The villa was almost as large as Grechko’s mansion but was far less symmetrical, as if it had been added to over the years with little thought given to its overall style. The central part had the look of a Greek temple with columns and architraves, but a wing had been added on to the left which had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an infinity pool, and there was another wing to the right that appeared to be Spanish, with verandas and a terrace overlooking the sea. There were lanterns hung around the verandas and cast-iron street lamps around the edge of the terrace. The entire villa was illuminated with spotlights buried in the gardens.
In front of the main entrance was a massive fountain depicting three dolphins frolicking in the surf, with plumes of water spouting from their blowholes. Two bodyguards in dark suits and sunglasses were waiting when the convoy pulled up next to the fountain. Shepherd had to smile at the bodyguards wearing their ubiquitous shades. They might look good but in the dark the eyes needed as much light as they could get for night vision to function efficiently.
Popov got out of the Rolls-Royce and hurried around to open the passenger door for Grechko. Kozlov and Shepherd joined him as Grechko climbed out.
The front door of the villa opened and Georgy Malykhin hurried out, wearing a gleaming white suit and white patent leather shoes. He was a short, squat man, a bald Danny de Vito, who barely reached Grechko’s shoulder. He hugged the bigger man, said something in Russian, and then hugged him again before standing on tiptoe and kissing him on both cheeks. The two men walked into the villa. Shepherd looked at Popov. ‘Now what?’ Two liveried maids hurried over to the Rolls-Royce to retrieve Grechko’s luggage.
‘They’re in for the night,’ said Popov. ‘Mr Malykhin has a Michelin-starred chef and one of the best wine cellars in the world.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And the entertainment will be arriving in an hour or so.’
‘The entertainment?’
Popov grinned. ‘Mr Malykhin has an eye for the ladies. And Mr Grechko isn’t one to turn down the hospitality of a friend.’ The two maids disappeared inside with Grechko’s bags and the door slammed shut.
‘You’re talking hookers?’ said Shepherd. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I think high-class ladies of the night would be more the way they would see it, but yes, money will most certainly be changing hands.’
‘Dmitry, have you gone crazy? You’re bringing a group of strangers into a secure location at a time when the principal’s life is under threat.’
‘They are girls, Tony. Young and pretty girls.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back, hard enough to rattle his teeth. ‘If it makes you happier, you can frisk them.’
Malykhin’s security centre was a series of rooms in an annexe at the back of the villa. There was a control room similar to the one in The Bishops Avenue mansion with CCTV screens and a rack of charging transceivers, a room with sofas, easy chairs and a big-screen TV, and a small kitchen and bathroom. There were two men sitting with their feet on a coffee table playing a shoot-’em-up video game. They stopped playing when Popov walked in and there were several minutes of backslapping and Russian banter before Popov introduced Shepherd.
One of the bodyguards made coffee and for the next hour the four men sat talking about weapons, women and sport. Most of the conversation was in Russian but Popov was good at translating most of what was said. Eventually a transceiver crackled and Popov grinned over at Shepherd. ‘The girls are here,’ he said.
The four men went outside as a minibus pulled up, driven by an old man in a flat cap. A side door opened and half a dozen girls tottered out in impossibly high heels and short skirts. Shepherd doubted that any of them were out of their teens but none of them appeared to be under-age. They all had long hair, three were blondes, two were brunettes and one was a natural redhead, and they had the look of catwalk models. One of the blondes lit a joint, took a drag, and passed it to the redhead.
Kozlov opened the front door and waved for the girls to enter. The driver of the minibus slammed the door shut and drove off down the hill. ‘Sure you don’t want to pat them down?’ Popov asked Shepherd.
Shepherd nodded at the skimpy tops and tight skirts the girls were wearing. ‘I guess we know they’re not carrying concealed weapons,’ he said.
Popov laughed and put his arm around Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘My friend, most of them are regulars here. And the first time they come, Vassi has them checked out.’
‘Medically?’
