Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘I don’t like this, we should be allowed our men inside,’ muttered Buryakov’s head of security, a burly Latvian. Andris Gordin had served Buryakov for more than ten years, first as a driver then as a bodyguard and for the past three years as his head of security, and at times seemed to regard Buryakov less as a boss and more as a younger brother to be taken care of. Buryakov was sure that given the chance, the Latvian would happily have wiped Buryakov’s arse and flushed the toilet for him.

  ‘You worry too much, Andris,’ admonished Buryakov. ‘It’s protocol.’

  ‘Fuck protocol,’ said Gordin. ‘They shouldn’t keep us standing around like this.’

  Buryakov chuckled quietly. ‘My friend, if they were going to kill anyone here it would be the politicians,’ he said. ‘Not the businessmen.’

  Gordin stared stone-faced at the queue of cars outside. One of the bodyguard teams waved and Gordin waved back. He hadn’t been allowed to bring his transceiver into the building so hand signals were the only way of communicating with his team. The bodyguard outside shrugged and Gordin raised his hands in an exaggerated show of frustration.

  They moved slowly towards the exit, Gordin clearly uncomfortable at being surrounded by so many people. ‘This is madness,’ he muttered.

  Buryakov nodded but said nothing. He looked to his left. Standing close by was a powerfully built man in an immaculate pinstriped suit. He had the ice-cold eyes of an international banker and he looked right through Burykov. He was carrying a furled umbrella, a good call as the sky was threatening rain. Buryakov smiled and nodded, acknowledging their mutual frustration, but the man ignored him and looked away. Typical banker, thought Buryakov. Thought he was better than everyone else.

  They were making slow progress towards the exit when everybody stopped dead as the American Secretary of State emerged from an anteroom. As usual she was surrounded by her phalanx of crew-cut, huge and hostile bodyguards. Only the Americans were allowed to bring in their own people, a ruling that Gordin had taken as a personal insult. ‘Fucking Americans,’ Gordin muttered. ‘They act like they own the world.’ And to add to the insult, the American bodyguards were allowed to carry weapons.

  As usual the American contingent made straight for the doors at high speed, barging straight past those in front of them and knocking them out of the way. As they passed through the metal detectors, all hell broke loose. The entrance to the building had been set up with security screens, scanners and metal, gas and explosive detectors, but they were designed to stop people getting in, not getting out. As the heavily armed American bodyguards barged their way through, the alarm on every metal detector in the place began shrieking. Within seconds the entrance hall had dissolved into complete chaos, with people trying to shout above the noise of the detector alarms, and bodyguard team leaders and delegates jostling and shoving, trying to regroup after being elbowed aside by the Americans.

  Gordin bellowed in frustration and Buryakov was just about to tell him to calm down when he felt a sharp pain in his right calf. Buryakov yelped and Gordin immediately looked around. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  The pain had gone and Buryakov wondered whether it had just been a cramp. The big man with the umbrella was moving away, his face impassive.

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing. I’m not sure.’ Buryakov was finding it hard to breathe. The alarms all went off together. The American contingent ducked into a fleet of black limousines and sped off flanked by German motorcycle outriders with sirens blaring.

  ‘Thank you so much for fucking off,’ Gordin muttered at the departing vehicles.

  Buryakov’s chest felt suddenly tight, as if something was pressing on him. He tried to take a deep breath but stopped when a searing pain shot down his left arm. ‘Andris,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Gordin turned towards him. ‘Boss, are you OK?’

  Buryakov opened his mouth to say that no, he wasn’t OK, when his legs buckled beneath him and he hit the marble floor with a dull thud.

  Gordin knelt down next to him and began screaming for a medic, first in Russian and then in English. The designated doctor on duty rushed over with her medical bag. She was a middle-aged German woman with badly dyed hair that had probably been advertised as red but had turned out purple. She carried out an immediate visual and touch check, running her hands down Buryakov’s front, sides and back, searching for major injuries, but found no blood and no sign of trauma. She cleared Buryakov’s airways, but noted his shallow, irregular breathing, and at once inserted a cannula and set up a saline drip. Buryakov’s pulse continued to be very rapid and increasingly erratic, and when the doctor checked him again a minute later, she noted that it had now become even more feeble and irregular.

  ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ asked Gordin in English.

  ‘Heart attack,’ said the doctor brusquely. ‘Please keep back, give him air.’ She pulled a transceiver from her pocket and began to talk into it in rapid German. Ambulanz was one of the few words that Gordin recognised.

  Two hours later, Yuri Buryakov was lying in a hospital bed, connected to a drip and several monitoring machines. He was in a private room and Gordin was sitting outside, glaring at anyone who came near the door.

  A doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck and holding a clipboard walked up. He looked over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles and said something to Gordin in German. The German shook his head. ‘Russkij,’ he growled. ‘Russian.’

  ‘I don’t speak Russian,’ said the doctor in accented English. ‘You can speak English?’

  ‘Some,’ said Gordin. He stared at the ID badge clipped to the pocket of the white coat. Dr Bernd Jaeger. Kardiologe.

