Royal Heist

17

Lord Westbrook was already waiting in Church Square at Shepperton. De Jersey was taken aback by the change in him: he was gray with fatigue. He sat on the iron bench by the riverbank, hunched in his coat, a cigarette dangling from his bluish lips.

“You all right?” de Jersey asked and sat next to him.

“Been burning the candle at both ends,” Westbrook joked, but his eyes-dull with exhaustion-betrayed him.

“I have a list of queries,” de Jersey said crisply.

Westbrook reached beneath the bench for his briefcase. “I have tried to ascertain all that you want to know.”

“Look, why don’t we go over to the George? They’ve a comfortable lounge there. We can order coffee.”

“Thank God, I’m freezing.” Westbrook stood up and dropped his case. De Jersey scooped it up under his arm. “Thank you,” said Westbrook.

In the pub de Jersey chose a window seat away from the bar.

“Shall I order some coffee, something to eat?” Westbrook asked.

“I’ll just have a coffee.”

De Jersey spread out Westbrook’s notes and studied them while Westbrook ordered coffee, cigarettes, and chicken sandwiches from the friendly bar staff, but de Jersey was watching him out of the corner of his eye as Westbrook went into the men’s restroom.

When he returned, his eyes were red-rimmed. He sat down heavily. “Fire away,” he said laconically, his face shiny from sweat. He had a coughing fit as their order was brought to the table. De Jersey poured coffee for them both and passed a cup to Westbrook. He took a few sips then bit hungrily into a sandwich, all the time holding his cigarette.

“Right, let’s get started,” de Jersey said.

Westbrook swung his legs onto the cushioned window seat. He continued to eat at an alarming rate. He then gulped at his coffee and lit another cigarette. “We do have a deal, correct?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve been thinking. I’d hate to snuff it and not get what’s due to me if you pull it off. I was wondering if you could draw up something for me in the name of my son. We are talking about big money here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but as you just said, it depends on whether we pull it off. So making out a contract is impossible. All I can give you is the agreed amount for the preparation. If we’re successful, you will get your cut.”

“You’re asking a lot on the old trust market.”

“Not really. We’re all protecting each other’s identities, so you’re not likely to be swindled.”

“All right. But if I snuff it, who will make sure my son gets my share?”

“I will.” De Jersey stared hard at him.

“Okay.” Westbrook swung down his feet. De Jersey drew his pages of questions toward him and unscrewed the top of his gold Cartier pen. “Who would accompany the Queen on such a visit?”

“An equerry. He’s a member of the small but select team responsible for the detailed planning and execution of the daily program. They support H.M. in her official duties and private life.”

“You can carry that off, be this equerry?”

“Oh, yes, that’s my background, absolutely. Good family connections and all that stuff. Equerries are seconded from the armed forces after three years. They wear a uniform during H.M.’s daytime engagements when they’re in personal attendance. I still have my uniform, so no worries there. Though often it’s not necessary. H.M. will say, “No medals today,” that sort of thing, so then it’s just a smart suit. Did I mention I was based in the Royal Mews at Buck House? I co-coordinated transport for H.M. Now, if it’s a state occasion, the ponies and traps are out, but for something like this, a fitting, it’ll just be her in a Daimler and another following.”

“And she would use a Daimler. You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes.”

“The mascot-” de Jersey began.

Westbrook slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Very important. The Queen’s vehicle has to have her silver St. George and the dragon on it.”

“I believe one of my team has already copied it. Who else besides the equerry would be with her?”

“Well, she’d have a lady-in-waiting, who deals with the handbag and flowers and acts as a part-time secretary, answering letters and so on.”

“Would she be around the same age as the Queen?”

“Usually. She’ll be well-dressed, pleasant, nothing that sticks out. A fade-into-the-background type.”

They continued discussing the lineup, which became tedious as Westbrook went off on irrelevant tangents. However, sick or not, he was indispensable.

Later that day de Jersey called Christina to see how her mother was. The news was not good.

“She’s dying. I’m going to talk to my father about stopping the treatment altogether. She’s in such pain, and as the doctors don’t hold out much hope, it seems wrong to subject her to it.”

“It must be terrible for you. I wish I could do something to help.”

He hung up feeling depressed and went for a walk. His thoughts wandered to Lord Westbrook. He hadn’t looked good that morning. Just how sick was he? The equerry had to be fit and well to be convincing.

He headed for a public telephone kiosk and rang Raymond Marsh. His wife answered, and then Marsh spoke.

“Who is this? Mr. Simmons, right? About time. We gonna meet?”

“I hope so. You free tonight?”

“Yep, and have I got news for you! Can you come to my place?”

