Royal Heist

3

De Jersey sat at his desk jotting notes. An opened newspaper had an article ringed in red about the falling prices of Internet stocks. Some compared it to the Wall Street crash. The headline screamed, TYCOONS WHO LOST A BILLION OVERNIGHT and THE STARS WHO SAW THEIR INTERNET FORTUNES CRASH. Five British investors had lost a billion in less than a year; five others had lost more than half a billion. The only compensation for de Jersey was that his name was not mentioned in any of the press reports.

Leadingleisurewear.com had grown into one of Europe’s largest Internet retailers as well, but it had now been confirmed that they had brought in liquidators. The company had spent nearly 230 million pounds since its inception eighteen months previously. Staff at its New York headquarters learned that the fledgling enterprise had collapsed, taking with it the entire backing of its investors. The founder, Alex Moreno, admitted that the company had failed to control costs.

De Jersey wrote and underlined the man’s name on his pad. He turned back to his computer, took out one disk, and slotted in another. He continued scrolling through David’s reports, which detailed previous companies started by Moreno. Apparently, he had successfully launched four companies on the Internet over the past six years. In a lengthy article, Moreno expressed his deep regret but said he still believed leadingleisurewear had been on the right track in aiming to become the largest Internet retail clothing business in the world. He admitted they had spent money too freely opening lavish foreign offices in Britain, Germany, and Sweden, and offering perks to lure the best employees.

De Jersey almost bit through his cigar. Management had purchased fleets of cars and enjoyed first-class hotel accommodations as well as luxurious apartments and houses. The article identified the big losers in leadingleisurewear as “an English aristocrat and two other British businessmen.” As the controlling shareholder, de Jersey had suffered the biggest loss: nearly a hundred million pounds.

It was almost five o’clock in the morning when he finished assessing the documentation David had compiled for him. His losses were far greater than he had at first anticipated. All that remained was the three million he had stashed in his offshore account in the Caymans, and with David gone, he would now have to gain access to this money personally.

He shut down his computer, then unlocked a drawer, slipping into it his notepad, which by now contained the names of the leadingleisurewear founders, their last known addresses, and details of their attempts to sell off what was left of the company. Moreno had already formed another company under a different name. This meant he could be traced, and de Jersey had every intention of doing just that.

It had snowed heavily during the night, and on Christmas Day the de Jersey home resembled a picture postcard of idyllic country life. Christina adored Christmas. She had decorated with bunting and arrangements of silver holly and fir branches. The tree in the hall reached the ceiling and was trimmed with silver ribbons and baubles. Under it the piles of gifts were wrapped in exquisite paper and ribbons. She loved the smells that wafted through the house. She’d baked for days, making baskets of Christmas puddings, cakes, and mince pies for the staff and the local church. Natasha and Leonie had arrived home yesterday after spending a few nights with classmates at their Swiss chalet. At seventeen and fifteen, the girls both enjoyed skiing. They were stunning, with their mother’s crystal blue eyes and long, blond hair. De Jersey spoiled his daughters, but he was quite a strict father. Their friends were welcome to stay, as long as plenty of notice had been given. People were not encouraged to drop in; his family knew that he valued his privacy.

The annual Christmas Day party was in full swing. Christina distributed gifts to the staff and their families, and there was always a white envelope from the Boss, which contained a bonus.

De Jersey stood at the front door looking out with a lump in his throat. Royal Flush was walking sedately through the snow, carrying two baskets loaded with gifts from the staff to their employer. The horse was draped in a red velvet blanket with a sprig of holly in his forelock, and his breath steamed out in front of him. They surrounded de Jersey and sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” He approached his champion and stroked his nose. He was not about to lose all this, he thought. It was everything he had dreamed of possessing.

After receiving the gifts, de Jersey slipped away and was not missed for some time. Eventually, Christina sought him out in their bedroom and was surprised to find him changing into his jodhpurs. “Darling, what are you doing?”

“I need a ride. I won’t be long.”

“But lunch is soon. You said you wanted to sit down at four.”

“I’ll be back by then. Please, I’m sorry, I just need some air.”

