Shepherd laughed. ‘That’s one man I definitely wouldn’t take a bullet for. What’s the position over weapons?’
‘Grechko’s men aren’t permitted to carry guns on British soil. We suspect that they do, and the word from the PM’s office is that if you do see them with arms, turn a blind eye.’
‘And what’s my position?’
‘As an SO1 officer you’re authorised to carry a concealed weapon, and the Russians will know that. That’s how it’ll be sold to Popov and the rest of the team, they need you there because you’re licensed to bear arms. I’ll talk to the armourer and get the paperwork done today. Someone can bring it out to you tomorrow. Any preferences?’
‘A regular Glock’ll be fine.’
‘Holster?’
‘Shoulder, nothing fancy. It’s not as if I’ll be entering any quick-draw contests.’
Below the photograph of the head of security were photographs of eight men, most of them shaven headed and all of them with hard faces, set like stone as they stared at the camera.
‘These are the core of Grechko’s personal security team,’ said Button. ‘Alexei Dudko, Boris Volkov, Grigory Sokolov, Ivan Koshechkin, Vlad Molchanov, Konstantin Serov, Leo Tarasov and Mikhail Ulyashin.’ She tapped the final photograph. ‘Ulyashin is the one hit by the sniper. He’s out of hospital and will be returning to the team later this week.’
‘Two teams of four working twelve-hour shifts? That’s tight.’
‘I think they were on three-man teams plus a driver,’ said Button. There were three more photographs at the side of the board. ‘These are the drivers. Roman Khorkov, Yulian Chayka and Nikolay Eristov. They’re all former Russian police drivers, they joined with Popov.’ Along the bottom of the whiteboard were another six photographs. ‘Since the sniping attack, Grechko has increased his security staff, hiring these six men. Well, five men and a woman as it happens.’
‘All Russian?’
‘Three of the new intake are Ukrainian,’ said Button. ‘Max Barsky, Thomas Lisko and the one woman on the team, Alina Podolski. I’ve got CVs of all the members of the team in the file.’
‘And what’s my brief, Charlie?’
‘Your brief is to make sure that nothing happens to Peter Grechko while he’s in the UK,’ said Button. ‘You do that by sticking close to him whenever he’s in a vulnerable situation, and by doing whatever you deem necessary to beef up his security.’
‘And presumably you’re working on tracking down the sniper?’
‘The Met’s on that case,’ said Button. ‘It’s being treated as a police matter.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Shepherd. He walked over to the table, sat down and picked up the file. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Who do you think took a pot shot at Grechko?’
‘There are actually two questions there,’ said Button, joining him at the table. ‘The man who pulled the trigger was almost certainly paid to do it, so we’re looking for a professional. And the way the world works, he could be from anywhere. Just because Grechko’s a Russian, it doesn’t mean the sniper is. He could be home grown, he could be American — hell, he could be Chinese.’ She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘The bigger question is who paid for the hit. And the answer to that probably does lie in Russia.’
‘A business dispute?’
Button shook her head. ‘Grechko says not. He thinks the government’s behind it.’
‘The Russian government?’
‘That’s what he thinks. And there have been a number of high-profile Russians murdered in the UK over the last few years. Some make the papers, and some don’t. Alexander Perepilichniy collapsed outside his home in Weybridge. He was only forty-four and toxicology reports were inconclusive, but it looks like he was poisoned. He was linked to an investigation into corrupt tax officials in Russia. We had another Russian businessman narrowly escape death when he was gunned down in broad daylight in Canary Wharf. Guy called Gorbuntsov. Shot six times by a man we think is a Romanian hitman. Gorbuntsov is convinced that Kremlin insiders ordered the hit. And of course we’re all too familiar with Alexander Litvinenko, the former KGB officer who died in a London hospital not long after being poisoned with radioactive material.’
‘Polonium 210,’ said Shepherd.
‘Exactly. And almost certainly administered by a KGB officer who then fled to Moscow. Litvinenko publicly accused Putin of being responsible for his death. And there’s plenty of evidence to suggest that the Russian government has been the prime mover in a lot more Russian deaths in the UK.’
‘Killing their own citizens? Nice.’
‘They’re not the only country doing that, unfortunately. The Iraqis did it during Saddam’s era, the Libyans have been doing it for years, ditto the Chinese.’
Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘And let’s not forget our dear cousins across the pond. The Americans lead the world in assassinations at the moment.’
‘Well, to be fair, pretty much all the American killings take place on enemy territory,’ said Button. ‘And they tend to use the military, which at least gives it some degree of legality. What’s been happening with the Russians is far more sinister. Another oligarch, Boris Berezovsky, was found dead in his bathroom in Ascot and we still don’t know exactly what killed him. But we do know he was one of Putin’s fiercest critics and he was supposed to be a key witness at Litvinenko’s inquest. He had a full complement of bodyguards but they still got to him.’
His eyes narrowed as he looked at Button. ‘What about us, Charlie?’
‘Us?’
‘Us Brits. Do we have an assassination policy?’
‘The UK’s policy is that we don’t carry out assassinations,’ said Button.
