Royal Heist

by Lynda La Plante

“No, darling, I am not jealous. But I hate to be left sitting like a fool.”

  “You wanted to go, not me.”

  “Maybe I’m just fed up because you had such a good time and I didn’t. I didn’t win anything, and I paid a fortune for those tickets. I noticed Vibekka and Julian never opened their wallets. I just don’t understand her. They’re obviously not short of cash. I don’t like people taking advantage.”

  “What’s a few raffle tickets?” he said.

  “It’s more. When we went shopping Vibekka said she’d lost her card and I ended up putting all the things she bought on my credit card.”

  “Christ, not that sable coat?”

  “No, that belongs to a friend, but she bought the dress, shoes, and some other things, and tonight when I asked her if she’d found her card, she changed the subject. Even though I told her we’re leaving in the morning.”

  “You think they’re in financial difficulty?”

  “It seems like it.”

  He drew her close. “I can drop by the shop in the morning and sort it out. How would that be?”

  “I’m sorry. It was nice to see her, but she did get a lot of money out of me. I don’t like feeling a fool.” She nuzzled his neck. “And with you chatting up a seventy-two-year-old crone with a plastic face and her dreadful prince checking out all the waiters, it’s no wonder I’m in a bad mood.”

  Her foot stroked his; he turned to face her. “I’m exhausted. The last tango did me in.”

  De Jersey felt her warmth as she slid down his body and started to kiss his thighs. He abandoned thoughts of Moissanite diamonds and Paul Dulay’s scams as he concentrated on making love to his wife.

  Dulay was having a heated conversation on the phone with Vibekka, who had returned late after the ball. He had left for work the next morning before she was awake, so she had called him at the shop about repaying Christina. He had been happy to do so until she told him the amount owing.

  “You’re kidding! After we just discussed cutting back?”

  “I wanted to make an impression.”

  “Well, forget it. You said they were loaded.”

  “But they might be good customers. I’ll go to the bank and get some cash out. Which account should I use?”

  “The mortgage one. I’ll sort it out later. But this has got to stop, sweetheart. Vibekka? Hello?”

  She’d already hung up. He slammed down the phone just as the door buzzer sounded. He pressed the entry release without looking up.

  “Trouble?” de Jersey inquired.

  Dulay recognized his visitor and, paling, tried to avoid de Jersey’s eyes, busying himself with selections for the window display. “Is there anything you wanted to see?”

  “Cut the bullshit,” de Jersey said softly.

  Dulay’s lips tightened. “You won’t get me to change my mind.” He switched on the low lights for both displays, then locked the window. As he turned back, de Jersey flicked the switch to lock the front entrance.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Dulay stuttered.

  “Ensuring some privacy.” De Jersey strolled past the counter to the door of the small showroom. Dulay followed him in.

  “Listen, if you’re worried about me opening my mouth to anyone, then you must know you can trust me one hundred percent. I mean, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to drop you in it, not after all you’ve done for me in the past.” Dulay was nervous now.

  De Jersey sat down. “I’m interested in a bracelet for my girlfriend. She likes emeralds.”

  Dulay began to relax. “I’ve got a beauty. It’s expensive, but high-quality stones, matching diamonds, beautiful emerald links. I designed it myself. Or there’s a ruby link with sapphires and pearls.”

  “Can I see the first?”

  Dulay left the room, returning soon with a large, flat leather case, which he laid on the desk.

  De Jersey opened it and lifted out the bracelet. Dulay passed him a jeweler’s eyeglass and turned on a high-beam spotlight. De Jersey studied it. “Very nice.” He glanced at the necklace and earrings also in the leather case.

  “What about the necklace?”

  “That’s not for sale. It belongs to an Italian couple, ditto the earrings. The pieces are in for an evaluation. Only the bracelet’s for sale.”

  “They’re fakes, aren’t they? Unlike this piece,” said de Jersey.

  “You are mistaken!”

  De Jersey sat down. “I met someone last night who is on to you. I know you’re switching stones. I wanted to tip you off to be careful.”

  Dulay rubbed his head.

  “You don’t need to be doing that kind of shit. Why are you getting so greedy? I’ve got to look out for myself here too. I mean, they pick you up on one thing and they might dig backwards.”

  Dulay opened a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. “It was just a couple of times. Some of these rich bitches don’t know what they’ve got on. But you’re right, it’s stupid to take that kind of risk.”

  “Must be easy pickings,” de Jersey said. “Come on, though, it’s not just the odd one, is it, Paul? Is that how you work your business? You value the piece and replace a stone or two. Then, because of your reputation, the owner is unlikely to have it revalued and is therefore none the wiser. Correct?”

  “Listen to me,” Dulay said. “I run a legitimate business. Like I said, it’s just the odd stone here and there.”

