“Edward!” Wilcox flew to the door. “Don’t do this. I’ve been grateful to you more times than I can remember, but this … You can’t expect us to take you seriously! This isn’t a serious gig, is it?”
Driscoll joined them at the door. “Like James just said, I owe you for everything and I won’t ever forget what you or your old man did for me, but no way am I going to feel guilty for turning this caper down. So come clean. Admit it’s a big joke.”
“No joke,” de Jersey said. “When I get the money from Moreno’s properties, you’ll get your cut.” He gave them a long, cold stare. They moved away from the door, and he opened it again.
“I have to go—I’m taking the in-laws for dinner at San Lorenzo. They’ll be waiting for me outside Harrods.” He closed the door silently behind him and walked down the thickly carpeted corridor. He passed the elevator and headed down the stairs. He didn’t feel let down, just foolish for believing that the three could pick up where they had left off. That was his mistake. Too many years had passed.
Still in the hotel room, Wilcox chopped a line on the table. He offered one to Driscoll.
“Not for me. Gives me a runny nose.”
Wilcox sniffed, then tapped the rolled banknote on the table.
“You feel as bad as me?” asked Driscoll.
“Yeah.”
“But we agreed, right? I mean, no way. Not at our age.”
“Yeah.”
“You think he was serious?”
“The Crown Jewels—it’s insanity.”
They looked at each other.
De Jersey had arranged to meet Christina and her parents at Walton Street. The entrance to the streets was busy; Harrods was holding its January sale. The Rolls-Royce was waiting in line, his chauffeur was inside, and once he was seated in the car, de Jersey closed his eyes and tilted his hat over his face. Thirty minutes later Christina came out with her parents and they drove toward Beauchamp Place. He had booked a table for an early dinner, and he became the charming host, making polite conversation about their visit to the Tower of London. He had even purchased a video of the tour and bought many of the books on sale at the kiosk, maps, and numerous large color photographs of the crowns.
Wilcox left the Ritz feeling depressed. He made his way to Bond Street, irritated that he could not get a taxi. He passed Asprey & Garrard and paused to stare at the diamonds in the window. The cocaine was wearing off. It was raining and his suit was damp. His knees were a constant source of pain after so many skiing accidents. Did de Jersey still suffer from his knee injury? Memories flooded back. It had actually been Wilcox’s idea to rob the shops for de Jersey to take back what was rightly his. Wilcox was all for using the same violent tactics the villains had, but de Jersey had refused and a few weeks later contacted him with a plan. Wilcox pictured the three of them as young bloods, daring robbers. Those had been thrilling times. But even de Jersey couldn’t steal the Crown Jewels. Could he?
Driscoll had parked his new Jaguar not far from Piccadilly Circus. His dismay changed to frustration as traffic inched along toward Haymarket. When he turned into the Mall, the magnificent sight of Buckingham Palace confronted him. He thought of de Jersey’s insane suggestion of stealing the Crown Jewels. He drove past the Palace, remembering the crazy guy who had broken in. Despite all those guards on duty, alarms, and security devices, he had slipped into the Queen’s bedroom and sat on her bed.
Liz was waiting outside Victoria Station, soaked to the skin. She shot into the road from the bus depot when she spotted the car. Driscoll loaded the bags filled with bargains into the trunk.
“Why are you so late? I said seven fifteen. I’ve been standing there for over three-quarters of an hour. Did you buy the golf clubs you wanted? I went to Harvey Nicks… .”
He never listened to her monologues, which didn’t seem to require answers to the questions or views on her many purchases. He felt tired, old, and bored.
“You’re very quiet,” she said. “How’s your stomach?”
“Fine.”
“You take your antacid tablets?”
“Yeah.” He sighed; ahead was another traffic jam at Vauxhall Bridge.
“If you’d gone over Chelsea Bridge it’d have been better, or you could have gone over Wandsworth Bridge.”
“Shut it, Liz.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Tony? All you do lately is moan. Half the holiday in Florida was ruined by your bad moods.”
Tony didn’t reply. How was he going to tell her that forty-five million pounds had gone missing in cyberspace?
De Jersey felt drained when he got home, but he had to maintain his good humor for that evening, and the following morning, walking round the estate with his in-laws. However, his mind was only half there. He had decided to go ahead, even without Wilcox and Driscoll. Their refusal to join him had not dampened his spirits; it had made him even more determined.
CHAPTER
8
Christina and her parents had been delighted with the surprise gift of a trip on the Orient Express. Planning a robbery would be easier without marital commitments, he reasoned. He needed space to work and to gather a new team. The following Wednesday, de Jersey’s helicopter landed at the heliport beside Heathrow. The pilot’s orders were to refuel and return to the estate within the hour.
Meanwhile, de Jersey traveled by bus to Kilburn; at almost twelve he arrived at the flat. He spent some time arranging the orange nightmare into what looked like a lived-in home, with newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, books on the shelf, and some clothes in the wardrobe.
