Royal Heist (15 page)

“He came into my shop as a straight customer, but over the years, after I’d built up his trust, he would ask if I could get this or that for him.”

“Legitimate stuff?”

“Some of it, and once he had some gems he needed me to disguise.”

“Disguise?”

“Cheap settings, a few glass beads mixed in with the emeralds and diamonds. After that he started buying the gold items.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do, Philip. This guy has been my lifeline, and I wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize my relationship with him.”

“Not with that boat round your neck.” De Jersey smiled. “If you need me, you can always contact me on this mobile number and also my e-mail address.” He placed Philip Simmons’s card on the desk.

“You really believe it can be done?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Nor would I approach anyone I couldn’t trust to do his part. It’s been good to see you again. No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings,” Dulay said, and de Jersey shook his hand.

Dulay watched him walk away from his shop with a diamond and emerald bracelet worth thousands, but no way did he feel like stopping him. After all, he owed him. The bullion had got him started. Dulay picked up the small white card with “Philip Simmons, Consultant” printed on it. He didn’t rip it up, just stared at it, then went into the rear office. He opened the small fridge and took out the vodka bottle, poured himself half a tumbler, and gulped it down as if it were water. He placed the glass on top of Philip Simmons’s card.

“The Koh-i-noor Diamond,” he whispered. Now there was a stone he’d like to get his hands on.

Christina loved the bracelet—it was the only piece of jewelry Vibekka had worn that she had admired. She told de Jersey that Vibekka had also contacted her at the hotel and returned the money. During the helicopter flight back from the airport he said little. When his phone rang, he turned to see if Christina was paying any attention. She wasn’t, so he checked the message screen and saw, to his amusement, that Paul Dulay was calling. His pilot glanced at him—it was always foolish to use cell phones in flight.

“Two minutes and I’ll turn it off,” de Jersey reassured him.

“That’s okay, sir. More of a risk when landing and taking off.”

De Jersey answered the phone and listened to Dulay. He arranged to meet the jeweler in London in a week’s time. He smiled. Dulay had bitten faster than he’d thought he would.

CHAPTER

12

T
he next morning de Jersey left the farm. Several hours later, at the Kilburn flat, he was working on his files. He had made lists of the Royal household interviewees by name and background.

Even so, when he opened up his e-mail account he was surprised at the number of messages. He printed them out and sifted through the answers to his inquiries. One message in particular interested him: a Lord Henry Westbrook, who said he had in-depth knowledge of the Royals and the running of their households, gained first as a page and later as an equerry. He added that he had recently been a “guest of Her Majesty.”

De Jersey printed out a series of questions he had sent to an infamous computer hacker with their answers. To one question, the hacker had responded that companies should be far more worried about an insider than an outsider, due to the insider’s easy access and increased capability of infiltrating the company’s systems. Nine times out of ten, security breaches were caused by an employee, and rarely were they reported. De Jersey made himself a cup of coffee. He needed an insider in place to deal with aspects relating to the Royal Family. He would need access to Her Majesty’s diary and, most important, to the security that surrounded her.

The coffee tasted rancid—he’d forgotten to buy fresh milk. He threw it away and went back to the message from Lord Westbrook; he had been an equerry to the Queen from 1984 to 1986. Soon after the termination of his employment he was sentenced to seven years in jail for “taxation fraud,” for setting fire to his ancestral home, then claiming the insurance for art treasures he had already sold. Now, eight years later, he was still broke, living in a small studio apartment in Mayfair that belonged to an elderly relative. It seemed to de Jersey that he would be a perfect candidate.

Despite debts and a checkered past, Lord Westbrook was sought after socially, and not for his title alone. At fifty-four he was still a handsome, charming escort and a witty companion. Since his release from prison he had been the life and soul of every dinner party. Lord Westbrook knew that his next bride had to be wealthy. He was an outrageous flirt and adored pretty society girls as much as they adored him, but securing a young bride was proving difficult since his reputation always preceded him. Middle-aged widows or divorcées were his best bet. The title helped; some woman was always eager to be seen on his arm, even if it meant taking on his mounting debts.

De Jersey remembered seeing Westbrook at various charity events although they had never met. He made phone calls to the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London, then tried fashionable restaurants and, finally, the Jockey Club without success. Ultimately he called what had once been Westbrook’s estate, fully aware that his lordship no longer lived there, and was eventually put through to a manager. De Jersey said that he was unable to keep a luncheon appointment with Lord Westbrook and had misplaced his telephone number. He was provided with both number and address.

Westbrook answered the phone abruptly. His drawling voice had the husky quality of a chain smoker.

“My name is Philip Simmons. I’m a novelist. You replied to the query I posted on the Net—”

“Yes. How did you get my number?”

