“I’ll drive them, fly them, and entertain them twenty-four hours a day, I promise,” de Jersey said.
“You don’t have to go that far, but they look forward to coming.”
“I’ll make it a trip for them to remember. I’ll arrange tickets for shows, guided tours, Windsor Castle, you name it.”
“They went to Windsor Castle last year,” she said. “They said they’d like to go to the Tower of London this time and maybe see London Zoo. Perhaps we can go by barge up the Regent’s Canal.”
He slipped his arms around her again. “When do they arrive?”
“In a week’s time.”
“That gives me time to get it all sorted out. You sure you don’t want to come for a walk?”
“Okay, then,” she said, turning in his arms to kiss him.
Later that afternoon de Jersey made his presence felt, talking, as he always had, to each member of staff in the yard. He leaned against Royal Flush’s stable door as the sweating horse was hosed down after his exercise and wrapped in a thick blanket.
De Jersey walked from stable to stable with the trainers and lads, examining all the working horses and the brood mares, the foals and yearlings. It had taken twenty-five years to build up a stable of such caliber, and Moreno’s money would not last long. He needed a vast injection of hard cash to keep going, and de Jersey was not prepared to fire one employee or send one horse to auction. He had coveted and created this life, and no one was going to take it from him.
He entered the kitchen from the yard. Christina was cooking dinner. As he passed her she caught his arm. “Are you going into your study again?” she said.
“Just to book some theater and the tourist attractions. I’ll join you for dinner the moment you call me.”
In his study he logged on to the Internet. When he had bought more theater tickets to West End shows than he had evenings to fill, he started to book London tours, ending up at the Tower of London’s Web site. He was not really paying attention as he printed off the information, but articles about the spectacular jewels on display captured his interest. The gems included the Second Star of Africa, part of the Cullinan Diamond, the Koh-i-noor Diamond, St. Edward’s Sapphire, and the Black Prince’s Ruby. He leaned closer to the screen as the page went on to describe the magnificent pearls worn by Elizabeth I and the Stuart Sapphire from the time of Charles II. Over the years the regalia had been altered to suit various monarchs. Queen Victoria’s hand had been too small for the coronation ring, so a copy had been made. Edward VII had not worn the St. Edward’s Crown as he was ill at the time of his coronation and it was deemed too heavy. Likewise, the arches on the Imperial State Crown had been lowered for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation as she was so tiny and the crown such a weight.
De Jersey became immersed in the Crown Jewels. He printed off some photographs. The article stated that the gold for the magnificent St. Edward’s Crown might have come from the Confessor’s crown. It was set with 444 semiprecious stones. The breathtaking Imperial State Crown was set with over 3,000 precious stones. Then he stared at the Koh-i-noor, set in the Queen Mother’s platinum crown. Last he looked at the little crown made for Queen Victoria, studded with over 1,500 diamonds. A response to a letter in the Web page’s mailbox stated that the last attempted robbery of the Crown Jewels had been foiled in 1671. These gems were kept closely guarded in the Tower of London and were seen by millions of tourists every year. A crown jeweler was responsible for their maintenance and cleaning. The Queen had last seen them in 1994, when the new Jewel House was opened.
De Jersey was so deep in thought that Christina called him numerous times for dinner. He appeared at last, smiling, and produced the printed information about theater and attractions, assuring her that he would come to everything with them.
“Darling, just a few dinners. I know you hate theater.”
“Well, in return for you letting me off theater dates, I will personally take them to the Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels.”
Once Christina had fallen asleep, he returned to his study and accessed more sites about the spectacular jewels. Their history was fascinating. Edward the Confessor and his successors had accumulated most of the regalia, but much had been sold off or melted down by Oliver Cromwell between 1649 and 1658. The current hoard dated from Charles II’s coronation in 1661. The foiled attempt to steal the gems had been instigated by a Colonel Blood, who had almost got away but was trapped at the East Gate of the Tower. De Jersey remained in his study until dawn. He went back to bed, tired but elated.
He woke feeling well rested, then changed into riding clothes. He rode hard for a good hour on an old favorite, a big eighteen-hand gray called Cute Queenie. At fourteen she was no longer racing but, having produced some good colts, she was kept for de Jersey’s personal use. He brought her to a halt, snorting and tossing her head. They looked across the downs.
“Good girl,” he whispered affectionately, and he pushed her to trot, then canter, finally coaxing her into a full gallop. It was like opening the throttle of a fine old racing car. The big gray tore up the wet morning grass, her breath steaming. He had not felt so alive for years. The adrenaline buzz stimulated every part of his body-confronting danger had always been his preferred drug, and after the Moreno business he craved more of it. As the next audacious heist formed in his mind, he felt as he had on receiving the tip-off about the gold bullion at Heathrow. And now he was contemplating stealing the Crown Jewels. But contemplating it and pulling it off were worlds apart.
6
Tony Driscoll arrived home from his holiday, tanned, jet-lagged, and exhausted. He contacted David Lyons’s office straightaway and spent two hours on the phone. He was sitting in a stupor, staring at the walls, when Liz barged in.
“Tony, have you unpacked?” she asked.
“You know I haven’t,” he snapped.
“Well, you can’t skive in here. You have to put out your dirty laundry for Mrs. Fuller. I’m not going to do it.”
“I’ve got a few business problems to take care of.”
“Can’t they wait? We only just got home.”
“I guess they can,” he said, standing, but when she left the room he sat down again. Until now he had maintained a positive attitude, sure that some money could be salvaged. Having been told bluntly by Lyons’s assistant that there was no hope of recouping a cent, he felt sick.
James Wilcox had discovered the same thing. The family had arrived home in Henley only to learn that his basement was flooded. Now he stared at the mounting bills. His numerous maintenance checks to his ex-wives were months overdue. Rika, irritable from the long journey, kept asking him to arrange a grocery delivery from Tesco, but he couldn’t think straight. One minute he had been worth millions, the next peanuts. He had not anticipated it would be this bad.
Rika slapped the grocery list down in front of him.
“This is gonna cost a fucking fortune, Rika. We’ve got eight different types of cereal here!”
“Vell, that is vat they eat!”
“From now on they’re all gonna eat the same one.”
Rika glared at him and slammed out of the room.
He was in real trouble. He had even remortgaged the house to throw more money into leadingleisurewear. He began to contemplate how he would react if de Jersey suggested another heist. It had been easy to agree with Driscoll to walk away, but now-with six kids, four ex-wives, a Ukrainian mistress, and only a garage full of vintage cars as collateral-he was heading for bankruptcy. If things got any worse, he would be hard-pressed to say no to anything de Jersey suggested.
De Jersey told his wife he would be away for a couple of days on business, staying at his club. Soon he would have to make his plans from a new location; it was too dangerous to work at home. He flew by helicopter to London, and by midmorning he was seated in a student lecture hall attending a computer-programming seminar. Afterward he approached the young lecturer and asked him to list some books that would assist in his training.