He showered and changed back into his suit and tie before heading to the kitchen, where an amiable chef — a portly Italian lady — made him a chicken salad sandwich and coffee. Popov joined him just as Shepherd was tucking into the second half of his sandwich. The chef made a big fuss of Popov and insisted that he try a seafood spaghetti dish that she was planning to serve when they returned from Cyprus. She busied herself over the stove as Popov went through the CVs of the security team they would be working with in Cyprus. Most were Russian but there were two Latvians and a Ukrainian. All had worked with Malykhin for at least a year.
They were interrupted by the chef serving Popov a plate piled high with spaghetti, lobster, oysters, prawns and squid in a steaming spicy spaghetti sauce. She saw Shepherd’s eyes light up and gave him a small helping too. It was pretty much the best pasta Shepherd had ever tasted. ‘Maria used to work with Raymond Blanc until Mr Grechko doubled her salary,’ said Popov. ‘It’s the best thing he ever did.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ve put on five kilos since she came to work here.’
‘You have not,’ laughed the chef, flicking a tea towel at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She nodded. ‘What do you think? Mr Grechko will be having guests for lunch and they like seafood. It’s not too spicy?’
‘It’s heavenly, Maria,’ said Popov, twisting his fork around in the spaghetti. ‘To die for.’
The chef blushed with pleasure. Popov finished his briefing in between mouthfuls of seafood and pasta.
‘What about this Mr Malykhin?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Has anyone ever tried to hurt him?’
‘He’s very low profile and has always backed the right horses in the Kremlin,’ said Popov. ‘He’s clever, is Mr Malykhin. He never badmouths Putin. Never badmouths anyone, in fact. And he’s in Moscow as much as he is in Cyprus. What causes resentment is when they relocate to London or New York as if they are too good for Mother Russia.’
‘Is that what Mr Grechko has done?’ asked Shepherd, lowering his voice so that Maria wouldn’t hear him. ‘Caused resentment?’
Popov shrugged but didn’t answer.
‘Dmitry, I’m here to help,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can only do that if I have all the facts.’
‘It’s not for me to say,’ said the Russian.
‘You’re not talking out of school, it’s information I need to do my job properly,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone tried to kill your boss. We need to know if the attack was political, personal, or connected to his business.’
‘Personal?’
‘It’s not unknown for wives to see killing as an alternative to divorce,’ said Shepherd.
Popov looked shocked, but then a smile spread slowly across his face. ‘Mrs Grechko? You think Mrs Grechko would want Mr Grechko dead?’ He shook his head. ‘He is the father of her children and he is very generous to her.’
‘What about the new Mrs Grechko? Does she have a pre-nup?’
Popov’s smile widened. ‘Mr Grechko loves her. She gets whatever she wants. Believe me, she would gain nothing if he were to die.’
‘So you think it’s political?’
‘I’m not a detective, Tony. I’m a bodyguard. I prevent crimes, I don’t solve them.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Fair point.’
The Russian leaned over towards Shepherd. ‘But there’s an expression I heard. Tall poppies. Have you heard that?’
‘Sure. It’s the tall poppies that get cut down,’
‘Well, Mr Grechko is a tall poppy, that’s all I’ll say.’ He shoved the last forkful of pasta into his mouth. ‘One of the tallest.’
They left the house at just after one o’clock. There were three vehicles; Grechko was in his Bentley with Shepherd and Popov, with Dudko and Volkov in a Range Rover in front and Sokolov and Podolski bringing up the rear in a BMW.
RAF Northolt was just six miles north of Heathrow Airport, but whereas Heathrow was one of the world’s busiest airports, Northolt was a lot more selective. It had a single runway which was used only by the RAF and by wealthy individuals who were able to pay the exorbitant landing and handling fees.