He saddled up Royal Flush himself and rode toward the track on the outskirts of the farm, unmarked except for the footprints of foxes and birds. His lungs filled with the icy air as his thoughts turned to the problems he faced. He decided to leave first thing the following morning. He’d have his pilot arrange permission to fly into Heathrow’s private heliport and then take a flight to New York.

After lunch Christina carried in the blazing pudding and received great applause. Around her wrist was the delicate diamond bracelet that had been her husband’s present. He had given each of his daughters a special piece of jewelry too, as tasteful as their mother’s. He had received cigars, socks, and a flamboyant embroidered waistcoat from the girls. And Christina gave him a small oil painting of the stud farm circa 1910 that she had found.

They had coffee in the dining room and played word games in front of the roaring fire. At seven Natasha and Leonie went to change to go to a party. Christina curled up beside her husband, her arms loosely wrapped round his knees.

“I have to go to London tomorrow,” he told her. “I’m sorry, it’s business.”

“But it’s Boxing Day,” she exclaimed.

“I shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

She looked up into his face. “It’s to do with David, isn’t it?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, don’t do this. Since David’s death you’ve been acting so strangely. Please talk to me. Is it to do with him?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m meeting a banker who’s going to help me unravel the mess. I need to deal with it right away.”

“Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

“You stay with the girls. The sooner I leave the sooner I can come home, but it might be three or four days.”

Christina threw a log onto the fire, then glanced at the mantelpiece; a Christmas card from the Queen was in pride of place. Her husband had been so pleased when he saw the crest on the envelope. He had always coveted acceptance in high-society circles, though she did not understand why. He had told her little of his past, and, not long before they met, his last relative, his mother, Florence, had died.

“Penny for them.” He kissed her neck.

“I was admiring the Queen’s Christmas card.”

De Jersey laughed.

“Why do you never talk about your family?” she asked suddenly.

“What brought this on?”

“You go away sometimes-inside yourself, I mean. I know this David business is on your mind, but you told me it’s not that serious. Then you have to go to see a banker on Boxing Day. It doesn’t make sense to me. If it is serious, why don’t you tell me, let me share it with you?”

“I’ve told you all I know.” De Jersey had to control his temper. “And my family-you know that my parents died a long time ago, sweetheart. You know all there is to know.”

“No, I don’t,” Christina persisted.

“Yes, you do,” he snapped. “And you’ve had too much champagne.”

“No, I haven’t.” She leaned against the mantelpiece watching her husband. “What was your home like, Edward?” she asked stubbornly.

He blinked rapidly. “Clean, neat, and tidy. My mother always said you could eat your dinner off her kitchen floor. We always had a Christmas tree in the front room window and paper chains all over the hall. There was usually a big fire-well, it seemed big, but the fireplace was small. It had pinkish tiles and two brass animals on either side.”

Christina stared at him. “You make it sound…”

“Clean, neat, and tidy,” he said.

“No, friendly,” she said.

“Yes, it was. Everyone loved my father and mother. Now, as I’m leaving tomorrow, I thought maybe we could retire early,” he said, cupping her breasts with his hands. They kissed passionately until he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward the stairs.

As Christina lay sleeping peacefully beside him, de Jersey moved a wisp of hair from her cheek. Their marriage had been so happy; his previous one seemed a lifetime ago. He had met Gail at a nightclub. She was the worst kind of spoiled “daddy’s girl.” Her father was a wealthy real estate agent with offices all over London. She was educated at Roedean, a top British private school, and attended finishing school in Switzerland. De Jersey was not a man who frequented nightclubs. Wilcox, a regular at every West End club, had cajoled him into going. This was before their last robbery. Wilcox seemed to have an endless string of women. In fact, it was he who had first known Gail Raynor and introduced them.

When de Jersey saw her dancing in the dim lights of the Piccadilly Blue Elephant Club, she had looked like a tempting angel. The Blue Elephant was the in place to be and be seen, always full of celebrities and famous socialites. Gail was waiflike, with auburn hair down to her waist. She wore miniskirts that showed off her beautiful legs and high, white Courrèges boots. She had an annoying nasal twang and haughty manner worse than that of her aristocratic “debby” friends.

“Can’t you sleep?” Christina murmured, interrupting his thoughts.

“No, just thinking.”

“About what?” She sat up, leaning on her elbow.