Raymond Marsh had arranged a meeting for two thirty and arrived promptly to set up the computer. He had brought with him various antivirus programs and other systems to protect de Jersey’s files. He also brought a satellite dish. This, he explained, would enable de Jersey to use the Internet by connecting through a satellite rather than a phone line. The beauty of the system, in hacking terms, was that it was much more difficult to trace, and the link could be broken in seconds. When he had finished, he accepted a cup of coffee and sat down on the orange settee. “Fire hazard these, you know,” he said, tapping the cushion and slurping his coffee. “Against the law to sell them, catch light faster than a match. My missus won’t have anything flammable around.”
“It serves its purpose,” de Jersey said, bringing out a thick wad of cash. He peeled off notes, and Marsh stashed them in a zip-up wallet, which he tucked into his overalls. He glanced at the remaining wad of money, which de Jersey had set on the arm of his chair. “Anything else you need from me?”
De Jersey nodded. “Show me how it all works.”
Raymond stood up to check his watch. “Not got long.”
“How about we arrange some private lessons? I need to get more familiar with chat rooms and retrieving information from the Net.”
“I’m not cheap. One-on-one will cost you a hundred an hour.” Marsh sat down at the computer. “Let’s open her up and play,” he said. His fingers flashed over the keyboard. “If you want to be a player in this community, you got to earn respect from them. So familiarize yourself with the geek-speak. There’s a lot of goodwill around. Hackers don’t work for money, they work for intelligence. The value system of a hacker, pirate or cracker, the good or the bad, is different from normal consumer society. If you want to be recognized as a good citizen in the Net community, you’ve got to contribute, and that means sharing material or information for free. Since I’m getting paid, I won’t ask any questions about what you’re up to.” Marsh laughed.
“Get me up something on anyone who’s worked in the Royal household recently. Someone who was on security,” de Jersey said.
De Jersey hated to be at his mercy, but Marsh gave no indication that he was surprised by the request. He gestured for de Jersey to sit beside him. They worked together, pulling down newspaper reports, logging into various sites until Marsh had downloaded sheets of articles from numerous newspapers dating back about eigh
t months. Exactly an hour later he said he had to leave. He put out his hand for his payment, and they arranged for the next session.
Alone, de Jersey read the news articles. One man’s case stood out from the others. Gregory Jones had been convicted of murdering his wife and was presently serving life at Franklyn Prison. He was a former palace security guard who had discovered his wife in bed with another member of the Queen’s household. It was imperative to find out about the security setup at the Palace and the procedures surrounding the Royals when they appeared in public, how many security men and ladies-in-waiting would accompany Her Majesty. De Jersey hoped Gregory Jones could provide this information.
He logged on to Web sites about the Royal Family. He was even sidetracked into reading about the Queen’s love of horses. There were pictures of her at Ascot when her horse Enharmonic won the Diamond Stakes. The jockey, Frankie Dettori, stood beside her, wearing her racing colors. Then de Jersey scrolled through pictures of the Crown Jewels, pausing when the screen filled with the Queen Mother’s crown. It was the only one mounted in platinum, and there, set in the front, was the magnificent Koh-i-noor Diamond, which drew him like a magnet. He touched the screen with his hand. Right now, it was so far out of his reach.
De Jersey planned to fabricate a plausible reason for occasional trips to London after Christina returned. Raymond Marsh was a frequent visitor to the apartment now, guiding his experiments. As de Jersey got to know the odd man, he admired him more. Marsh was not only a top cracker but a phacker. He was adept at disrupting and illegally tapping into phone systems via his computer. De Jersey felt sure all his experience would come in handy. When Marsh left, de Jersey would set timers on the lights to make it appear that the flat was constantly occupied, then travel back to his estate to carry on his work there.
Slowly he began to formulate a plan for the robbery. In order to visit the ex-security guard in Franklyn Prison, he had to acquire fake documents. He researched Hunting and Letheby, the firm of solicitors who had dealt with Jones’s case and printed out an imitation of their headed notepaper, then wrote to the prison requesting a visitor’s pass for the solicitor handling the man’s appeal.
Next he had to hunt down another ex-employee of the Royal household, someone who could provide inside information on protocol. He placed a message on various electronic bulletin boards: “U.K. novelist wishes to contact any employees (or recent ex-employees) of Royal household for confidential information.” He was astonished at the number of replies. He knew that a vast percentage would be from idiots messing around, but after a while it became easy to assess them, and he made lists of those he would contact. It was time-consuming work, though, and the pressure was on.
De Jersey had been occupied at the stables virtually all morning. He discussed forthcoming racing events with his trainers, the twelve mares in foal, and various veterinary matters. A three-year-old colt that had cost him almost three-quarters of a million pounds had not been fit enough to race yet, and the strangles bacteria had struck a wing of the yard that stabled eighteen horses. Veterinary bills were always high, but this winter they were astronomical. And foot-and-mouth restrictions still held up traveling. The good news, however, was that his pride and joy, Royal Flush, was in fine health and training for the season, which, de Jersey hoped, would place him on track for the Derby.
De Jersey had only just returned to his office when he received a call from David Lyons’s widow. Helen asked if he would see her that afternoon, on a personal matter that she preferred not to discuss over the phone. De Jersey agreed.
