“One hundred. And let me see them first.”
Marsh threw the pages to him.
De Jersey studied them closely. This was made different from the engagements sites by the alterations, queries, and question marks. “TBC” was written beside numerous appointments. His heart jumped. There, on May 2, was the word “Fitting.” Beside it was the name of the jewelers, D’Ancona, and the time, 10:30 A.M. De Jersey folded the pages.
“Is that what you wanted?” Marsh asked. “I couldn’t come up with anything else.”
“Not really,” De Jersey lied. “I was hoping to find out about her portrait sittings, but it’ll still be useful.” He withdrew six hundred pounds from his wallet and handed the cash to Marsh.
“Ta. I’m gonna put it toward a holiday I’ve promised the wife. She’s not seen her sister for eight years. They live in New Zealand.”
As the door shut behind Marsh, de Jersey breathed a sigh of relief: he had found not only the date and time of the fitting but also its location. He reread the printout and laughed out loud. There was another piece of vital information on a February page: a D’Ancona representative was flying in from Antwerp for an appointment at the Palace. Since D’Ancona was a jeweler by appointment to the Queen, the alterations must be under way. By tailing the D’Ancona agent from the airport, perhaps he could discover the location of the “safe house” where the jewels were being kept. He needed Marsh again to find the list of passengers traveling on the nine fifteen from Antwerp to Heathrow.
The Daimlers had been stripped down. Wilcox had spent hours in the dank mews garage respraying and fixing them. As he expected, buffing the bodywork to gleaming Royal standard took time, but fitting the new carpets and replacing the leather seats would take even longer. Now Wilcox checked the engines. The cars would be taken to London in one of his own trailers. He didn’t want them to be seen driving through the city. He had already made the Royal mascot, which would be attached to the front, a silver St. George on a horse, poised victoriously over a slain dragon.
He had just turned on the electric polisher when de Jersey paid a surprise visit.
“How’s it going?”
“The engines are all tuned up, but the bodywork’s a problem.”
De Jersey inspected the cars. “Travel in style, don’t they?”
“I guess so, but they don’t make them like this anymore. We were lucky to find them. You wanna hear the engine?” He turned it on, and they listened to it purr.
“You here alone?”
“I get here early and leave late. I see no one.”
“Got a place to brew up?”
“Sure, out the back,” Wilcox said, wiping his hands on a rag.
As the two men sat with mugs of tea in the grimy back room, de Jersey updated Wilcox on the plan. Wilcox said little, smoking one cigarette after another.
“We’ve got a date, May second. Can the cars be ready by then?”
“Hell, yes. I’ll work on the upholstery in London, but we need a place to store them.”
“I’ll find it,” de Jersey said. “Gregory Jones is putting together the rest of the information, then I’ll proceed with the Palace security research. Now we just need the D’Ancona rep to lead us straight to the jewels.”
“What arrangements did you make for moving them on?” Wilcox asked.
De Jersey sipped his tea, and Wilcox repeated his question.
“You know, Jimmy, I still don’t have it direct from you that you’re not going to get cold feet-or Tony for that matter.”
“Don’t do this to me,” Wilcox said.
“What am I doing, Jimmy?”
“My head in. Obviously I wouldn’t be schleppin’ up and down the motorway fixing up these motors if I wasn’t in.”
“But you haven’t said it to me directly.”
“I’m saying it now, all right? And I reckon Tony’s in too.”
De Jersey continued drinking his tea.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Course I did.”
De Jersey looked into his eyes. “Cut out the coke, James. Doesn’t do you any good, and it worries me.”
“I’m clean, Eddy,” Wilcox protested.
“Keep it that way, because I need you beside me.”
Wilcox’s face broke into a smile.
“I think I’ve got a buyer, a Japanese guy.”
“What about Dulay?”
De Jersey nodded. “The contact came through him. Dulay’s not firmed up yet. He’s coming for a meeting in three days’ time, but I reckon he’s onboard. I don’t want him meeting you or Tony. Less he sees of any of us the better.”
“Sure. I never met him anyway. Tony said he looks like that French actor Gérard somethin’. You went over to Monaco to see him, did you?”
“As Simmons. He doesn’t know who I am. He just needs to produce a buyer and get the big cut he’s after.”
Wilcox stubbed out his cigarette. “Have you found out where the jewels are being held?”
De Jersey glanced at him. “I told you, the D’Ancona rep will lead us to the jewels. They’ll be in a safe house somewhere, being prepared for the fitting.” He stood up to leave.
Wilcox walked him to the garage door, where de Jersey patted his shoulder. “It’s coming together. Don’t worry.” Then he stepped through the doorway and was gone.
Wilcox locked the door. He was shaking; the palms of his hands felt clammy and cold. He walked back to the annex, where he opened a silver snuffbox and performed his regular ritual. He was still shaky, but his head was clearer now. He went back to work.
De Jersey called Christina to say he would be going to Dublin for a few days, then spoke to Fleming about Royal Flush. He was informed that the horse had started training with no problems. They were pacing him with other horses, and that morning he’d passed them with ease on the gallops. Fleming asked which stallion he should put to the filly coming into season, and de Jersey said he would have to think about it. Calmly, he noticed that the date for the Derby was almost a month to the day after the heist. He hoped for enough cash to keep the estate going for the rest of his life.
A few days later, after a call from Jones, he arranged for his second visit to Franklyn Prison. The money had been deposited in Jones’s account, and Jones was ready to talk. In fact, he provided more information than de Jersey had hoped for, such as the number and type of vehicles required per Royal, how many motorbike cavalcades would be allocated by the Metropolitan Police, how many police cars, and the number of their own security guards who would act as bodyguards.
“A complete Scotland Yard division is allocated to the Royals, so get your pencil out. With Her Majesty, we’re talking about the full treatment. The number of guards and security officers goes down according to the rank of the Royal.”
Jones had the contact numbers of every police officer working out of Scotland Yard assigned to the Royals. He also knew what police and security procedures were in place before the Royals stepped into their cars.
“Every vehicle is inspected for bombs, not to mention engine faults. So is the route they’ll take-every inch, every possible sniper location-checked and cleared. You getting all this?” he asked.
“Keep going.” De Jersey’s pen flew across the page.
Jones leaned back in his chair. “Right. The Scotland Yard unit in charge of the Royals is called the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Department. These guys, all skilled motorcyclists and car drivers, provide twenty-four-hour protection. They are recruited from the ranks of police officers experienced in operational street duty. I was part of this group for five years. There’s nothing I don’t know about all areas of Royal protection.”
He lit a roll-up, heaving the smoke deep into his lungs, then let it out through his nose. He continued. The head of Palace security received a special code word from Scotland Yard daily. Scotland Yard would use this same code word to inform Palace security if an IRA threat had been issued. Then Royal visits planned for that day would halt, unless Scotland Yard gave the all clear.