Security was as tight as would be expected at a military airport. Their vehicles and IDs were carefully checked at the gate before they were allowed in. They drove over to a hangar where Leo Tarasov was waiting beside a gleaming Gulfstream G550, which Shepherd figured had cost somewhere between sixty and seventy million dollars. It was a sleek, white hawk with two massive Rolls-Royce turbofan engines by the tail and it looked brand new. The captain, who seemed to be barely out of his twenties, was standing at the top of the stairs wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with black and gold epaulettes and he saluted Grechko before disappearing into the cockpit. Two very pretty stewardesses gave Grechko beaming smiles and led him into the plane.
Popov spoke to Tarasov in Russian and slapped him on the back. Tarasov climbed into the Range Rover and all three vehicles drove away from the hangar.
The bodyguards filed up the steps into the plane. As he stepped inside, Shepherd’s estimate of the value of the plane went up another five million dollars. The interior had been panelled in white oak and the seats were of the finest leather. The carpet was plush with a warm, golden glow, and the seats were so far apart that the cabin felt airy and spacious.
Grechko flopped down into a large beige armchair in the centre of the cabin, and before his backside hit the leather the stewardesses were at his side, one offering him a glass of champagne and the other a hot towel.
Podolski and Dudko sat immediately behind Grechko. Volkov made himself comfortable on a black leather sofa that ran along one side of the fuselage while Sokolov strapped himself into a seat opposite a computer workstation.
Popov took Shepherd to the rear of the plane where there was a separate seating area with two large beige seats the size of armchairs either side of a walnut coffee table. The seats could be swung around 360 degrees, and when side-on to the table could be lowered into flat beds.
‘Do you travel much in jets, Tony?’ asked Popov.
‘Usually sat in the back, in economy,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is another world, isn’t it?’
‘This is nothing,’ said Popov. ‘He’s having a bigger one fitted out at the moment. Mrs Grechko found out that Abramovich has a Boeing A340 with a gym, Turkish bath and Jacuzzi. Two hundred million dollars.’
‘So she wants one?’
Popov grinned. ‘No, she’s insisting that Mr Grechko buys her something bigger. And has it outfitted exactly the way she wants it. The price tag is looking to be two hundred and twenty-five million dollars.’
Shepherd shook his head as he tried to work out how many lifetimes he would have to work to be able to afford his own jet.
‘She is getting him to commission a bigger yacht too. It has to be at least ten feet longer than Abramovich’s. They get very competitive, the wives.’
One of the stewardesses asked them whether they wanted tea or coffee. Popov asked for a black tea and Shepherd a cappuccino. The drinks arrived just as the captain announced that they were ready to leave.
Grechko spent most of the flight studying share prices and currency movements on a forty-two-inch screen that somehow managed to fold out from the ceiling. Most of the bodyguards catnapped but Sokolov watched movie after movie at the workstation.
Popov stretched out his legs and sighed. ‘It’s hard to go back to commercial flights after this,’ he said.
‘I bet,’ said Shepherd. ‘Was it like this with Putin?’
Popov sat up quickly as if he’d been stung, then a smile slowly spread across his face. ‘Of course, you would have been briefed on me,’ he said.
‘Just the bare minimum,’ said Shepherd. ‘That your last job was with the Russian president, that’s all.’
‘Three years,’ said Popov, relaxing back into his seat. ‘But I was one of hundreds, and I was never in the inner circle. He has a group of a dozen that he’s known since his KGB days, and then another fifty or so trusted men who have all been
with him for at least ten years. The rest are brought in for a few years, three at most. It keeps them on their toes. You never know how long you’re going to be there, and mistakes aren’t tolerated.’
‘Hard work?’
Popov chuckled. ‘The man has a lot of enemies.’
‘Can’t have been an easy job.’
The Russian shrugged. ‘No, but it looks good on the CV. It’s the equivalent of being a butler to your Queen. Once that’s on your CV you can work anywhere.’
‘Mr Grechko seems to think that it might be someone in the Kremlin who wants him dead.’
