‘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.’
The minibus drove out through the gates and they began to close. Popov and Shepherd headed back inside the villa. Shepherd had caught a few hours’ sleep on one of the sofas in the bodyguards’ room during the early hours and he managed to grab another hour’s sleep after the girls left. Popov gave him a travel pack with a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste and he shaved and showered before joining Popov and the rest of the team in the kitchen for eggs and steak cooked by a young American chef, a twenty-something Texan with his hair clipped back in a ponytail who made the bodyguards laugh with his attempts to speak Russian. While his Russian skills might have been wanting, there was no mistaking his talent in the kitchen – the steak he cooked was just about the best that Shepherd had ever tasted. ‘Flown in every day from Japan,’ the chef explained to Shepherd after he’d complimented him on the food. ‘It’s Matsusaka beef, which I reckon is better than Kobe because of its intense fat-to-meat ratio. They only raise female cows and they feed them on beer, give them regular massages and play them soothing music.’ The chef had laughed when Shepherd had asked him how much it cost per pound. ‘You really don’t want to know,’ he said.
The cars were lined up outside the villa at nine o’clock in the same order in which they’d arrived the previous evening. Grechko and Malykhin appeared at 9.30 with Kozlov. Grechko had changed into a dark suit and Malykhin was wearing a yellow linen jacket and baggy white linen trousers that rippled in the warm wind blowing in off the sea. As a butler in a black suit put Grechko’s luggage into the back of the Rolls-Royce, Grechko and Malykhin hugged and once again Malykhin stood on tiptoe to kiss his friend on the cheeks.
Shepherd and Popov stood by the Rolls-Royce and watched. ‘Malykhin’s not coming with us?’ asked Shepherd.
‘No, Mrs Grechko isn’t a fan of his, I think she’s heard about his parties. And Mr Grechko wants to keep his business private.’
Kozlov strode over, grinning. He hugged Popov and then put his hands on Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘You be careful, SAS man,’ he said, and then hugged him tightly enough to force the air from his lungs.
‘SAS?’ said Popov as Kozlov walked back to the villa.
‘It’s his little joke.’
‘He thinks you are special forces?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s his joke.’
‘He might be right, I suppose. You did a lot of pull-ups.’
‘It takes more than pull-ups to get into the SAS.’
Popov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘But I suppose if you were in the SAS, you wouldn’t be able to tell me, would you?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Shepherd.
Popov laughed and slapped him in the middle of the back. ‘Then we shall never know,’ he said. ‘Come on, you and I will ride with Mr Grechko. You can have the front seat.’
Shepherd got into the front of the Rolls-Royce and nodded at the driver. ‘Tony,’ he said, offering his hand.
The driver held out his hand but didn’t smile. ‘Olav,’ he said, and shook.
Podolski and Sokolov got into the front Mercedes SUV and Dudko and Volkov got into the car at the rear. The convoy headed out.
Grechko and Popov talked in Russian as they drove towards Nicosia. Shepherd concentrated on what was going on outside, his eyes constantly flicking to the wing mirrors. Several times they were overtaken by motorcyclists and each time it happened Shepherd tensed, even though Popov had said that the Rolls-Royce was fully armoured.
They drove through the city, which Shepherd knew was the most dangerous part of the journey as the crowded streets gave them little room for manoeuvre. The two men in the back stopped talking and in the rear-view mirror Shepherd could see that Popov was in full attention mode, his head swivelling from side to side, constantly checking with the teams in the front and rear cars. The drivers were good, as good as the ones Grechko had back in London. They drove smoothly and confidently without giving other vehicles the chance to cut in.
Their first visit was to a glass tower block topped with the logo of the Bank of Cyprus. A uniformed security guard waved them through to an underground car park where another guard waved them into three spaces close to a lift. The bodyguards climbed out of the vehicles as soon as they came to a halt. Podolski and Sokolov moved to either side of the Rolls-Royce while Dudko and Volkov stayed by their car, their eyes scanning the car park from behind their sunglasses.
When Popov was satisfied that the area was secure he opened the rear passenger door of the Rolls-Royce so that Grechko could get out. As Grechko strode over to the lift, Dudko and Volkov went around to the boot of their car and took out two of the aluminium suitcases. They followed Grechko to the lift, where a grey-haired man in a suit was waiting. He shook hands with Grechko and ushered him into the lift. Dudko and Volkov followed him with their suitcases. Shepherd moved to step into the lift but Popov stopped him. ‘Mr Grechko would prefer to keep his business private,’ he said.