Shepherd was joking but Popov took the question seriously. ‘Full blood work, a criminal record check and details of their ID card or passport.’
The girls disappeared inside and the door closed.
‘Before you ask, the CCTV cameras are shut down in main rooms while the guests are there,’ said Popov.
‘I understand now why he doesn’t stay with his ex-wife,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I’m going to stay outside for the next couple of hours. What about you?’
‘I’ll get some sleep then I’ll take over from you. I’ll talk to the guys to make sure the rear is covered.’ He patted him on the shoulder. ‘You can relax, Tony, we’re regular visitors here.’
Popov walked away, leaving Shepherd listening to the clicking and whirring of insects around him. He looked up at the hillside above the villa, wishing that he was as confident as the Russian. The problem with the isolated villa was that there were dozens of vantage points where a sniper could get a clear view. For all he knew there could be a scope centred on his chest at that very moment. At that instant his phone vibrated and he jumped, then shook his head at his skittishness. He took out his phone to see that he’d received a text message from Amar Singh. ‘Call me,’ it said. Shepherd figured it could only be good news.
He looked around to check that there was no one in earshot and then called Singh. ‘I’ve got your man,’ said Singh.
‘Are you serious?’
‘I wouldn’t be joking, not after all the time and trouble I’ve been to,’ said Singh. ‘Do you want the name or not?’
‘Amar, I’m gobsmacked,’ said Shepherd.
‘Like I said, it wasn’t easy,’ said Singh. ‘The facial recognition took for ever but once I had a usable picture I was able to get a match through the Passport Agency.’
‘You mean the Border Agency?’
‘I mean the Passport Agency. Your man is a British citizen, has been since 2003. He has a British passport and, as it happens, a UK driving licence.’
‘That can’t be,’ said Shepherd.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Singh.
‘No, I mean the guy’s a Taliban fighter, or at least he was ten years ago. I don’t see how that could possibly have him fast-tracked to a British passport.’
‘Well, it’s happened. His name is Farzad Sajadi.’
‘The driving licence has his address, right?’
‘Sure.’ Singh read out the address, along with the date of birth. ‘That’s strange, I hadn’t noticed that,’ he said.
‘Noticed what?’
‘The passport and the driving licence were issued on the same day. That’s one hell of a coincidence.’
‘That’s practically impossible, right?’ said Shepherd.
‘Unless there’s something funny going on.’
‘Any details about where and when he got citizenship?’
‘Nothing,’ said Singh. ‘Which is also a bit strange. There’s usually a huge paper trail that goes along with asylum applications. But all I’ve got is the passport and driving licence. I can start digging for utilities, mobile phones and credit cards, but for that I’ll need a case file.’
‘We’re not at the case-building stage yet,’ said Shepherd. And he knew that he never would be.
‘So I’ll wait to hear from you?’ said Singh.
‘Amar, I owe you, big-time. If you ever need a favour, just ask.’
Singh laughed. ‘Funny you should offer. I’ve got a nephew who’s crazy about the SAS. Reads everything he
can about them, loves the Andy McNab books, plays special forces video games all the time. Is there any chance you get take him to Hereford some time?’
‘It’d be a pleasure, no problem at all,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m back and forth all the time and I’d be more than happy to show him around, let him fire off a few rounds, the works.’
‘That’d be brilliant,’ said Singh.
‘In fact I’m going to be taking my boy around over the next few weeks. He’s thinking about joining the army so I want to let him know what he’s letting himself in for. I could take your nephew along with us. I’ll let you know when we’re going.’ He thanked Singh again and ended the call, then tapped out Jimmy Sharpe’s number.
Sharpe answered the phone with a weary sigh. ‘Another favour?’ he said.
‘I was just going to ask if you fancied a drink one night this week,’ said Shepherd.
‘Don’t mind if I do, especially if you’re paying.’
‘And I wouldn’t mind you checking out another name for me. Farzad Sajadi.’ Shepherd spelled it out for him and gave him the man’s date of birth and the address that Singh had given him.