De Jersey followed Marsh down a hallway with carpet so thick he felt as if he was wading through soft mud. Marsh was wearing skintight drainpipe trousers with thick-soled suede shoes in a shocking pink. They matched his shirt, which he wore with a skinny strip of leather as a tie.

“Come upstairs.” He led the way up the stairs, past posters from all of Elvis’s films. At the end of the landing Marsh opened a door and gestured for de Jersey to walk in. Inside there were banks of computers, a mass of cables, overflowing ashtrays, and pizza boxes.

Marsh said, “This is my office. As you can see, it’s all state-of-the-art equipment, worth thousands.”

“How have you been getting on at the exchange?”

Marsh produced a cheap canvas bag and dumped it on his desk. “Good. I’ve made printouts for you to take away, plus tape recordings. The IRA call in every morning at a designated time. They have ten lines, which they use in a certain pattern. They call the first line one day, the second the next, and when they get up to the tenth they go into reverse. I think I’ve predicted which line will be used on the day of the heist as long as they don’t change their pattern-but we’ve got plenty of time to see if they do.”

“Good work. What about the link between Scotland Yard and the safe house? What conversations have already taken place? Who has placed calls and to whom?”

“No contact yet concerning security for the fitting, but the date’s still a long way off. I expect something soon.”

De Jersey was impressed that so far Marsh was coming up aces at every meeting. Marsh wouldn’t let go of the canvas bag, though, and said determinedly, “It looks to me like I’ve got a pretty hefty role in this, and I’m not doing it for the joy of hacking. We need to talk about my cut.”

“Okay. We now know that the main piece we’ll get our hands on will be sold for close to sixty million, and we’ll get more for the rest of the jewels,” de Jersey lied, knowing it would be considerably more.

Marsh wanted to be assured of at least ten million, plus the thousand a week, which de Jersey agreed to. Then Marsh tossed over the canvas bag, saying, “Closer to the day of the fitting, the commander of the RDPD will liaise with D’Ancona about security procedures. I can identify the line to the safe house, and I’ll be intercepting the call to notify them that the Queen’s visit has been canceled.”

The two continued working through the plan. Once Marsh secured the code word for the second of May, he would pass it on to de Jersey. De Jersey, posing as an IRA informant, would call the police using the code word and make a bomb threat that would be deemed genuine. Scotland Yard would call the Palace, and all Royal proceedings would halt immediately. Marsh would be waiting for the commander to call the safe house to cancel the visit, and when the call was placed, he would break into the line and answer it himself. The head of security at the safe house would still be expecting the Queen.

“I’ll get to the exchange before six A.M., and I’ll stay there until about ten thirty, when you’ll be taking care of matters,” Marsh said. “I’ll keep a check on the lines just in case anyone has noticed anything dodgy.” He sucked in his breath. “Get out of the safe house as fast as you can; they won’t take long to figure it out. Palace security are gonna keep checking for clearance. You’ll have ten to fifteen minutes to pull this off.”

De Jersey knew Marsh’s physical presence in the exchange would be risky. “We’ll be as quick as possible,” he said. “Straight in and out. Any way you can get a layout of inside the safe house?”

“You’re telling me you’ve made all these plans and you still don’t know what the interior is like? That’s fucking nuts! It’s imperative you know what the layout is.”

“Why? We’re going in through the front door. There’s no problem. We just need to know where the vault is.”

Marsh pointed a finger at de Jersey and said angrily, “This is an amateur’s night out, mate.”

De Jersey’s mouth tightened. “Not necessarily.”

“I just hope to God the other guys know what the fuck they’re doing. You can’t seriously contemplate busting into this place if you don’t know what’s gonna be waiting for you. Can you get to someone on the inside?” Marsh paused. “Listen, I might be able to help you out, but I can’t promise nothing. Maybe I’ll find something that shows their security system layout. If it’s on a computer somewhere, I can get to it.”

“How long do you need?” de Jersey asked, worried. Marsh’s remarks had hit home.

Marsh grinned. “How much are you prepared to pay?”

De Jersey sat pondering the plans. He didn’t feel much better after a good night’s rest. The interaction with Marsh had unnerved him. “Amateur?” His wallet was also hurting. He’d better come up with the goods after that last payment. De Jersey still had to find a suitable woman to assume the role of the lady-in-waiting and persuade the Queen’s look-alike to take part. He was also short of the two bikers. Perhaps he should use the Internet again. He sighed.

De Jersey caught a train back to his estate. He needed to unwind; the tranquillity of the house soothed him as he wandered from room to room.

