“That’s okay, sir. More of a risk when landing and taking off.”
De Jersey answered the phone and listened to Dulay. He arranged to meet the jeweler in London in a week’s time. He smiled. Dulay had bitten faster than he’d thought he would.
12
The next morning de Jersey left the farm. Several hours later, at the Kilburn flat, he was working on his files. He had made lists of the Royal household interviewees by name and background.
Even so, when he opened up his e-mail account he was surprised at the number of messages. He printed them out and sifted through the answers to his inquiries. One message in particular interested him: a Lord Henry Westbrook, who said he had in-depth knowledge of the Royals and the running of their households, gained first as a page and later as an equerry. He added that he had recently been a “guest of Her Majesty.”
De Jersey printed out a series of questions he had sent to an infamous computer hacker with their answers. To one question, the hacker had responded that companies should be far more worried about an insider than an outsider, due to the insider’s easy access and increased capability of infiltrating the company’s systems. Nine times out of ten, security breaches were caused by an employee, and rarely were they reported. De Jersey made himself a cup of coffee. He needed an insider in place to deal with aspects relating to the Royal Family. He would need access to Her Majesty’s diary and, most important, to the security that surrounded her.
The coffee tasted rancid-he’d forgotten to buy fresh milk. He threw it away and went back to the message from Lord Westbrook; he had been an equerry to the Queen from 1984 to 1986. Soon after the termination of his employment he was sentenced to seven years in jail for “taxation fraud,” for setting fire to his ancestral home, then claiming the insurance for art treasures he had already sold. Now, eight years later, he was still broke, living in a small studio apartment in Mayfair that belonged to an elderly relative. It seemed to de Jersey that he would be a perfect candidate.
Despite debts and a checkered past, Lord Westbrook was sought after socially, and not for his title alone. At fifty-four he was still a handsome, charming escort and a witty companion. Since his release from prison he had been the life and soul of every dinner party. Lord Westbrook knew that his next bride had to be wealthy. He was an outrageous flirt and adored pretty society girls as much as they adored him, but securing a young bride was proving difficult since his reputation always preceded him. Middle-aged widows or divorcées were his best bet. The title helped; some woman was always eager to be seen on his arm, even if it meant taking on his mounting debts.
De Jersey remembered seeing Westbrook at various charity events although they had never met. He made phone calls to the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London, then tried fashionable restaurants and, finally, the Jockey Club without success. Ultimately he called what had once been Westbrook’s estate, fully aware that his lordship no longer lived there, and was eventually put through to a manager. De Jersey said that he was unable to keep a luncheon appointment with Lord Westbrook and had misplaced his telephone number. He was provided with both number and address.
Westbrook answered the phone abruptly. His drawling voice had the husky quality of a chain smoker.
“My name is Philip Simmons. I’m a novelist. You replied to the query I posted on the Net-”
“Yes. How did you get my number?”
“I asked around. It wasn’t that difficult.”
“Right. Well then, you said you wanted some research done. How can I help you?”
“I wonder if we could discuss it over a drink. I have a deadline, so earlier rather than later would be appreciated.”
“Of course. Where do you suggest?”
A cigarette dangling from his lips, Westbrook strolled into Brown’s Hotel. It was dark and located in Kensington, where there was less risk of de Jersey running into someone he knew than in the West End.
“Lord Westbrook?” The man gave a cursory glance around the almost empty bar.
“Yes,” he said bluntly.
“I’m Philip Simmons. Please sit down. What will you drink?”
“Vodka martini.” He drew up a high stool and sat beside de Jersey, then stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit a fresh one. The Silk Cut packet was almost empty.
“Vodka martini, twenty Silk Cut, and a Bloody Mary,” de Jersey said. The barman nodded, placing two small bowls of peanuts in front of them. De Jersey had no intention of being overheard and motioned Westbrook to a small table in the darkest recess of the room.
“Well, this is all very cloak and daggerish,” Westbrook said. The waiter put down their drinks and more peanuts. “Cheers!” He gave a lopsided smile, and they drank. “You never know with this Internet stuff. A pal recommended that I hunt around on it to find work. I went to one of those Internet cafés, awful places.” Westbrook’s dark eyes roamed the bar. “Not been here for years. Odd place. Perhaps you could enlighten me about your project. Not another book on the Princess of Wales, I hope.”
“No, it’s not, but it will be worth your while.”
“Well, if you’re hoping to use me as a social entrée, I’m afraid my name won’t do you much good. It would have, when I was first released from prison, but now I don’t generate much excitement. Am I talking myself out of a job?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, as I was saying, my best days are behind me.”
De Jersey smiled. His lordship was very self-effacing. After two more martinis, his tongue was even looser. He talked endlessly about his days in prison and the cons with whom he’d been cooped up. Eventually he wound down. “So, let’s cut the small talk. What you up to? I’ve got a feeling that, whatever it is, it’s not kosher.”
De Jersey began to like him. “You could say that.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
Westbrook looked perplexed.
“And particularly your past experiences.”
“In prison?”
“No, before that.”
“What for?”
“The book I’m writing.”
“‘Blue blood gets arrested for fraud, ends up serving time,’ that kind of thing?”
“Further back. Your contact with the Royal Family. Your knowledge of the Royal household and the Queen’s routines. Protocol. To be more specific, I need to know more about Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting: where they stand, how they dress, how they address her. Also, how many security men travel with a Royal cavalcade, what they wear, how many per vehicle, and so on.”
Westbrook frowned into his empty martini glass. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
“That would depend, but I am prepared to pay a high price for the information. I need to be able to trust you. The more details you can give me, the higher the bonus. Can I get you another drink?”
“I don’t think so. Coffee maybe.”
De Jersey patted Westbrook’s arm. “Good move. I don’t work with drunks. Excuse me.” He ordered coffee and sandwiches at the bar, then went to the restroom. He was giving his lordship time to think, to get hungry for the money being dangled in front of him, hungry enough to become part of the team.
The sandwiches were consumed rapidly, but after de Jersey ordered a second pot of coffee, Westbrook’s manner changed. He sat back, lit his sixth cigarette, and sucked in the smoke. He had sobered up.
“Now, cards on the table. Who the fuck are you? This novel doesn’t ring true to me. Not when you’re coming on like some James Bond figure. I can’t figure you out.”
De Jersey hesitated, then began. “Okay, my name is Philip Simmons, and I’m a nobody. I have lived mostly in the U.S. for the past decade, got a nice little nest egg and was about to retire when I lost it on some bloody useless Internet company that was supposed to make me more than secure for the rest of my life. It bankrupted me.”