“Gail,” he said.

“Do you think about her often?”

“No. Maybe it’s David’s death. I’ve been reflecting about a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Why I ever got involved with Gail. To be honest, I think I was more impressed by her successful father than by her.”

“Why?”

He wished he had not started the conversation. “Maybe because my own father was dead. I was not sure what to do with my life, and he gave me direction.”

“By marrying his daughter,” Christina said, yawning.

“Whatever. She was a mistake, but my friendship with her father wasn’t. He was a good man.”

She snuggled. “You hate talking about her.”

“I just don’t like wasting time thinking of her. She isn’t worth it. Hate has nothing to do with it. It was a mistake, and I got out as fast as I could.” He made no mention of divorcing Gail once her father had died, leaving him to run the business. It was also Gail’s father who had suggested that if he was selling property to top-level clients he might think about dropping the overly familiar Eddy. Raynor felt that Eddie Jersey wasn’t classy enough. But his son-in-law went one better, not only referring to himself as Edward but inserting the de. So it was that he became Edward de Jersey, and Gail’s father would never know the many other names his son-in-law would use by the end of his criminal career.

“What happened to her?” Christina asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. When the firm went bust I sold up and…” He was moving into dangerous territory now. It was after the company fell apart that he’d started planning his final robbery. “I never saw her again,” he said, leaning on his elbow and smiling. “I met this woman, well, she was just a young slip of a thing, and I saw her photograph in a magazine and…”

Christina giggled. She always loved hearing him tell how he had cut out her picture and traced her through the model agency. He had even traveled to Sweden to find her when she was already living in London.

“She who made up for all the tedious years I’d been with Gail. And she is now my wife, the mother of my daughters, and…” He kissed her, trying to prevent a return to the subject of his ex-wife and, more important, not wanting to approach the time in his life when he, Wilcox, and Driscoll had pulled off the robbery that had been the foundation of their wealthy lifestyles.

What troubled de Jersey was that when he met Christina he had been immensely rich and had used his wealth to court her obsessively. “Do you regret anything?” he asked stroking her cheek.

“No. Well, yes there is one thing,” she said softly.

“What’s that?” he asked, kissing her neck.

“I would like to have given you a son.”

After a moment he raised his arm and drew her close to him. “I do not have a second of regret, not one second,” he said. “We have two perfect daughters and”-he looked down into her face-“Royal Flush.”

“I know,” Christina said, “but it’s not the same.”

He gripped her tightly. “I don’t want anything to change.” His manner frightened her, but then he tucked the pillow beneath his head and closed his eyes, murmuring, “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Happy Christmas,” she whispered. She remained curled by his side, lying in the crook of his arm.

“Happy Christmas, sweetheart.” He would not allow anything to harm their idyllic life.

By the end of Christmas dinner, he had to undo the button on his trousers. The Driscolls were in a booth in the main restaurant. He had ordered Krug champagne, as had most of the other guests. He had drunk more than usual, but he felt stone cold sober.

“Do you like this color?” Liz paraded her pearly false nails.

“Yes, very nice.”

“Oyster pink shimmer,” she said. “It’s a perfect match for the dress I bought for New Year’s Eve. I was just testing the colors out. Do you remember the dress? From Chanel in Knightsbridge.” Driscoll recalled the floating chiffon with an embroidered vest top and ribbon straps. It looked like a nightdress, but he’d told her he loved it-he loved anything that made her happy. Suddenly he was overcome by emotion.

“Tone, what’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed.

Driscoll was crying now. How could he tell her he was broke? That he’d been a bloody idiot and lost his life savings. A few thousand here or there wasn’t going to keep this pretty little soul in the manner to which she was accustomed. “I’ve had too much to drink,” he muttered.

She reached for his hand. “Let’s go to the room. They’ve got the porno channel. We could order more champagne, get into the Jacuzzi, and have dirty sex.” She giggled.

Dear God, he thought, how am I going to keep this up until New Year’s Eve? All he wanted was to get back to London, meet de Jersey, and hear his plan. Just thinking about it, he got another erection. “Yes, darling,” he said. “Let’s go up to the suite.”