He was sitting at his desk when Christina called. Her mother had died that afternoon. She spoke incoherently through her tears. Her mother had been only sixty-two. De Jersey was gentle and understanding. After he hung up, he contacted Driscoll to say the plans would be halted for a few days. Driscoll seemed relieved that the funeral would take place over the same weekend as his daughter’s wedding. Then de Jersey phoned Wilcox, now really sick with flu and unable to move. He too was relieved that de Jersey was taking time away. Neither man mentioned the heist, and de Jersey wondered if they were still having doubts.

The truth was, he had lost confidence that they would be able to pull this off. After his meeting with Marsh, all he could see were the holes, and what a weird mix his team members were: Driscoll, the cocaine addict Wilcox, the cancer-riddled Lord Westbrook, the pockmarked Gregory Jones, the egotistical Raymond Marsh, and the nervous Paul Dulay. Add to that the cost to date, and he felt sick.

Throughout the flight to Sweden the next day, de Jersey sat with his eyes closed, going over details that were now so familiar it was like turning the pages of a book he knew by heart. He was interrupted by the flight attendant offering refreshments and the newspapers. He took The Times, the Express, and the Daily Mail. In the Express, an article caught his eye. Two elderly spinsters had conned the equestrian circuit out of thousands of pounds. A picture showing them beaming into the camera, holding a winner’s cup and rosette, triggered a memory. He tried to calculate how old Pamela Kenworthy-Wright must be now. They had met in the seventies through a mutual friend. Pamela had been a RADA-trained actress and married a wealthy stockbroker, whom she had later divorced for his infidelity with a manservant. Afterward she had tried to resurrect her acting career and appeared in a couple of TV series, but in the late eighties she was arrested for shoplifting in Harrods, which resulted in a stint in Holloway women’s prison for credit-card fraud. He smiled to himself. Pamela might be just the woman he needed, but first he had to find her.

The funeral was a small affair with just the widower, Christina’s siblings, and their children in attendance. Though Christina was pale, she maintained her composure, apart from shedding a few tears. De Jersey was attentive and caring, and father and daughter were grateful for his support. When de Jersey proposed that Christina stay on to deal with her mother’s belongings and to help settle her father in a smaller house, both deemed it a thoughtful suggestion. He even offered to remain with her, but she knew he had pressing business in London and, as de Jersey had hoped, refused his offer. He loved Christina, but time was moving on. His team was still incomplete, and most important, he still did not have the layout for the safe house.

It was after midnight. Driscoll’s daughter was safely on her way to her honeymoon while her father sat by one of the specially installed outdoor heaters near his lily pond. It was full of streamers, confetti, and cigarette stubs, but he could have cared less. His head throbbed-he’d had too much to drink, though he didn’t feel drunk-and his gut was on fire.

“It’s Tony, isn’t it?” said the burly figure in the green security uniform.

“Do I know you?”

“Been twenty years, maybe more. I’m Brian Hall.”

Driscoll didn’t recognize the guy.

“Used to work for you, long time ago, when you had that waste-disposal company. You did me a big favor. I was on parole, needed work; you gave me a job, even though you knew I had a criminal record.”

“Sure. So, how’re things?” Driscoll asked, not really caring.

“I get a bit of work here and there. Been with this company for a few years, but I’m a reserve. They pull me in when they need extra hands, like for this kind of gig.” He gestured to the wedding remnants around him.

“Did you stay clean?” Driscoll asked.

Hall shook his head, laughing softly. “I tried for a while, but when you’ve got a wife and three kids, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, know what I mean? I got my fingers burnt a few times more. I’ve only been out ten months.”

Driscoll reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Hall laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, no, I’m not looking for a handout. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Fancy a drink?” Driscoll asked.

“Not while I’m on duty.”

“Who’s to see you? Besides, I hired you.”

They walked back to the bar in the marquee. Driscoll found a half-full bottle of brandy, picked up two glasses, and made his way to the corner of the patio. “Brandy suit you?”

“Yeah.”

Driscoll divided the bottle between them, then proffered a cigar, and they lit up, sitting in the darkness with the music still banging away.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any work going?” Hall asked.

“Not really. I’m semiretired,” Driscoll said, then gestured to the gardens and the house. “But don’t think all this is safe and secure. I’m skint. I made a bad business deal and got screwed out of all my savings.”

“I’m sorry,” Hall said. “I’ve got a little sideline, though, if you need any heavy work-know what I mean? If these people that screwed you on this business deal need sorting, me and my pal Kenny Short, we do contracts. Not the really heavy stuff, but we certainly put some pressure on.”

Driscoll remained silent.

“Hope you don’t mind me asking. It was just a thought.”

An idea slipped into Driscoll’s mind. It sat there for a while before he said quietly, “You know, I just might have a nice earner for you. Can this Kenny geezer be trusted?”

“With my life!” Hall said.

