Driscoll put his hands up. “Come on now, no need for this. You said it yourself, Eddy. You said if it didn’t look kosher you’d call it quits and there’d be no hard feelings.”
“What do you say, James?” de Jersey asked.
“I am not doing drugs! I’ve worked my arse off getting these two cars and the bikes ready. I just think the plan’s not up to your usual standard, that’s all. Maybe if we thrash out the details a bit more, know exactly what you’ve planned, we’ll feel happier.”
“Come on, we’ve all done a good share,” Driscoll said, angrily.
“Yeah, us three have, but the computer geek is getting a grand a week and a big cut!” Wilcox was still in a rage.
De Jersey stood up, his military bearing intimidating. “You two are getting greedy. Raymond Marsh is not going to betray us. He’s already in too deep. He’s hacked into the private Royal diaries, intercepted Scotland Yard calls, and made sure there won’t be any links between him and me when this is all over.”
Wilcox sucked in his breath. “Leaving yourself out in the open, aren’t you? You may be using Philip Simmons as a cover, but something this big will have every cop in the U.K. after you.”
“It’s more than a cover,” de Jersey interjected brusquely. “In cyberspace, Philip Simmons is almost as good as flesh and blood. As soon as this is over, he disappears into thin air and all the leads and clues disappear with him. There is no connection back to me because Philip Simmons organized the whole thing.”
Neither man understood what he was talking about, but his confidence in the alias was a bonus. After all, de Jersey himself was a direct link to both of them.
He continued, “Marsh is worth every cent we pay him because we couldn’t pull this off without him. He’s a genius.”
Wilcox and Driscoll fell silent. Then de Jersey’s bravado slipped. He gave a long sigh. “All I can say is this, I’m not just protecting myself. I have to look out for all of you. I’ve been working on how all of us move out when the scream goes up, just as I always did in the past. It takes time and planning down to the last second. If there are loopholes then we have to rethink, or I do. So, ask me what you need to know.” He picked up the black marker pen and crossed to the board. “List every loophole. We’ll go through them one at a time.”
Driscoll rested his head in his hands. Wilcox slumped into the old chair. “I can’t fucking think straight now.”
De Jersey looked from one to the other. He tossed aside the marker pen. “Sleep on it, then, but I need to know what the two of you decide by tomorrow.”
He picked up his briefcase, took out the CD, and opened his laptop. “Take a look at this. When you’re through close it down and remove the CD. Don’t let it out of your sight. This is for our eyes only.” He snapped his briefcase shut and collected his coat. “Good night.” A moment later they heard the side door slam shut.
Both men remained silent for quite a while. Eventually Wilcox stood up. “Did you tell him I had a drug problem?”
“No way!”
“Did you understand any of that stuff about the alias?”
“Nope, but he seemed to, and that’s what counts.”
Wilcox got up to look at de Jersey’s laptop. Driscoll followed him and pushed in the CD.
“Fuck me!” he exclaimed. “Look, Jimmy.” He pointed to the interactive floor plan of the D’Ancona safe house.
They sat close to the small screen, taking the virtual tour. When it ended Driscoll pressed eject and took out the CD. “Jesus Christ, do you know what we just watched?” They looked at each other and knew without saying it that they were back on board.
“Let’s go for it! All or nothing!” Wilcox said.
“Yeah, give it our best shot. If we go down at least we’ll be famous. This is gonna be the biggest robbery in history, right?” Driscoll was now determined to see the positive side.
Wilcox laughed. “Just one thing. You don’t have any sort of moral issue over this, do you? I mean, they are the Crown Jewels, and breaking them up is sort of—”
“Unpatriotic?” Driscoll laughed. “Fuck ’em! The Royals have had ’em long enough.” He clapped Wilcox on the shoulder, and the two of them packed up and left.
In the darkness, inside the main part of the barn, de Jersey moved silently from behind the screens. Neither man had seen or heard him return to listen to their conversation. He sat down in the armchair and went through the meeting, listing every gripe that had been raised. Each was valid; they were still a long way off. Could he trust Marsh? So much depended on him. He sighed. Bottom line, he could trust no one involved completely, but that was the risk in this game. He must check out the Japanese buyer for himself and contact Sylvia Hewitt to make sure she was behaving. It irritated him that he had promised to pay her off, but it would be worth his while to keep her silent.
David Lyons was still in Sylvia’s thoughts, and her sister was still living with her. Helen had recovered somewhat from the trauma of losing her husband, but she talked about David all the time. Some nights Sylvia didn’t want to return home and wished Helen would find her own place to live.
On the day de Jersey had brought together the key team, Sylvia had just got home, later than usual as she had dined with a client.
“I’m in here” came Helen’s high-pitched voice. She sounded angry.
