“Enough to keep me steady. I needed it. My nerves were shot.”
De Jersey stared at him and withdrew his arm. “Fuck up and I’ll kill you.”
Wilcox licked his lips.
“Bikers are still in position,” de Jersey continued. He picked up his cell phone and dialed. “How’s Her Majesty?”
“She’s doing just fine,” Westbrook told him.
They passed the traffic cones, which had been placed by the two bikers earlier that morning. This was the only road leading to the safe house. They passed the no-entry sign at the end of the street, again placed by the bikers to avoid any other traffic entering. The journey took less than three minutes.
De Jersey looked out the window, then spoke into the phone. “Stand by, we’re there.” He switched off the cell phone and pulled at his glove. Ahead he could see the security guard in his uniform and cap waiting at the entrance to the safe house.
“The show is on.” De Jersey laughed softly, and Wilcox gave him a covert glance. He seemed relaxed, as if he was enjoying himself. De Jersey caught the look and patted his shoulder. “Three Musketeers, eh? Just like the old days.”
Wilcox dropped down a gear to move to the side of the road just ahead of the entrance so that the Queen’s Daimler could park with ease directly behind him.
“Good morning,” de Jersey said to the waiting security guard as he climbed out of the car. The heavy, studded doors of the safe house were open, a red carpet placed on the steps to the entrance. Lined up inside the reception area were the D’Ancona employees. “The road should stay closed until we leave,” de Jersey said to the guard in a quiet but authoritative tone. “One of my officers will stay out here to help you if there’s any trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
At this moment the head representative from D’Ancona appeared in the doorway, wearing a pin-striped suit and a rose in his buttonhole. He stood to one side, waiting. There was a fraction of a pause, just two or three seconds, which felt like minutes. Then Lord Westbrook stepped out of the front seat of the Queen’s Daimler. He gave a cold, arrogant look to the guard. Then he opened the passenger door to allow Pamela to exit first. She stood to one side, holding Maureen’s handbag, as Maureen stepped from the Daimler with a frozen smile.
The guard bowed, and as rehearsed, Pamela fell into position behind Maureen. Lord Westbrook stepped to her left, with de Jersey behind him, and Driscoll brought up the rear. They began to proceed into the safe house as one of the bikers, Hall, stepped forward to check the road and the buildings opposite for any signs of disturbance.
As the Royal party moved into the entrance hall, then down the stairs and out of sight, the D’Ancona security guard decided to go back to his workstation. Within four feet of the safe house main doors there was a cage, grilled on all three sides. Inside it were banks of monitors, all showing the Royal party heading slowly down the thickly carpeted stairs to the lower floor reception area. As the guard went to enter the cage, Hall, still with his helmet in place, moved in close behind him, so close that he unnerved the guard, who turned to find the muzzle of a handgun pressed into his neck. “Back into the cage and do exactly as I tell you or this blows your head off,” Hall hissed.
The man put his hands up and obeyed but trod on a concealed panic button.
“Further in, pal. Move it!”
The Royal party was displayed on every monitor. They were now being led into the reception area. Other banks of monitors showed virtually every inch of corridor and office, plus the vault on the lower level, which was standing wide open. Hall’s thuggish bulk came close to the guard. “Pull the fucking camera controls, pal. The alarms are dead. And so will you be if you make me wait another second. Do it!” The guard hesitated but got a rough push from the gun, pressed now in the small of his back.
One by one he unplugged the cameras, and the monitors went blank. Hall pushed him roughly into the chair, tied his hands and feet with tape, and gagged him. He then crammed the man’s hat down on his head and turned the seat slightly so that anyone passing the cage would see him sitting “on guard.”
Wilcox was still seated in the Daimler. Eventually Hall left the cage and signaled to him that the coast was clear. Wilcox turned on the engine and drove back to the warehouse. He opened the doors with the electronic buzzer and drove in. The Daimler had served its purpose; moving fast, he poured acid over the bonnet, removed the number plates, and stuffed them with the chauffeur’s uniform into a black rubbish bag that already contained the paper suit de Jersey had worn. He carried it to the rear of the warehouse and placed it in a bin. He poured more acid into the bin, then replaced the lid and left it to smolder. Minutes later he walked out to take up his position in the driving seat of the second Daimler in front of the safe house. Spittle had formed at the sides of his mouth, and he kept licking his lips.
As the robbery was going on, Raymond Marsh walked out of the Scotland Yard telephone exchange and prepared to perform his last task. He traveled by underground to Edgware Road, then caught a bus to Kilburn. He let himself into de Jersey’s flat and dismantled the satellite linkup. Once the connections to de Jersey’s home computer were broken, he poured acid over the controls, the keyboard, and the printer. He took off his gloves as the acid was burning through the leather, then appraised the flat room by room. Nothing of a personal nature was left, just old newspapers and journals. He headed off to his own home.
His wife had already packed. Only his precious guitar collection and Elvis memorabilia were going with him and his family to Brazil. These items were crated up, ready to be shipped out. A friend had the house keys and contact number for the shippers. Simmons had his banking details. When payday came, his cut would be transferred to his account via the Internet.
Marsh had taken great care to look after number one, even down to arranging holiday time for himself and his family, but he knew he was still traceable. The police would discover that someone had had access to the phones to hack into the safe house and Scotland Yard lines. By then, however, he would be long gone. Like Ronnie Biggs, he had chosen Brazil as his first port of call. Unlike Ronnie, however, Marsh didn’t run solo. He had first-class tickets for himself, his wife, and daughter, all under assumed names. He gave little thought to the men and women involved in the robbery as he prepared to make his getaway. He just hoped they would pull it off.
23
The line of expectant, well-groomed staff in the D’Ancona safe house reception area reminded Lord Westbrook of a school assembly. The two nervous secretaries were like his old headmaster’s daughters, flushing and dressed in their best. Next to them stood a large-bosomed, round-faced woman, who held her plump arms flat to the sides of her ample body like a military officer. She resembled his old matron. She was, in fact, one of D’Ancona’s chief gem experts and head of marketing. Three men reminded Westbrook of masters at Eton. They were all waiting to acknowledge Her Majesty as she passed by.
De Jersey was worried by the lineup: there were far more people than he had anticipated. He could feel the sweat breaking out as he wondered whether Hall had done his job. The only way de Jersey would know was by the stillness of the cameras. He glanced up at them. If Hall failed, they would all be caught on film. On his third glance he was relieved to see the cameras stop tracking them, their red lights disappearing.
The royal blue carpet swirled down the stairs and covered the reception floor. Vast displays of lilies were arranged prominently. The Royal party was greeted with polite bows from the two fitters, who wore immaculate pin-striped trousers and dark jackets with pristine white shirts and ties. They held white gloves, which they would put on when measuring and fitting.