They didn’t make it into the Jacuzzi, and he didn’t need to watch any porno film. To Liz’s delight, Driscoll didn’t even take off his dinner jacket, he was so desperate. They screwed against the bathroom wall, in the bedroom on the carpet, and then in their bed until he passed out. She wished their sex life was always this good.

Wilcox had never been money-conscious. He lived life on the edge in Aspen, keeping his mind off his financial crisis with excessive amounts of cocaine. Rika worried about his recklessness. Wilcox had more innate class than de Jersey, but he lacked prudence. This man liked taking risks. Over and over again Rika tried to stop him going out late at night to ski, but she always backed down at the first hint of anger. Fury lay dormant in Wilcox, and she did not want to provoke it against herself. So when he left the house on Christmas night, she didn’t try to stop him.

The loss of his fortune had left Wilcox balancing on a precipice. When he got off the ski lift at the level for experienced skiers, he positioned himself, checked his skis, adjusted his goggles, then eased forward. In the five-minute descent, he made a near-perfect run. Upon reaching the lower slopes, however, he felt a tightening in his chest. He gasped for breath, and by the time he was at a standstill he was bending almost double. Lately these pains had been occurring more frequently. Added to chest pain, he’d been experiencing dizzy spells, and a couple of times during this holiday his nose had bled profusely. Even now, as he pulled off his goggles, there were spots of blood on the snow.

He removed gloves, then skis, which he carried to his truck. Once inside he leaned back until the dizziness subsided. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror; his nostrils were encrusted with dried blood. He took a tissue and wiped it away. When he got back to the chalet, every light was on. The kids would be listening to music, playing table tennis, or watching videos, and Rika was probably waiting to have another go at him for disappearing. He told himself he was too old to be indulging a serious drug habit-if he caught any of his kids using the same substance, he’d thrash them-but he could feel the itch starting. He dumped the skis on the ground by Rika’s car and hurried up the stairs.

He locked the bathroom door, unfolded the wrap, chopped three lines of cocaine, rolled a dollar bill, and snorted. He was rubbing the residue on his gums when the door handle turned. “James, are you all right?”

He unlocked the door, smiling. “I’m great. Just got caught short coming up the drive.”

“I vas vorried vhen I saw you just throw your skis inside the garage. You haven’t viped dem clean.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it later.”

“You do it now, James. You shout at the kids for doing just the same thing.”

“Get off my back, Rika.”

“I’m not on it.” She stormed out.

Wilcox locked the door, then sat on the toilet. One more hit, he thought, then he’d dry off his skis. He snorted two lines, then reached for the phone. He knew it was against the rules, but he couldn’t stop himself. A little later he went into the bedroom, packed a bag, and went downstairs to Rika. “I’ve got to go away for a day. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She gripped his arm. “Vhere you going?”

He pushed her aside. “I’ve got a business problem. Just leave me alone!”

“I von’t be ’ere ven you get back,” she screamed after him.

Wilcox drove erratically down the drive, then reversed, almost skidding into the garage. Rika ran from the house and banged on the windscreen, but her anger turned to worry when she saw the look on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She opened the car door and got in beside him. “I’ve got big problems.”

She put an arm around him; he rested his head against her. “Maybe I’ll go tomorrow,” he said. Then she helped him out of the Jeep and into the house. He told her that he had lost some money and needed to talk to someone about it. The following morning she drove him to the airport.

Wilcox flew to Florida. He had to talk to someone, and it could only be Driscoll. He had calmed down since the previous night, but he was cold-the air-conditioning made him feel as if he was still on the ski run. He was sitting at a booth in the bar, behind a massive aquarium with exotic fish diving around elaborate fake rocks. He’d had two diet Cokes.

Driscoll-white golfing cap, white T-shirt and shorts-entered the bar and saw Wilcox slouched at the table. He headed over and sat down.

“How did you find me?”

“Simple. Phoned all the top-notch hotels. Got to the tenth and they said you were there.” Wilcox cast a bleary eye over his friend. “Christ, Tony, you look like a right arsehole! What have you got on your feet?”

“Gucci sandals. You look as if you’ve had a night on the tiles.”

“Still a label man, are you?” Wilcox asked.

“The wife buys it all. I don’t give a shit, but if it doesn’t carry a designer name she won’t buy it.”

