Royal Heist Part 38

The team backed toward the stairs as Driscoll shut the heavy steel doors, leaving Saunders, Maureen, and the two terrified fitters captive. Then the gang walked boldly up the stairs, through the reception area, into the small hallway, and past the bound security guard.

The bikers started their engines and moved off in different directions, although their destination was the same: the speedboats at the Tower Bridge Marina. Pamela and Westbrook left Newbury Street on foot. Neither could speak, and their legs were wobbly, but they walked toward the City Thameslink Station, looking over their shoulders as often as they dared, trying not to be too conspicuous.

Driscoll walked straight into Barbican Station and went down to the Hammersmith and City line. It seemed an interminable time before a train came, and he shook as he paced up and down. After three minutes he stepped into a carriage and cursed under his breath until the train's doors finally closed and it left the station. He was dripping with sweat.

Wilc.o.x and de Jersey knew they needed to distance themselves from the crime scene as quickly as possible, but they couldn't leave the Daimler behind. It was too risky and time-consuming to take it back to the warehouse, and they didn't want to drive it through town. This was where the furniture van came into play. It was parked nearby on a meter.

De Jersey climbed into the Daimler with both rucksacks. Wilc.o.x slammed his foot down, and they screeched round the corner, sending the no-parking signs and cones flying.

"Slowly!" de Jersey snapped. The last thing they needed was to be picked up for speeding. The tense Wilc.o.x managed to slow down, and they drove through the back streets until they reached the van. De Jersey leaped out and opened the van's driving side, threw in the rucksacks, and got in. At the same time, Wilc.o.x opened the rear doors, dropped the tailgate, returned to the Daimler, and drove it in. There was so little s.p.a.ce to move that he took a while to squeeze out of the car. He drew up the back and shut the doors with himself inside, then banged on the front of the van for de Jersey to move off.

As de Jersey drove, he ripped off the wig, eyebrows, and mustache, keeping his speed to thirty miles an hour. It felt like a snail's pace. He headed toward the river, crossed it, and turned right to drive toward Battersea.

The getaway had taken only fifteen minutes so far, but he could already hear police sirens blasting in the distance. As they pa.s.sed the heliport in Battersea, de Jersey saw his two decoy helicopters take off. He checked his watch: it was perfect timing. The confusion should provide cover for his own copter.

The officials locked in the vault had screamed and shouted to no avail. They could not get out, and the lack of air was becoming asphyxiating. Maureen was hysterical, screaming that they had got her husband. The others in the vault had realized at last that she wasn't talking about Prince Philip.

The staff from the upper floors carried on working, unaware of what was taking place downstairs. However, when the secretaries entered the reception area at the time the Royal party was due to leave, they were confronted by an overturned plinth of lilies and the bound and gagged security guard. With trepidation one of them opened the outer vault doors.

By eleven o'clock the City was wailing with sirens. No one could believe what had happened. It was one of the most audacious robberies in history. The first thing the police did was send up their helicopters to monitor the area. They were on the lookout for two Daimlers and two motorbikes.

The entire area surrounding the safe house was cordoned off. De Jersey was still driving the furniture van and was now pa.s.sing Kingston, moving on toward the A3. He still had a way to go before he would reach his helicopter to lift the jewels away from London.

At the same time, two speedboats raced from separate moorings near Tower Bridge. Hall had dumped his motorbike and placed his helmet and leathers into a holdall. He now wore a thick cable-knit sweater and a baseball cap. He had walked to the first boat, which had been brought from the old boathouse in Putney. Before leaving he had tied weights to his holdall and dropped it into the river. He steered the boat toward Putney, intending to stash it in the boathouse and catch the tube back to his east London home from Putney Bridge.

Ten minutes later Short followed almost identical orders. He left his bike in a car park near Blackfriars and changed in the toilets. He walked down toward Temple, pulling his cap low over his face. When he reached his mooring, he had trouble with the engine. After a few false starts, however, he got the boat going and sped off after Hall just as the sirens started. Short had to drop the boat at the boathouse, then use a can of petrol to set light to the building and its contents. They hoped the fire would provide another distraction.

Short set a bunch of doused rags alight and exited quickly. He was a good fifty yards away when he saw the flames take hold. He was to continue on foot along the New King's Road, catch a bus to Sloane Square, and from there take a tube to his flat.

Driscoll walked out of the tube station at Shepherd's Bush and picked up his car from a car park. He drove home, calm now although his s.h.i.+rt was soaking. He wondered if de Jersey had made it. He wanted more than anything to call Wilc.o.x, to know that everyone was home and free, but he resisted the urge and kept on driving.

