Marsh wanted to be assured of at least ten million, plus the thousand a week, which de Jersey agreed to. Then Marsh tossed over the canvas bag, saying, “Closer to the day of the fitting, the commander of the RDPD will liaise with D’Ancona about security procedures. I can identify the line to the safe house, and I’ll be intercepting the call to notify them that the Queen’s visit has been canceled.”
The two continued working through the plan. Once Marsh secured the code word for the second of May, he would pass it on to de Jersey. De Jersey, posing as an IRA informant, would call the police using the code word and make a bomb threat that would be deemed genuine. Scotland Yard would call the Palace, and all Royal proceedings would halt immediately. Marsh would be waiting for the commander to call the safe house to cancel the visit, and when the call was placed, he would break into the line and answer it himself. The head of security at the safe house would still be expecting the Queen.
“I’ll get to the exchange before six A.M., and I’ll stay there until about ten thirty, when you’ll be taking care of matters,” Marsh said. “I’ll keep a check on the lines just in case anyone has noticed anything dodgy.” He sucked in his breath. “Get out of the safe house as fast as you can; they won’t take long to figure it out. Palace security are gonna keep checking for clearance. You’ll have ten to fifteen minutes to pull this off.”
De Jersey knew Marsh’s physical presence in the exchange would be risky. “We’ll be as quick as possible,” he said. “Straight in and out. Any way you can get a layout of inside the safe house?”
“You’re telling me you’ve made all these plans and you still don’t know what the interior is like? That’s fucking nuts! It’s imperative you know what the layout is.”
“Why? We’re going in through the front door. There’s no problem. We just need to know where the vault is.”
Marsh pointed a finger at de Jersey and said angrily, “This is an amateur’s night out, mate.”
De Jersey’s mouth tightened. “Not necessarily.”
“I just hope to God the other guys know what the fuck they’re doing. You can’t seriously contemplate busting into this place if you don’t know what’s gonna be waiting for you. Can you get to someone on the inside?” Marsh paused. “Listen, I might be able to help you out, but I can’t promise nothing. Maybe I’ll find something that shows their security system layout. If it’s on a computer somewhere, I can get to it.”
“How long do you need?” de Jersey asked, worried. Marsh’s remarks had hit home.
Marsh grinned. “How much are you prepared to pay?”
De Jersey sat pondering the plans. He didn’t feel much better after a good night’s rest. The interaction with Marsh had unnerved him. “Amateur?” His wallet was also hurting. He’d better come up with the goods after that last payment. De Jersey still had to find a suitable woman to assume the role of the lady-in-waiting and persuade the Queen’s look-alike to take part. He was also short of the two bikers. Perhaps he should use the Internet again. He sighed.
De Jersey caught a train back to his estate. He needed to unwind; the tranquillity of the house soothed him as he wandered from room to room.
He was sitting at his desk when Christina called. Her mother had died that afternoon. She spoke incoherently through her tears. Her mother had been only sixty-two. De Jersey was gentle and understanding. After he hung up, he contacted Driscoll to say the plans would be halted for a few days. Driscoll seemed relieved that the funeral would take place over the same weekend as his daughter’s wedding. Then de Jersey phoned Wilcox, now really sick with flu and unable to move. He too was relieved that de Jersey was taking time away. Neither man mentioned the heist, and de Jersey wondered if they were still having doubts.
The truth was, he had lost confidence that they would be able to pull this off. After his meeting with Marsh, all he could see were the holes, and what a weird mix his team members were: Driscoll, the cocaine addict Wilcox, the cancer-riddled Lord Westbrook, the pockmarked Gregory Jones, the egotistical Raymond Marsh, and the nervous Paul Dulay. Add to that the cost to date, and he felt sick.
Throughout the flight to Sweden the next day, de Jersey sat with his eyes closed, going over details that were now so familiar it was like turning the pages of a book he knew by heart. He was interrupted by the flight attendant offering refreshments and the newspapers. He took The Times, the Express, and the Daily Mail. In the Express, an article caught his eye. Two elderly spinsters had conned the equestrian circuit out of thousands of pounds. A picture showing them beaming into the camera, holding a winner’s cup and rosette, triggered a memory. He tried to calculate how old Pamela Kenworthy-Wright must be now. They had met in the seventies through a mutual friend. Pamela had been a RADA-trained actress and married a wealthy stockbroker, whom she had later divorced for his infidelity with a manservant. Afterward she had tried to resurrect her acting career and appeared in a couple of TV series, but in the late eighties she was arrested for shoplifting in Harrods, which resulted in a stint in Holloway women’s prison for credit-card fraud. He smiled to himself. Pamela might be just the woman he needed, but first he had to find her.
The funeral was a small affair with just the widower, Christina’s siblings, and their children in attendance. Though Christina was pale, she maintained her composure, apart from shedding a few tears. De Jersey was attentive and caring, and father and daughter were grateful for his support. When de Jersey proposed that Christina stay on to deal with her mother’s belongings and to help settle her father in a smaller house, both deemed it a thoughtful suggestion. He even offered to remain with her, but she knew he had pressing business in London and, as de Jersey had hoped, refused his offer. He loved Christina, but time was moving on. His team was still incomplete, and most important, he still did not have the layout for the safe house.
It was after midnight. Driscoll’s daughter was safely on her way to her honeymoon while her father sat by one of the specially installed outdoor heaters near his lily pond. It was full of streamers, confetti, and cigarette stubs, but he could have cared less. His head throbbed-he’d had too much to drink, though he didn’t feel drunk-and his gut was on fire.
“It’s Tony, isn’t it?” said the burly figure in the green security uniform.
“Do I know you?”
“Been twenty years, maybe more. I’m Brian Hall.”
Driscoll didn’t recognize the guy.
“Used to work for you, long time ago, when you had that waste-disposal company. You did me a big favor. I was on parole, needed work; you gave me a job, even though you knew I had a criminal record.”
“Sure. So, how’re things?” Driscoll asked, not really caring.
“I get a bit of work here and there. Been with this company for a few years, but I’m a reserve. They pull me in when they need extra hands, like for this kind of gig.” He gestured to the wedding remnants around him.
“Did you stay clean?” Driscoll asked.
Hall shook his head, laughing softly. “I tried for a while, but when you’ve got a wife and three kids, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, know what I mean? I got my fingers burnt a few times more. I’ve only been out ten months.”
Driscoll reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Hall laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, no, I’m not looking for a handout. I just wanted to thank you.”
“Fancy a drink?” Driscoll asked.
“Not while I’m on duty.”