Wilcox slurped his Coke, and Driscoll ordered a decaf coffee from a waitress in a pink uniform. Eventually Driscoll said, “How much did you lose?”

“My shirt,” Wilcox said flatly.

“Me too. I mean, I’ve still got a few thousand here and there, some property, but… He called you, did he?”

“Yeah.” Wilcox rubbed his arms. “Bloody cold in here.”

“Yeah, the hotel dining room’s like a fridge, gotta wear a jumper to breakfast.”

“What are we gonna do?” Wilcox finally asked.

“I dunno. The Colonel said he was trying to sort it all but not to hold out much hope. We may be able to salvage something.”

“That prick David Lyons didn’t top himself for nothing, and we’re in a long line of losers. The Internet bonanza’s screwed thousands like us.” Wilcox twisted his glass. “Gonna meet us at the Ritz again, right?”

“He’s arranged the meeting for when I get back from here, mid-January.” Driscoll was staring at the fish.

“What do you think he’s doing in the meantime?”

“I dunno.” One tiny fish was swimming like quicksilver.

“I’d say he’s up to his old tricks again. Nosing out some hit. What if he suggests we get involved in something? Are we up for it?”

Driscoll burped. “Thing is, Jimmy, I owe him. His dad took care of my mother. If it hadn’t been for him she’d have been in a right mess. Paid for my school uniform. Like a surrogate father to me was Ronnie.”

“I know.”

Driscoll closed his eyes. “He used to look after a lot of people, did Ronnie, but when the shit hit the fan…”

Wilcox leaned back against the booth.

“Those villains, Jimmy, were something else. They came in the bookies with fucking sledgehammers, terrifying! I didn’t know Eddy that well then. Seen him around, but he was at the grammar school so we didn’t mix. And after he got into Sandhurst I hardly ever saw him. It was hard to believe they were father and son. I mean Ronnie wasn’t a big fella, and Eddy was always head and shoulders above him. My mother said it was from Florence’s side he got the height. She was a big woman. Always knitting. She got him elocution lessons so’s he wouldn’t feel out of place at Sandhurst. But when I saw him at Ronnie’s funeral limping on a crutch after he’d busted his knee, I said to myself, ‘He’s not gonna be able to deal with these villains coming into the shop, extortin’ cash, smashing the place up.’ I said to him that, as much as I respected his dad, I wasn’t gonna stay around to get my head kicked in. And do you know what he said?” Driscoll asked rhetorically. “‘They’ve offered to buy me out.’ I said to him, ‘Sell. If you don’t, they’ll go after your mother.’ You don’t want to get in the middle of bastards like the Krays and the Richardsons fighting it out. ‘Sell up and get out,’ but he said he was going to the police.”

Wilcox was looking around the bar, bored. He’d heard the story a thousand times, albeit many years ago.

“Offered him peanuts, the bastards did,” Driscoll continued, “and those two betting shops were gold mines. Cops were no help. I said to him, ‘Eddy, they’re probably getting back-handers,’ and I’ll never forget his face. When they came back, pushing and shoving him around, he just stood there like a wimp. They threw the money at him and made him pick it up off the floor.”

“I was there, Tony.”

“I mean, if you’d told me then what he’d go on to do, I’d have laughed in your face,” said Driscoll.

Suddenly Wilcox got up.

“Where you going?”

“To take a leak, then I want out of this place. We can go back to my hotel, have a sandwich.”

“Oh, okay, I’ll settle this.” Driscoll took the check.

Wilcox gave a soft laugh. “That’s generous.”

Wilcox’s hotel was evidently not a five-star establishment, and Driscoll balked. “Gawd almighty, Jimmy, why did you book into a place like this?”

“Anonymity,” Wilcox snapped, and they went into the threadbare foyer, then up to his room, where Wilcox opened a miniature vodka from the minibar.

“I was thinking about you moving in with Eddy after Sandhurst,” Driscoll remarked. “I bet his mother didn’t like it.”

Wilcox flopped back onto the bed. “You sound like a record that’s got stuck. You don’t owe Eddy. If you hadn’t helped us out we’d never have got away with robbing the shops.”

“I know,” said Driscoll.