De Jersey had parked his helicopter at Brooklands airfield. It was used mostly at the weekend, so it was deserted now, with just a small office in operation across the car park. Wilc.o.x jumped down from the back of the van, climbed into the driving seat, and drove out of the airfield, catching de Jersey's eye as he left. Both allowed themselves half-relieved smiles, but they were not in the clear yet.

An experienced pilot, de Jersey knew that there would be no problems with air traffic control. Contrary to popular belief, most low-level airs.p.a.ce in the United Kingdom is uncontrolled. He had used the Brooklands airfield a few times when he had horses racing at Epsom and Goodwood. Today he was expected at Brighton for a two-year-old's maiden race. He used the airfield's bathroom to wash off the wig glue, put on a camel overcoat and his brown trilby, stashed the rucksacks in two suitcases, and loaded them into the helicopter, which contained an incongruous-looking crate. It was watertight, lined with polystyrene squares held together with waterproof glue.

De Jersey saw only one person by the hangars, a man cleaning a glider who didn't pay him any attention. As he left the washroom, the caretaker, who was sitting in his office eating his lunch, asked if he had a tip for the races. De Jersey laughed and said perhaps an each-way bet on his colt, Fan Dancer, but he wasn't optimistic as it was his first time out.

As de Jersey started the engine and the propellers began to move, Wilc.o.x was six miles away, heading toward the old barn. Once there he drove the furniture truck in through the large doors, drove the Daimler out, and removed the number plates. The registration number on the engine had already been removed. He used four cans of acid to destroy the seats, paintwork, and all the contents of the boot. He smashed every window with a hammer and attacked the dashboard. The exertion felt good. Then he stripped the stickers off the sides of the removal van to reveal its true ident.i.ty. The "Double Your Time" rental company did not expect it back until later that afternoon. Their headquarters were in Leatherhead, so it was just a short drive back down the A3. Wilc.o.x left the truck in a large car park and posted the keys into a box at the gates. Philip Simmons had hired it after seeing the company's advert on the Internet and had paid for it. Then Wilc.o.x caught a train home from Leatherhead.

De Jersey's horse was running in the three o'clock at Brighton. It was the perfect opportunity to show his face and establish an alibi, but he had to do the drop first. As he headed for the coast, he looked down on the busy traffic heading in and out of the center of London. He wondered whether it was his imagination or there was a glint of flas.h.i.+ng blue light in every direction. He didn't dwell on it, knowing that by now every airport would be targeted as a possible getaway route, likewise the ports. It would take a long time to organize a full search, however, and by then he hoped they would be home and free.

Pamela and the now sickly Westbrook had traveled from the City Thameslink Station to Brighton. There they switched to a second train for Plymouth. Pamela was concerned by Westbrook's depleted energy. He was sweating profusely and had twice staggered to the lavatory to vomit. His face was yellow, and sweat plastered his hair to his head. The journey would take at least five hours, and they would need a taxi to get them to the safety of her flat. De Jersey had instructed them to separate and Westbrook to return to London, but his Lords.h.i.+p was too unwell to be left alone.

When they reached the station, they flagged down a taxi. Pamela had constantly to feed Westbrook his painkillers so that he had enough energy to walk unaided to her flat. She had made the taxi stop two streets away, not wanting to give the driver her address. Westbrook hardly spoke, but when she opened her front door and helped him collapse onto the sofa, he gave a dry sob, his face twisted in pain. Her heart went out to him. "We made it," she said softly.

The helicopter too was reaching its destination. The yacht was anch.o.r.ed almost nine miles off Brighton Marina, and as he flew overhead de Jersey used his cell phone to call Dulay. He put the engine on remote control, slid open the side door, and tossed out the crate. He didn't wait to see it hit the water. Instead he did a wide arc, then headed for the helipad at Brighton racetrack.

Dulay watched the crate hit the water and bob to the surface. It was just a few yards off its marker. He gave the signal to start up the engines, and the big yacht moved majestically toward it. Dulay and two crew hauled the crate aboard, then they were on their way back to the Riviera. He spotted a small yacht a good distance away but realized he could do nothing about it and hoped to G.o.d that no one aboard had seen the drop.

