Royal Heist

by Lynda La Plante

  “Oh, we’re not moving yet. We just want to rehearse getting in and out of the Daimler.”

  “Well, I’ve certainly done that many times,” Maureen said. She and Pamela got in and out as Westbrook oversaw the rehearsal.

  De Jersey checked his watch and looked at Pamela. “I need to have a chat with the artist.” Then to Maureen he said, “Would you please get back into the Daimler?” Maureen hesitated and looked at Pamela, then climbed in. De Jersey got in beside her, leaned back, and took a deep breath. He could smell the glue he had used to stick his wig and mustache in place. “Do you love your husband?” he asked quietly.

  “Pardon?” Maureen said.

  “I asked if you loved your husband,” he repeated.

  “Of course! We’ve been married forty-two years.”

  “Good. Now, I want you to remain as calm as possible and pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. Your husband is being held at gunpoint. He’s perfectly safe and will not be harmed if you do exactly as I tell you. If you do not, he will be shot.”

  She stared, her mouth open. She blinked rapidly.

  “Do you understand? It is up to you whether or not you see your husband again. If you cry out or give any indication that we are holding him captive, you will never see him alive again. If you obey to the letter what I am going to tell you to do, if you value your husband’s life, you do exactly as I say, no harm will come to him or you. Do you understand?” de Jersey asked. “This is not a game. This is not a film. This is happening, right now. Give me your hand.”

  Maureen lifted it as if she were a robot, and he clasped it tightly. “We are all about to commit a dangerous robbery, and we need you to portray Her Majesty the Queen.”

  Driscoll glanced at the Daimler. They had been in it for ten minutes. He had heard no sound but the low murmur of de Jersey’s voice. It was now almost nine o’clock. He reckoned they were taking one hell of a risk with the woman. What if she fell apart and couldn’t keep up the act? He began to feel sick.

  The car door opened, and de Jersey got out. He closed the door again, leaving the woman inside, and crossed to Pamela. “Go in and sit with her. Go through the routine.” He nodded to Westbrook, who stood up. Wilcox looked at him nervously.

  “She’s going to be fine. Maybe a little drop of brandy will set her up, but she’ll be just fine.”

  In the car, Pamela sat beside Maureen.

  “Are you part of this?” Maureen asked, hardly audible.

  “No, but I don’t think they’ll hurt us. We just have to do exactly as we’re told and nothing will go wrong.”

  “They’ve got my husband.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Have they got yours too?” she asked.

  Pamela turned and took her hand. “Yes, darling, so we’re in this together. We just have to think it’s a film. It’s the only way we can get through it.”

  The door opened, and Westbrook passed in a small silver flask. “Have a nip of this, ladies, we’ve got about half an hour to go.”

  Pamela winked at him and unscrewed the flask. Maureen clutched at it with both hands and gulped down the brandy. It made her cough and splutter. Her hands were shaking and her knees were jerking. “I’m so frightened. This is terrible, terrible.”

  Pamela gripped her hand again. “Now stop this, stop it now. We have to do what they say. It’s my husband as well, you know.”

  Maureen nodded and closed her eyes. “I need—need to redo my lip-lipstick,” she stammered.

  De Jersey’s cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “All on course, are we?” came Marsh’s chirpy voice.

  “Just waiting for you,” de Jersey responded. He glanced at his watch. It was ten past nine.

  “Well, I’d hit your coal bunker. I’ve just sensed activity on the alarm phone lines, which means they’ve done their tests. You’ll need to do your IRA threat in about three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Fine, but what’s the code word?”

  “They’ve not phoned it through yet. Don’t panic. I’m on to it.”

  “You’d better be.”

  “Over and out.” Marsh clicked off.

  De Jersey stood up. He knew that the wait would get to them all now; he also knew that, above all else, he had to show no sign of his own tension. He turned to Wilcox and nodded for him to get ready to climb through into the D’Ancona coal room. Wilcox was wearing an overall, thick gloves, and a helmet with a light attached. “How long have I got?” he asked.

