“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 God, 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 password to his Toshiba and did anyone know the breakin starter password 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 password.”
“My God, 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 flustered.
“Excuse me,” he said, “may I use your toilet?”
De Jersey nodded. “Say hello 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 identity 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 entity in cyberspace.
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 Canal.”
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 passed 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 jew
els 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, assuring 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 accumulated most of the regalia, but much had been sold off or melted down by Oliver Cromwell between 1649 and 1658. The current hoard 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 grass, 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 attitude, sure that some money could be salvaged. Having been told bluntly by Lyons’s assistant that there was no hope of recouping a cent, he felt sick.
James Wilcox had discovered the same thing. The family had arrived home in Henley only to learn that his basement 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 anticipated it would be this bad.
Rika slapped the grocery list down in front of him.
“This is gonna cost a fucking 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.
De Jersey told his wife he would be away for a couple of days on business, staying at his club. Soon he would have to make his plans from a new location; it was too dangerous to work at home. He flew by helicopter to London, and by midmorning he was seated in a student lecture hall attending a computer-programming seminar. Afterward he approached the young lecturer and asked him to list some books that would assist in his training.
Armed with two bulging carrier bags, de Jersey went to the St. James’s Club and sat in the lounge reading the complex manuals. Realizing that he still needed assistance, he hurried off to St. Catherine’s Church for the lecture suggested by Elvis in the chat room.
The hall was small and freezing, inhabited by a clutch of nerdy figures with plastic coffee cups and cling-wrapped sandwiches. A plump blond girl munching on a Mars bar collected five pounds from each of them and handed out a computer printout of the evening’s agenda; the session was to be conducted by someone called Raymond Marsh. “You been here before?” the blonde asked de Jersey.
“No.”
“You got a contact who got you here?”
“Yes.”
“The name? I’ve got to fill in the attendance list.”
“Elvis,” De Jersey said, feeling rather foolish.
“Okay, then. Sit down. He won’t be long—baby-sitter didn’t show up. What’s your name?” She was ready with her pen.
“Philip Simmons,” he said.
By eight thirty, sixteen people were hunched in thick coats over tiny laptops as they waited on plastic chairs. De Jersey glanced to the rear of the hall; he saw a strange apparition. This was Raymond Marsh, but it was clear he was known otherwise as Elvis. As Marsh reached into the cardboard box and pocketed the cash, de Jersey deduced that the blonde was his wife.
It was hard not to stare at Marsh’s thin, pointy face, with its protruding chin and slanted cheeks. The hair, combed in from both sides to form a quiff, was held in place by thick layers of lacquer. He wore a worn black leather jacket, skintight drainpipe trousers, and winklepickers. He checked that the computer was running correctly through the overhead projector. “Right. We’re all set. I’ve done some printouts that should answer yer queries from last week, right? I gorra bit worried about last session, so any questions needin’ going over like, now’s the time to do it.” He had a thick Liverpudlian accent.
A tall, thin man in the front row put up his hand. “We
were talking last week about hacking techniques being employed to protect computer systems rather than for criminal purposes. Could viruses ever be used for protection?”
Marsh swept a hand over one side of his head. “Well, there has been talk of creating good viruses in the future that, as with human diseases, will increase the host’s immune system.”
When a large, jolly-looking woman asked a question about the approaching DEFCON conference in America, Marsh launched into an enthusiastic description of the underground hacking convention. Much of what was being discussed was alien to de Jersey. He paid close attention to Marsh; he obviously had a high IQ, but his manner of speaking and delivery seemed to suggest low social skills. De Jersey wondered if the man worked in the information technology industry.
Raymond Marsh was employed as a telephone engineer but hacked and explored the Internet in his spare time, so de Jersey hadn’t been too far off the mark. He was so deeply immersed in his analysis of the man that he jumped when he heard another audience member asking about identity protection and creating fake identities on the Net.
“Of course, mate, it’s stupid to use your own details,” said Marsh. “You can build up all kinds of identities in loads of countries and create plausible histories for all of ’em. One of my own Net IDs is an Australian schoolboy. He gets up to all sorts! This morning I hacked into a school in Adelaide, registered him, and created school reports for him. Gave him straight A’s. I’ve traveled all around the world under dozens of different names, but I’ve never even left the country. I’m a grandmother of five in Russia, an S & M enthusiast in Ireland, and a fish farmer in Alaska. And there’s no way they can catch me because I have a satellite linkup courtesy of work, which I use whenever I’m on the Net so I can easily break the link. Working for a telecommunications company comes in handy when you’ve got this hobby!”
Everyone in the audience chuckled, but de Jersey sat mesmerized. This was perfect for his needs. He had to draft Raymond Marsh to help. The question was, Could he trust him?
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