“Gimme a contact number and maybe I’ll be in touch. I’ll have to talk it over with a pal first, all right?”

Back in England after the funeral, de Jersey turned his attention to tracking Pamela Kenworthy-Wright. He quickly established that she was no longer a member of Equity, then discovered in the telephone directory that three people had the same last name and initials. When he called the first, the phone was answered by an upper-crust military type: “Peter Kenworthy-Wright speaking.” De Jersey hung up and tried the second number. This time he spoke to an elderly lady, who said Miss Petal Kenworthy-Wright was out walking her dog. The third time, the phone rang twice.

“Hello?”

“Miss Pamela Kenworthy-Wright?”

“For my sins, yes, it is. Who is this?”

“I’m doing a census inquiry for the government with regard to people living in your area and claiming unemployment benefits.”

“Oh, God, this really is an invasion of one’s privacy.”

“Do you own a computer?”

“Yes, I do. I also vote Conservative, I smoke, and I’m divorced. Now piss off.”

“Were you an actress?”

“I still am.”

“Thank you very much.”

He hung up before she could start asking questions.

De Jersey thought his run-down flat in Kilburn was a palace compared to Pamela’s bedsit in a converted fort in Plymouth. To gain access to the apartments you had to cross a drawbridge. The main courtyard was filled with boarded-up huts. Stray dogs and cats scuttled around stinking trash bags. Broken sinks, lavatories, and fridges littered the cold, damp corridors. The stench of urine pervaded the stairs and the second-floor corridor leading to number 20. There was a sign that read, “Do not disturb before eleven A.M., thank you.” De Jersey smiled and rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” demanded an authoritative, aristocratic voice.

“Philip Simmons.” De Jersey heard the lock slide back, and the door was edged open.

“Are you from Social Services?”

“No.”

“So what do you want?”

“To talk to you. I met you a long time ago.” He smiled pleasantly.

“Well, I don’t recognize you and I’m very busy right now.”

“Please, Miss Kenworthy-Wright, this may prove lucrative for us both.”

“Do you have identification?”

He produced a driving license in the name of Simmons.

“Come in. I need my reading glasses.”

He followed her into the flat, which was better furnished than he had expected. There was a good-quality rug and comfortable leather armchairs, a computer, a large TV set, and a gas fire, which made the room very warm. A few large oil paintings of men in wigs and a dour-faced woman dominated the walls. A sofa bed with an orange duvet was dangerously close to the fire.

Pamela was wearing a velvet dressing gown over her skinny frame with rabbit-fur slippers. She delved into a cloth bag for her glasses, held them to her nose, glanced at the license, and passed it back. “What do you want?”

“May I sit down?”

She shrugged, sitting in the chair opposite him. Her face was heavily wrinkled, and lipstick rivulets ran from her thin lips in rows of tiny red lines. Only her eyes, a wonderful china blue, retained a spark of brightness. Her hair, various shades of dark auburn tinged with gray, was dyed, probably by herself.

“I can’t for the life of me think what I could have that would be of any interest to a nice strapping man like you. I like your shoes.”

“You’re a technological lady?”

“Yes. I had computer training in prison,” she said, without embarrassment. “I’m quite proficient. I’m writing a book about my life. It would be so nice if you were here about that. I did send off a first chapter to all and sundry, but I’ve not heard a squeak back.” She lit a cigarette.

“I’m not here about your book.”

“Pity, that was really why I let you in, but we all have these fantasies. You know, dreams of overnight success. Couple of small parts in The Avengers wasn’t going to take me to Hollywood, but at the time I believed it might. I was in it with Honor Blackman.”

“I met you with Victor Markham, back in the seventies,” de Jersey said.

“Did you? He’s been dead for years. Of course, after my problems I lost touch with a lot of the old crowd. You said something about… lucrative-was that the word you used? I’m running out of pleasantries, Mr. Simmons. I’m waiting with bated breath.”

“I may have a proposition for you.”

She laughed a smoker’s throaty laugh, revealing coffee-stained teeth. “Well, talk, dear boy. I’m in need of anything that’ll make me a bob or two.” She gave a sly smile. “It’s not legal, is it?”

“No.”

“Anyone who knew Victor Markham was bent. So why are you here, Mr. Simmons?”

“I need you to impersonate someone.”

“And what would it be worth to me?”

“More than you would get from any publishing deal. I’ll need you to stay in London. I have a place-it’s not very comfortable, but it would only be for a short time.”

“Mmmm. I think I’d rather like a gin. Can I offer you one?”

On his return to Kilburn, de Jersey rented a small studio in Maida Vale and arranged for the keys to be sent to his Kilburn address. His cell phone rang. It was Driscoll.