Popov shrugged but didn’t say anything.
Shepherd lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What do you think, Dmitry?’
For several seconds Popov didn’t say anything and Shepherd was starting to think that the Russian was deliberately ignoring him, but then Popov leaned towards Shepherd. ‘I saw your face when we were outside the stadium, looking at the angles the sniper could have used. And I could see that you were thinking the same as me.’
‘Which was?’
‘Which was that any decent sniper would have made that shot. Certainly a sniper in the pay of the Kremlin would not have missed.’
‘Which means what, Dmitry?’
Popov shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Let’s just say that the fact that Mr Grechko has been targeted for assassination will probably help his application for a British passport, don’t you think? You Brits do love to welcome asylum seekers, don’t you?’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mr Grechko is a very clever man. Cunning, you might say.’
There were more than two dozen private jets parked at the general aviation terminal at Larnaca International Airport, many of them with Russian registrations. They came to a halt next to a Learjet and the pilot switched off the engines. The steps were folded down and a few minutes later two uniformed officials entered the cabin. One went to talk to the captain in the cockpit. Popov approached the second official and handed him the passports of everyone on board.
The official sat down and took a metal stamp from his pocket, and an inkpad. He opened the inkpad, removed a pen from his pocket and put on a pair of wire-framed reading glasses. One of the stewardesses handed Grechko a glass of champagne as the immigration officer methodically worked his way through the passports, checking the details against a printed list and carefully stamping them and then scribbling a signature over the stamp.
The first official came out of the cockpit and walked around the cabin, opening several cupboards before disappearing into the toilet for several minutes. Shepherd figured he was a customs officer but his search appeared cursory at best.
It took the immigration officer fifteen minutes to deal with the passports, after which he handed them to Popov, nodded unsmilingly at Grechko, and left the plane with the customs officer in tow.
Grechko stood up, stretched, and waited for Popov and Shepherd to go ahead of him. Popov went down the steps first, scanning the immediate area for possible threats before checking out the buildings overlooking the plane. Shepherd did the same as the two men walked down the steps to a line of waiting cars. There were two Mercedes SUVs either side of a pale blue Rolls-Royce, which from the way it was so low on its suspension was clearly heavily armoured. It was a clear night, the sky overhead full of stars, the moon a pale sliver off to their right.
Malykhin’s bodyguards were all out of their vehicles and standing around the convoy. Only two, the ones by the Rolls-Royce, were looking at the plane, the rest were checking out the surroundings. Shepherd noted their professionalism and began to relax a little.
Popov walked across the tarmac and hugged one of the bodyguards, a tall sandy-haired bruiser of a man with mirrored sunglasses. He introduced him to Shepherd as Vassi Kozlov, Malykhin’s head of security. Shepherd and Kozlov shook hands as Popov turned back to the plane. ‘You speak Russian?’ asked Kozlov in heavily accented English.
‘Sadly not.’
Kozlov said something in Russian to Popov and both men laughed.
‘I hope that wasn’t about my mother,’ said Shepherd.
‘He said you’ve got the eyes of a killer,’ said Popov. ‘And he’s not wrong.’
Podolski came out behind Grechko and they moved down the steps together, sticking close until Grechko had slid into the back seat of the Rolls-Royce. The two stewardesses came down the steps carrying Grechko’s Louis Vuitton luggage, which they loaded into the boot of the Rolls-Royce.
One of the bodyguards was already in the front passenger seat and Shepherd could see that three of them weren’t going to sit in the back of the Rolls-Royce so he looked at Popov expectantly. ‘Why don’t you ride up front with Vassi?’ said Popov. Shepherd saw Dudko and Volkov head up the stairs and back into the plane.