  “It’s nine fifteen now. I’ll make the threat call at ten, and Marsh will intercept to the safe house shortly after that. Then we’ve got twenty minutes before we move out.”

  Wilcox walked down into the cellar and made his way to the opening between the two buildings. He switched on his lamp and started to remove the loosened bricks.

  “How we doing?” came a soft whisper. Wilcox whipped round. De Jersey looked like a ghost in a white paper suit to protect his clothes from the dust.

  “Just breaking through now. How am I for time?”

  “We’re fine.”

  As de Jersey spoke, Wilcox pushed another brick loose, cringing as it dropped to the opposite side. He pulled bricks toward him onto an old duvet he’d laid on the floor to dull the noise.

  “They’re doing the final cleanup of the warehouse,” de Jersey told him.

  “Great,” said Wilcox, working hard. Both men remained silent for a moment. “We’re in,” he said softly. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs making a call, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I’m on my way. Just get in and see if it’s going to be a problem.”

  “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?” said Wilcox and crawled out of sight.

  He had already seen inside the room when he opened up the wall, so he knew what he would find. Marsh had been correct. There was the box with all the lines plugged into it, each neatly labeled with the location of the related panic alarm, such as “under floor reception” or “vault walls.” On the far side a steel door led into the safe house. D’Ancona had never suspected anyone would be able to gain access from the opposite side. That had been their mistake.

  Wilcox was dripping with sweat. If one of the plugs was pulled a fraction earlier than the others, the police would be round in minutes and they’d be on the run without the reward. The technique Marsh had come up with for removing the plugs was brilliantly simple. At the end of each plug was a small loop where it met the cable. Wilcox took a piece of stiff wire from his belt and began to thread it through all the loops. He took his time. He didn’t want to jolt any of the plugs. After five minutes the wire was in place. This was the moment of truth. He took hold of each end of the wire and pulled.

  Driscoll was ready, pacing up and down beside the Daimler. The two bikers sat with their helmets in their hands. Wilcox seemed to be taking ages. Eventually he emerged, covered in dust, and gave a thumbs-up. The team heaved a collective sigh of relief, and Driscoll patted him on the back.

  Westbrook checked the time. It was five to ten. He was starting to sweat and unsure if he should take his last hit of speed now.

  “Is there a bog in this place?” Westbrook asked. Driscoll pointed to the rear of the warehouse. Westbrook walked off and let himself into the dirty bathroom. He was just a few minutes behind Wilcox and heard him snorting up a line of cocaine through the door. “I wouldn’t mind a line if you have one to spare,” he said quietly. Wilcox opened the door and beckoned him in. They huddled together as Wilcox chopped up two very long lines.

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t let the Colonel know I’m doing this,” Wilcox said.

  “He knows I need it.” Westbrook was already rolling a rather creased five-pound note in anticipation. Wilcox produced a short silver straw and Hoovered up his line. He was still wearing his overall, his face filthy from the dust.

  De Jersey checked the time again and again. They had half an hour to go, and there was still no word from Marsh. It was insanity to have depended so heavily on him. He w
as starting to think about leaving the warehouse and killing the man with his bare hands when the cell phone rang. The IRA code word for that day was Boswell. With trembling fingers, de Jersey made the call. When someone answered, he said, in a mild Northern Irish accent, “Boswell, I repeat, Boswell.” The officer taking the call did not question the authenticity and put the receiver down fast. De Jersey sighed with relief.

  Marsh was listening in to a call from the commander at Scotland Yard to Buckingham Palace informing them of the IRA threat and putting a halt to the day’s plans. His final task was to intercept the call from Scotland Yard to the safe house, which would inform them of the cancellation.

  The team waited in silence. Wilcox had changed into his chauffeur’s uniform in preparation for driving the second Daimler and stood chewing his lips. All were on edge for the last call to come in. When it did, everyone stared at de Jersey as he answered. Marsh had intercepted the call, and the safe house had no idea that the fitting had been canceled.

