He had the Range Rover within easy viewing distance thanks to the heavy traffic. It was still backed up, even when they hit the A4. Twice when the traffic thinned out he almost lost them, but roadworks saved him and he was able to watch their progress four cars ahead. The distance lengthened as they drove into Cromwell Road, heading for Knightsbridge, then traffic was heavy again. Suddenly they headed toward Earl’s Court, and he followed as they crossed the Fulham Road, then King’s Road. The Range Rover continued toward the Victoria Embankment. Then it was driving toward Blackfriars Bridge, to Newgate Street, where they passed St. Paul’s. De Jersey sensed they were taking a very roundabout route. They were just passing Montague Place when the Range Rover took a sharp left. It was impossible for de Jersey to stay close at their heels without being spotted, so he drove on, making the next left. He drove into Smithfield, but there was no sign of them. He had lost them! Frustrated, he circled the roundabout in West Smithfield and branched off down a narrow side street leading into Bartholomew Close, which came out at King Horn Street. The Range Rover was parked on the corner of Newbury Street. He was just in time to see the two men from D’Ancona enter a building together. A moment later, the Range Rover drove off.
De Jersey parked in a side street and walked back. The safe house was on the corner. A narrow road ran alongside the four-story building. Rubbish bins had been placed on the pavement. The place was unimpressive, painted black, and gave no indication of its function. There was no plaque outside, no bell, no letter box, and the double door leading into the property was made of reinforced steel. Although the upper windows looked innocent, they were not windows at all. The casements were built over shuttered protectors with tinted black glass. De Jersey could not risk spending any more time in the area and walked on.
Less than a hundred yards away, the road curved to the right and led into Aldersgate Street. He walked a little further, then stopped outside a large, two-story, flat-roofed warehouse for lease. Perfect, de Jersey thought, for their purposes. It appeared to back onto the street where the safe house was. By the time he reached his car, he had called the estate agents and arranged to view the property the following morning. Then he drove back to the West End to meet Dulay at his hotel.
Dulay had a pleasant room overlooking Hyde Park. De Jersey and he sat at a small table by the window.
“Pigeon went home to roost. It’s a building in the Barbican, small back street, not far from Smithfield market, and it’s smack on a corner,” de Jersey said, drawing the safe house on a square of paper from his notebook. “Getting into it won’t be the problem. It’s knowing what we’ll be confronted with once we’re inside.” He passed the drawing to Dulay, who glanced at it, then jabbed with his stubby finger.
“D’Ancona will have it secured like Fort Knox. They’ll have cameras on the outside. How the hell do you think you’re gonna get in without being seen, especially on a corner?”
De Jersey repeated that that was not the problem. It was the layout inside the house that he needed to know. “What would you say I’m up against?”
“Well, there are usually two reinforced doors as an external entry system, then another door leading into the foyer. I’ve been to a couple of their locations, and there were always several inches of bulletproof glass. They will have a sophisticated phone system to link the safes and selection rooms and even the fitting rooms. There may also be another set of doors, maybe three or four, to get into the inner sanctum. They have panic buttons dotted around like M&M’s. I doubt they’ll have a walk-in safe in a safe house, but I could be wrong.”
De Jersey ripped up the drawing. “I take it you’re in.”
Dulay nodded. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“Okay, what about your Japanese buyer?”
“I’ve contacted him. All I said was that I might get my hands on one of the most famous and largest diamonds in existence. I said I’d be looking for around a million a carat.”
De Jersey smiled. The Koh-i-noor was 105.6 carats.
“He said he’d be in the market for something of that price, and any other stones. I could get the Koh-i-noor cut by my lapidary, but if we sell to my Japanese buyer, he’d want it uncut. Buyers like him are interested in the stone’s size and history.”
“Maybe we don’t touch the Koh-i-noor, but we’re going to have other stones of immense size and value. Can you trust the lapidary?”
“I’d trust him with my life. We’ve worked together for twenty years. Even so, to move the stuff fast means he’ll be working day and night altering the stones and putting them into new settings so they’ll be untraceable. I need a nice cash incentive for him.”
“How much are we looking at?”
“Maybe a quarter of a million. If we do end up cutting the Koh-i-noor, he’s the right man for the job. It would take weeks to do, and we’d have to pay him extra to disguise it without dropping its value. We can transform it from an oval into a pear shape by tapering it at the back. I’ve listed gem dealers worldwide where we can spread the other stones. I’ve got contacts in New York, Antwerp, and India.”
Occasionally the Frenchman would run his finger round the collar of his shirt. De Jersey listened, aware that Dulay was leading up to the subject of his cut.
“How honest are the D’Ancona employees?” de Jersey asked. “I think we might need an insider and wondered if it was a possibility.”
“Well, I was one.” Dulay shrugged. “I’d say the top brass would be unbribable-you only get to the top at D’Ancona by being above suspicion. But there are always the underlings. It’s all in the choosing. You get the wrong type and they’ll blab.”
“Could anyone in the safe house be skimming?” asked de Jersey.
Dulay looked doubtful. “If they’re dealing with such top-quality gear, there’s no way. These guys are working by appointment to the Queen. That rep you followed had to be carrying in some heavy-duty stones, with his briefcase chained to his wrist.”
This wasn’t what de Jersey wanted to hear, so he changed the subject. “How’s the boat?”
“The fucking money pit?” Dulay said angrily. “That’s partly why I’m here. It’s costing me a fortune.”
“If I needed to use it, would you be up for it?”
“If the price is right.”
“Not for charter, for the pickup.”
Dulay sucked in his breath. “Woooooh! This is drawing me in closer than I want to be.”
“Not if it’s, say, chartered to a company. We can use your crew. Can you trust them?”
“Sure, but it depends what they have to do-and they’ll cost.”
“They won’t know what they’re doing. You and I will.”
Dulay tapped the table with his knuckle. “When would this company charter the floating palace?”
“I’ll need it ready for the first week in May.”
Dulay crossed to the minifridge. Suddenly he was not quite so confident. “So it’s May, is it?”
“I haven’t got the exact dates, nor have I worked out how I want to use the boat, but make sure it’s crewed up and ready.”
Dulay scooped a handful of ice into his vodka, then returned to the table. “I want a heavy slice, Philip. If I’m going in this deep, I want to be paid big bucks. I’ve brought you the buyer and now you want me to get the boat ready. So how do we work the payoff?”
“You’ll get a split. Not a payoff, a split. We can’t do it without you. How does that sound?”
Dulay drank thirstily. “Good, but I need cash up front to start getting the shop prepared for the work we’ll have to do. Extra furnaces, a smelting kiln for the gold. It all costs.”
De Jersey agreed to pay him ten thousand. “I’ll also need some assurance from the buyer. All I have is your word that he’s interested. Don’t take this the wrong way, because I do trust you.”