“She makes her living as her double.”
“We kidnap her, then?” Wilcox asked.
“No. We offer her a job first,” de Jersey said.
“I don’t understand.” Wilcox sniffed.
“She’s our way in, Jimmy, that’s all you need to know right now.”
De Jersey was exhausted, but before he went to bed he called Christina. She told him she’d have to remain in Sweden for some time as her mother had been diagnosed with a severe form of cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy. De Jersey offered to join her, but she refused. Although he wasn’t glad her mother was sick, his wife’s absence would leave him free to focus on the robbery.
17
Lord Westbrook was already waiting in Church Square at Shepperton. De Jersey was taken aback by the change in him: he was gray with fatigue. He sat on the iron bench by the riverbank, hunched in his coat, a cigarette dangling from his bluish lips.
“You all right?” de Jersey asked and sat next to him.
“Been burning the candle at both ends,” Westbrook joked, but his eyes-dull with exhaustion-betrayed him.
“I have a list of queries,” de Jersey said crisply.
Westbrook reached beneath the bench for his briefcase. “I have tried to ascertain all that you want to know.”
“Look, why don’t we go over to the George? They’ve a comfortable lounge there. We can order coffee.”
“Thank God, I’m freezing.” Westbrook stood up and dropped his case. De Jersey scooped it up under his arm. “Thank you,” said Westbrook.
In the pub de Jersey chose a window seat away from the bar.
“Shall I order some coffee, something to eat?” Westbrook asked.
“I’ll just have a coffee.”
De Jersey spread out Westbrook’s notes and studied them while Westbrook ordered coffee, cigarettes, and chicken sandwiches from the friendly bar staff, but de Jersey was watching him out of the corner of his eye as Westbrook went into the men’s restroom.
When he returned, his eyes were red-rimmed. He sat down heavily. “Fire away,” he said laconically, his face shiny from sweat. He had a coughing fit as their order was brought to the table. De Jersey poured coffee for them both and passed a cup to Westbrook. He took a few sips then bit hungrily into a sandwich, all the time holding his cigarette.
“Right, let’s get started,” de Jersey said.
Westbrook swung his legs onto the cushioned window seat. He continued to eat at an alarming rate. He then gulped at his coffee and lit another cigarette. “We do have a deal, correct?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ve been thinking. I’d hate to snuff it and not get what’s due to me if you pull it off. I was wondering if you could draw up something for me in the name of my son. We are talking about big money here, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but as you just said, it depends on whether we pull it off. So making out a contract is impossible. All I can give you is the agreed amount for the preparation. If we’re successful, you will get your cut.”
“You’re asking a lot on the old trust market.”
“Not really. We’re all protecting each other’s identities, so you’re not likely to be swindled.”
“All right. But if I snuff it, who will make sure my son gets my share?”
“I will.” De Jersey stared hard at him.
“Okay.” Westbrook swung down his feet. De Jersey drew his pages of questions toward him and unscrewed the top of his gold Cartier pen. “Who would accompany the Queen on such a visit?”
“An equerry. He’s a member of the small but select team responsible for the detailed planning and execution of the daily program. They support H.M. in her official duties and private life.”
“You can carry that off, be this equerry?”
“Oh, yes, that’s my background, absolutely. Good family connections and all that stuff. Equerries are seconded from the armed forces after three years. They wear a uniform during H.M.’s daytime engagements when they’re in personal attendance. I still have my uniform, so no worries there. Though often it’s not necessary. H.M. will say, “No medals today,” that sort of thing, so then it’s just a smart suit. Did I mention I was based in the Royal Mews at Buck House? I co-coordinated transport for H.M. Now, if it’s a state occasion, the ponies and traps are out, but for something like this, a fitting, it’ll just be her in a Daimler and another following.”
“And she would use a Daimler. You’re sure?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The mascot-” de Jersey began.
Westbrook slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Very important. The Queen’s vehicle has to have her silver St. George and the dragon on it.”
“I believe one of my team has already copied it. Who else besides the equerry would be with her?”
“Well, she’d have a lady-in-waiting, who deals with the handbag and flowers and acts as a part-time secretary, answering letters and so on.”
“Would she be around the same age as the Queen?”
“Usually. She’ll be well-dressed, pleasant, nothing that sticks out. A fade-into-the-background type.”
They continued discussing the lineup, which became tedious as Westbrook went off on irrelevant tangents. However, sick or not, he was indispensable.
Later that day de Jersey called Christina to see how her mother was. The news was not good.
“She’s dying. I’m going to talk to my father about stopping the treatment altogether. She’s in such pain, and as the doctors don’t hold out much hope, it seems wrong to subject her to it.”
“It must be terrible for you. I wish I could do something to help.”
He hung up feeling depressed and went for a walk. His thoughts wandered to Lord Westbrook. He hadn’t looked good that morning. Just how sick was he? The equerry had to be fit and well to be convincing.
He headed for a public telephone kiosk and rang Raymond Marsh. His wife answered, and then Marsh spoke.
“Who is this? Mr. Simmons, right? About time. We gonna meet?”
“I hope so. You free tonight?”
“Yep, and have I got news for you! Can you come to my place?”
De Jersey followed Marsh down a hallway with carpet so thick he felt as if he was wading through soft mud. Marsh was wearing skintight drainpipe trousers with thick-soled suede shoes in a shocking pink. They matched his shirt, which he wore with a skinny strip of leather as a tie.
“Come upstairs.” He led the way up the stairs, past posters from all of Elvis’s films. At the end of the landing Marsh opened a door and gestured for de Jersey to walk in. Inside there were banks of computers, a mass of cables, overflowing ashtrays, and pizza boxes.
Marsh said, “This is my office. As you can see, it’s all state-of-the-art equipment, worth thousands.”
“How have you been getting on at the exchange?”
Marsh produced a cheap canvas bag and dumped it on his desk. “Good. I’ve made printouts for you to take away, plus tape recordings. The IRA call in every morning at a designated time. They have ten lines, which they use in a certain pattern. They call the first line one day, the second the next, and when they get up to the tenth they go into reverse. I think I’ve predicted which line will be used on the day of the heist as long as they don’t change their pattern-but we’ve got plenty of time to see if they do.”
“Good work. What about the link between Scotland Yard and the safe house? What conversations have already taken place? Who has placed calls and to whom?”
“No contact yet concerning security for the fitting, but the date’s still a long way off. I expect something soon.”
De Jersey was impressed that so far Marsh was coming up aces at every meeting. Marsh wouldn’t let go of the canvas bag, though, and said determinedly, “It looks to me like I’ve got a pretty hefty role in this, and I’m not doing it for the joy of hacking. We need to talk about my cut.”
“Okay. We now know that the main piece we’ll get our hands on will be sold for close to sixty million, and we’ll get more for the rest of the jewels,” de Jersey lied, knowing it would be considerably more.