Shepherd walked with Kozlov to the Mercedes at the front of the convoy. One of the bodyguards was already sitting next to the driver. Kozlov opened the door and motioned for Shepherd to get in. As he slid inside another bodyguard opened the rear door on the other side and climbed in, leaving Shepherd in the middle. Kozlov got in and slammed the door. He and the other bodyguard were both big shouldered, and despite the size of the SUV Shepherd had very little room to move.
As the doors slammed shut, Shepherd looked back at the plane. Dudko and Volkov were coming down the steps, each carrying two heavy aluminium suitcases. They took them to the Mercedes at the rear of the convoy and loaded them into the boot before getting into the back. Shepherd frowned. He hadn’t seen them on the plane, nor had he seen them being taken on board at Northolt.
They drove out of the airport and on to the main road. The drivers were clearly professional, staying close enough so that no cars could infiltrate the convoy but leaving enough room to manoeuvre if there was a problem. There was little traffic around so everyone was relaxed.
‘So, Dmitry says you are a policeman, Tony,’ said Kozlov in almost impenetrable accented English.
Shepherd nodded. ‘Executive protection,’ he said. ‘My unit looks after diplomats and visiting dignitaries as well as local politicians.’
‘And you have a gun?’
Shepherd thought that his Glock had remained hidden in its shoulder holster but Kozlov had obviously spotted it. ‘Cleared through Europol,’ he said.
‘But before you were a policeman you were a soldier, correct? Special forces?’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’
Kozlov patted him on the knee. ‘Do not worry, Tony. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Shepherd, sticking with his legend. ‘Always have been. I’ve done some training with the SAS, but that’s it.’
The Russian winked and patted him on the knee again. ‘There are many former SAS on the island, did you know that, Tony?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Men like Mr Grechko and Malykhin, they prefer to have Russian security. For some, there is nothing better than a SAS man. Many of them work on the island. I know many Russian special forces men and they are giants. Big men with big muscles.’ He grinned and tapped his finger against his temple. ‘Not so smart, but big and strong. But the SAS, they’re not giants. They are not big men, nor do they have big muscles. How tall are you, Tony? Five ten?’
‘Five eleven,’ said Shepherd.
Kozlov nodded. ‘Five eleven,’ he repeated. ‘Now the Spetsnaz, that’s what they call their special forces, are all well over six feet. Six six. Six seven. If you tried to join the Spetsnaz, they would laugh at you.’ He put his lips close to Shepherd’s ear. ‘But the SAS men I know, they are all five ten, five eleven. And they look ordinary. Nothing special. But they are fit, as fit as thieves.’
Shepherd tried not to smile but he failed. ‘It’s as thick as thieves,’ he said.
The Russian frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all,’ he said. ‘Why would thieves be thick? A thief needs to be fit.’
‘I guess they do, but it means that thieves stick close together.’
‘A calmness?’
‘I don’t explain myself well,’ said Kozlov. ‘My English is not so good. But the men of the Spetsnaz they are not calm. They always look as if they are about to start killing, they just need an excuse.’ He patted him on the leg again. ‘So come on, we are friends. You can tell me. You are SAS?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Just a policeman.’
‘But a British policeman with a gun?’
‘A lot of British policemen have guns,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yes, I hear that London is a very dangerous city these days,’ said Kozlov. ‘Especially if you are Russian.’ He laughed and slapped Shepherd’s leg. ‘But don’t worry, here in Cyprus you will be safe.’
Malykhin’s villa was a forty-five-minute drive from the airport. It was perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Mediterranean and the last mile was a narrow two-lane road that for much of the time had a sheer drop to the sea below. Off in the distance navigation lights bobbed up and down and high overhead another jet was heading to the airport. There was a ten-foot-high stone wall running around the estate, dotted with CCTV cameras, and two metal gates that swung open as the convoy approached. There was a watchtower to the right of the gates where a man was talking into a walkie-talkie. The entire wall was illuminated with spotlights and Shepherd could see that it was topped with decorative ironwork that also functioned as effectively as razor wire.
True Colours ss-10 Page 17