  “You must have built up a lot of trust to be so popular. But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Trust.”

  Dulay remained silent as de Jersey continued. “I won’t meddle in your private deals, but I could cause you a lot of trouble.”

  “And I could do the same for you,” Dulay said angrily. He had found the courage to stand up to the man he still knew only as Philip Simmons.

  De Jersey sighed. “How?” he said coolly.

  “You know damned well, so stop this bullshit. I will not be drawn into this robbery by your threats because, although you may have something on me, I’ve got just as much on you. The gold bullion is only the beginning.”

  De Jersey sat back in the swivel chair. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No more than you are me.”

  “Don’t take me on. You’ll lose. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Try it and see,” Dulay said, blustering now.

  “No, but you have to straighten out, Paul. I’m not pressuring you to do anything. All I am doing is making sure I feel one hundred percent certain you’ll keep your mouth shut. Stop what you’re doing with these fake jewels, because I can’t afford any worries where you’re concerned.”

  “My financial difficulties are not going to make me blab about your criminal activities.”

  “Oh, so it’s money problems, not just greed?”

  “Things are a bit tight,” Dulay said, “and I don’t want to lose this buyer I’ve got, a billionaire Japanese gem dealer. He’s too big and lucrative a fish not to provide the goods for.”

  “Asks no questions, huh?”

  “Precisely.” Dulay sucked on his cigarette. “Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m still not interested in your proposal. I’ve just got into a bit of difficulty, that’s all. It’s called divorce, and my new wife, the one I’m crazy about, spends money like it grows on trees. She also talked me into buying that fucking boat with that French twat Julian. It’s the size of Versailles, and it took every franc I had to refurbish it. Now we can’t sell it because we still owe the shipbuilders, and nobody wants to charter it.” He sighed, then shrugged his wide shoulders and stood up. “Maybe things will pick up in the summer. I hope to God they do.” He was pacing up and down.

  “Sit down, Paul.”

  Flushed with anger, Dulay reminded himself that he was not going to be cajoled into something as risky as Simmons was proposing. He remained silent as his old partner in crime toyed with a gold Cartier pen that was lying on the desk. Then he twirled the bracelet on his index finger and slipped it into his top pocket. “I’ll tak
e this in lieu of all the worry you’ve caused me,” he said. “No hard feelings. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Like you said, we’re bound to each other in many ways. Love me or hate me, we’re shackled together for life.”

  Dulay didn’t say anything about the bracelet. “Why are you attempting this robbery? It’s insane.”

  “Because, like you, I’m hurting for cash, and after years of legitimate work I’m not prepared to go under. It goes without saying that I won’t take any foolish risks. And since I do not intend to be caught, I will take every precaution to ensure the safety of everyone involved.”

  Dulay interlocked his fingers. “You always did take great care. You using the same team again?”

  “Yes. No one will take any undue risks, and everyone will be paid handsomely. After all, the Colonel has always been fair.”

  “I know all that,” Dulay said, flushing. “I didn’t mean some of the stuff I just said. You know I’d never put you or Driscoll—” Dulay stopped.

  De Jersey leaned forward, so close that Dulay flinched. “You had better forget that name, Paul, but you can give me one. Who’s this Japanese buyer? Tell me more about him.”

  “No way.”

  “If he’s buying anything you throw his way, he may be interested in what I might have to offer.”

  “I don’t want to risk getting on the wrong side of him. I don’t ask him too many questions, and he isn’t interested in the finer details of what I sell. If I start passing his name around, he’s not gonna like it, and I don’t want to end up in the river with my hands cut off.”

  De Jersey raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean it,” Dulay said. “He comes to Paris a couple of times a year, that’s it.”

  “What about London?”

  “I don’t know.” Dulay closed his eyes, and his voice dropped to a low, hoarse whisper. “Don’t do this to me. Please don’t draw me in.” Beads of sweat were forming at the edge of his receding hairline. Then he licked his lips. “Look, I can’t promise, but when I see him next—”

  “Not good enough,” de Jersey said. “I need his name and a contact number.”

  Dulay sighed. He opened his desk drawer and took out a crocodile leather box edged in gold. He pulled out a card and passed it over. “He’s a computer giant. His company’s worth billions.”

  “He buy any of your gold items?” de Jersey asked softly.

  Dulay flushed, then nodded. “That’s his box number and e-mail address. I don’t have a direct phone number.”

  De Jersey glanced at the card. He slipped it into his wallet and took out one of his own before he stood up. “Good. Now I know I can trust you. And I’m sure you don’t have to worry about Mr. Kitamo. You’ve been dealing with him for long enough. Did he approach you, or the other way round?”

  “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

  The 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 lo
nger 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.”