‘I have to know that he’s secure,’ said Shepherd.
Popov shook his head. ‘This is Cyprus,’ he said. ‘It’s not your problem.’
‘Dmitry …’
Popov shook his head again. ‘No arguments, Tony. I’m sorry.’ He nodded at the grey-haired man, who pressed the button to close the doors. Shepherd gritted his teeth in frustration but realised there was nothing he could do.
‘Was it something you said?’ asked Podolski. She had come up behind him, as silent as a cat. Shepherd shrugged but didn’t say anything. She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said, and walked back to the cars.
After half an hour Shepherd heard Popov in his earpiece, asking whether the area was secure.
‘Secure,’ said Shepherd.
A few minutes later the lift door opened and Popov stepped out. Grechko stayed in the lift with Dudko and Volkov until Popov had checked the area, then they all moved to the cars. Dudko and Volkov were still carrying their suitcases but Shepherd got the feeling that they were heavier.
Grechko got back into the Rolls-Royce while Dudko and Volkov took the cases over to their SUV.
Shepherd and Popov climbed into the car with Grechko and the convoy moved off. They visited two more banks and the procedure was pretty much the same as it had been with the Bank of Cyprus.
At the second bank, Grechko went inside with Popov, though only Volkov accompanied them, carrying a single suitcase. After half an hour they reappeared, and this time there was no doubt that the suitcase had gained weight.
They spent even less time inside the third bank, and when they reappeared Volkov was carrying the suitcase and a small attaché case.
‘That’s the work part done,’ Popov said to Shepherd as Grechko climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce. Volkov put the suitcase and attaché case into the SUV and climbed into the back. ‘Now it’s family time and then back to the airport.’
They drove out of Nicosia and through the countryside. The sun was blindingly bright and the sky a perfect blue, a far cry from the leaden skies they had left behind in London. They headed inland, towards a line of hills covered in stunted trees, driving through villages that looked as if they had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. Shepherd saw stone houses with flat roofs, shaded by olive trees, with old men sitting on wooden benches, smoking cigarettes and gossiping. They drove by farms with dust-covered farm equipment and cars with mud-splattered windscreens and balding tyres but saw no one working in the fields. There was hardly any traffic on the roads, but three times huge modern double-height coaches powered past them, brightly painted and covered in Cyrillic script. ‘Russian holidaymakers,’ said Grechko after the third one went by. ‘It’s a big holiday place for us now.’
‘Even after what they did to the banks?’ asked Shepherd.
‘More so,’ said Grechko. ‘The prices of land and houses are tumbling, and a lot of Russians are buying now. They’ll never trust their money to a European bank again but they’ll buy property.’ He looked over at Popov. ‘You should buy something here, Dmitry. All that money I pay you.’
Popov laughed but said nothing.
They reached Mrs Grechko’s estate, a sprawling winery in the foothills of a mountain range. There was a fresh breeze that took some of the heat out of the sun, but Shepherd still had to shade his eyes with his hand as he peered through the car window. They drove through a stone arch and along a single-track road that cut through acres of tended vines. The house was smaller than Shepherd had expected, a two-storey grey stone farmhouse with a black roof and white shutters on the windows. There was a barn to the left built of matching stone and more buildings behind the house.
As the cars approached the house, two men in casual dress appeared at the door. The dark glasses and the way they stood with their arms folded gave away their profession. The two SUVs peeled off and parked next to a double garage to the right of the house while the Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the house. Shepherd and Popov were out as soon as the car stopped, but even a cursory look around showed that the house was well protected. There was a bodyguard by the gate who had a rifle slung across his back and there was another man in sunglasses sitting under an umbrella at a table outside one of the outbuildings.
The two men at the front door nodded to Popov and one of them shouted something in Russian. Popov laughed and waved, then opened the door for Grechko. As Grechko headed for the front door two teenage boys came rushing out shouting ‘Papa! Papa!’ and Grechko hugged and kissed them in turn. They were big, strong boys, good looking with thick chestnut hair and the same strong chins as their father. He put his arms around them and they walked inside.
