Diamond Dust

20

No question. Harry looked every inch the aristocrat when, precisely at two, he strode up to the desk at the Dorchester with a porter in tow wheeling in his smart suitcase filled with telephone directories.

'Sir John Mason. I made a reservation. You have my details.'

'Yes, Sir John. One moment.'

Harry glanced through his horn-rimmed frames at the staff behind the desk busy issuing keys and taking phone calls and printing out accounts. No chance of spotting the stoolie who had tipped him off. He'd be somewhere behind the scenes preparing medallions of venison with chestnuts.

'We've got you down for one of the roof garden suites, Sir John.'

'That's what I asked for.'

'Would you care to make a reservation for dinner?'

'Tonight I shall dine out, thank you.' True. Instead of sampling the haute cuisine of his fellow-conspirator he'd be grabbing a bacon sandwich at the airport cafe while he waited for his flight to Cork.

'Very good, sir. And would you care to order a newspaper for tomorrow morning?'

' The Times' An uncollected paper outside the door was better than a 'do not disturb' sign at keeping the staff away.

'Jules will take you to your suite and show you how the key works. Enjoy your stay with us.'

'I intend to.'

He followed Jules to the lift and up to the roof garden level.

'Are you staying long, sir?' Jules asked.

Under an hour, if the Arabs are up to the job, he thought privately. 'Just the week.'

'London has so much to offer this time of year.'

'Let's hope so. Is the hotel busy?'

'Very.'

'Full of wealthy foreigners, I expect.'

'Quite a few visitors, yes.'

He hoped Jules might throw in a mention of the Kuwaiti Royal Family, but you don't get everything you wish for. And they didn't pass any white-robed gentlemen in the walk from the lift to the door of the suite.

He was shown how to use the plastic key and they entered a light, luxurious sitting room with original paintings on the walls. Jules hoisted the suitcase onto a stand and switched on the TV. A message flashed up saying 'Welcome to the Dorchester, Sir John Mason,' and giving a rundown of the facilities. Jules showed how the curtains worked and opened the doors to the bedroom and bathroom. Harry tipped him two pounds.

Alone in the suite, he took out his mobile and called Zahir.

'Yes?'

'Yes.' He gave the name of the suite.

So professional. Nothing more was said. He switched off and put on a pair of polythene gloves he'd thoughtfully brought with him, collected some tissues from the bathroom and busied himself wiping the suitcase to remove any prints of his own. His part in the scam was nearly over, thanks be to Allah. He looked at the time.

The doorbell buzzed. He opened it.

A woman in hotel uniform carrying a bunch of flowers. 'I'm Mary the housekeeper, just checking you have everything you require, Sir John.'

Everything except my dusky friends, he thought. 'I'm quite content, thank you.'

'May I change your flowers?'

He hadn't even noticed the lilies on the coffee table. 'If you're quick. I'm expecting visitors.'

She fussed with the vase and left with yesterday's blooms. Harry looked at his watch again.

Ten more minutes passed. 'Shortly after, Zahir will knock. You will admit him, and Ibrahim, and your job will be over.'

Bloody long 'shortly after'.

He stood by the sliding windows and looked across the roof garden and noticed a movement behind one of the taller shrubs. First he thought it must be a bird or a cat. Then another movement showed it was larger.

Someone was out there.

The hairs straightened on the back of his neck. He backed away from the window, waited a few seconds and then took another look. The same figure ducked out of sight behind a bush, but not before Harry noticed he was cradling something that looked horribly like a submachine-gun. There was another movement at the edge of Harry's vision. Two of them at least. He had an impression of black uniforms.

Police marksmen.

Jesus.

He swung away from the window, back out of sight against the wall. It didn't take rocket science to work out that it was an ambush and he was cornered. They'd have men in the corridor as well, waiting to pick up the others if they hadn't nicked them already.

Hold on, he thought. They won't bust us until after the crime is committed. They'll let Rhadi bring the Hatton Garden man in here and they'll delay until the moment the diamonds are snatched.

They'll need to time it right.

The place must be bugged.

A listening device is so small you can hide it anywhere. There wasn't time for him to make a proper search.

His eyes darted left and right and lighted on the flowers the woman had brought in. Was she really a hotel employee? He stepped closer. Those enormous lilies could hide a microtransmitter with ease. The police couldn't have known in advance which suite would be used, so it was a cool move. He bent closer and examined the flower arrangement without touching anything.