“I asked around. It wasn’t that difficult.”

“Right. Well then, you said you wanted some research done. How can I help you?”

“I wonder if we could discuss it over a drink. I have a deadline, so earlier rather than later would be appreciated.”

“Of course. Where do you suggest?”

A cigarette dangling from his lips, Westbrook strolled into Brown’s Hotel. It was dark and located in Kensington, where there was less risk of de Jersey running into someone he knew than in the West End.

“Lord Westbrook?” The man gave a cursory glance around the almost empty bar.

“Yes,” he said bluntly.

“I’m Philip Simmons. Please sit down. What will you drink?”

“Vodka martini.” He drew up a high stool and sat beside de Jersey, then stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit a fresh one. The Silk Cut packet was almost empty.

“Vodka martini, twenty Silk Cut, and a Bloody Mary,” de Jersey said. The barman nodded, placing two small bowls of peanuts in front of them. De Jersey had no intention of being overheard and motioned Westbrook to a small table in the darkest recess of the room.

“Well, this is all very cloak and daggerish,” Westbrook said. The waiter put down their drinks and more peanuts. “Cheers!” He gave a lopsided smile, and they drank. “You never know with this Internet stuff. A pal recommended that I hunt around on it to find work. I went to one of those Internet cafés, awful places.” Westbrook’s dark eyes roamed the bar. “Not been here for years. Odd place. Perhaps you could enlighten me about your project. Not another book on the Princess of Wales, I hope.”

“No, it’s not, but it will be worth your while.”

“Well, if you’re hoping to use me as a social entrée, I’m afraid my name won’t do you much good. It would have, when I was first released from prison, but now I don’t generate much excitement. Am I talking myself out of a job?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, as I was saying, my best days are behind me.”

De Jersey smiled. His lordship was very self-effacing. After two more martinis, his tongue was even looser. He talked endlessly about his days in prison and the cons with whom he’d been cooped up. Eventually he wound down. “So, let’s cut the small talk. What you up to? I’ve got a feeling that, whatever it is, it’s not kosher.”

De Jersey began to like him. “You could say that.”

“What do you want?”

“You.”

Westbrook looked perplexed.

“And particularly your past experiences.”

“In prison?”

“No, before that.”

“What for?”

“The book I’m writing.”

“‘Blue blood gets arrested for fraud, ends up serving time,’ that kind of thing?”

“Further back. Your contact with the Royal Family. Your knowledge of the Royal household and the Queen’s routines. Protocol. To be more specific, I need to know more about Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting: where they stand, how they dress, how they address her. Also, how many security men travel with a Royal cavalcade, what they wear, how many per vehicle, and so on.”

Westbrook frowned into his empty martini glass. “What kind of money are we talking about?”

“That would depend, but I am prepared to pay a high price for the information. I need to be able to trust you. The more details you can give me, the higher the bonus. Can I get you another drink?”

“I don’t think so. Coffee maybe.”

De Jersey patted Westbrook’s arm. “Good move. I don’t work with drunks. Excuse me.” He ordered coffee and sandwiches at the bar, then went to the restroom. He was giving his lordship time to think, to get hungry for the money being dangled in front of him, hungry enough to become part of the team.

The sandwiches were consumed rapidly, but after de Jersey ordered a second pot of coffee, Westbrook’s manner changed. He sat back, lit his sixth cigarette, and sucked in the smoke. He had sobered up.

“Now, cards on the table. Who the fuck are you? This novel doesn’t ring true to me. Not when you’re coming on like some James Bond figure. I can’t figure you out.”

De Jersey hesitated, then began. “Okay, my name is Philip Simmons, and I’m a nobody. I have lived mostly in the U.S. for the past decade, got a nice little nest egg and was about to retire when I lost it on some bloody useless Internet company that was supposed to make me more than secure for the rest of my life. It bankrupted me.”

“I know the feeling,” said Westbrook, with a detectable undercurrent of anger.

“I need to make a quick kill,” de Jersey said.

“I gather that. But from what you’ve just said, how are you going to pay me for what you want to know?”

“There’s bankrupt and there’s bankrupt. I can still lay my hands on a few bob.”

“I see, but this information isn’t for some coffee-table book, is it? So, get a bit clearer, Mr. Simmons, and stop wasting my time.”

“It’s a nice earner.”

“How much of a nice earner?”

“Enough.”

“So the sum is just what size?”

“If you produce the goods, your cut will be in the region of five or six million.”

There was a long pause. His lordship lit another cigarette.

“It’s not on the square, that’s for sure. You want information regarding the Royals and their household. What are you going to do? Let’s see. Break into Kensington Palace? If that’s your idea, forget it. It’s been broken into countless times, and everyone always gets caught.”

“It’s not that.”