Wilcox recalled the way de Jersey had laid the plans after selling out to rob his father’s old betting shops. They wore balaclavas and carried shotguns as they systematically cleaned out the takings. De Jersey became the Colonel because of the way he barked out orders when they rehearsed their attacks on the shops. They hit them on every big race meeting, de Jersey working out the details like a military maneuver. As a result of their robberies, the two big rival East End gangs started a war that eventually saw the shops firebombed and burned to the ground. Each believed the other was the perpetrator.

“How much do you reckon in today’s money we got away with?” Driscoll asked.

Wilcox shrugged. “Maybe a quarter of a million, not a lot.”

“To me it was. When he shared it out three ways I couldn’t believe it. I thought I’d get a cut but not that much. You see that’s another reason I owe him. I was able to set my mum up for the rest of her life, God rest her soul.”

Driscoll called room service and ordered two hamburgers and french fries.

“You ever think, Tony, that he owes us?” Wilcox asked quietly.

“No way. He even split it three ways for the train robbery. He didn’t have to do that.”

“He couldn’t have robbed his dad’s shops without our help, and on the train job, all he did was suss out how to stop the train.”

“And I was the only one with a car. Remember that Morris Minor? You two were havin’ to schlep all over the place to check out the trains. You guys were catching trains to stop one!”

“We spent hours up at that railway bridge too. And it wasn’t Eddy’s idea about fixing the signals, it was mine.” Wilcox lit a cigarette.

“But he worked out how to move the mail train into a siding.”

This annoyed Wilcox. “You owe me just as much. I agreed to split that cash three ways as well. Look, you just did the route for that. Anyway, I don’t call twenty grand in cash a big deal or any reason to feel you owe him for the rest of your life.”

“All I’m saying is, he didn’t always have to cut it three ways.”

“Just think about his reasons. The others got thirty years apiece, right? And when they questioned us we could have put him in the frame with them. We were lucky they thought we were just dumb kids.”

“Not that dumb. We got away with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And here you are, Christ knows how many years later, bleating on about how much you owe him. That’s why he always did a three-way cut.”

“What do you mean?”

“So we’d feel indebted to him,” Wilcox snapped.

“So you do feel you owe him, then?” Driscoll asked, surprised.

Wilcox sighed with exasperation. “No. We all took the risks. It was only fair to cut three ways.”

Driscoll opened a bottle of gin from the minibar and yanked out the ice tray. “Not the same on the last caper, though, was it?”

Wilcox tensed and opened another bottle. “I was up for it,” he said shortly.

“Yeah, but the last time it was a big number.”

“All right, I hear you.”

“Yeah, stealing fucking gold bullion, Jimmy. If we’d been copped that would have been thirty years. Without Eddy we’d never have got away with it. It wasn’t you or me that found out how to launder the cash.”

“And it was almost a fuckup. He didn’t have any idea how much there was.”

Driscoll laughed. “Three tonnes of gold. Worth twenty-five million pounds. Damn right we owe him.”

Wilcox reclined, his eyes drifted upward. Most of the gold had been melted down and moved abroad fast with the assistance of de Jersey’s friend’s helicopter and yacht. The robbery had been almost effortless, but moving that volume of gold had been a nightmare. De Jersey had deployed everyone he could think of to melt, move, carry, and shift the bars. Some were melted in a private kiln in a jeweler’s garden; others were buried around London, carried out to Spain in suitcases, or even left in safety-deposit boxes. De Jersey shipped some to Africa, then brought it back into England after purchasing a smelting plant; there he altered the hallmarks and later sold it on the open market. The largest amount, however, had been stored in a small jeweler’s workshop in France.

There was a rap at the door, and Driscoll got up to take in the hamburgers. He handed one to Wilcox and unwrapped the other.

“He moved those gold bars around,” Driscoll said. “Turned them into cash.”

“I don’t know how he bloody did it,” Wilcox said.

“He used assumed names and identities. He told me he’d worked out a system of depositing cash into high-street banks, in amounts as large as eight hundred grand.”

Wilcox unwrapped his hamburger.

“It wasn’t just us he took care of. Those ‘soldiers’ who were picked up, he looked after them. They never put any of us in the frame.” Driscoll tried to open his ketchup packet; he swore as the ketchup spurted over his T-shirt.