  De Jersey checked his watch: it was exactly ten twenty. They prepared to move the short distance from the warehouse to the safe house. De Jersey climbed into the Daimler beside Wilcox. Driscoll took his position in the second Daimler containing Pamela, Westbrook, and the silent, terrified Maureen. The bikers lowered their helmets and sat astride their police bikes. The minutes ticked by slowly.

  “Open the doors,” de Jersey said. The biker nearest pressed the automatic button to slide back the warehouse doors, and they were on the move.

  The convoy turned left. Maureen sat beside Pamela, clutching her handbag, her blue head scarf tied round her head, her lipstick badly reapplied. She wanted to go to the toilet, but she was too scared to open her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. Pamela occasionally patted her knees, which were still shaking alarmingly.

  “Well, we got the show on the road,” de Jersey said, resting his arm along the back of the front seat, just touching Wilcox. “We got the show on the road,” he repeated, when Wilcox didn’t respond. He gave him a sharp look. “How much of the stuff did you take?” he asked.

  “Enough to keep me steady. I needed it. My nerves were shot.”

  De Jersey stared at him and withdrew his arm. “Fuck up and I’ll kill you.”

  Wilcox licked his lips.

  “Bikers are still in position,” de Jersey continued. He picked up his cell phone and dialed. “How’s Her Majesty?”

  “She’s doing just fine,” Westbrook told him.

  They passed the traffic cones, which had been placed by the two bikers earlier that morning. This was the only road leading to the safe house. They passed the no-entry sign at the end of the street, again placed by the bikers to avoid any other traffic entering. The journey took less than three minutes.

  De Jersey looked out the window, then spoke into the phone. “Stand by, we’re there.” He switched off the cell phone and pulled at his glove. Ahead he could see the security guard in his uniform and cap waiting at the entrance to the safe house.

  “The show is on.” De Jersey laughed softly, and Wilcox gave him a covert glance. He seemed relaxed, as if he was enjoying himself. De Jersey caught the look and patted his shoulder. “Three Musketeers, eh? Just like the old days.”

  Wilcox dropped down a gear to move to the side of the road just ahead of the entrance so that the Queen’s Daimler could park with ease directly behind him.

  “Good morning,” de Jersey said to the waiting security guard as he climbed out of the car. The heavy, studded doors of the safe house were open, a red carpet placed on the steps to the entrance. Lined up inside the reception area were the D’Ancona employees. “The road should stay closed until we leave,” de Jersey said to the guard in a quiet but authoritative tone. “One of my officers will stay out here to help you if there’s any trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At this moment the head representative from D’Ancona appeared in the doorway, wearing a pin-striped suit and a rose in his buttonhole. He stood to one side, waiting. There was a fraction of a pause, just two or three seconds, which felt like minutes. Then Lord Westbrook stepped out of the front seat of the Queen’s Daimler. He gave a cold, arrogant look to the guard. Then he opened the passenger door to allow Pamela to exit first. She stood to one side, holding Maureen’s handbag, as Maureen stepped from the Daimler with a frozen smile.

  The guard bowed, and as rehearsed, Pamela fell into position behind Maureen. Lord Westbrook stepped to her left, with de Jersey behind him, and Driscoll brought up the rear. They began to proceed into the safe house as one of the bikers, Hall, stepped forward to check the road and the buildings opposite for any signs of disturbance.

  As the Royal party moved into the entrance hall, then down the stairs and out of sight, the D’Ancona security guard decided to go back to his workstation. Within four feet of the safe house main doors there was a cage, grilled on all three sides. Inside it were banks of monitors, all showing the Royal party heading slowly down the thickly carpeted stairs to the lower floor reception area. As the guard went to enter the cage, Hall, still with his helmet in place, moved in close behind him, so close that he unnerved the guard, who turned to find the muzzle of a handgun pressed into his neck. “Back into the cage and do exactly as I tell you or this blows your head off,” Hall hissed.

  The man put his hands up and obeyed but trod on a concealed panic button.

  “Further in, pal. Move it!”

