I had definitely found the right outfit. KAS was obviously the RollsRoyce of security companies – the right address, the right contacts and the right people at the top. It was like the civilian wing of the Regiment. Another squadron, only better pay. I couldn’t wait to start.
I soon found my former comrade. ‘What’ve you got, Tak?’
‘Diamonds. Are you interested?’ His Fijian features broke into a wide grin.
‘I’m interested. Tell me more.’
Tak briefed me on the deal. My first assignment was to be one half of a two-man team providing security for an exhibition at the St James Club, just down the road in Mayfair. And the subject of the exhibition? A mere £3 million of jewellery! Although access to the exhibition was strictly reserved for members of the club itself – a real Who’s Who of top society names – this was still a daunting prospect. I pretended to take it all in my stride, but relief swept over me when I heard who my fellow operative would be. My partner for the job of making sure the gems didn’t go AWOL was Tak’s compatriot Tom the Fijian.
Tom was now fully recovered from the heavy-duty burns he received at the Embassy siege, when his abseil gear became jammed and he swung into the fierce flames coming from the second-floor windows. His legs were very badly burned. But once he’d been cut free, his severe injuries didn’t stop him storming the telex room and slotting the terrorist Makki who’d just opened fire on the hostages, killing the assistant press attaché and badly wounding Dr Afrouz, the chargé d’affaires. For his heroism, Tom was awarded the George Medal. I was in good company.
Talk about diamonds are forever! It was like a scene from a James Bond film. The exhibition room was crammed with spotlit glass cases glittering with more jewels than you could shake an AK-47 at. I glanced up, half-expecting a black-clad cat burglar to be abseiling down from the ceiling. We appraised the situation, then took up tactical positions to prevent any smash-and-grab attempt. One man took up station in the corridor by the door, the other in the room overlooking the cabinets.
At first it went very well. We had a procession of high-fliers coming to take a look including Peter de Savary, former owner of the club itself, who’d made his fortune in shipping and oil. He swept in magisterially, surrounded by his entourage of bright young men, had a quick glance at the gems, then marched out again. I imagine he could have bought the lot if he’d wanted to.
All went smoothly until after lunch. That’s when the problems started – or should I say staggered in – in the form of Leonard of Mayfair. Leonard Lewis was the UK’s first superstar celebrity hairdresser. One of the founder members of the Swinging Sixties, his iconic ‘crop’ look shot Twiggy to supermodel stardom. His fingers had styled the hair of the most famous celebrities and Hollywood stars of three decades, from the Beatles to Princess Diana. But the pressures of fame and – unknown to me – a brain tumour had taken their toll, and he was now reduced to a pitiful alcoholic.
Each day he would lurch in at 2.30pm on the dot and launch a torrent of abuse at Tom and myself. But his antics gave me real pause for thought. Just how could the famous Leonard of Mayfair end up a drunk? A man who had been a millionaire and rubbed shoulders with the high and mighty? I would have to be careful. Civvy Street was obviously not all plain sailing. You might not end up shot to pieces, but there were different dangers to face.
The first day was uneventful until it came to closing time, when the drama began. To call it a disastrous breakdown in communication would be an understatement. During previous exhibitions, the diamonds had been taken under heavy guard to the Knightsbridge Security Deposit Centre and held there overnight. Unfortunately, the slight matter of one of the world’s largest-ever bank heists had recently taken place there, led by Italian master criminal Valerio Viccei. He and his gang had pillaged cash, gold and jewels conservatively estimated at £125 million from over a hundred boxes in the facility. Not only had the raid led to the temporary closure of the facility, but it had also prompted a climate of fear and insecurity amongst the top jewellers in London.
When we queried the overnight arrangements, the near-hysterical owner of the jewels said – and this is the polite version – ‘Sort it out. That’s what I pay you for. Put them in the club’s safe.’ One slight problem – the St James Club’s management were not prepared to let us use their safe, claiming their insurance wouldn’t cover a potential £3 million theft. By this time, the staff at KAS had all left for home. Pre-mobile phones, it was impossible to contact them. As usual, we were isolated, left to our own devices. Some things don’t change, I thought, as a picture flashed into my mind of being abandoned and helpless in a prison cell in Hong Kong.
Of all things, Tesco carrier bags solved the problem. Taking a leaf out of Crookie’s book, we decided to use our initiative and go over and above the call of duty. After paying a visit to the local supermarket, we split the diamonds into two plastic bags and sauntered off through Mayfair, carrying the priceless contents as if it was the day’s shopping. Our accommodation for the week was in the converted attic at KAS’s HQ in South Audley Street. Incredibly, there was no safe in the office. That’s how I ended up with half the stash – a cool £1.5 million pounds of precious stones – tucked up in bed with me. As I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me that when Crookie found out, we’d either get the mother of all bonuses or the mother of all bollockings!
It did the trick. The week passed off without incident and the jewels were returned to their relieved owner. Job done. But little did I know this was just my probation. This was my starter for ten.
A bigger job was in the offing.
20
Champagne and Diamonds
‘Eighty million pounds’ worth of diamonds! You’ve got to be joking! You really can’t be serious.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Tak in his usual laid-back manner. He was a man of few words. Why use fifty when five would do?
Crookie had been pleased at how the St James Club assignment had gone, in spite of the misunderstanding about overnighting the jewels. He went out of his way to thank us for a job well done. Christ, I thought, that was a piece of cake. Easy money. I don’t remember getting a pat on the back after Mirbat. But whilst the praise was genuine, I could tell Crookie was leading up to something else.
This was the big one. The contract was with one of the most famous jewellers in the world. He was a real larger-than-life character, an ebullient buccaneer of the diamond trade, fabled for tales of derring-do; secret assignments with clients in the dead of night, negotiations held on a remote airfield in some exotic land with the pockets of his dapper suit stuffed with priceless gems. The son of immigrants, he’d started off from very humble beginnings selling cheap rings at the markets in London’s East End. He’d made his money in the Seventies, when highrolling Arab royalty flush with oil money poured through the doors of his glittering Knightsbridge store, buying up to 400 pieces at a time. A true entrepreneur, he reportedly closed one sale with a Saudi prince by convincing him the diamond he held in his hand was absolutely fated to be his. ‘Here, have a closer look,’ he had said, handing the prince an eyepiece to peer at the gem. He’d inserted a minuscule photograph of the client into the stone’s setting, so when the prince looked into it he saw himself glittering back!