
Frederick Forsyth – The Fourth Protocol
10
Chapter 1
The man in gray decided to take the Glen Suite of diamonds at midnight. Provided they
were still in the apartment safe and the occupants away. This he needed to know. So he
watched and he waited. At half past seven he was rewarded.
The big, wide limousine swooped up from the subterranean parking area with the
powerful grace implied by its name. It paused for an instant in the mouth of the cavern as
its driver checked the street for traffic, then turned into the road and headed toward Hyde
Park Corner.
Sitting across from the luxury apartment building, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform at
the wheel of the rented Volvo Estate, Jim Rawlings breathed a sigh of relief. Gazing
unobserved across the Belgravia street, he had seen what he had hoped for—the husband
had been at the wheel, with his wife beside him. Rawlings already had the engine running
and the heater on to keep out the cold. Moving the automatic shift into Drive, he eased
out of the line of parked cars and went after the Jaguar.
It was a crisp and bright morning, with a pale wash of light over Green Park in the east,
and the streetlights still on. Rawlings had been at the stakeout since five o’clock, and
although a few people had passed down the street, no one had taken any notice of him. A
chauffeur in a big car in Belgravia, richest of London’s West End districts, attracts no
attention, least of all with four suitcases and a hamper in the back, on the morning of
December 31. Many of the rich would be preparing to leave the capital to celebrate the
festivities at their country homes.
He was fifty yards behind the Jaguar at Hyde Park Corner and allowed a truck to move
between them. Up Park Lane, Rawlings had one momentary misgiving; there was a
branch of Coutts Bank there and he feared the couple in the Jaguar might pause to drop
the diamonds into the night safe.
At Marble Arch he breathed a second sigh of relief. The limousine ahead of him made
no turn around the arch to take the southbound carriageway back down Park Lane toward
the bank. It sped straight up Great Cumberland Place, joined Gloucester Place, and kept
on north. So, the occupants of the luxury apartment on the eighth floor of Fontenoy
House were not leaving the items with Coutts; either they had them in the car and were
taking them to the country or they were leaving them for the New Year period in the
apartment. Rawlings was confident it would be the latter.
He tailed the Jaguar to Hendon, watched it speeding into the last mile before the M1
motorway, and then turned back toward central London. Evidently, as he had hoped, they
were going to join the wife’s brother, the Duke of Sheffield, at his estate in north
Yorkshire, a full six-hour drive away. That would give him a minimum of twenty-four
hours, more than he needed. He had no doubt he could take the apartment at Fontenoy
House; he was, after all, one of the best safecrackers in London.
By midmorning he had returned the Volvo to the rental company, the uniform to the
costumiers, and the empty suitcases to his closet. He was back in his top-floor flat, a
comfortable and expensively furnished pad atop a converted tea warehouse in his native