  The Royal party was displayed on every monitor. They were now being led into the reception area. Other banks of monitors showed virtually every inch of corridor and office, plus the vault on the lower level, which was standing wide open. Hall’s thuggish bulk came close to the guard. “Pull the fucking camera controls, pal. The alarms are dead. And so will you be if you make me wait another second. Do it!” The guard hesitated but got a rough push from the gun, pressed now in the small of his back.

  One by one he unplugged the cameras, and the monitors went blank. Hall pushed him roughly into the chair, tied his hands and feet with tape, and gagged him. He then crammed the man’s hat down on his head and turned the seat slightly so that anyone passing the cage would see him sitting “on guard.”

  Wilcox was still seated in the Daimler. Eventually Hall left the cage and signaled to him that the coast was clear. Wilcox turned on the engine and drove back to the warehouse. He opened the doors with the electronic buzzer and drove in. The Daimler had served its purpose; moving fast, he poured acid over the bonnet, removed the number plates, and stuffed them with the chauffeur’s uniform into a black rubbish bag that already contained the paper suit de Jersey had worn. He carried it to the rear of the warehouse and placed it in a bin. He poured more acid into the bin, then replaced the lid and left it to smolder. Minutes later he walked out to take up his position in the driving seat of the second Daimler in front of the safe house. Spittle had formed at the sides of his mouth, and he kept licking his lips.

  As the robbery was going on, Raymond Marsh walked out of the Scotland Yard telephone exchange and prepared to perform his last task. He traveled by underground to Edgware Road, then caught a bus to Kilburn. He let himself into de Jersey’s flat and dismantled the satellite linkup. Once the connections to de Jersey’s home computer were broken, he poured acid over the controls, the keyboard, and the printer. He took off his gloves as the acid was burning through the leather, then appraised the flat room by room. Nothing of a personal nature was left, just old newspapers and journals. He headed off to his own home.

  His wife had already packed. Only his precious guitar collection and Elvis memorabilia were going with him and his family to Brazil. These items were crated up, ready to be shipped out. A friend had the house keys and contact number for the shippers. Simmons had his banking details. When payday came, his cut would be transferred to his account via the Internet.

  Marsh had taken great care to look after number one, even down to arranging holiday time for himself and his family, but he knew he was still traceable. The poli
ce would discover that someone had had access to the phones to hack into the safe house and Scotland Yard lines. By then, however, he would be long gone. Like Ronnie Biggs, he had chosen Brazil as his first port of call. Unlike Ronnie, however, Marsh didn’t run solo. He had first-class tickets for himself, his wife, and daughter, all under assumed names. He gave little thought to the men and women involved in the robbery as he prepared to make his getaway. He just hoped they would pull it off.

  CHAPTER

  23

  The line of expectant, well-groomed staff in the D’Ancona safe house reception area reminded Lord Westbrook of a school assembly. The two nervous secretaries were like his old headmaster’s daughters, flushing and dressed in their best. Next to them stood a large-bosomed, round-faced woman, who held her plump arms flat to the sides of her ample body like a military officer. She resembled his old matron. She was, in fact, one of D’Ancona’s chief gem experts and head of marketing. Three men reminded Westbrook of masters at Eton. They were all waiting to acknowledge Her Majesty as she passed by.

  De Jersey was worried by the lineup: there were far more people than he had anticipated. He could feel the sweat breaking out as he wondered whether Hall had done his job. The only way de Jersey would know was by the stillness of the cameras. He glanced up at them. If Hall failed, they would all be caught on film. On his third glance he was relieved to see the cameras stop tracking them, their red lights disappearing.

  The royal blue carpet swirled down the stairs and covered the reception floor. Vast displays of lilies were arranged prominently. The Royal party was greeted with polite bows from the two fitters, who wore immaculate pin-striped trousers and dark jackets with pristine white shirts and ties. They held white gloves, which they would put on when measuring and fitting.

  “Good morning,” Maureen said, passing down the lineup. She smiled, but her eyes were like a frightened rabbit’s. Pamela remained close by, almost able to touch her. Lord Westbrook now took the floor, his charm and breeding shining like a beacon. His soft, aristocratic tone rang out as the party moved along the line, shaking hands and smiling.