‘Is this connected to that Khan guy?’
‘I think they might be one and the same,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s got a passport and a driving licence in that name.’
‘Fake?’
‘Doesn’t look like it, no. But there’s something not right. He was a bloody Taliban fighter, how can he have a British passport?’
Sharpe laughed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? When the Taliban were killing off the Afghanistan population, any Afghan who got into the UK could claim asylum. But once we and the Yanks invaded, the Taliban became the endangered species so they can claim that Afghanistan isn’t safe for them. Any of them that could make it to the UK would be pretty much guaranteed asylum. So we’ve got the crazy situation in London now where in the same street you’ve got a Taliban murderer living a few doors down from a guy whose family was killed by the Taliban. But we treat them exactly the same. The same happened in Iraq. The first wave of asylum seekers were people who’d been persecuted by Saddam Hussein. Then we invaded and the worm turned and all the Iraqis who’d backed Saddam found they were being persecuted so it was their turn to run. It’s Alice in Wonderland.’
‘But I don’t see how they could have given asylum to Khan. He shot an SAS captain. Hell, Razor, he shot me.’
‘Yeah, well, presumably he didn’t tell the immigration tribunal that. It’s much more likely that he told them he was a poor farmer who was threatened with beheading because he didn’t give all his money to the Taliban.’
‘Can you find out, Razor? Run his name and date of birth through the PNC but also see if you can find out anything about his immigration status?’
‘You’re not asking much, are you?’
‘Pretty please.’
Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, don’t worry, I’m on it. Now what about that drink? You around tonight?’
‘I’m in Cyprus. Taking care of a Russian guy who as we speak is being taken care of by some of the fittest hookers I’ve seen in a long time.’
‘You get all the best jobs,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll call you if I get anything.’ Shepherd cut the connection. As he turned around he was startled to see Podolski walking towards him, holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you,’ she said, taking out a cigarette and slipping it between her lips. She offered him the pack but he shook his head.
‘I didn’t realise you were a smoker,’ he said.
She lit her cigarette and blew smoke before shrugging. ‘I don’t get the chance, much,’ she said. ‘Can’t smoke in buildings or cars or planes. And when I’m outside I’m usually working.’ She looked at the burning cigarette in her hand. ‘This is my first since last night.’
‘So you’re not addicted?’
She laughed and tossed her hair. ‘I just like smoking. Same as I enjoy a glass of wine or a joint.’ She saw the look of surprise on his face and smiled slyly. ‘I forgot you were a policeman. You won’t arrest me, will you?’
‘We’re in Cyprus,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t arrest you here.’
‘But you can carry your gun.’
‘Ah, because Cyprus is in the EU so Europol can arrange it. What about you, Alina? Were you a cop?’ Having seen her file he knew her work history by heart. She had graduated from the Petro Sahaidachny Ground Forces Academy before spending six years with the Ukrainian armed forces. She’d seen action too, with two tours in Iraq, and in 2004 she’d been wounded when Ukraine’s peacekeeping contingent was almost overwhelmed by Mahdi militants.
‘I was a soldier,’ she said. ‘Ukrainian army. But this pays better.’
‘How did you get the job?’
She shrugged. ‘Friend of a friend. I heard they were looking for Russian speakers at short notice and I was between jobs.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette and then carefully blew the smoke away from him. ‘To be honest, I normally get to work with the wives.’
‘Because the wives prefer female bodyguards?’
She flicked the hair away from her eyes. ‘Because the wives don’t want me working with their husbands,’ she said.
‘I can see why you’d be a worry,’ said Shepherd.
‘How sexist is that?’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘Would anyone assume that you were going to screw Mrs Grechko’s wife just because you’ve got a dick? You’re either professional or you’re not, it’s got nothing to do with what sex you are.’
Shepherd raised his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was clumsily trying to pay you a compliment.’
She tilted her head on one side, then slowly smiled. ‘OK, I suppose that was a compliment, in a way.’