Wilcox remained unimpressed by the argument. “Well, they wanted their payoff when they came out of the nick.”

Driscoll peered at his hamburger. “You know Scotland Yard officers recovered eleven melted-down bars in 1985. None of the remaining stolen ingots has ever been found. Have you got a raw one? This is like old leather.” Wilcox passed over his untouched hamburger, opening another miniature vodka instead.

The two men fell silent, Wilcox drinking, Driscoll stuffing french fries into his mouth.

Under de Jersey’s orders, Wilcox and Driscoll had split up and moved to Canada, then to Los Angeles. De Jersey covered their tracks; he had given them fake passports and instructed them to be constantly on the move-and apart-until all was quiet. They were not due to receive the big payoff for another few years. They showed how much they trusted their “colonel” by their patience. The laundered money eventually ensured that all three men could lead a life of luxury. By now they had growing families and flourishing businesses. De Jersey himself emerged as a racehorse and stud-farm owner.

Driscoll looked up suddenly. “Why did you come here, Jimmy?”

“Thinking of writing my memoirs,” Wilcox replied.

“You’re here because you’re worried about what he’s gonna suggest, right?”

“Well, you keep saying how much you’re in debt to him, so I guess whatever he suggests, you’ll be up for it.”

“And you don’t feel like you owe him?”

“Like fuck I do. It was his idea to back that Internet company.”

Driscoll opened a half bottle of white wine.

“Okay, let’s be honest with each other.” He sat back, watching Wilcox open another miniature. “Reason you’re here is that you’re scared shitless.”

“Listen, I’m not scared of anything; I’m just being realistic. No way do I want to spend the rest of my life in some nick.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a wife and two kids. I feel the same way.”

“You do?”

“I can get by, like I said. I’ll have to sell off everything. Liz will go bananas, but hell. Ain’t gonna starve.”

“When we meet what are you gonna say? We should get it worked out between us.”

“I know.”

“But whatever he suggests we both walk away from, and this time we don’t let him wear us down. If we stand up to him together… Tony?”

Driscoll took a gulp of wine, then another, draining the bottle. “I agree,” he said. “I hope they serve better stuff than this at the Ritz, because I know I’m gonna need a few drinks to face him.”

“Yeah, but if we do it together it’ll be better.”

“It’s agreed, then?”

“Yeah.” They shook hands, but neither could meet the other’s eyes. They felt as if they were somehow betraying de Jersey.

Liz sat, surrounded by boutique bags, when her husband reeled in. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked, buffing her nails.

“I do, my love. I’ve been out on the golf course.”

“No, you haven’t. Your golfing shoes are still in the wardrobe.”

“Well, I lied. I’ve been at the Pink Flamingo bar,” he said as he tottered off to their bathroom.

“Who with?”

“Brad Pitt, and if you think I’m plastered you should see him.”

“Tony!” she yelled, but he slammed the door behind him.

Driscoll knew it was going to be very hard for him to say no to the Colonel. It would be even harder for Wilcox. He remembered Wilcox’s face when de Jersey had insisted they all have no further contact with each other. Since leaving Sandhurst, Wilcox and de Jersey had hardly been apart. Wilcox could not believe that his friend really meant it. He’d joked that maybe they could at least have a drink sometime.

“No, Jimmy,” de Jersey had said. “When I walk away, that is it. You don’t know me, we never meet up again. It’s the only way we will protect each other.” Then de Jersey had hugged Jimmy tightly. After he’d gone, Wilcox was in tears. “I feel like I just lost my brother,” he said.

Driscoll had felt sorry for him. “He’s just looking out for us Jimmy, like he’s always done.”

“Yeah, yeah, good-bye then.”

“Good-bye, Jimmy. You take care now.”

So they had all gone their separate ways. They had each been lucky and enjoyed a good life.

He sighed, sitting on the toilet looking down at his feet and his leather sandals. They reminded him of the ones he had worn when he was a kid. Outside the bathroom his wife was dripping with diamonds, and she had no doubt spent a fortune at the boutiques. The good life had softened both men, and Wilcox was obviously as afraid as he was of being drawn into another robbery. They would have to say no.