Royal Heist Part 8

De Jersey looked at his computer. "Maybe you should get him to come over-sooner rather than later."

"I'll do it now, then," she said and left the room. De Jersey tapped the desk. He should have dumped the s.h.i.+rt before he came home. He would never have made a mistake like that in the past.

A few moments later Christina was back. "Tom is ready, willing, and able. I said you'd pay him per hour."

Tom Knowles was training as an information technology tutor at a local college. He was small and skinny, and wore thick-rimmed gla.s.ses. He arrived promptly each morning at nine o'clock and stayed for two hours.

One day he opened his laptop as usual and said to de Jersey, "Right, sir, last session you wanted to look into Web privacy. The best way to keep your personal data personal is by not giving it out in the first place. So, if I wanted total electronic privacy, I'd start with a made-up name or nickname for my e-mail account, using Hotmail or Yahoo!, for example. They'll ask you for personal information, but there is nothing to say that you have to tell them the truth. Always skip any optional fields. If, however, you want to order things off the Net, you'll have to give your address. If this is a concern, you can get a post-office box."

De Jersey nodded.

"You may think that surfing the Net is an anonymous activity, but every Web site you contact keeps a record of your computer IP address. Combine that with your ISP's logs, and you're right in the spotlight."

De Jersey pursed his lips. "Are there ways to cover your tracks when you're on-line?" he asked, staring at Tom's small screen.

"There are ways to hide behind someone else's IP address, but I don't know much about that. You'd have to talk to someone who's more knowledgeable in that area."

"And what about these ISP logs? Can't you just delete those from your computer?"

"Yes, but it's not as simple as deleting. Many people think that when they send doc.u.ments to the recycle bin they're gone, but they're not. And even if you take the next step and delete the contents of your recycle bin, they're still on your database. Private detectives and police investigators could still use programs such as EnCase and FRED to recover evidence from parts of your drive."

"So you're telling me that if I, for example, had something sensitive, let's say illegal, and pressed delete, or put it in the recycling bin, it's always going be on the hard drive?"

Tom nodded. "Exactly. Which is why the police have been able to arrest so many pedophiles. The evidence of their illegal activities has been retained on their hard drives, even when they thought they had deleted it."

"Is there anything you can do to remove something completely from your computer?"

"There's something called Evidence Eliminator. It's the equivalent to a government-level wipe that people say can deep-clean your computer of sensitive material. I have never used the program myself, though, so I don't really know how efficient it is."

"Interesting," de Jersey said. "What about e-mail?"

"Well, an e-mail travels through several servers on its way to its destination. This means it can be intercepted and read. You never know who might be reading your e-mail. At the moment, police are monitoring the Net for terrorist communications. Numerous people have been arrested here that way."

De Jersey's mind was racing with ways to use the new technology to his advantage. "I read an article about hacking recently. How does that work?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, if someone wanted to hack into a company's files, how would they do it?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "I have a basic understanding of what's involved, but I've never done it myself so I couldn't tell you. Some of the things hackers have done are pretty funny, though."

"Like what?" de Jersey asked, not very interested.

"A few years back, two hackers rigged a radio station's phone system during a phone-in show to let only their calls through." He laughed. "They won two cars, trips all round the world, and twenty thousand pounds!" Tom noticed that his pupil's attention was wandering.

"You know what, Mr. de Jersey; the best place to get hold of this information is the Net itself. You should start using the chat rooms, get on-line with some guys who know what they're talking about." Tom checked his watch.

"Could you show me again how to get into the chat rooms? Then we'll call it quits for the day," de Jersey said. "Why don't we use your computer?"

Tom began tapping away. De Jersey didn't want to take any risk, however small, that someone might trace anything back to his computer. He thought it prudent from then on to use Tom's laptop exclusively.

"Okeydokey," Tom said. "Anything in particular you'd like to chat about or discuss?"

De Jersey gave it a second's thought. "Yeah, how about something like those kids that hacked into the radio show?"

Tom tapped away for a few seconds. "If we get someone on-line who doesn't have the information we want, he can direct us to a more specialized chat room. Here we go."

Tom typed away in search of information about hacking, then asked what de Jersey wanted to call himself.

"Erm, how about Bill Haley?" he said. Tom did not react-he was probably too young to remember the old rock-and-roller. He simply typed in the name. Then they watched the screen. Within moments they had received a message. "Good G.o.d, that was quick," de Jersey said, fascinated.

"Well, some of these guys spend all day on there."

A short message on the screen told them that its author didn't know anything about hacking but that he had lost the pa.s.sword to his Tos.h.i.+ba and did anyone know the break-in starter pa.s.sword for this computer?

Tom tapped the screen with his pencil. "Get out of this one. I'd say this guy has a stolen computer, that's why he doesn't have the pa.s.sword."

"My G.o.d, I've got a lot to learn," de Jersey said, intrigued.

Just then they heard Natasha return from riding. De Jersey glanced at Tom, who looked fl.u.s.tered.

"Excuse me," he said, "may I use your toilet?"

De Jersey nodded. "Say h.e.l.lo to Natasha before you come back," he teased. Every morning when his daughter came in, the boy needed to use the bathroom.

Tom slipped out of the room, so he missed the next message that flashed across the screen.

It was from someone calling himself Elvis who suggested that Bill Haley attend a public course on the Internet and thoughtfully listed numerous lectures taking place in colleges across London.

De Jersey asked which Elvis thought would be best.

"I hear St. Catherine's Church Hall, Lisson Grove, Notting Hill, Tuesday, eight fifteen P.M. is pretty good" came the response.