Three boys were testing the little yacht for the nationals. They had taken it without their parents' permission and were smoking a large joint when the helicopter flew overhead. Through binoculars they watched in amazement as the crate fell out. At first they were unsure what they had seen, and they pa.s.sed the binoculars around, wondering if they had witnessed a drugs drop. They did not, however, have a radio, and as the large yacht turned to head out to sea, they reckoned they were wrong. If it had been drugs, surely the boat would be heading inland. Suddenly they felt a flurry of wind and galvanized themselves to set sail back to the marina.

At the racecourse de Jersey went into the weighing room to see Mickey Rowland, surprising him. The jockey was heading toward the locker rooms carrying de Jersey's racing colors, ready to dress. He thought it was odd that his boss was here to see Fan Dancer when he hadn't made it to Royal Flush's race at Lingfield, but he didn't say anything. It wasn't his business where and when the boss showed up.

He shook de Jersey's hand and told him that Fleming was heading over to the saddling enclosure. He watched de Jersey stroll out, smiling and acknowledging a few of the jockeys he knew. He also saw him pause by the Sheikh's jockey and take him to one side. He wondered if his boss would go back on his word about his ride in the Derby.

De Jersey walked into the owners' and trainers' bar, acknowledging a few people he knew. He bought a gin and tonic but hardly touched it and, moments later, crossed to the saddling stalls. He stopped beside the Sheikh's trainer. They discussed a few race meetings, and the conversation came round to Royal Flush. Evidently the horse's progress was being monitored by everyone in the business. De Jersey felt a rush of pride and said casually to the trainer that it was his turn for the Derby. He paused as the trainer's quiet, almost lisping voice said, "Yours, Mr. de Jersey, or Royal Flush's?" It was an odd statement, and he would have replied to it but he saw Fleming waving to him.

He excused himself and joined his trainer. "Seen him fis.h.i.+ng around. Any money he was asking you about Royal Flush. He's got his eyes on him, you know," Fleming said.

"So would I if I had his money and history of success." De Jersey was referring to the Sheikh's domination of the racetracks and his record of breeding champions. He had the finest stud in England, if not the world. The Arabs were well known for their love of the races. Their animals were kept in luxurious surroundings with the finest trainers and jockeys under million-pound contracts to race exclusively for them. One of their studs was not far from de Jersey's.

"What brings you here?" Fleming asked as they headed across the green toward their allocated stall.

"I missed my boy's last race, so I felt I should make an appearance. Don't want the gossipmongers spreading it around that I'm not taking an interest anymore."

Fleming saddled Fan Dancer, and together they went to the ring to watch him being led out to wait for the jockey. There were ten horses racing, so nine other owners and trainers stood waiting as well. Mickey walked out, fixing his helmet strap beneath his chin. He stood with de Jersey and Fleming for a few moments, listening to last-minute instructions, which were to give Fan Dancer an easy race. He was helped into the saddle, and they went out of the parade ring to watch him canter up to the starting gates.

De Jersey and Fleming stood side by side in the owners' and trainers' stand. Fleming had to lend his boss his binoculars.

"I can't stay too long. Christina and I are due to watch the girls in The Taming of the Shrew," de Jersey said, monitoring Fan Dancer. "After the race I'm going to have to s.h.i.+ft myself to make it." Then he focused the binoculars on the Sheikh's trainer, who stood nearby studying the racing form.

The horses were under starter's orders, and then they were off. Fan Dancer ran a good race but seemed to get boxed in early at the rails. De Jersey watched Mickey move him out, but the horse didn't like pus.h.i.+ng his way between two others. Then Mickey moved him through a nice gap and, hardly touching Fan Dancer with the whip, rode him into fifth position. He dropped back to sixth, then moved up again to remain in fifth as they crossed the finis.h.i.+ng line.

"He's no Royal Flush," de Jersey said, returning Fleming's binoculars to him.

"Few are" came the reply as they turned to walk back to the stables. De Jersey excused himself, asking Fleming to tell Mickey he'd ridden a good race.

De Jersey left the Brighton track at four o'clock and did not relax until he was alone. He gave his pocket an involuntary pat and felt the object cus.h.i.+oned against his leg. He knew the exact weight was 105.6 carats, but it had felt even heavier when he had prized it out of the crown. If they lost the bulk of the jewels he had dropped for Dulay, he would still retain the prize Koh-i-noor Diamond.