The bug was there all right, lodged in the side of one of the spike-shaped buds.

He picked up the entire arrangement in its vase and carried it to the bedroom, placed it on the floor of the wardrobe and gently slid the door across. Then he returned to the main room, shutting the bedroom door after him.

He took out his mobile and called Zahir again.

An agonising pause followed. Then Zahir's terse voice asking: 'What is it?'

'Pull the plug.'

'What?'

'It's off. Cancelled. We've been shopped. Tell Rhadi, will you?'

'We can't do that.'

'Why?'

'He doesn't have a phone.'

'Christ.'

Harry switched off. Then he collected the flowers from the bedroom and replaced them on the table.

His old friend Rhadi was going to walk into the trap. Surely those bastards could stop him.

No, he thought. They'll save their own skins and to hell with everyone else. Thick as thieves, the saying went. Thick as thieves, my arse.

Think of a way out of this, Harry, he told himself. You're a con man, the very best. You can save Rhadi and yourself.

But it wouldn't be easy, up here on the top floor with armed men outside and every exit covered.

He made a rapid check of the rooms, looking for the ventilation shaft or the loft space he could use as an escape route. No such luck.

Determined not to be downed, he told himself he wasn't a goddamn escapologist anyway. He was a con artist. He'd do this his way. Sweet-talk his way to freedom.

He sat on the sofa, removed his gloves and gave the matter some thought.

Rhadi was going to arrive any minute with a Hatton Garden diamond merchant expecting to do business with a Kuwaiti prince. Or – far more likely – with a policeman posing as a Hatton Garden diamond merchant. The fuzz had obviously got advance information, so they would have planned this. They would send in one of their SO 19 people, armed and ready for combat. At a signal from him, police gunmen would burst in from all sides.

Harry let out a long, nervous breath. He'd only agreed to do this because it didn't involve violence.

Every instinct urged him to get out now and plead ignorance and hope for leniency. Only his brain told him there was a better way.

The buzzer on the door sounded.

He got up and looked through the little spyhole and saw Rhadi in the corridor with two men, one carrying a briefcase.

He opened the door a fraction and peered out. Rhadi saw him and looked horrified. It should have been Ibrahim or Zahir who opened the door. Harry should have been out of the hotel and on his way to the airport.

Harry said in the elegant accent he'd used when he was registering, 'A slight hitch in the arrangement, gentlemen. The Prince isn't here.'

'Not here?' Rhadi said in disbelief.

'We had an appointment for three o'clock,' the man with the briefcase said.

'Yes. His Royal Highness went for a massage and isn't back yet. You're welcome to come in and wait.'

'Who are you?' the man with the briefcase asked.

'Er – his secretary,' Harry said. 'Smith – Henry Smith.

He's only at the fitness centre. He shouldn't be long.'

Rhadi stared at him. This wasn't in the script.

'Won't you all come in?'

The man with the briefcase exchanged a glance with his bodyguard companion, who gave the matter some thought and then nodded. The bodyguard stepped ahead and did a rapid check of the other rooms.

'Care for a drink?' Harry offered.

They shook their heads.

'Why don't we all sit down?'

Harry's mind was racing. He was certain these were policemen, and he was pretty sure the briefcase contained a video camera. There was an eyelet at one end that could easily be a hidden lens, and it was pointing at him. He said to Rhadi, 'We'd better remind the Prince about this. He's due at the Embassy at four. Why don't you go to the fitness centre and speak to him?'

'Can't you phone?' the bodyguard said.

'You don't phone a member of the royal family,' Harry said with scorn. 'Not when he's in the same building.'

'I'll go and speak to him,' Rhadi said, catching on at last.

The police were as undecided as anyone. Their game plan was in disarray and they had no way of getting fresh instructions without blowing their cover.

Rhadi was allowed to leave. If he had his wits about him, he'd bluff his way past the waiting policemen and go straight to the fitness centre and make his escape from there by a back exit. He was off Harry's conscience.

Alone with the heavy mob, Harry marked time for a bit. He noticed how twitchy they appeared. It made him feel more confident. He crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and was amused to see the briefcase being turned to follow his movement.

'Whisky, anyone? No? I think I will.'