“Shame. I know the place like the back of my hand.”

De Jersey watched him like a hawk.

“If it’s the Crown Jewels, there’s not a hope in hell. Total waste of time. Only one chap ever broke in, sixteen something. He failed.”

“I know.”

“So it could be the Crown Jewels?” There was another long pause. “They come out now and again, for the State Opening of Parliament, coronations. . . . Ma’am’s Golden Jubilee is this year. She’ll need a fitting—Royal heads have swelled a bit since Edward the Confessor’s time . . .”

They left the hotel together and took a taxi the short distance to Westbrook’s home, where they continued their discussion.

De Jersey grew more confident about Westbrook’s help. A single room in Pimlico, very shabby. The Persian carpets were beyond threadbare, and the single bed was draped with a tatty paisley throw. Even the few elegant oil paintings were damaged. The small kitchen was filthy, and the cabinet doors were falling off their hinges. “I just use this pad to doss down in. It’s not even mine—belongs to an old and distant cousin. I seem to be out of instant coffee. What about a chilled vodka?”

They drank from chipped glasses. Westbrook showed off his most prized possessions: a row of silver-framed photographs of his children, a son and twin daughters. The pictures also showed an austere blond woman. “My ex-wife,” he said sourly. “She has custody. They all live in South Africa now. I’d see them, but the plane fare is a bit of a problem.” He sat down cross-legged on the couch and gulped his vodka. De Jersey left his untouched.

His lordship lit a cigarette. “There’s an added problem.”

De Jersey remained silent.

“I have cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” de Jersey said, with sincerity.

“So am I sometimes, when I look at the photos and remember such happy days. But the old man left me with a nightmare of death duties. I loved that place with a passion. It’s my heritage and by right my son’s. I’d like to own it again, pass it on to William.”

He passed one of the silver frames to de Jersey. “My ancestors have lived there since seventeen eighty. Now it’s owned by a group of bloody salesmen in gray suits. Tragic. All my family looking down the baronial staircase while the imbeciles ruin the place. I can’t even visit.” He replaced the photograph. “Now you know all there is to know.”

De Jersey remained silent.

“I have told you all this for one reason, to make you understand that this little . . . “flutter” could not have come at a better time, and I’m up for it
if
there’s enough lolly in it for me.”

De Jersey drained his vodka. “You were on to it.”

“What?”

“You were on to what I have in mind,” de Jersey said.

“Not the bloody Crown Jewels?”

De Jersey laughed. “Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Not really. What do you know about the jewel fittings, the one for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee?”

Lord Westbrook poured himself some more vodka. “My God, are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, my cut would certainly get me the ancestral home back. How many will be in on it?”

De Jersey hesitated, then went for it. “Eight, I think, including you. I may need a few more heavies. Not everyone will get the same amount. It depends on how important they are to the heist.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” de Jersey asked seriously.

“I spent seven years in jail, so I can see quite clearly that it’s a harebrained idea. Why decide to trust me?” Westbrook asked.

De Jersey gestured to the squalid room. “To die in this place isn’t what you want, is it?”

Westbrook drained his glass. The bottle was empty.

“I’d say you are an embittered man. You’ve lost your self-respect, your children, and your home. Spending years in prison gave you plenty of time to review your future and reflect on your past. I’m willing to pay you, starting this week, to work for me. I can’t say at this stage if it will go ahead. And it won’t until I’m satisfied we can do it with the least risk to all concerned.”

“What’s the downside?”

“There isn’t one. If I think it’s impossible and call it off, then it’s just been an experience. However, if I think it’s a viable project, the only downside would be if one of us opened his mouth, because that would ruin any chance of our survival.”

De Jersey stood up straight, like a colonel, his massive frame dominating the small studio. “So I demand total loyalty.”

“Demand?” Westbrook smiled.

“Yep. We cannot afford a weak link, and if one did arise it would be erased.”

“How would you know?”

“I would know, and I would see personally that it was taken care of. You come on board, you obey the rules.” De Jersey picked up the empty vodka bottle and tossed it into the fireplace. It smashed to pieces on the empty grate. “No boozing, no drugs, and this”—he moved close to Westbrook, took his jaw in one hand, and ran his fingers over the man’s mouth with the other—“one word leaked and everyone goes down.” He released his hold and picked up one of the photographs of Westbrook’s children. “Every man involved is hungry. They have families, children. So if a blabbing mouth hurts them they will want retribution. Do you understand?” He set down the photograph carefully.

“I resent the threats.”

“I hope you do, Harry. That
is
what your friends call you, isn’t it?”

“And we’re friends now, are we?” Westbrook asked.

“No. But I will be more of a friend to you than any other man you know. If this is going to work, you will have to trust me one hundred percent, and trust is what makes a friendship.”