Sylvia felt annoyed that her sister would undoubtedly ask her where she had been. “Give me a minute,” she called back and took off her coat. She hadn’t had time to hang it up before Helen marched out of the drawing room carrying a bundle of photographs. “I wasn’t prying. I was looking for a needle. I knew you used to keep a sewing kit in your bedside table drawer. I found these.” Helen thrust the pictures at her. One showed Sylvia and David kissing.
“Oh, it was some office party,” Sylvia said lamely.
“No, it wasn’t. How do you explain the beach and palm trees? What was going on between you and my husband?”
“He’s dead, Helen. What does it matter now?”
“It matters to me. I want to know the truth. Look at me, Sylvia. Tell me what was going on.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Helen, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t. I want you to tell me.”
Sylvia sighed. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Tell me what was going on between you and my husband!” Helen shrieked.
“We were lovers,” Sylvia said at last. It all came out: how long it had gone on, all the times they had been together. She felt wretched, and so sorry for Helen that she burst into tears.
“Sylvia, you disgust me. My own sister!”
Helen walked into her bedroom and shut the door.
The following morning Sylvia tried to speak to Helen again, but she remained in her locked room. When Sylvia returned that evening, two suitcases stood in the hall and Helen’s coat lay over them. She was waiting, her face drawn and chalk white. “I’m leaving. I can’t talk about it. I don’t know if I ever want to speak to you again. I trusted you, and you went behind my back and took the only thing in my life I have ever felt proud of. My marriage is now just some terrible sham, and you are despicable for letting me stay here with you. I was pleased to have you at my side at his funeral, and now I discover that all the time you’ve been lying to me.”
“Did you really want me to tell you the truth? How would it have made a difference, you knowing once he was dead? You certainly never suspected when he was alive. And I let him use all my savings and he lost the lot! So much for good, dependable, honest David. He was a fool!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I’ve lost over two hundred thousand, all my savings. That’s something else I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. Whatever happened between me and David is history now and—”
Helen didn’t wait to hear any more. She picked up her coat and her suitcases and made for the door. She glanced back at her sister. “That explain
s the real reason why he went with you. He was using you for your money.” With that, she slammed the door.
Sylvia was incensed by Helen’s insult, which also reminded her of Edward de Jersey’s accusation. How dare de Jersey suggest she had been involved with David’s frauds? She walked around the flat kicking the furniture. Her bedroom was littered with torn photographs of her and David together. She picked them up, then let them fall from her hands like confetti and started to cry. She had loved David, and now she had lost everything—lover, money, sister. She wondered what had happened to de Jersey, whether he had held on to his estate. It had been weeks since she had spoken to him.
The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hello.”
“Is this Sylvia Hewitt?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Victor Matheson, Miss Hewitt, the private detective you hired. Remember me?”
“Yes, of course.” She was puzzled: she’d told him weeks ago his services were no longer required.
“A strange coincidence has just happened. I think it would be worth us meeting up.”
Sylvia listened as Matheson explained that he had met another private investigator and discovered that he had been hired to trace Alex Moreno by Philip Simmons. “I have to arrange time off from work,” she told him, “but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll fly out as soon as I can and meet you in New York.”
“Good.” He hung up.
She gave no thought to the fact that she had promised de Jersey she would not take her inquiries any further. In fact, she was determined to prove that David Lyons did not commit any fraud. She called her boss and told him that urgent family business had cropped up and she needed to take the week off.
De Jersey outlined “rehearsal” days for the team to meet at the barn. They had moved another step closer to the plans being completed. Driscoll had booked “the Queen.” She was to be collected at 8:00 A.M. for a day’s commercial shoot. The agent did not query the name of the company but seemed more interested in the fee, which was substantially more than usual.
Far from being a big risk, Westbrook proved invaluable. He was getting sicker by the day, but he remained in good humor and the team admired his determination. Pamela was highly professional and a constant source of humorous stories during coffee breaks. She provided cakes and biscuits too, which they devoured hungrily. She was having a wonderful time. She had always enjoyed the company of men, and it had been a long time since she had been surrounded by so many. She adored Westbrook, and they swapped stories about their time in the nick while smoking their way through packets of cigarettes, their conversation interspersed with coughing fits and shrieks of laughter.
De Jersey rarely joined in the banter. He was constantly checking his notes and plans. Dulay’s boat was now set to anchor six miles off the South Coast, near Brighton. The diversion helicopters were booked and false pickup points agreed on. De Jersey had arranged for one of his horses to be at the Brighton racetrack on the day of the raid. He had also marked in blue crosses on the floor of the barn the positions of the panic buttons in the safe house. Every one of the team was made to learn their exact locations.
“Darling, just a small point,” Pamela said one day, cigarette dangling out of her mouth. “We know where these thingies are, but what if one of the D’Ancona employees throws caution to the wind and stamps on one? Will we get out fast enough before the police show up?”
“What?”
“Well, darling, do we know how long we’ve got if someone inadvertently or deliberately steps on one? There’s going to be an awful lot of anxiety and”—she hopped from one blue cross to another—“they’re all over the place.”