He poured himself a generous measure. The next few minutes were to be a formidable test of the con man's art.

'How long have you worked for the Prince?' the cop with the briefcase asked.

Harry smiled, took a deep breath and answered in a West Coast American accent that amazed everyone.

'Matter of fact, my friends, I don't work for him at all.

I'm on your side. I'm Roscoe Hammerstein, CIA.'

'Say that again.'

'CIA.' Harry put out his hand. 'Put it there, officer.'

The officer just gaped. His companion was frowning.

'Face it, guys,' Harry said, twisting the hand outwards and upwards in a gesture of candour. 'This is one gigantic cock-up. Don't know if my people are responsible, or yours. I spend fifteen months tracking these jerks, getting their confidence. Finally I make it. I'm on the team, and what happens? You guys pull the plug.'

'Are you saying you infiltrated the gang?'

'Saying? Why do you think I'm here? It sure isn't for my health.'

'You work for the CIA?'

'Didn't I say that?'

'What's the CIA's interest in these men?'

'Come on,' Harry said, almost convincing himself, it sounded so plausible. 'You know where they come from.'

'The Middle East.'

'Right on – and where do the world's most dangerous terrorists have their base?' He spread his hands. 'How do they finance their operations? From heists like this. A multi-million-dollar diamond job.'

'Can you prove any of this?'

'You mean do I have my ID with me? You think I'm crazy? There's no more certain way to guarantee a quick death.'

'You must have a control – someone we can call to verify this.'

'Sure,' he said smoothly. 'I can give you a number to call. But shall we decide what happens next? They could be back for a showdown any time now.'

'What was your plan, Mr Hammerstein?'

'To play along with them.'

'In robbery with violence?'

'I'm undercover. As an organisation we're not interested in how they raise their funds. We have a greater objective – the defeat of terrorism.'

'Are British security aware of your involvement?'

'I couldn't tell you. Listen, pal, I'm just an agent putting my life on the line. The top dogs decide who they tell.'

The other man asked exactly the question Harry had been waiting for. 'You say these are terrorists. What sort of terrorism are they involved in?'

'Bombings.'

He waited for it to sink in.

They weren't as impressed as he'd hoped. It seemed they still needed convincing that he was genuinely CIA. 'How did you know we were police?'

'It stands out a mile. There's the bug in the flowers. The marksmen outside. The camera you're pointing at me.' He stared into it and said, 'Hi, guys.'

'Do you think the other man sussed us?'

'Which other…? You mean Abdul, the guy who brought you up here? How would I know if he spotted you?'

'He looked nervous when you opened the door.'

'Maybe he smelt a rat.'

'He could abort the job.'

'Sure.' Harry was content to let them find their own rambling route to the point of panic.

'We'll know if they don't come back.'

'You bet.'

'They've been gone some time already. Which floor is the fitness centre?'

'Couldn't tell you.'

The man with the briefcase said, 'We could be sitting here like dummies while they make their escape.'

'Maybe.'

Another minute went by.

One of the cops looked at his watch. 'This isn't looking good.' He got up and went to the window, returned and sat with the others. 'What's in that?'

'In what?'

'The suitcase.'

Harry eyed the case he had personally filled with phone directories and lugged here. He frowned. 'It's just for show, I guess.'

'What's in it?'

'You've got me there.'

'You don't know?'

'I told you.'

The less talkative of the cops suddenly said, 'Jim.'

'What?'

'These people are bombers.'

'Jesus,' Jim said. The penny had finally dropped.

Harry stood up. 'You could be right. This damned case could be packed with explosives. They can detonate by remote control. We'd better get outta here.'

Jim was first through the door, followed closely by Harry. The corridor looked empty, but this was deceptive. Jim yelled, 'There could be a bomb in there. Clear the floor!' And immediately the doors of two other suites opened and men carrying sub-machine-guns came out. 'It's off,' Jim said. 'Everybody out.'

Harry had already picked his route. Instead of using the lift, which was open, he turned left and took the stairs. Before he was down the first flight he'd ripped off the moustache and pocketed the horn-rimmed glasses. On the third floor he emerged alone. The alarm system had just been switched on. Walking steadily, but without suspicious haste, he made his way along the corridors to the stairs on the opposite side of the building. He descended to ground level and strolled into the street and down the tube.