Shepherd moved to follow them but Popov put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is family time, we stay away,’ said Popov. ‘Mrs Grechko is never happy seeing us around, we remind her too much of London.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s a nice lady.’ He gestured at the garage, where Podolski, Sokolov, Dudko and Volkov were waiting. ‘There’s a rec room behind the garage with a kitchen and a bathroom if you need to freshen up. There’s a couple of couches too if you want to grab some sleep.’
‘Coffee would be good,’ said Shepherd as they started walking towards the garage.
‘Coffee’s easy, and Mrs Grechko’s chef is a Russian who cooks like a dream. I’ll get her to bring us some kalduny.’
‘Kalduny?’
‘Stuffed dumplings. Seriously, to die for. Do you like Russian food?’
Shepherd opened his mouth to say that his au pair was Slovenian and a great cook but he stopped himself just in time. Tony Ryan didn’t have a son or an au pair. He was finding himself so at ease in Popov’s company that he had almost slipped out of character. ‘I tried goulash once.’
Popov nodded. ‘She does a great goulash, too.’
They went over to join the team and filed into the rec room. Podolski offered to make coffee for everyone and she busied herself in the kitchen. Dudko flopped down on one of the sofas and was asleep within seconds. There was a pool table at the far end of the room and Sokolov and Volkov began to play. Shepherd felt uneasy, he never liked hanging around doing nothing. What he really wanted to do was to go for a long run but that was out of the question. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down.
The hours dragged. At just after noon Shepherd watched through the window as two maids carried a table out into the garden at the side of the house, draped it with a cloth and then set it for lunch. At 12.30 Grechko appeared with his ex-wife. Mrs Grechko was in her late forties and not at all what Shepherd had expected. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than her husband, with shoulder-length blond hair and a model’s cheekbones. She had a ramrod-straight back, even when she sat drinking wine with her husband and listening to her sons talk to him. Whenever Grechko spoke to his sons, Mrs Grechko would look at him with a slight smile on her face. She had clearly never stopped loving him and Shepherd couldn’t help but wonder why Grechko had walked away from her.
After lunch Grechko took off his jacket and kicked a football around with his sons before they all went for a walk through the vineyard, shadowed at some distance by two of the bodyguards. Grechko slipped an arm around his ex-wife’s waist as they walked and she rested her head against his shoulder.
Popov came over to join Shepherd at the window. ‘She still loves him,’ said Shepherd.
‘And he loves her,’ said Popov.
‘So why …?’
‘Why aren’t they together?’ Popov shrugged. ‘He’s a billionaire, billionaires have trophy wives.’
‘That’s the rule, is it?’
Popov nodded. ‘They all do. But I agree with you, Tony. He had the perfect wife. She will love him for ever.’
‘And the new Mrs Grechko?’
Popov chuckled and looked around to make sure that there was no one within earshot. ‘She will love him so long as he has money. Which will be for ever, of course.’
The Gulfst
ream touched down at RAF Northolt at ten o’clock at night. The Bentley and two Range Rovers were already waiting at the hangar. The drivers were in their vehicles but Tarasov, Gunter and Serov were already out, watching the jet as it came to a halt and the pilot turned off the engines.
As soon as the steps were lowered, Popov and Shepherd left the plane and looked around. ‘All good,’ said Shepherd.
Popov waved at Sokolov and Grechko came down the steps with Sokolov and Podolski. He settled into the back of the Bentley as Dudko and Volkov came down the steps with the suitcases. They loaded them into the boot of the Bentley and then climbed into the Range Rover.
‘No passport checks, or customs?’ Shepherd asked Popov.
Popov shrugged but didn’t say anything.
‘So no one checks what’s in the suitcases?’ said Shepherd.
Popov clapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Relax, Tony. You’re a cop, not a customs officer.’
‘I’m serious, we fly in from overseas and no one checks?’
‘This is England, things are more relaxed here, especially for men like Mr Grechko,’ said Popov. ‘We submit a passenger and crew manifest to the National Border Targeting Centre at Manchester and they liaise with Heathrow, who also cover Northolt. They decide whether or not to send someone out, and as it’s Mr Grechko, they tend not to bother.’ He put his hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not drugs.’
‘Cash?’
‘You remember when the EU stole all that money from depositors as part of the bailout of the banks in Cyprus?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘When Cyprus froze all its bank accounts early this year, most of the big deposits belonged to Russians. That was always the plan, the EU wanted to punish the Russians. Well, we flew in three days before it was announced.’ He grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours Page 19
