“Good morning,” Maureen said, passing down the lineup. She smiled, but her eyes were like a frightened rabbit’s. Pamela remained close by, almost able to touch her. Lord Westbrook now took the floor, his charm and breeding shining like a beacon. His soft, aristocratic tone rang out as the party moved along the line, shaking hands and smiling.
The head representative, Mr. Saunders, a small and nervous man, took Westbrook aside. “The vaults are being opened. Her Majesty can view the jewels at her discretion.” Saunders bowed to Maureen, who was frozen-faced. Her manner made the man even more nervous.
“If you would kindly follow me down to the lower level, Your Majesty, we have the vaults prepared for you.”
Much to de Jersey’s relief, as soon as “the Queen” began to move down the second set of stairs to the vaults, most of the staff dispersed. The matron figure ushered the girls toward the stairs, and de Jersey watched them with bated breath: if they passed back into the entrance hall, they might see the security guard bound and gagged. They didn’t glance in his direction, however; instead they moved up a second flight of stairs to their offices.
The inner reception area was now empty, the outer hallway guarded by Hall. Short and Wilcox were ready to act as backup.
There were ten steps down to the vault with a polished brass rail on either side. They passed cameras poised at every corner and recess. None moved. Satisfied now that Hall had done his job, de Jersey hoped no one would notice that the cameras weren’t functioning.
Maureen leaned heavily on the banister rail, Pamela close behind as she continued down. De Jersey and Westbrook kept her closely guarded. Saunders maintained a rather stuttering speech, detailing the security surrounding the vault. Fortunately he and the fitters kept their eyes directed deferentially on the Royal party. When they reached the basement, a man stood waiting beside a trolley laden with iced water, fruit, and coffee. Saunders suggested a pause for refreshments, but Westbrook smiled and tapped his watch.
The party now approached the vault, with steel doors and two protective inner cages. The first thick steel door stood wide open, and the shining steel bars inside it were also open. Above the steel door was the edge of the grille that would slam down if an alarm button were pressed, protecting the contents of the vault and trapping anyone inside.
Westbrook kept the tension to a minimum by maintaining a steady flow of conversation, which de Jersey hugely admired. He constantly referred to Her Majesty as he recalled anecdotes of when he had been a page at the coronation. Whether he had or not was immaterial.
The vault was enormous, with banks of steel boxes surrounding the large central cage. Inside it was a massive steel-framed display case, lined with black velvet, where the spectacular jewels had been laid out for viewing. The sight stunned all of them into a strange silence, which was broken only when Westbrook exhaled audibly, then whispered, “Dear Lord above!”
This quiet expression of awe somehow made it easier for de Jersey to continue in the same tone: “Ladies and gentlemen, do not call out, but remain silent and no one will be hurt.”
Saunders half-turned, as if he had not heard correctly, and at that moment de Jersey revealed his automatic. “I need you all to lie facedown on the floor.” He pointed at Saunders. “You first. Do not make a sound.”
Saunders looked in confusion at his assistants, and his face drained of color. Driscoll opened his jacket and pulled out his shotgun. “Obey every word or I won’t hesitate to shoot. Get down, facedown!”
Maureen dropped to the floor, twitching. Her bag fell open, and cosmetics rolled across the vault. Pamela drew out a fake gun from her own bag and directed it at Maureen’s head. Driscoll ran back up the stairs, signaling to Hall to join them. He moved away from the door, and his position was taken up by Short.
Inside the vault, Saunders raised his hands and shouted, “You can’t do this. For God’s sake, no!”
“Down!” de Jersey commanded and took off his coat to reveal a large, lightweight rucksack. He tossed it to Westbrook. Driscoll and Hall held the staff at gunpoint as Westbrook lifted the platinum crown containing the Koh-i-noor Diamond and stashed it in the rucksack. De Jersey handed Westbrook the gun and began to drag more jewels from the display into a second rucksack, held open by Driscoll. When all the jewels were in the rucksacks, he gave the signal to move out.
The team backed toward the stairs as Driscoll shut the heavy steel doors, leaving Saunders, Maureen, and the two terrified fitters captive. Then the gang walked boldly up the stairs, through the reception area, into the small hallway, and past the bound security guard.
The bikers started their engines and moved off in different directions, although their destination was the same: the speedboats at the Tower Bridge Marina. Pamela and Westbrook left Newbury Street on foot. Neither could speak, and their legs were wobbly, but they walked toward the City Thameslink Station, looking over their shoulders as often as they dared, trying not to be too conspicuous.
Driscoll walked straight into Barbican Station and went down to the Hammersmith and City line. It seemed an interminable time before a train came, and he shook as he paced up and down. After three minutes he stepped into a carriage and cursed under his breath until the train’s doors finally closed and it left the station. He was dripping with sweat.
Wilcox and de Jersey knew they needed to distance themselves from the crime scene as quickly as possible, but they couldn’t leave the Daimler behind. It was too risky and time-consuming to take it back to the warehouse, and they didn’t want to drive it through town. This was where the furniture van came into play. It was parked nearby on a meter.
De Jersey climbed into the Daimler with both rucksacks. Wilcox slammed his foot down, and they screeched round the corner, sending the no-parking signs and cones flying.
“Slowly!” de Jersey snapped. The last thing they needed was to be picked up for speeding. The tense Wilcox managed to slow down, and they drove through the back streets until they reached the van. De Jersey leaped out and opened the van’s driving side, threw in the rucksacks, and got in. At the same time, Wilcox opened the rear doors, dropped the tailgate, returned to the Daimler, and drove it in. There was so little space to move that he took a while to squeeze out of the car. He drew up the back and shut the doors with himself inside, then banged on the front of the van for de Jersey to move off.
As de Jersey drove, he ripped off the wig, eyebrows, and mustache, keeping his speed to thirty miles an hour. It felt like a snail’s pace. He headed toward the river, crossed it, and turned right to drive toward Battersea.
The getaway had taken only fifteen minutes so far, but he could already hear police sirens blasting in the distance. As they passed the heliport in Battersea, de Jersey saw his two decoy helicopters take off. He checked his watch: it was perfect timing. The confusion should provide cover for his own copter.
The officials locked in the vault had screamed and shouted to no avail. They could not get out, and the lack of air was becoming asphyxiating. Maureen was hysterical, screaming that they had got her husband. The others in the vault had realized at last that she wasn’t talking about Prince Philip.
The staff from the upper floors carried on working, unaware of what was taking place downstairs. However, when the secretaries entered the reception area at the time the Royal party was due to leave, they were confronted by an overturned plinth of lilies and the bound and gagged security guard. With trepidation one of them opened the outer vault doors.