  ‘How long will you be sitting here?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘So long as Mr Buryakov is here, I will be here,’ said Gordin. ‘I am in charge of his security.’

  ‘Mr Buryakov is a very sick man,’ said the doctor. ‘He may be here for several days.’

  Gordin shrugged. ‘Then I will be here for several days.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘If it would help, I could ask for a small bed to be put in the room so that you can spend the night. Would that be agreeable?’

  ‘You can do that?’

  The doctor nodded and wrote something on his clipboard. ‘Of course. Mr Buryakov has had problems with his heart before?’

  ‘No. Never. He had a medical last month and his heart was fine. A heart like a lion, the doctor said.’

  ‘A very sick lion, perhaps,’ said the doctor, putting his pen in his pocket. ‘I shall be with him for a few minutes, if you need to go to the bathroom or get a coffee.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Gordin, folding his arms.

  ‘Mr Buryakov is lucky to have a man as loyal as you,’ said the doctor, and he smiled as he opened the door and went inside.

  The doctor took off his spectacles and put his clipboard at the bottom of the bed. Buryakov was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The doctor took a syringe from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and looked for a vein in the patient’s right arm. Buryakov grunted as the doctor injected the contents of the syringe, then put the cap back on and pocketed it.

  He walked around the bed and switched off the machines. The drug he had injected into Buryakov was a powerful tranquilliser that would render him immobile without inducing unconsciousness. The doctor slapped Buryakov, left and right, and Buryakov groaned. ‘Wake up, Yuri,’ said the man in Russian. ‘You’re not dead yet.’

  Buryakov opened his eyes and blinked.

  ‘That’s good,’ said the man. ‘Now look at me closely.’

  Buryakov tried to focus on the man’s face. ‘Do you remember me?’ the man asked.

  Buryakov shook his head. He tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. His arms lay like dead weights at his side.

  ‘I don’t have many friends, but the friends that I do have call me Monotok. The Hammer.’ He held up one of his massive hands. ‘
My party trick is to hammer six-inch nails into planks of wood with my bare hands.’ He grinned, showing white slab-like teeth. ‘To be honest, it’s more about technique than it is about strength.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘What about my name? Does my name mean anything to you? Kirill Luchenko?’ He looked for any sign of recognition but there was nothing in Buryakov’s eyes. Monotok shook his head sadly. ‘That’s a pity. You fucked up my life, I mean totally fucked it up, and you have no idea who I am.’ He smiled and patted him roughly on the cheek. ‘But that’s why I’m here, Yuri. That’s why I put you in hospital and didn’t kill you in the street. I could have done. So easily. I know of a dozen poisons that could have killed you within five minutes, but only one that would put you in hospital with the symptoms of a heart attack.’ He patted him on the cheek, harder this time. ‘Your security is good, though. The best. Your head of security is to be commended. The street was the only place I could get near you. And I’ve been trying for a long, long time.’ He smiled again. ‘Still, you’re here now.’ He reached into the pocket of his white coat and pulled out another syringe.

  ‘First we’re going to talk. Well, actually I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. I’m going to explain to you what you did to me and how what you did made me the man I am.’ He held up the syringe and waved it back and forth in front of Buryakov’s eyes. ‘Then I’m going to inject this and you’re going to have a fatal heart attack.’ He grinned, the smile of a shark about to bite. ‘So if you’re lying comfortably, let’s get started, shall we? Once upon a time …’

  Button had been right about the tattoos – after just fifteen minutes in a Harley Street clinic a young Asian doctor with a German-made laser made short work of LOVE and HATE. The skin was red and sore around the knuckles but Shepherd could see that the ink had all gone. The doctor’s pretty blond assistant gave him a tube of ointment to rub into the skin and a business card with a phone number to call in the unlikely event of him developing a reaction to the laser.

  It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon when he walked out of the surgery, so he decided to pop into a pub for lunch before catching the train back to Hereford. He was just tucking into steak and kidney pie and chips when his phone rang. The caller was withholding his number so Shepherd just said ‘hello’.

  ‘Spider?’

  Shepherd frowned. He didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that Spider Shepherd?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘I’m calling. Look, don’t fuck around, either that’s Spider or it’s not and if it’s not tell me so I don’t waste any more of my time.’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘OK, yes, that’s me, but if you try and sell me a Sky subscription I’ll track you down and shove this phone up your arse.’ He popped a chip into his mouth.

  The man laughed. ‘Well, I can tell civilian life hasn’t sweetened your personality,’ he said. ‘But then as the last time I saw you there was a bullet in your shoulder, I suppose that’s to be expected.’

  Shepherd’s jaw dropped. There were only four men who had been in the belly of the Chinook the day that he’d taken a bullet and one of them had died in Iraq. ‘Lex?’ said Shepherd. ‘Lex Harper?’