De Jersey gave her a dismissive glance. “Hopefully we’ll have discovered a way to deactivate them. In the meantime, however, we should know exactly where they’re located.”
“Yes, but do you know how long it takes for the boys in blue to arrive if one goes off?”
“Pamela, why don’t you put the kettle on?” De Jersey crossed to Wilcox.
He kept his voice low. “We hit one and the lot of us will be in trouble. Steel trapdoors come down like a guillotine.”
Wilcox turned away. “So, we’ve got to deactivate the buggers.”
“I’ll work on it.”
The two bikers were scheduled to arrive that afternoon, and de Jersey wanted everyone out of the way except Driscoll, who knew them. Brian Hall arrived first. He parked his motorbike as instructed in the yard at the back of the barn. Kenny Short turned up in an old Mini five minutes later.
De Jersey had watched them arrive. He opened the door almost immediately and handed them pairs of surgical gloves. The two men followed him toward the table, and he gestured for them to sit. Driscoll sat to one side. De Jersey took them through their duties and the getaway details. They listened attentively, asking relevant questions, to which de Jersey always had answers. They knew the risks they were taking, but the authoritative manner of the Colonel eased their fears, and after the instructions were clarified both men tried on their uniforms and tested the bikes. If they had any doubts they did not voice them.
De Jersey took pains to ensure that the men realized their importance. They were all dependent on each other to pull it off, he told them. Every one of them was an essential part of the heist, and one mistake could bring the rest down. When the two left, he turned to Driscoll. “What do you think?”
“They’ll do the business. It’s just his lordship we’ve got to watch out for. He’s very jittery and well drugged up.”
“I know. If he gets to be too much of a liability, we might have to lose him.”
Driscoll licked his lips and changed the subject. “What about deactivating those panic buttons?”
“Working on it.”
“Want to look over the guns?”
They had been under pressure for a considerable time now, so de Jersey suggested they take a few days’ break. Christina was expected home from Sweden, and he was worn out; they all needed time to recharge their batteries. It was March 15; they could stand back and review the plan for any weak spots they had missed—there was still time.
De Jersey returned home, but although he needed a rest he didn’t take one. Things at the estate needed his supervision, for although his staff worked diligently when he was absent, some issues had to be solved by the boss. There was a stack of paperwork that needed his attention, but the financial pressure was uppermost. He wondered if he could sell the Moreno house yet. He was still in the office after midnight when Fleming tapped and entered.
“Brandy?” de Jersey asked.
Fleming shook his head no. “You owe me the cash we agreed on,” he said softly, not meeting de Jersey’s eyes.
There was a long pause. De Jersey unscrewed the top from the brandy bottle, opened a drawer, and took out a glass.
“My son and an old lad helped me out. They’re both trustworthy. My son won’t say anything, and if the lad had a notion of what we were up to, he didn’t let on. I gave him a couple hundred quid.”
De Jersey gulped the brandy. “How did my boy do?”
“Fine. So now we wait. I’ve put him in the far stall. We’ll push his training up and see how he behaves, but we’ve risked a hell of a lot.”
“I know.” De Jersey was hardly able to speak.
Fleming changed his mind about the brandy, and the two men sat drinking quietly. They were both ashamed of the subterfuge and worried that they might have damaged Royal Flush’s concentration and thus his chance of winning the biggest race of his life. Eventually Fleming stood up and buttoned his coat. He nodded to the racing diary displayed on the office wall. “We’ll see what effect it’s had when he races at Lingfield.”
Two days later Christina arrived home, and de Jersey took her in his arms. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said, as they hugged.
“I’ve missed you too, darling. Let me carry your cases upstairs.”
“No, they can wait but I can’t. Let’s just go upstai
rs,” she said coyly.
He smiled. “Whatever you say.”
“How’s everything been?” she asked.
“Not too bad. I’ve had to sell a few more horses, but Royal Flush is in great shape. It’s been very quiet here without you,” he said.
“It’s such a comfort to be back here with you. This place is so precious to me,” Christina said.
De Jersey didn’t reply as he followed her up the stairs. So much was riding on him pulling off the heist.
CHAPTER
19
Sylvia had taken a taxi straight from JFK Airport to the InterContinental Hotel because of its proximity to Central Park and easy walking distance to Moreno’s apartment block. She had decided that since she had time to kill before her appointment with Matheson, she would do some research of her own. She’d taken Matheson off the case before he had had a chance to check out Moreno’s apartment. Maybe she could discover something there that would help them. She had slept badly on the plane, so she decided to have a nap until midday, but she was still sound asleep when the chambermaid woke her at three. She showered and changed, and left the hotel at four.
The doorman at Moreno’s apartment was none too friendly until Sylvia slipped him twenty dollars. Then he told her he remembered Moreno well, a pleasant enough man, but he’d kept to himself.
“Did he warn you that he was leaving?”
“No. One minute he lived here, the next he didn’t.”
“But did you see him leave?”
Royal Heist Page 26