“How are you doing?” de Jersey asked.

“I think I’ve got your motorbike riders,” Driscoll said thickly.

“You don’t sound like yourself,” de Jersey said warily.

“Got a hangover, but I’d say these guys are the real thing. You wanna check them out?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll arrange a meet. Tomorrow morning?”

“Fine, what time?”

“Lemme get back to you.”

De Jersey switched off the phone.

It rang again. This time it was Wilcox. “How we doing?” he asked, sounding perky.

“I’m fine, and you sound a lot better.”

“I am. Few days in bed sorted me out. I think we should meet at the barn so I can show you what I’ve been up to.”

“Fine. Tomorrow?”

“Let’s say seven, make it really early.”

“Seven it is. See you there.”

Driscoll and Wilcox were both moving things forward just like the old days. De Jersey liked that. They were starting to be more of a team.

Just after seven the next morning, de Jersey met with Wilcox. He parked by a thick hedgerow and walked toward the large barn, which had huge double doors. Wilcox opened them and came out. “I saw you drawing up. It’s freezing in here, but we’re pretty secure.”

De Jersey followed him in and closed the door. The vehicles, shrouded in big white sheets, were parked in the center of the barn. Beside them were the two bikes, also draped in sheets. Next to them was a trestle table with the weapons, the mascot for the Queen’s car, and so on.

“This looks good. And the nearest farm is, what? Two miles north?” de Jersey queried.

“The two houses at the top of the drive are empty, so we can come and go. Nobody’s gonna be around.”

Wilcox pulled the sheet off one of the Daimlers, which gleamed. “I’m almost finished with the upholstery. I’ve got a guy making up the seats. He has no idea what they’re for, and I can collect them in a couple of weeks. The color is close enough. Dark maroon, right?”

De Jersey walked around the car. “Tony says he thinks he’s got the bike riders. I’m going to meet them this morning.”

They went to a small back room area, screened off from the main barn. Wilcox had collected a few chairs, a kettle, and coffee mugs.

“We’ll need some heaters in here,” de Jersey said.

“I’ll get one of those big ones they use on film sets.” Wilcox sniffed. His nose was running.

De Jersey wondered if this newfound energy was not a return to health but, in fact, chemically fueled.

“You want the surveillance details me and Tony have been working on?” Wilcox asked.

“Fire away.”

“We’ve been taking turns monitoring the safe house, and we’ve got the following regular workers and visitors. Two females, one about twenty-five, the other middle-aged. Three males, mid-thirties, and two white-haired men. Four security guards. Two come on early morning, two at night. Four other men turned up, but they weren’t regulars.” Wilcox laid out photographs of each one. Even if he was still doing coke, de Jersey could not fault his preparations. If anything, he himself was lagging. He felt uneasy when Wilcox pressed him for details about the interior of the safe house.

“We’ll discuss all that at the first big meet. I need a few days. Good work, James.”

“Not got it together yet, then?”

“Almost, but it’s taking more time than I thought. I’m getting there, though.”

“I sincerely hope so, old chap. Time’s moving on.” They gave each other a brotherly hug. “So, what’s next for me?” Wilcox asked.

“Just get the vehicles ready.”

“We’re on course, are we?”

De Jersey hesitated a beat before he answered. “Yeah, we’re on course, James.”

Later that morning, de Jersey met with Driscoll and Brian Hall and Kenny Short. De Jersey suggested they take a ride on an open-top bus, and the four men were the only occupants of the top deck. As they stared out at the sights of London, de Jersey-as Simmons-questioned Hall, then Short. When they parted, he tapped Driscoll’s arm and said softly, “Nice work. They seem steady guys.”

Driscoll nodded. “I reckon we’ll have no problems. They agreed to the fee, and I trust them. I have to, cos Hall knows where I live.”

“Right,” de Jersey said. In the old days, Tony Driscoll would have moved house. Fortunately de Jersey did not have to. No one new coming into the team had the slightest notion who he was.

When de Jersey called to say he was arranging a meeting for the following week, Westbrook had been having migraines that left him so weak he could hardly lift a cigarette to his lips. De Jersey’s call lifted the pain and cleared his head abruptly. He didn’t know if it was terror or having something else to think about. He wasn’t scared; there was nothing to be scared of. He was dying anyway.

Pamela Kenworthy-Wright agreed to travel to London. She didn’t ask questions except where she would find the keys to the apartment she’d be staying in.

Just as de Jersey was beginning to feel he was making good progress, Raymond Marsh called and dropped a bombshell.

“This is hot off the Buck House telephone wires. She’s snuffed it.”

De Jersey took a deep breath. “What are you talking about?”