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Harper. ‘I just hope your phone isn’t bugged.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, well, as a spook you should know,’ said Harper.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Not far away,’ said Harper. ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘I’m in London,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Harper. ‘Can you get to Hyde Park?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Lex, let’s just meet in a pub. In fact I’m in a pub near Harley Street right now. You’re in London, right? Come by now, I’ll buy you a pint.’

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you, but I’d prefer it to be out in the open. Sorry to make it all cloak and dagger, but that’s the way it has to be. Make sure you’re not being followed, then enter the park at the north side and head for the Serpentine.’

  ‘Where will you be?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘I’ll be watching you to make sure you don’t have a tail.’

  ‘Why would I have a tail? I’m not a bloody golden retriever.’

  ‘I know what you are, mate. Just better safe than sorry. It’s half past two now, can you make it by five?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘See you then,’ said Harper. The line went dead and Shepherd stared at his phone, wondering how the hell Harper had managed to get his unlisted number. And how a man he hadn’t seen for more than ten years knew that Shepherd was working for MI5.

  Shepherd took a black cab to the north end of Hyde Park. He paid the driver and as the cab went on its way he turned up the collar of his coat. It was a cold day and the grey sky overhead threatened rain. He headed for the Serpentine, the forty-acre recreational lake that curved its way through the middle of the park. Despite the chill in the air there were plenty of joggers and rollerbladers on the path, along with dog-walkers and pram-pushing mothers.

  Shepherd walked slowly. He couldn’t see Harper but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he was sure that he was being watched. He was wearing a heavy overcoat but he kept his hands at his sides. Harper had sounded anxious on the phone and Shepherd didn’t want him worrying about what was in his hands.

  There was a rapid footfall behind him and Shepherd half turned, his hands instinctively coming up to protect his face, but it was only a jogger, a tall blond man in his twenties wearing oversized Sony headphones. He missed Shepherd by inches and it took all Shepherd’s self-control not to kick the man’s legs from underneath him as he went by. Joggers could be as aggressive as cyclists, and the man passed so close to a woman pushing a stroller that he brushed her coat and she shouted after him to mind where he was going.

  A figure ambled across the grass from the direction of a clump of trees, and even though the man’s face was obscured by the fur-lined hood of a green parka, Shepherd instinctively knew that it was Lex Harper. He had put on a few pounds since they had served together in Afghanistan, but he had the same lanky stride and the way of bending slightly at the knees with each step so that his head was constantly bopping up and down as he walked.

  Shepherd stopped and waited. Harper was wearing brown cargo pants and Timberland boots and had his hands thrust deep in his pockets. He didn’t look up until he reached Shepherd. ‘Long time no see, mate,’ he said, in a voice that sounded less Scottish than Shepherd remembered. He tilted his chin up and looked at Shepherd with an amused smile on his face.

  ‘You’ve put on weight,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You haven’t,’ said Harper. ‘Are you still running with that rucksack of bricks?’

  ‘Not as much as I used to.’

  Harper laughed and stepped forward to hug Shepherd. There was something awkward about the way that Harper moved and for a brief moment Shepherd tensed, but then realised that Harper wasn’t a threat, he was just nervous. He patted him on the back and then stepped away. ‘What’s going on, Lex?’ he said.

  Harper nodded at a bench at the edge of the path that cut through the park towards the lake. ‘Let’s have a sit-down,’ he said. They walked together to the bench. As they sat, Harper looked at Shepherd’s reddened knuckles and frowned. ‘You been fighting, Spider?’

  ‘Had some tattoos lasered off.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Harper. ‘You were never one for tattoos.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I was never one for fist fighting, either.’

  ‘Aye, that’s the truth,’ said Harper. ‘A sniping rifle was always your weapon of choice.’ He chuckled. ‘Those were the days, huh? You the sniper and me the spotter, watching your back.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘You were good, Lex. Bloody good. Remember how dubious I was when we first met?’

  Harper shrugged. ‘You didn’t know me from Adam. I was just a wet-behind-the-ears Para and y
ou were an SAS superhero.’

  ‘Yeah, but I needn’t have worried. You did good.’ He sighed. ‘So you never went for Selection?’

  Harper chuckled. ‘Come on, mate. Are you telling me you didn’t ask around about me after I called?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘You’re a spook, right? That’s what spooks do.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘Lex, you’re a mate. I’m sorry that we lost touch and that, but when a mate calls me out of the blue I don’t run a PNC check on them.’

  ‘Are you serious? It’s the first thing I would have done.’

  ‘Lex, what the hell is going on? What would I have found if I had checked up on you?’

  Harper laughed softly. ‘Hopefully not much, as it happens. But there was a small matter of an armed robbery or two a few years back that is still on record.’

  ‘Armed robbery?’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Harper. He put up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, Officer, I’ll come quietly. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’

  ‘What the hell happened, Lex? You were one of the best lads out there in Afghanistan.’

  Harper shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem like a long-term career, the way they were cutting back.’

  ‘And what, armed robbery offers better career prospects?’

  ‘Don’t start getting all judgemental on me, Spider. And I’ve given up blagging. I’m more into import–export these days.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  Harper grinned. ‘Allegedly.’