The City of London learned that the most daring robbery in history had been pulled off through numerous news flashes that interrupted TV programming for that day. The Evening Standard ran the story on the front page, and the police were stunned at the audacity of the raiders. They gave away little about the robbery, but Maureen was pictured on the front page dressed as Her Majesty with a fake crown and a frozen smile. She was currently under sedation and unable to speak coherently. Her husband, she had been told, was safe if badly shaken. Though she was hysterical, she had been able to tell the police how she had been kidnapped and her husband's life threatened. She had also given a description of the man she said headed the robbery. Although she had never heard his name, she described de Jersey as a "military kind of man." He was in his mid-fifties, she said, had red hair and a mustache, and was very tall.

The public marveled at the robbery, but most were confident that the culprits would be caught. The Metropolitan Police Special Branch and the Army announced that they would join forces to recover the jewels. Operation Crown began immediately.

Quickly the police processed the section of the security film that had been recorded just moments before Hall had forced the guard to pull the plugs. The team were caught on film entering the hallway and heading toward the reception. But when they got the film back from the labs they saw that there was a clear shot of Maureen but no single frame in which her lady-in-waiting could be seen because of the large hat the woman had worn. They could see only a partial profile of Driscoll and a shoulder and body shot of de Jersey, his face obscured by the only member of the team caught fully on camera. Lord Henry Westbrook was shown smiling and talking before the screen went blank. It was only a few hours before he was identified by a police officer who had been involved in his fraud case.

At a press conference, reporters were informed that progress had been made. There was a warrant out for the arrest of Lord Henry Westbrook. Meanwhile the staff at the safe house were all asked for detailed descriptions of the men and the woman involved in the heist. Their descriptions of Pamela varied, so the police were relying on Maureen for details. She was still sedated and in hospital, her husband at her side. He gave a description of the driver of the Mercedes that had picked up his wife. He could offer only vague details of the man's companion.

No one could provide a decent description of the two bikers as their attention had been focused on the "Queen." The sketches depicting the tall man hardly seen on the videotapes were confusing. All agreed that he had red hair and a mustache, but none could give a clear description of his face. Saunders maintained that this man was the leader. His voice was cultured, and he had a military manner. He had been the first to leave the vault.

A ma.s.sive search for the cars was mounted, and witnesses were asked to come forward if they had seen the convoy driving toward the safe house, but no one called.

Christina was selecting what to wear for her daughters' school play when the phone rang. She pursed her lips, sure it would be her husband making some excuse.

But it was Helen Lyons. "Have you been able to contact Sylvia yet?" she asked.

"I've called her home and her office, who told me she's taking some time off in America. I told you this last time we spoke. I got no reply from her flat, so she must still be away."

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm really worried about my money situation. I'm not broke, but David always took care of all our finances."

"He certainly took care of ours," Christina snapped. "I've called your sister for you, and I don't want to get involved any further. I'm sorry, we have money problems too, thanks to your husband's misappropriation of our finances. The more I discover about how much David stole from us, the more I find these calls tedious. Now, I really have to go, please don't call me again!"

She replaced the receiver, then felt dreadful. She knew she was taking out her own anxiety on the poor woman-but what she had said to her was true.

Just after three she drove away from the estate to do some shopping.

De Jersey got home at five o'clock. He stashed the wig and mustache in a briefcase and hurried toward the house. He seemed calm and collected, but his adrenaline was still pumping. When Christina returned from her shopping, he had bathed and changed, and was in the kitchen.

"You're back," she said.

"I am, my darling. We have a date tonight, don't we?"

"The girls' play, yes. I thought, with all your problems, you might have forgotten it." She walked past him to unpack the groceries.

He turned, surprised at her tone. "You make it sound as if I'm in the doghouse," he said.

"You are, if you must know." She joined him at the table. "I might as well tell you, because you'll find out soon enough."

"Find out what?"

"I was in your study and broke . . ." She paused. She looked at him, frowning, then leaned forward and rubbed his sideburns. "You've got glue or something stuck to your face."

He backed away. "It's shaving lotion. Go on, what have you broken?"

"I haven't broken anything," she said petulantly, then faced him angrily. "Please stop treating me like a child. I broke into your desk drawers."

He hesitated a moment. "Really? And why did you do that?"

Christina chewed her lip, then took a deep breath. "I don't know-no, I do. I'm sick of your lies. I just wanted to know what was going on."

"When was this?"

"Does it really matter? Anyway, what I found upset me. I wanted to discuss it with you face-to-face. That's why I didn't mention it to you when you called. Why didn't you tell me, for G.o.d's sake? If you can't be honest with me after all these years . . . You're virtually bankrupt!" Christina said.

De Jersey relaxed a little. "Why don't we go and sit in the drawing room and you can tell me about it."