“She was rushed to hospital last night and died early this morning. It’ll be front-page news by tonight, so-”

De Jersey clenched his teeth. “She’s dead?”

“Yeah. Be a big funeral, they’ll be lowering the flags and stuff.”

“Dear God. Are you sure?”

“I’m certain. My gran always said she should have been allowed to marry Peter Townsend.”

“Wait, you’re talking about Princess Margaret?”

“Yeah. Who did you think? It means that H.M. might not be keeping to her diary.”

De Jersey’s heart rate dropped slightly. For a moment he had believed the Queen was dead. “How soon can you find out?”

“All I can do is keep you posted. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes, thank you.” He hung up.

De Jersey sat stunned. This could throw a major spanner in the works. A few days later, however, after the media had run coverage of the Princess’s death virtually into the ground, Marsh called again. He said he needed to talk to de Jersey urgently.

“Is this about the funeral?”

“Nope. As far as I can tell that’ll all be over soon. The diary hasn’t changed for May. Busy this month, though. Not sure I’d fancy being cremated myself, but-”

“What did you call to talk about then?” de Jersey asked, cutting Marsh off.

Marsh refused to say over the phone, so they arranged to meet in a coffee shop a stone’s throw from the entrance to Buckingham Palace. It was Marsh’s morning break, and a long line of tourists was waiting for the Changing of the Guard, their umbrellas up against the cold February drizzle and their coats buffeted by the brisk wind.

“You’ve got real problems,” Marsh told him. “I did some rooting around at work cos I figured the D’Ancona alarm system might work through their phone lines.”

“And what did you find out?”

“They’ve got serious panic buttons-fifty-two of them-all wired up individually to the phone system with a direct link to an alarm receiving center, which contacts the police. I suspect they’ll be set up so that if you deactivate one line the others will go off.”

De Jersey’s heart sank.

Marsh continued. “They’ll be dotted around all over the place. I tried to get more information using the Web, but there’s nothing on D’Ancona that we don’t already know, and besides, they ain’t gonna give details on the Web about their security. But it’s logic that they’ll have ’em on the walls and under the carpet so you won’t even be able to tell if one’s been set off until it’s too late. Step on one an’ you’ll trigger the rest.”

“So you got nothing on their security layout?”

Marsh shook his head. “The plans aren’t stored on any computer network that I’ve dipped into. They’re gonna protect themselves an’ gotta be wise to hackers. One more thing I did find out, though. There’s activity on those lines at precisely nine o’clock every morning. I assume that’s when they check their system, so if you deactivate the phone lines connected to the panic buttons, it’ll need to be done after that. But it’s not all bad news.”

“Go on.”

Marsh wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “I hacked into the Royal diary page again. Been keeping my eye on it for you, especially since the Princess died. The fitting’s been confirmed. It’s Thursday the second of May, ten thirty.”

De Jersey stared at him. If the fitting was now confirmed, so was the date of the robbery.

“See? I said it wasn’t all bad news. The party they’ve got listed for the fitting includes Her Majesty, a lady-in-waiting-Lady Camilla Harvey, the equerry, plus a detective, two bike riders, the chauffeurs, and some security geezers.”

De Jersey gave Marsh a guarded smile and patted his arm. Then he got up and walked out. Marsh pocketed the fiver de Jersey had left for the waiter and substituted two pound coins.

Two steps forward and a bad one back. It was disappointing if not catastrophic not to know the layout of the security at the safe house. De Jersey knew how many people worked there, what time they came in and out. He knew how many telephones there were, but he did not know on which floor the main vault was and, most important, the locations of the panic buttons and security alarms.

He put up his umbrella and walked toward Victoria Station, where he caught a bus to Kilburn. He sat upstairs in a front seat, deep in thought, watching the rain pelting down. He calculated that, apart from the obvious, they were in good shape all round with more than eleven weeks to go. He stared out of the window at the traffic snarled up alongside Hyde Park. Just as the bus drew up by the Park Lane underground garage, he noticed the Eye Spy security company housed in an elegant corner shop across from the old Playboy Club. It was not the shop, however, that had caught de Jersey’s interest but the figure of a young man leaving it. It was the salesman from the security exhibition in Birmingham. The bus jolted forward, and de Jersey watched him walk down Park Lane toward the Dorchester Hotel.

De Jersey jumped off the bus as it idled and made it safely to the pavement, just a few yards up from the Grosvenor House Hotel. He put up his umbrella and walked back briskly in the direction of the Dorchester.

“I am so sorry,” he exclaimed, as he caught the young man with the edge of his umbrella.

“It’s okay.”

He was about to walk on when de Jersey said, “Wait a minute, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No, I never forget a face. You were on the Interlace Security stand at the Birmingham exhibition.”