Helen waited outside her house for him. Her face was white and drawn, and she was not wearing any makeup. Usually an immaculate dresser, she was wrapped in a drab brown coat with a fur hat pulled down roughly over her hair. “Thank you for coming, Edward,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I had no one else to turn to.” She led him inside the house, poured coffee, and they sat down at the kitchen table, where she fiddled with a teaspoon. Her eyes had the lost look of the recently bereaved. “I don’t know where to begin. It’s to do with David’s death.” She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. “He left everything to me. I’d always believed we were comfortably off, but …” She stopped.
“Go on, Helen,” he prompted quietly.
“David borrowed on the house. He liquidated almost everything we possessed, and I don’t know what trouble he had got himself into, but the savings accounts …” She took a deep breath. “David withdrew every penny we had. My sister, who’s been overseeing everything for me, says he took out almost two million pounds. It’s all gone.” De Jersey said nothing. “I’m not asking you for money, please don’t think that. I’ve still got a few thousand in my own account. I’ll be all right.” She twisted the sodden tissue. “I don’t know what he was doing, I really don’t. His assistant is devastated, and they’re closing the office. My sister took a week off work to help sort everything out.”
De Jersey was feeling edgy, but he gave nothing away.
“She is an accountant too. In fact, David and I met through her. She’s gone through all of his business accounts. It seems he had invested in an Internet company based in New York, leadingleisurewear. Many of his clients also invested in this company.” She glanced toward de Jersey. Although he didn’t show it, de Jersey was furious at David’s indiscretion. “My sister was stunned at the amount of money you and David put in, and those others, a man called Wilcox, and I think Driscoll.”
De Jersey’s mind was racing. This was probably the only time that their names had been linked. He smiled. “I had presumed I was the only unfortunate gambler.”
“I am so very sorry,” she said, patting his hand. “The reason I asked to see you was because Sylvia—”
“Your sister.”
“Yes. She works for an international investment company. This company had invested in a similar venture and lost a considerable amount as well. So she did some checking for me; she’s thinking of hiring an investigator over there to help.”
“Checking into what exactly?”
“Into leadingleisurewear. It was started by a young man called Alex Moreno. Now he and another leadingleisurewear ex-employee have been trying to set up another Internet deal. Sylvia couldn’t believe their audacity. I said to her that if I told you this you’d want to do something about it. Sylvia said if there was a possibility of getting some of the money back, then I or you or the other men should contact this Alex Moreno and find out what’s going on.”
De Jersey leaned forward. “My new financial adviser has told me there is no possible recourse and that I simply have to accept I made a poor judgment.”
“But you can’t just accept it!” she exclaimed.
“I am afraid, Helen, that that is what I have to do. We are a part of a worldwide Internet collapse. There are not just a few losers but thousands. Many Internet companies have gone bust.”
“You could find Moreno.”
“I’ve accepted my losses.”
“You’re just going to walk away?” she asked, aghast.
“I’ve been advised that I have little or no hope of recouping them.”
She looked at her hands. “Sylvia has consulted a private investigator in New York to try to trace Moreno.”
De Jersey felt his gut tighten. “Has she succeeded in finding him?”
“No. It would seem he’s disappeared. She thinks he has probably stolen a lot of the funds. She found a letter from the auditor dated shortly before leadingleisurewear collapsed, questioning the figures of the annual audit.
“And Sylvia found out that he sold his apartment in New York. The doorman said it went to a German. But Moreno has a house in the Hamptons too.”
De Jersey was seething inside but reached across the table for Helen’s hand. She gripped his, and the tears started again. “I feel so bad about what happened,” she said. “I should try to trace the other men involved.”
He released her hand. “The investors have never publicly adm
itted their losses, as I have not. It is highly confidential information. I can’t advise you, Helen.”
“But don’t you think they would want to know what my sister has discovered?”
“I can’t speak for them,” he said quietly.
“Don’t you want to find out about Alex Moreno?”
He chose his words carefully. “Hiring an investigator in another country is not something I have considered doing. I am sure if David believed he could retrieve any of the money, he would not have taken such a drastic way out.”
“Would you look over some of the documents I found?”
“Of course. But I want my involvement with this company kept from the press. This could all blow up if the investigator’s discoveries were ever made public.”
“I thought perhaps you’d help me.”
“I doubt I can be of any assistance. And I’m confused as to how you gained access to my personal files.”
“They were in the safe in David’s study upstairs.”
“Are the other investors’ details there too?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would like mine returned, and I advise you to return theirs as well.”
“I’ll tell my sister,” she said, flushing.
David Lyons’s study was in disarray. Boxes and files were stacked against the wall, and papers were heaped on every available surface. Helen gestured to the paperwork. “I’ve been sent these from his office.” She crossed to the fireplace and lit the fake-coal gas fire. “It’s cold in here. I’ve not had the heating on.” She looked at the mound of files. “David kept all his files on his computer but always made hard copies for reference. Mostly they’re quite old. These are the most recent ones.” She looked around, puzzled. “Oh, I think I took your files to the kitchen,” she remembered and hurried out. A few moments later, she returned with a large, square box. She handed it to de Jersey and moved aside some papers for him to place it on the desk.
Royal Heist Page 11