"You go ahead," she said. "I'll make some tea." He nodded and walked out.

She took a deep breath. Her nerves were in shreds, but she was determined not to let him off the hook this time.

De Jersey listened as Christina detailed her discoveries. "I don't understand why you would need fake pa.s.sports."

"I've been using aliases off and on for years. It's been a sort of ploy to allow me to move in and out of the horse auctions without my real name attached."

"That can't be the reason," she said angrily. "You even had pa.s.sports for me and the girls, all in false names. There are recent stamps in one pa.s.sport to New York. You never told me you'd been to New York. What's going on?"

"I didn't know I'd be going there myself, and I got the pa.s.sports for you and the girls just in case you accompanied me on one of these undercover buying trips. You know I hate being apart from you. That's the only reason."

"So what were you doing in New York?"

De Jersey decided to come partially clean. "I went to see the man who ruined me. I didn't want it to get out that I had."

"Why not?"

"He used me, Christina. As you know, he let his company go belly up and consequently did the same to my whole life."

"So you went to see him?"

"Yes, but I used a different name because I didn't want to alarm him or forewarn him. Turned out he still had some of my money invested in some properties out there. He was a cheap con man. I caught him just about to skip the country for South America. He got scared I'd get the cops on to him, so he coughed up. Not all of it, just a fraction, really, but enough to keep my head above water for a while."

"Does Sylvia know?"

"No. If I'd told her I would have had to pay her off, and then the other creditors would be hounding me for their cut too. This way, I got some of my losses back and Moreno took off, I hope never to be seen again." He shrugged.

"So how are things now, financially?" she asked.

"Well, not good, but they're a h.e.l.l of a lot better with Moreno's cash. At least I'm not forced to sell this place, which I would have been if I hadn't got to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Did you have to do it illegally?"

"Of course. I had to carry the money back into England in a suitcase, which is another reason I thanked G.o.d I'd used a false name. It was all done to protect us. Legal or not, I did it, but who is Moreno going to cry to? Not the police. He's the criminal, not me. He committed a ma.s.sive fraud that bankrupted a lot of people. I know I've told you a few lies, but darling, I had to do this on the spur of the moment. I didn't have any time to waste, and the fewer people who knew of my intentions the better."

"On the spur of the moment? Do you think I'm stupid? Some of the dates on the pa.s.sports go back years. And who is this Michael Shaughnessy character?"

"Well, having a fake ident.i.ty worked once, so I did it a few times. As I said, it was to protect myself. You buy horses in Ireland and it's all over the Racing News! The fewer people know what I'm doing the better."

"But I'm your wife!"

"And if I hadn't pulled it off, you'd have been run through the mill with me. I was only trying to protect you."

"Treat me like an idiot, more like," she snapped.

"If that's what you call protection, then yes. I didn't want to involve you in case it went wrong. I might have been arrested at Heathrow with the cash. Fortunately I wasn't, so there was no harm done. I also couldn't put the cash into a bank because I'd be hauled up for taxes. But we're not bankrupt yet, my darling, so as I said, no harm done."

"There is, though." He frowned at her. "You've made me feel inadequate and helpless. You were in trouble when we went to Monaco, but you never discussed it with me and instead bought me expensive gifts as if nothing was wrong, when all the time you were in dire trouble. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Loved?" He laughed, but she turned away angrily.

"No, foolish. But it is still not making sense to me. For instance, you've sold Bandit Queen, and Fleming thinks she's been bought by this Michael Shaughnessy, which is the name on one of your pa.s.sports. But that doesn't make sense because it's really you, isn't it? The pa.s.sport had your photograph in it."

"Correct. It's simple. If I went bankrupt, Bandit Queen would have been part and parcel of the debts. This way I still own her."

"But she was mine! You bought her for me!"

"Well, that's true, but she still is in a way." He got up, put his arms around her, and kissed her neck. "You've had so much to deal with recently, with your mother's death. I just didn't want to worry you. And"-he looked at his watch-"if we don't get a move on, we'll both be in the doghouse because we'll be late for the girls' production."

She nodded and kissed him, then touched his face. "That is such a weird smell, like glue. Next you'll tell me you're really as bald as a coot and you're wearing a wig." He grinned, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her out of the room. The phone rang, and she shrieked, "Don't answer it! It'll be Helen Lyons."

He carried her up the stairs and set her down midway. His knee was throbbing. The phone rang and rang. He wanted to answer it in case it concerned him, but Christina caught his hand.