‘I know that’s the official policy, but is there a section somewhere within MI5 or MI6 that kills people, in the way that the Yanks do it?’
‘If there is, I’m not aware of it,’ said Button levelly.
‘That’s a politician’s answer,’ said Shepherd.
‘No, it’s a truthful answer. But you have to bear in mind that if there was such a section and I was aware of it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘Yeah, I’d realised that.’
‘Let me ask you a question, Spider.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Suppose there was a section that did carry out judicial killings. Would you be prepared to work for it?’
‘Are we talking hypothetically, Charlie?’
She studied him with unblinking eyes. ‘Of course.’
Shepherd looked back at her, trying to work out whether she was making him a serious offer or whether the conversation was, as she said, hypothetical. ‘It would depend,’ he said eventually.
‘On what?’
‘On the nature of the targets,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure that if there was such a section its operatives would be given the freedom to pick and choose their assignments,’ she said.
‘That’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve killed, of course I have. That goes with the turf when you’re in the SAS, but that was mainly in war zones and it was kill or be killed. Assassination is a whole different thing. It takes a particular kind of mindset to kill a human being who isn’t a clear threat.’
Button sipped her tea. ‘You were a sniper, weren’t you?’
‘That was one of my areas of expertise,’ he said. ‘And I had my fair share of kills in Afghanistan. But again that was a war zone. Could I shoot targets solely because some politician had decided that they deserve to die? I’m not sure that I could.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I don’t trust politicians, of any persuasion. I don’t trust their judgement and I don’t trust their motivation. If an officer identified a target, I’d take that target out without questioning the order. But if a politician told me to assassinate someone, I’d want to know why and if there wasn’t a bloody good reason then I’d tell them to go stuff themselves.’
�
��I can understand that,’ she said. ‘But as I said, you wouldn’t get the choice.’
‘We are still talking hypothetically?’ said Shepherd.
Button laughed. ‘Of course. So this sniper, the man who tried to kill Grechko. What sort of person would he be?’
‘Like you said, a professional. Almost certainly former military. Of course, if it was a government-sanctioned operation he might still be in the army. So he’d either be doing it because it was his job, or because he was being paid a lot of money.’
‘Could you kill for money?’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Of course not.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I’ve got a conscience. Because I’ve got a moral compass. Taking a life is no small thing, Charlie. And no matter what the circumstances, it stays with you for ever.’
Button nodded slowly. ‘So we’re looking for a what? A sociopath? Someone with no feelings, no emotions?’
‘Or someone who’s used to obeying orders. I thought the Met was looking for the sniper?’
‘They are. But we’ve got better lines of communication with the FSB so we’ll make use of them. We’ve put in a request for information of snipers, military and freelance.’
The Moscow-based Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation was Russia’s main domestic security agency, the equivalent of MI5 and the successor to the KGB. Like MI5, it was responsible for counter-intelligence, internal and border security, counter-terrorism, and surveillance. ‘Are they likely to help if it is the Russian government who’s behind it?’ asked Shepherd.
She smiled. ‘Good point,’ she said. ‘In a way it’s a test. We’ll see just how cooperative they are. Or aren’t.’
Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘If it is the Russian government that tried to kill Grechko, why would they use a sniper? It’s very in your face.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended. I mean, don’t they usually use more subterfuge? Remember the Bulgarians with that poisoned umbrella thing? And they got that Alexander Litvinenko guy by putting Polonium-210 in his food.’
‘Litvinenko was working for MI5 at the time,’ said Button. ‘He’d been given political asylum and he was active in Russian politics, helping dissident factions. I don’t think there’s any doubt that it was a political assassination.’
‘So why not try something like that with Grechko? Why use a sniper?’
‘Because Grechko has always been well protected,’ said Button. ‘Strangers don’t get near him, his food is tasted, his rooms and vehicles are constantly checked. With a man like Grechko, it would have to be done at a distance. You’re going to have to bear that in mind when you’re with him. The sniper tried once and he’s still out there. He could well try again.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘At his house in The Bishops Avenue. Near Hampstead. He’s staying there until we get his security arrangements sorted out. But I warn you, he’s intent on doing a fair bit of travelling over the next few months. I’m hoping that you’ll be able to dissuade him from that, at least until we’ve identified and apprehended the sniper.’ She pushed a manila envelope across the table to him. ‘That’s the details of your legend. Also the keys to the flat you used in Hampstead, when you were using the John Whitehill legend last year. The flat is pretty much as it was, though it’s been used a couple of times since you were there. It’s already been dressed but it’s doubtful that you’ll be taking anyone back there.’ She pointed at the envelope. ‘There’s a passport, driving licence and warrant card in the name of Tony Ryan, plus credit cards and an organ donor card, which is a nice touch. Plus keys to the flat. And a SIM card on a Met account, so put that in any phone you want.’
‘What about a vehicle?’ asked Shepherd, slipping the envelope into his pocket.
‘Talk to the car pool. Something in character but bearing in mind the case I’d feel happier if you were in something with ballistic protection.’