‘What’s it like, taking care of the wives?’ he asked.
‘There’s a lot of shopping involved,’ she said. ‘And they always insist that I help carry the bags, even when I explain that bodyguards have to keep their hands free.’
‘At least you don’t get the sort of nonsense we’ve got here tonight,’ said Shepherd.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Podolski. ‘The wives aren’t stupid. They know what their husbands get up to and what’s sauce for the goose …’ She shrugged. ‘They deserve each other.’
‘You’ve got a pretty low opinion of our principals?’
She looked up at the bedroom windows and scowled. ‘He’s on his second wife and yet he’s up there rutting like a pig,’ she said. ‘And the wives? Have you seen the way they spend? The last woman I was with, when she went to the Louis Vuitton store in Bond Street they would close it for her so she could walk around. If she saw a bag she liked, she’d buy fifty and have them sent to her friends. Never to the staff, of course. We were invisible unless she needed us to fetch and carry. She would buy dresses by the dozen and wear them once.’ She turned back to Shepherd. ‘You’ve seen Mrs Grechko’s dressing rooms? Do you think she’ll ever wear half the shoes that she owns?’ She took a final drag on her cigarette and flicked it away. ‘More money than sense,’ she said. ‘My father would have to work for a year to afford a single pair of her shoes.’
‘Life’s not fair, that’s for sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘You think that woman has worked a day in her life?’ she continued. ‘She opens her legs, that’s all the work she has ever done. And she lives like a princess.’
‘Yeah, but is she happy?’ asked Shepherd.
Podolski opened her mouth to reply and then realised he was joking. She laughed and tossed her head, flicking her hair to the side. ‘I moan too much,’ she said.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘No, I take your point,’ he said. ‘There is something very wrong with a world that allows one man to have so much, when children are dying because they don’t have enough to eat. His house, it’s just …’
‘So big?’
‘So big. And tacky. And unnecessary. Rooms that no one ever uses.’
‘It’s for show,’ said Podolski. ‘All of this is. The houses, the clothes, the yachts, the planes. None of it is really necessary.’ She laughed again. ‘We’re starting to sound like couple of communists, aren’t we?’
‘God forbid,’ said Shepherd.
She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to get a bite to eat. There’s a chef in the kitchen who’ll cook anything we want, pretty much, Dmitry says. Do you want anything?’
‘I’m good,’ said Shepherd. The stewardesses on the private jet had kept everyone supplied with smoked salmon, caviar and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off throughout the flight, along with endless cups of coffee.
Podolski winked and walked back to the villa. Shepherd was fairly sure that she was swinging her hips for his benefit, and when she looked over her shoulder as she stepped on to the terrace his suspicions were confirmed.
The hookers left at six o’clock in the morning. One of them must have called the driver because he was in front of the villa in his minibus when the front door opened and they tottered out into the early morning light. They all looked the worse for wear with smudged make-up, their clothes in disarray and messy hair. The redhead looked as if she had been crying and they were all suffering from too much drugs or alcohol or both. One of the blondes grinned lopsidedly at Shepherd, waggled her fingers at him then stumbled and fell to her knees. Two of the girls helped her up and on to the minibus.
Shepherd and Popov watched as the girls piled on to the vehicle. ‘Does this happen a lot?’ Shepherd asked.
Popov shrugged. ‘Rich men have appetites,’ he said.
The driver slammed the door shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Yeah, but this is …’
‘Not how we’d spend our evenings if we were billionaires?’ Popov finished for him. The two men laughed and Popov slapped him on the back. ‘Seriously, Tony, this is nothing compared to what some of them get up to.’
‘I bet,’ said Shepherd.
‘No, really. Rape, assaults, and worse. If you’re in the business for a while you’ll hear some serious horror stories. Especially for the guys doing protection work for the Arabs. Compared with them, Mr Grechko is a pussycat, believe me.’
True Colours ss-10 Page 18