“You’re right.” But the puzzled expression on his face meant that he didn’t recall de Jersey.

“Philip Simmons,” he said.

“Oh, yes.” He obviously still had no recollection.

“Are you working in London now?”

“Erm, not as yet.”

He seemed eager to continue down Park Lane and was obviously uneasy as de Jersey walked alongside him.

“Is there an exhibition on? I still haven’t contracted a security company for my new business.”

“I’m just here for the day, going back on the four o’clock train.”

“I’m going to have a bite to eat at the Grosvenor House’s coffee shop. Do you have time to join me? We could perhaps continue our discussion.”

The young man hesitated and glanced at his wristwatch. “No, thank you. I should get to the station.”

“Nonsense. You have plenty of time. Join me, please. As I said, I really would like to continue our conversation.”

Gridley looked at de Jersey. “Are you picking me up or something? If you are you’ve got it wrong. Excuse me.”

“Dear God! I’ve never been accused of that before.” De Jersey laughed. “I assure you, I simply wish to talk to you about my business, and I’m certain you have plenty of time to catch your train. We could have a glass of wine or coffee, whichever you prefer.”

“Thank you,” Gridley said. “I’m sorry if I seem crass, but… Oh, why not? My train isn’t until four.”

They sat at a window table, and de Jersey took charge, ordering a bottle of Merlot. The young man seemed awkward in the elegant surroundings. They had both removed their wet coats, and the cloakroom attendant had taken de Jersey’s umbrella. Gridley was wearing the same cheap suit he’d had on the last time de Jersey met him.

“Mr. Simmons,” he said, “I think I had better tell you that I’m not going to be working for the company for much longer. My father retired last week. After he’d gone they gave me a month’s notice. I think they only kept me on because of him, so I came up here to look for work.”

“Any success?”

“Not as yet. At the end of this week, when my notice is up, I’ll come back and have a really good scout around.”

“Well, I wish you every success. We never did get to finish the conversation we started in the bar at the exhibition. That man who interrupted us, he seemed to be giving you a bit of a dressing-down.”

Gridley sipped his wine. “I don’t remember. They’ve been daily occurrences, the dressing-downs.” He drained his glass, and de Jersey refilled it. “Thank you. This is part of my problem,” he said, tapping the glass. “I have been a bit hungover a few times but…” He tailed off and stared into his glass.

De Jersey could feel the adrenaline pumping. He knew he had to take this opportunity very carefully. First he intended to lull Gridley into a false sense of security. He would then dangle a carrot the young man would be unable to refuse. He suggested they order lunch, his treat, and Gridley agreed.

They finished lunch, having discussed the progress of the building works on his fictional jewelery-shop premises. By this time Gridley had consumed most of the wine and de Jersey had ordered another bottle.

Then he went for it. “You know they had another robbery in Bond Street, and Gucci’s warehouse was also done over? Did you read about it?”

“Yes.” Gridley nodded. “They should have used Interlace. It would never have happened. I mean, although they’re making me redundant, I reckon they really are the best company. You don’t get contracts like we have for not being top of the ladder.”

“Exactly, which is why I am so pleased to bump into you this morning.”

“But I’ll be an official job seeker next week, so if you decide to go with our security system, I won’t get the salesman’s bonus.”

De Jersey topped up his own glass. “I don’t think that’s fair. You sold the company to me. I shall insist you get it. How’s that?”

“Well, I obviously appreciate it, but as I won’t be employed there I doubt if it could be arranged.”

“Well, then, I’ll do it on a personal basis. How about that?”

There ensued another fifteen minutes of discussion on how de Jersey could pay the bonus to Gridley directly. Then he went for the kill. “I would pay you more than the bonus if you could let me see how the D’Ancona security works. I don’t think that company has ever been robbed. I know they lost a diamond recently, but that was just one stone.”

“It was worth a couple of million, though.” Gridley glanced at his watch.

“But their safe houses have never been breached, and it would be a major plus for me to have an insight into how they have been so successful. And since your company, or your ex-company, drew up their plans…”

“That would be impossible,” Malcolm said.

“But not if they didn’t know. Just make me a copy. Could you do that?”

“I really couldn’t. Besides, they’d probably know it was me.”

“All I want is to be sure my business is as well protected as possible, and Interlace would get the work. I could pay you five thousand for your trouble. I’d also make sure you got the bonus. I don’t think they could possibly have any ill feelings toward you. On the contrary, they should offer you a better position instead of firing you.”

He still had not bitten and was now checking for his train ticket. He had consumed almost the entire second bottle of wine.