"Thank you," de Jersey replied.

Tom returned just as his watch alarm rang to herald the end of the session. He watched as de Jersey closed down his laptop for him, then delved into his rucksack. "I got you this. It's a novel by a guy called Douglas Coupland. It's a terrific read."

"Microserfs. Thank you."

De Jersey walked Tom to the door and, as an afterthought, said for the next few weeks he would be abroad on business. Tom looked disappointed but perked up when de Jersey handed him an envelope containing two hundred fifty pounds. "That's for all your help. I'll get in touch when I need you again."

De Jersey had enough knowledge now to come to grips with ident.i.ty protection. If he was going to plan a robbery utilizing the Internet, he had to know how to avoid being traced. He would prefer not to involve anyone else, so he'd start by attending the lecture Elvis had recommended.

He spent the rest of the day in chat rooms. He used various names-on the Internet he could be whoever he wanted without the need for a disguise. Physical attributes, age, and gender were irrelevant; the only truth was what he chose to write on the electronic page.

De Jersey was amazed how easily he could contact other criminals on the Web. Many even had their own Web sites, paying homage to their crimes. He looked up the Metropolitan Police's list of Most Wanted criminals and allowed himself a satisfied smile; none of his many pseudonyms were mentioned.

He had not yet formed a plan but was storing away information. As he became more proficient, he ordered a higher-powered computer and arranged for it to be delivered and installed. As he completed the order form on-line, he noted with interest how many personal details he was asked to provide. Edward de Jersey was now a known ent.i.ty in cybers.p.a.ce.

Christina became increasingly frustrated. Her husband worked all day at the stables and then shut himself in his study every evening after dinner.

At breakfast she asked him what had happened when he was in London just after Christmas.

"Why do you ask?" He was reading the Internet novel Tom had left with him while he ate.

"Since you came back, you're always in front of a computer. You've stopped talking to me, you pay no attention to the girls."

He shut the book and sighed. "I'm sorry."

"I won't have my parents stay if you're going to continue."

"What?"

"Don't you remember? They're coming for a week's holiday. They only come once a year, and they want to see the girls before they go back to school."

De Jersey was upset by her anger. "I'm sorry. Why don't we go for a walk?"

"No, I'm going to do some baking."

"I guess I just got caught up in my new toys, and I've been working a lot too." He slipped his arms around her. "Let me make it up to you."

But she moved away. "They'll want to do all the touristy things. I know you hate anything like that, but it means a lot to them to be here."

"I'll drive them, fly them, and entertain them twenty-four hours a day, I promise," de Jersey said.

"You don't have to go that far, but they look forward to coming."

"I'll make it a trip for them to remember. I'll arrange tickets for shows, guided tours, Windsor Castle, you name it."

"They went to Windsor Castle last year," she said. "They said they'd like to go to the Tower of London this time and maybe see London Zoo. Perhaps we can go by barge up the Regent's Ca.n.a.l."

He slipped his arms around her again. "When do they arrive?"

"In a week's time."

"That gives me time to get it all sorted out. You sure you don't want to come for a walk?"

"Okay, then," she said, turning in his arms to kiss him.

Later that afternoon de Jersey made his presence felt, talking, as he always had, to each member of staff in the yard. He leaned against Royal Flush's stable door as the sweating horse was hosed down after his exercise and wrapped in a thick blanket.

De Jersey walked from stable to stable with the trainers and lads, examining all the working horses and the brood mares, the foals and yearlings. It had taken twenty-five years to build up a stable of such caliber, and Moreno's money would not last long. He needed a vast injection of hard cash to keep going, and de Jersey was not prepared to fire one employee or send one horse to auction. He had coveted and created this life, and no one was going to take it from him.

He entered the kitchen from the yard. Christina was cooking dinner. As he pa.s.sed her she caught his arm. "Are you going into your study again?" she said.

"Just to book some theater and the tourist attractions. I'll join you for dinner the moment you call me."

In his study he logged on to the Internet. When he had bought more theater tickets to West End shows than he had evenings to fill, he started to book London tours, ending up at the Tower of London's Web site. He was not really paying attention as he printed off the information, but articles about the spectacular jewels on display captured his interest. The gems included the Second Star of Africa, part of the Cullinan Diamond, the Koh-i-noor Diamond, St. Edward's Sapphire, and the Black Prince's Ruby. He leaned closer to the screen as the page went on to describe the magnificent pearls worn by Elizabeth I and the Stuart Sapphire from the time of Charles II. Over the years the regalia had been altered to suit various monarchs. Queen Victoria's hand had been too small for the coronation ring, so a copy had been made. Edward VII had not worn the St. Edward's Crown as he was ill at the time of his coronation and it was deemed too heavy. Likewise, the arches on the Imperial State Crown had been lowered for Queen Elizabeth II's coronation as she was so tiny and the crown such a weight.

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, a.s.suring 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 acc.u.mulated most of the regalia, but much had been sold off or melted down by Oliver Cromwell between 1649 and 1658. The current h.o.a.rd 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 gra.s.s, 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.

Tony 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 att.i.tude, sure that some money could be salvaged. Having been told bluntly by Lyons's a.s.sistant that there was no hope of recouping a cent, he felt sick.

James Wilc.o.x had discovered the same thing. The family had arrived home in Henley only to learn that his bas.e.m.e.nt 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 antic.i.p.ated it would be this bad.

Rika slapped the grocery list down in front of him.

"This is gonna cost a f.u.c.king 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.