They all have such dreadful lives, it sort of takes the heat off my own." He laughed, and de Jersey saw that even his teeth were worse than he remembered, as if the cancer was rotting his gums.

"You'd better get yourself together. You smell as bad as the cats' tray. What about clean clothes?"

Westbrook indicated an old walnut wardrobe, its door hanging off its hinges. Inside were racks of suits, plus sweaters and s.h.i.+rts on shelves. "Oh, I'm flush for clothes, thanks to you, old chap. It's just getting up the energy to get dressed. It's not been a priority."

"Make it one," de Jersey snapped.

Westbrook stared at him, then shrugged. "Yes, sir."

"What do you need to get yourself together? We have four days to go, and from the look of you, I'd say you're not going to make it."

Westbrook swung down his legs and glared at de Jersey. "I'll make it. I'll take some booster painkillers and some high-quality speed. I won't let you down. Believe me, this is all I'm staying alive for."

"All right, but if you f.u.c.k me over, it won't be your life I'll go after. Do you understand what I am saying?" He nodded at a picture of Westbrook's kids.

"I understand you perfectly."

De Jersey looked over the array of medicines. "Morphine," he said coldly.

"Yes," said Westbrook. "It's not prescription, but it dulls the pain. My old aunt Sarah used it for years for arthritis. Got to be careful not to take too much, though."

"I'll have it." De Jersey pocketed the bottle.

"Do you fancy a gla.s.s of wine? There's a reasonable wine bar on the corner up the road. Bite to eat on me?" Westbrook gave a wolfish smile.

De Jersey stood up. If he had been uneasy about Westbrook before, he was even more so now. "You use that money I'm paying you to eat, not to get p.i.s.sed." He looked down at Westbrook's feet. He was wearing holey socks. "Use it to get some laundry done too, and a new pair of socks. And if you've got a toothbrush, use it. Your breath stinks as much as you do."

"I'm rotting away inside," Westbrook said, stepping away defensively, but de Jersey held on to his jacket lapel.

"I'm depending on you and I'm watching you. Four days is all I ask for you to hold on to being straight. Then you can stew in your own s.h.i.+t for all I care. Four days. Look at me. Can you do it?"

Westbrook somehow found the strength to push de Jersey's hand away from him. "Don't threaten me. I said I'd be up for it. I haven't let you down yet, and I have no intention of doing so now. Like I said, I have the drugs I need to keep me on my feet and my head clear. Take the morphine. I'll suffer for you. How's that?"

De Jersey felt compa.s.sion for him. "I'm sorry . . . but we're worried about you. I don't want you OD'ing on that stuff before the heist."

Westbrook made a big effort to straighten up. It was both sad and admirable. "I'm ready, and I hope to G.o.d you are, because I don't know how much longer I've got left."

Sylvia had decided not to go into work but to take another week off. By the following morning, with still no call back from de Jersey, she was furious. She put in yet another, this time to the estate. A bl.u.s.tering man answered. He said he was the manager and would pa.s.s on the message.

Christina was in the kitchen when Fleming tapped on the door. "Mrs. de Jersey, there was a call from a Miss Hewitt for the boss. It came through to my office. Rude woman."

"Oh, thank you, and yes, she is. She's called here numerous times. Did you say he was still at his club?"

"No. I just said I'd pa.s.s on the message, and I gave her his mobile number as she said it was urgent. I hope that's okay. I also need to have a word with him about scheduling some races. Can you ask him to give me a ring when it's convenient?"

"Sure. I'll call him now."

Fleming seemed very put out about something.

"Are you all right?" Christina asked.

He gave her a curt nod and started to leave, then paused, his back to her. "It's a tough time. A lot of the staff have been made redundant. It doesn't make for good staff relations. Some of the young lads are worried. I know it can't be helped, but like I said, it's not easy."

"I'm sorry, Donald, but Edward is trying to make himself financially more secure. It's why he has to spend so much time in London. In fact, he's meeting with bankers this week."

Fleming gave her a rueful look.

"He said he may have to think about remortgaging the estate," she told him. "If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Mrs. de Jersey."

Christina left a message at the St. James's, then called her husband's cell phone.

He answered. "h.e.l.lo, darling. It's a bit difficult for me to talk right now, I'm in the middle of a meeting. It's sounding as if I may have some good news. Is it urgent?"

"Not really. Sylvia Hewitt has called again, and Donald gave her your mobile number. He also wants to sort out some racing dates. Also, please don't forget the girls' school play. You promised you'd be there."

"Can we talk about this later?"

"Yes, sorry to interrupt, but I felt that Donald would really like to talk to you, and from what he said, Sylvia was angry that you hadn't returned her calls."

"I'll call them both."

She hung up, then went into her husband's study. On the desk was a large diary. She opened it and looked down the listed races and the horses earmarked to compete. Some had lines crossed through them. She turned a few pages. She noticed that May second was circled and that a memo about a race at Brighton had been written in. She saw her own note to remind him of the school play; she picked up a pen and printed THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. She replaced the pen in the holder and glanced over the neat desk. Then she hooked a finger through one of the drawer handles and pulled. It was locked, which niggled her, but she left the study and forgot about it.

Later, from the kitchen window, she watched the jockeys leading the horses out for their midday training. It was cold and the sun was bright. Royal Flush was playing up again, bucking and shaking his head. He kicked out, and then the long line of valuable horses was heading for the rolling acres beyond the track. It all looked so perfect, so affluent, and she sighed. She knew how much her husband loved this life. Christina threw on her fur-lined coat and dragged her riding boots out of the hall closet. By the time she reached the stable yard, most of the horses were out exercising, and she walked from stable to stable, then turned into the tack room. It was a hive of activity. The pungent aroma of saddle soap mingled with the fresh smell of hay and manure. For the first time she felt as if she didn't belong. She walked for an hour around all the stables, into the various yards and offices, and then to the garages. She stood by her husband's Rolls-Royce, which was being polished by one of the chauffeurs, ready to be sold. She asked where the driver she usually used was and discovered that he no longer worked for them. It was only now that she realized just how many of the staff had gone. It made her feel even more inadequate. No wonder Donald Fleming was concerned. So much had happened while she had been away. So much that she hadn't noticed on her return.

"How many horses have been sold?" she asked a girl she pa.s.sed on her way back to the house.