“I might even be able to help you get another position. Are you planning to continue working for-”

“Mr. Simmons, I have to be honest with you. The type of work I was doing bored the pants off me. I was only working there because of my father, and I have no idea what I want to do next. I’m sort of looking around but… I’ve recently split up with my girlfriend. She’s gone to live in Australia, and it’s really cut me up. And when I said to you before that I had been rather hungover occasionally, that was putting it mildly. A couple of times I was three sheets to the wind, so I can’t really blame them for firing me. I was probably a bit sozzled when you came to the exhibition.”

He looked morose and fished in his suit pocket for a packet of cigarettes. “Can we smoke in here?”

“Go ahead, unless you’d prefer a cigar.”

“I’ll stick to these.”

De Jersey ordered a brandy for himself, and Gridley flicked nervously at his cigarette ash. “I’ve had a series of job interviews. The old man has virtually given up on me, but I can’t seem to find anything that, you know, interests me, and with Francesca leaving…”

“Why not go out to Australia? Maybe that’s the place for you.”

“I only had just enough dosh for the ticket to London, but I have thought about it.”

“That bonus I spoke of would come at the right time, then, wouldn’t it? Why don’t I take you round my shop? I really do need some advice. We can be there in half an hour, and you could look over the premises.” He knew he was on safe ground inviting Gridley to his nonexistent shop as the young man had said he was catching the four o’clock train. It was already five past three.

“I’m afraid I can’t. I have to get to the station.”

De Jersey wasn’t sure his fish was on the line, but he had gone quiet, which was a good sign. De Jersey paid the bill, and they collected their coats and de Jersey his umbrella. Gridley remained silent as he watched de Jersey give the cloakroom attendant a heavy tip. They walked into Park Lane together. De Jersey was getting worried; perhaps he had overestimated his powers of persuasion. He wondered if he should have offered more money, but that would have made Gridley suspicious.

“I’m not a salesman anymore,” Gridley said suddenly. “They have me doing menial tasks around the office.” He hesitated. “It means I have access to the files, but while I would really like to help you out, and obviously the bonus you mentioned would come in handy, I don’t think…” He was flushing.

“Really? Well, that makes it even easier for you.” Relieved, de Jersey put up his umbrella, sheltering them both from the rain. “But I don’t want this to get you into any trouble. It would help me cut corners, but if it’s at all risky then I understand if you feel you can’t help me.”

Gridley looked relieved. “Thank you. And I’d like to help you out, but it’s impossible, and I’m afraid you’re rather out of touch.”

“I’m sorry?” de Jersey was stunned by the young man’s change of heart.

“I doubt that any reputable security company retains easily accessible blueprints of their customers’ premises. Everything is computerized, and it’s virtually impossible to gain access without permission. If you open up a file on the computer, you need the password, and the date and time will be recorded. So even if I attempted to do it, I’d be caught red-handed.” But thank you so much for lunch,” Gridley said. “It was really nice to meet you again. Now I should jump into a taxi or I’ll miss my train.”

De Jersey forced a smile. “Good luck. And here’s some advice,” he said, gritting his teeth. “You only live once. If you don’t go after what you want, you’ll watch it slip from your grasp.” Then he turned and walked away, his face taut with anger. He had certainly misjudged the young man. In fact, he would have liked to ram his umbrella down his throat.

The meeting at which all the team would get together for the first time was set for two thirty at the barn on the following Monday. It was imperative that de Jersey show 100 percent confidence in his plan. But it would be difficult; so much still depended on him being able to secure the layout of the safe house. Once again he contacted Marsh. To date he had only attempted to gain access to D’Ancona records, but what if he could tap into the Interlace computer files? Marsh promised to “give it a whirl,” but he warned de Jersey that they risked tipping off Interlace that someone was sniffing around.

“I need the layout,” de Jersey said stubbornly.

“Listen, mate, it’s not you that’s doing the dodgy stuff. I got to watch my back. Like I said to you, I’ll give it a go, but these top-notch companies have got all kinds of hidden traps, an’ I don’t want nothing zapping back to my gaff.”

“Will you do it?”

“I’ll see if I can break in tonight. All I’m saying is, it’s a risk.”

“Take it,” de Jersey snapped, then drew a deep breath. “It’s very important.”

“I know, pal. Without it, you’re walking into a minefield. Like I said, I’ll do what I can.”

De Jersey had a restless night waiting to hear back from Marsh. When he opened his e-mail the next morning it was not good news.

“Problems,” the message said. “Attempted to do as requested. Gained password, entered, and then all hell broke loose. Pulled out fast, but the company will have been tipped off. Sorry! Elvis.”

De Jersey stared at the screen with no idea of what his next move should be. As Marsh had so succinctly put it, entering the D’Ancona safe house without a floor plan would be like walking into a minefield.