‘You think I might be a target?’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ said Button. ‘And I want you in a vest at all times. Since the sniper, all Grechko’s bodyguards have been wearing vests and I want you in one, too.’ Shepherd sipped his coffee and grimaced. ‘Is the coffee not great or is it the job you’re not happy with?’ asked Button.
Shepherd put down his mug. ‘The coffee’s fine.’
‘But you’re not happy about the job?’
‘If you think this is the best use of my talents then who am I to argue,’ he said.
‘But?’ said Button. ‘I’m sensing a definite but here.’
‘He’s a Russian, Charlie. If he was a Russian journalist or a political exile then maybe I’d have some sympathy or empathy or whatever, but he’s a bloody oligarch and you don’t get to make a billion dollars from scratch without treading on a few toes.’
‘He deserves to be shot, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd, brusquely. ‘But this isn’t his country for a start. He chose to be here. If he’s worried about his safety here then he’s perfectly capable of going somewhere else.’
‘Which would be an admission that we can’t protect him.’
‘But why are we protecting him, that’s the question, isn’t it? Because he’s a friend of the PM’s. How much do you think he’s given them in political donations?’
Button smiled and nodded to concede the point. ‘Actually, he’s an equal opportunity donor,’ she said. ‘He gave a million pounds to all three political parties.’
‘Hedging his bets? So no matter who runs the country, they’re beholden to him?’ Shepherd sighed. ‘Don’t you feel sometimes that we’re behaving like a Third World banana republic, selling ourselves to the highest bidder?’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Spider, but you have to realise that men like Peter Grechko are now world citizens. The normal rules don’t apply to them. And wherever they settle, there’s a trickle-down factor that only benefits their host country. If they start to believe that the UK isn’t a safe place for them, we stand to lose billions. And let’s not forget that a killer is a killer, no matter who his target is.’
Shepherd held up his hand. ‘You’re right, of course. But if the sniper is a hired hand, even if we do catch him, there’s no reason to think that’ll be the end of it. Whoever is footing the bill can just find someone else.’
‘Let’s worry about that down the line,’ said Button. She finished her tea and flashed him an encouraging smile. ‘First let’s make sure that Peter Grechko has whatever protection he needs. And don’t forget, I want you wearing a vest at all times.’
‘When do I start?’
‘No time like the present,’ she said. ‘Assuming you can pick up the gun and the car tomorrow, you might as well go around and introduce yourself and get the lie of the land.’
‘And this is full-time, right?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Button. ‘Certainly I want you by his side whenever he leaves the house. My understanding is that his home is secure, so providing he’s there you can take a break. We can’t afford anything to go wrong, Spider. If anything happens to Grechko on our watch, our lives won’t be worth living.’
Shepherd said goodbye to Button, but when he reached the lifts he went up and not down. He got out on the sixth floor and walked along to the office of Amar Singh. Singh was in his early thirties and one of MI5’s top technical experts. Shepherd had worked with him at the Serious Organised Crime Agency and they had both moved with Charlotte Button to MI5.
Singh grinned when he saw Shepherd at his door. He hurried from around his desk and hugged him hard. ‘Long time no see, Spider,’ he said. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit. Shepherd could never work out how Singh managed to spend so much on his clothes when he was the father of three young children. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Special occasion,’ said Shepherd, dropping down on to a chair. There was a framed photograph of Singh and his family on the desk — his arms protective
ly around his pretty long-haired wife Mishti and equally gorgeous daughters. The youngest was just over a year old but already had her mother’s smouldering eyes, of a brown so dark that they were almost black. ‘Charlie wanted to brief me in situ. So what’s the latest in ballistic protection?’
‘Human or vehicle?’
‘Both,’ said Shepherd.
‘We’ve got some new lightweight vests that are the bee’s knees,’ said Singh. ‘We’ve got them from a company in Israel. They use fabrics infused with nanoparticles, putting them in multiple layers with the weaves in different directions. They stay soft and pliable until the moment of impact, at which point they go harder than Kevlar. The material is so soft the vest can be extended down the upper arms and down to the groin area. They actually look like a thick T-shirt and are as easy to put on and take off.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do they come in blue?’
Singh laughed and scribbled on his notepad. ‘White only,’ he said. ‘They’re not for general release just yet but I’ll get you a couple. What are you, a thirty-eight?’
‘Closer to forty these days,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do work, right?’
Singh laughed again. ‘It’s the high cost that’s holding them back,’ he said. ‘They’re ten times the price of a Kevlar vest at the moment. Our purchasing department is waiting for the cost to come down before placing a major order. What I have is a few samples. I’ve seen them in operation, and they’re really something. They’ll stop any handgun round at any range, and they’ll stop a round from an AK-47 at about fifty feet up. That’s not to say you won’t get bruised, but the round won’t penetrate. As soon as the round hits the fibres they harden, almost instantaneously. But with a high-powered round that means the vest will impact a couple of inches. The skin won’t be broken but it’ll hurt like hell. They have the facility of adding ceramic plates, if you want, of course.’
‘The vest will be fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Button wants me to have a bulletproof car.’
‘Of course she does,’ said Singh. ‘You’re one of our most valued employees. What’s the legend?’
‘Police, close protection squad. I’m thinking a four-by-four.’
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